Rosie Meadows Regrets...

by Catherine Alliott

I waited while he knocked back his drink and reached across to his desk to gather up a sheaf of drawings. He tucked them under his arm, grabbed a couple of pencils and then opened the front door for me. I went through under his arm, and together we went out into the sudden blackness that had descended outside. As we walked down the icy slope towards his studio and my cottage, a silence fell. I swallowed. For some reason, I felt unaccountably tongue tied. Talking had been so easy just a minute ago, back there in the hall when we’d had the business of my cooking to discuss, so why now, walking alongside this giant of a man in the pitch dark, did I feel almost shy?

  When we arrived at the workshop door I hesitated. I was about to say goodnight, but then lingered. If he says, goodnight then, Rosie, I’ll say the same, I thought to myself, and then I’ll go. I waited. He didn’t. Instead he wrestled with the padlock for a moment, shot back some huge bolts and flung open the door. He reached up and flicked on the light. As he stood aside, I stepped in. My hand flew to my mouth. I gasped. I stood for a moment, taking it all in, gazing around in wonder.

  It was a huge cavernous barn, and from the high oak beams above spotlights shone down, picking out, almost individually, the most fabulous array of sculptures and statues I’d ever seen. To one side of the studio was a long workbench, and on it a row of sleek, dark bronzes. Most of them were figurative: girls, athletes, nudes and animals. Panthers, gazelles and racehorses reared up at me with arched necks and wide staring eyes. All were breathtakingly lovely and instinctively I wanted to touch them, but it was the pieces in the centre of the room that had originally made me catch my breath and which still arrested me now. I turned back and gazed. For under the glare of one huge spotlight, three gigantic, pure white figures stood like sentries before me. I walked to them – Ivo practically asleep in my arms – as if pulled along by a piece of string. In total contrast to the bronzes, these enormous twenty-foot statues were carved exclusively from huge slabs of white Carrara marble. They were so abstract in form it was almost impossible to tell who, or even what they were, but there was no mistaking their mysticism, their power and their beauty.

  ‘Oh!’ I reached up and touched one tentatively. ‘God, they’re beautiful!’ I gazed for a moment, then swung round. ‘What are they?’

  Joss grinned and came up beside me. ‘As some artists would nebulously tell you, they’re whatever you want them to be, but as a matter of fact,’ he looked up, ‘these are my pagan gods. That’s Apollo’s arse you’re stroking there.’

  ‘Oh!’ I snatched my hand back.

  ‘And this is Persephone,’ he moved on, ‘and beside her is Icarus, sadly lacking a head at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, yes I can see that now,’ I said eagerly. ‘There are his wings and – oh, I see, there are Persephone’s seeds next to her! Gosh, is this what you sell then? What you put in your exhibitions?’ I wandered round, marvelling at them.

  ‘Hell no, that’s my bread and butter over there,’ he jerked his head towards the bronzes on the bench. ‘Those beasts with the flaming nostrils and the fiery eyes and the girls with the bent backs artfully touching their tippy toes, those are the ones that pay the school fees. That sort of art is real fashionable now, it’s what every self-respecting Conran trendy wants in his converted attic space in Docklands. Those are the pieces that bring in the dough and most of the ones on that bench are commissions for pretty wealthy individuals. But these …’ he thrust his hands deep in his pockets and gazed up at Persephone fondly, ‘these are my passion. These are the guys who make my heart beat faster, get the blood coursing through my veins.’ He stared a moment longer then shrugged philosophically. ‘Sadly though, they’re not commercial which means they’re not financially viable. I mean, let’s face it, who wants a socking great lump of marble in their front room between the couch and the television, and of course I’m not good enough for museum status yet so –’

  ‘Yet!’ I interrupted staunchly. ‘But by golly, you will be! My gosh, I’ve never seen anything remotely like these, and okay, so I don’t know that much about art but if you ask me these things knock spots off anything you see in a fancy London gallery!’

  ‘Why thank you, for that supreme vote of confidence, Rosie.’ He smiled and gave a mock bow but I could tell he was pleased by my enthusiasm. He sighed. ‘Who knows. Maybe one day I’ll be hustling one of these guys into the back of a lorry bound for the Tate, but for the moment, no. They’re not everyone’s bag and they certainly don’t line my pockets. But that’s okay, it just means that in the daylight hours I do those,’ he indicated the bronzes behind us, ‘but in my own time, I work on these guys. I begin my late night love affair with my gods and goddesses.’ He grinned down at me, and the lights from the ceiling made his hazel eyes gleam. I gazed into them, for a second almost dazzled.

  A moment later though, he’d turned, wandered over to his workbench. I watched his back as he sorted out a chisel, put it down and picked up another. I took this as my cue to go and cleared my throat.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better leave you to your love affair while I go and ring the pub. I suppose it’s about time I embarked on my new relationship with the landlord of the Red Lion.’

  He walked back across the room, tool in hand, eyes narrowed at his statues, and already, I felt, oblivious of me, lost to Persephone’s charms. ‘Sure, you do that, Rosie,’ he said abstractedly. ‘And don’t take any crap either, take it on your own terms.’ He began gently tapping away.

  I turned and set off down the hill, Ivo fast asleep in my arms now. The cold night air hung around me like a dark cloak after the dazzling brightness of that room and the excitement I’d felt at the prospect of the job at the pub seemed almost forgotten. I felt strangely moved. It seemed to me that those figures had stirred my soul, spoken to me somehow, or was it … something else. Almost as abstracted as Joss had been, I wandered into the empty cottage, kicked shut the door behind me and perched on the sofa. With Ivo lying in my lap I picked up the phone. I punched out the number Joss had given me. Yes, I thought as I put the receiver to my ear, it was something about the spiritualism of those statues but also –

  ‘’Ello!’ A rough voice broke into my reverie.

  I jumped. ‘Um, hello, could I speak to Bob Carter please?’

  ‘Bob Carter speaking, who’s that?’

  I explained who I was and the message I’d received.

  ‘Ah! Yes! Right. Well now look, luv, we heard you was a bit of a chef see, and between you and me we’ve got one hell of a problem on that front. It’s all gone a bit pear-shaped down here, lost our main player as it were.’

  ‘Yes, I did hear that your chef had gone.’

  ‘Oh he didn’t go or nofin’, luv, didn’t walk if that’s what you mean, no one walks from here, I pay too well. No, I sacked him. Well bloody hell, I had to!’ His voice rose indignantly.

  ‘Yes I –’

  ‘Caught him giving our Kylie a good seeing to over the cold meat counter and that’s not on, is it? Well you’d know that, being a chef an’ that, it’s not hygienic is it, not wiv food around. We’re very hot on hygiene down here at the Red Lion, very hot indeed.’ I felt him mentally straightening his braces.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you are.’

  ‘And my sister, Enid, you know, from the shop, well she says you do some lovely French stuff – not that we’d want any of that titchy nouvelle business, mind – but if you could see your way clear to knocking up some honest to goodness English fodder – trays of lasagne, curry, that sort of thing – well then as far as I’m concerned we’re laughing. The job’s yours!’

  I suppressed a smile at his description of English food. ‘Yes I’m sure I could do some … indigenous fodder.’

  ‘Steady,’ he said nervously, ‘we don’t want nothing too digenous, we got a very straightforward clientele ’ere, and no offence, luv, but we don’t actually want you to cook down here neither, orright? Not actually in our kitchen see, ’cos that’s where we went wrong with the last bugger. Gave him the run of the p
lace, and he gave us the bleedin’ run around in return! No, if it’s all the same to you, we want you to cook the stuff indoors, bring it down, and then me and the missus’ll bung it in the microwave later, see? Piping hot we’ll make it, mind, we don’t have no truck wiv reheated rubbish down here, it’s all freshly made on the premises.’

  I smiled at this massive contradiction but my heart leapt too. Brilliant, so I could do it all from the cottage with Ivo at my heels, and I wouldn’t have to explain away my two-year-old commis chef assistant which I’d been just about to summon up the courage to do.

  ‘Oh that suits me fine,’ I breathed, ‘I’m happy to do it here. So – what would it be then,’ I reached for a pencil and paper, ‘trays of lasagne, casseroles – moussaka?’ I suggested helpfully.

  ‘Nah, we tried a mousse once but it went down like a cup of cold sick. What this lot want is stodgy puddings, see. Baked jam roll, treacle sponge – how’s your spotted dick?’

  ‘First rate,’ I muttered faintly.

  ‘Great, yer on. We’ll say food’s off for tonight and tomorrow night, but come Wednesday I’ll expect you down here wiv about forty covers, okay? Let’s say two trays of lasagne and two of shepherd’s pie for starters, and then a couple of decent puddings. Bring them here about six and have a port and lemon on me.’

  ‘Great, and um, how much would I get?’ I said quickly. ‘I mean, what are you paying?’

  ‘Two hundred quid a week for providing food every night ’cept Sunday – we don’t want no lunch neither, my missus just does sandwiches for them that wants it – and all your ingredients paid for too of course. How’s that?’

  I made a few quick mental calculations. That wasn’t bad. In fact if I could do it all from home it was a damn good wage for the country.

  ‘Yer on,’ I said, slipping into Bob speak. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good girl! Told you I paid well didn’t I? That randy chef didn’t know what side his bread was buttered, but it’s his loss and your gain. See you Wednesday then, and not too much garlic or nofin’, orright? Cheers.’

  And with that he’d gone. I put the receiver down slowly and gazed at the sleeping child in my arms. I felt pleased, but also somewhat bemused by the sudden turn of events. It seemed to me that my life was lurching, not so much from the sublime to the ridiculous, but from the dismal to the not so dismal. I was hardly going to leap up and shout, Yippee! I’m a pub cook, but on the other hand, it meant my hands were closing round the reins of my life again. It may not be the job of my dreams, but it would give me independence from my family, and I could make something of it, I was sure. Yes, maybe that was it, I mused as I gazed down at Ivo’s dark lashes brushing against his rosy cheeks. Maybe, after all, one’s capacity for happiness was simply dependent on one’s ability to make adjustments to changing circumstances. To make the euphoric, let us say, out of the not-so-dismal. I smiled at Ivo, pleased with myself. Still fast asleep, he went bright red in the face, pushed hard and – oh God, that terrible, familiar smell. So that was what he thought of my home-spun philosophy, eh? I moved my hand from his nappy area and sank back with a sigh. Oh well, whatever the answer was, at the moment it all seemed to be totally and utterly out of my hands, and all I could reasonably hope to do, was go with the flow. Just like my son.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Two days later I drove into Cirencester and bought every ingredient I could conceivably need to meet the Red Lion’s requirements. I staggered back, dumped half of Waitrose on the kitchen floor, then mentally flexed my muscles as I prepared to squeeze it, tardis style, into my minuscule fridge. Funnily enough, it’s amazing how much you can cram into a two-foot-square space if you’ve got the inclination, and luckily it was so cold anyway that anything I couldn’t force in just sat on the freezing windowsill. Then with Ivo happily stuffing Playdoh down the cracks in the lino, I rolled up my sleeves and set about frying batches of mince on one of my tiny electric rings and boiling up pounds of potatoes on the other.

  After the restaurant kitchens I’d been used to in London it was a bit like being transported to Lilliput, but it was a challenge, it was manageable, and I began to feel remarkably cheerful as I went about my work. Humming away happily I zapped on the radio, flicked on the oven to heat up, flicked it on again … and again … oh hell … don’t tell me … God please don’t tell me. I crouched down and peered in, fiddling around with the switch, prolonging the awful truth that my sweaty palms had already confirmed. No light. Bugger. It was broken. There was no doubt about it, this oven was well and truly knackered and had probably been that way for quite some time. I sank back on my heels and stared into its dark empty space. Right. What now then, Rosie – get it fixed? Flip through the Yellow Pages and chew your nails until some listless mechanic arrives to confirm the fact that your 1930s’ appliance has indeed given up the ghost and since all the parts are pre-war there’s nothing he can do, or … yes. Yes – of course. Joss.

  I raced to the phone. Joss had been supportive hadn’t he? Joss had been enthusiastic, and anyway he was always working, probably never set foot in the kitchen except to clean his chisels, he was bound to say – for God’s sake, woman, stop fannying around and bring it up here! I punched out the number and waited. A girl answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  Ah. This must be Martha. ‘Oh, hello, is Joss there please?’

  ‘Nah, he’s gone away.’

  ‘Gone away? But – oh. I only saw him yesterday, he didn’t say!’

  ‘Why should ’e?’

  ‘Er, well, no reason, I just thought –’

  ‘Yeah, he’s gone to New York for a few weeks. SoHo he said, which I always faught was a strip joint, but ’e says it’s work.’

  ‘Oh! Right.’

  ‘’Bye.’

  She put the phone down. I stared into the receiver. Bloody hell! He’d gone. Christ, now what? I thought for a second, took a deep breath, steeled myself and rang back. She answered immediately.

  ‘Martha,’ I breathed, ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t introduce myself properly. I’m Rosie Meadows and I’m the new tenant down at the cottage. I’m sorry to be a bore but I wondered if you could possibly do me an enormous favour. You see, I’m supposed to be cooking forty covers for the pub tonight and the thing is my oven’s broken. I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could borrow yours is there? The rings on the top seem fine so I could do most of the work down here but it’s just cooking it through that’s the problem.’

  I waited, my heart in my mouth. Felt her hesitate.

  ‘I could give you a hand with the children?’ I went on quickly. ‘You know, while I wait for it to cook? And I could make a bit extra for their tea too, if you like?’

  That did the trick.

  ‘All right,’ she said reluctantly, ‘bring it up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I breathed. ‘You’re a star.’

  ‘Yes!’ I hissed as I replaced the receiver. I was about to shout ‘Result!’ and punch the air in a yobby manner, but my fist froze by my ear as an ominous smell caught my nostrils. I skipped the self-congratulations and scurried back to the kitchen to find the mince burning away merrily and Ivo carefully emptying the entire contents of the fridge on to the floor. I flew around providing damage limitation and had just about managed to get things under control and was back, stirring at the stove again, when a voice behind me made me jump out of my skin.

  ‘That’s a funny smell.’

  Two blond heads popped up under my elbows. I breathed again. My God these twins were stealthy, it was like having the Apache warriors on your doorstep. They were in their uniforms, fresh from school and they seemed to have brought their rather smelly terriers with them too.

  ‘It got a bit too hot, that’s all,’ I told them.

  ‘I fink it’s burned,’ said the one with the freckle. Ah, Emma.

  ‘Yes it may be a bit, but I’ve turned it down now,’ I said, firmly extracting their noses from the hot pan and turning them around, ‘and I’m sure I can retri
eve the situation. Good grief, what on earth have you got there?’

  I stared at the huge wicker basket they appeared to have dragged into my sitting room.

  ‘That’s our stuff!’ said Lucy, running to it happily and dragging it over. Her sister raced to help her. ‘We brought it down to show you!’ she confirmed.

  Oh deep joy, I thought as they proceeded to unpack the contents of their dressing-up box on to my tiny kitchen floor. In seconds the place looked like a flamenco dancer’s dressing room as out came one frothy dress after another. I fried away at the stove and watched out of the corner of my eye as they ripped off their clothes and shimmied in and out of outfits, chattering constantly. I couldn’t help smiling as I realized they’d chosen to be the same character and instead of fighting, had settled on the happy coincidence of both being her.

  ‘Come on, Barbie!’

  ‘Coming, Barbie!’

  ‘Let’s go clubbing, Barbie!’

  I blinked into my pan.

  ‘Yes let’s, Barbie!’

  And so it went on. Endlessly, with absolutely no pauses for breath and much mincing up and down the room with handbags and feather boas. Of course, I reasoned as I watched them twirl, they were only dressing up like any other little girls, but I couldn’t help wondering why there wasn’t a clown’s suit or a nurse’s outfit amongst this designer collection. As I turned to put the finishing fork squiggles to the top of one of my shepherd’s pies, I caught sight of Toby’s red blazer out of the kitchen window. He was sitting on my garden wall with his back to the cottage, throwing stones over the other side. I watched his hunched back for a moment, then wiped my hands on a tea towel and went outside.

  ‘Hi, Toby.’

  He half turned. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘D’you want to come in and have some juice?’

  ‘Not really.’

  I sat beside him, facing the opposite way. After a while I tried again.