Bridie busied herself, placing his napkin on the plate, because she wouldn’t be back, not for a long while, anyway, and she had never lied to her father before. She swung round, looking out at the moon and the trees, and then turned back to him. She loved him so much, and her mam, but they had carved their own paths, so they would eventually understand that she needed this for herself, surely.
She pushed her guilt aside, taking his war-scarred hand. ‘Of course I won’t marry a Frenchman. He’d probably have a poodle, and Currant and Raisin would never come and see me. Will you talk to Mam for me, Da?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope, that will have to come from you, but I will, what we used to call in the army, reconnoitre the land, and report on a way across.’
The next day her mother came into Home Farm kitchen, her arms folded, and no smile. Bridie turned back to the stove, stirring porridge, and wasn’t about to stop, but instead would pre-empt her. She said, ‘You see, I do feel that Easterleigh Hall needs to move forward, Mam. Haute cuisine is that way forward.’
‘Yes, your da told me what he’d advised you to say. He can’t pretend, and I know when he has something afoot, Bridie Brampton. You need to spread your wings, is, I gather, what Mrs Moore said.’
Bridie swung round, the wooden spoon in her hand. ‘Oh dear.’
Evie stood there, a smile on her face. ‘Put that spoon back and stop dripping porridge on Molly’s floor, or you’ll be down on your knees with a scrubbing brush until she’s satisfied. I will decide at the end of the day.’
As the day continued over at the Easterleigh Hall kitchen, Bridie was so tense she was almost beyond talking, let alone breathing, because her mam seemed to have forgotten all about the decision she must come to. In fact, she was just as she always was, and Mrs Moore was as she always was. Since it was her day for taking it easy, her knitting needles were relentless, clickety-clacking as she sat in the armchair, with the dogs on the other one, curled up together most of the day.
Bridie slipped across to her while her mam was in the hanging pantry, examining the mutton and pheasant. ‘How does Mam seem?’ she asked. Mrs Moore was counting stitches and frowned, shaking her head.
Her mam returned, with the pheasant that she’d marinated overnight but without the mutton. ‘Sole,’ she said. ‘That’s what we’ll have as an alternative, served plain, without sauce, as the guests we have staying at the moment prefer.’
Bridie flushed. ‘Oh, Mam, but perhaps they’d like to try—’
Mrs Moore called across, ‘Come and hold your arms out for me, Bridie. I need to wind some wool into balls. These scarves are using more than I thought.’
Evie concentrated on preparing the pheasant and just said, ‘Yes, that’s fine, Bridie, but I want you to make sure the vegetables are ready within the hour.’
Bridie could have screamed, but she dragged up a stool and sat in front of Mrs Moore, and held the hank of wool until her arms ached, and all the time there was a question in her eyes, which Mrs Moore firmly ignored. At last they were finished, and as Mrs Moore nodded her thanks, the elderly woman whispered, ‘Don’t you be pushing it, young madam. Your mam will let you know her decision, and you might just like to show that you can await that decision like an adult.’
‘She’s goading me, though, Mrs Moore. The guests we have staying might well have liked my suggestion of a light lemon sauce. We did say last week that we might consider it today.’ She was whispering in her turn.
‘You need to give your mam her moment, pet, and behind the teasing she’s really thinking everything through.’
After luncheon there was afternoon tea, and the usual sponge cakes and fancies to make. As she did so, Bridie actually kept her eyes shut. There, she thought to herself. I can do it without looking, which goes to show just how boring my world has become. She felt the tension rising again. What if the answer was no?
As she opened her eyes, she saw her mother looking up from her recipe bible, shaking her head as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Was that a laugh behind her eyes? If so, what did it mean? She knew better than to ask, especially after she glanced past her mam to Mrs Moore, whose look confirmed it.
By the time dinner was cooked and cleared away, Bridie felt like a wrung-out dishcloth, and set off for home alone, unable to stand walking beside her mam while she ignored the subject as she had done all day. She was striding beside the yew hedge when she heard her mother call, ‘Wait up, Bridie. We can walk together, because there won’t be many more times we can, once you start your course in Paris.’
Bridie halted, turned and tore back to her mother, flinging her arms around her. ‘I love you, Mam. I love you up to the sky and back down again, a million times. Thank you. Just thank you.’
Her mam’s arms around her tightened. ‘I’ll miss you, bonny lass, don’t you forget that, and I’ll long for your return.’
Bridie pushed away her mother’s words. She didn’t know when she would return, but her mam would understand, if not at first, then eventually. Nothing could stop her now from going to Paris to start on something really worthwhile, a world away from cooking. But then, as her mother relaxed her grip, and they started to head for home, Bridie slipped her hand into her mam’s, and didn’t want to leave, not at all, because now it felt wrong, and the guilt and pain took away any pleasure. ‘I love you so much, Mam, and I’ll miss you all too.’
Chapter Fourteen
Paris, June 1937
She and her mam left from Gosforn station two months later. Mrs Moore and Mr Harvey came too, and James. Her da hugged them both, telling Bridie that he’d miss her and would expect culinary miracles on her return. He told his wife that he’d miss her every second she was away settling Bridie in Paris, and that she could buy as many hats as she liked, as long as she had a lovely time, but came back at the end of the week. ‘I love you, dearest Evie, you too, darling Bridie. Just make the most of it the next four months, that’s all I ask.’
Aunt Grace arrived with Uncle Jack. They still looked sad and drawn and as they hugged Bridie, she wondered, for the first time, if she had done the right thing to send Tim away, but if he’d come to compound the hurt, at that particular time, it would have been just too dreadful, especially if she’d been the one to allow him through. The guard whistled, and the porter, Gerry Wilkins, shouted, ‘Bridie Brampton, if you don’t get on the train, I will throw you on myself.’
She leapt aboard, and waved until the train rounded a bend.
Bridie gazed at the Eiffel Tower. ‘By, Mam, the boys . . . well, James, would love this.’
‘Tim would too. Just because he has had a few tantrums and has different ideas to you two doesn’t mean he’s changed completely.’ Bridie caught the uncertainty in her mother’s voice, ‘But I did expect him to come to help the marras support your da when Prancer was dying. I phoned Jeb, you know, and asked him to get a message through to his office, in the hope . . .’ She trailed off.
For Bridie, the sun seemed to have gone behind a cloud at these words, and she realised she had stopped breathing. Oh, God, she didn’t know he’d been responding to a message. She drew in a sharp breath, almost a gasp.
‘Oh, Bridie pet, we need to forget about all that, and concentrate on today.’ Her mother was holding her arm. ‘Come on, time to buy a few hats, and then we’ll return to Madame Beauchesne, I promise. Just a few.’ Evie laughed.
Bridie stared at the tower, dragging her thoughts back to Old Bert’s Field, to Tim’s face, to the savage enjoyment, to his uniform, to just about everything he had become, and knew that she’d been right to send him away, whether Jeb had given him the message or not. Nothing would have changed him from the person who told Uncle Jack he wasn’t their son. Nothing. He’d come to gloat, to laugh at her wonderful Prancer, to hurt them all again.
She felt again the soft muzzle, the last exhale, and for a sharp, slicing moment, wanted to be home. To be under the cedar tree, looking at Easterleigh Hall, both of which were the only th
ings that never changed, in essence.
Shrugging, she allowed her mother to pull her along and was soon laughing with her.
Five hats later they were still sauntering along, following the map her da had tucked in her mam’s handbag, saying that he knew if there was a chance of Evie getting lost, it would happen. They stopped for a coffee, strong and black. She almost felt the caffeine knock the top off her head as they sat at a pavement café. ‘I wonder what I’ll learn at the Haute Cuisine Institute?’
Her mam was looking in one of her hat boxes, ‘It’s so gorgeous, and as for the Institute, you’ll learn far more than I’ve been teaching you, as well as more than the mastery of Mrs Moore, and let’s just draw a veil over what Aunt Ver might have taught you.’ They both roared with laughter, because Aunt Ver’s strength was helping Harry at front of house and doing a few basic cookery chores. ‘You will learn so much, and then you’ll return at the end of September and introduce all you have learned, just in time for the start of the winter. But, pet, we’ll miss you until then.’
Bridie sipped the dregs of her coffee. She wouldn’t be home; she’d be fighting for a cause in Spain, with James. Yet again she felt the wave of discomfort and guilt that had been sweeping through her on and off since they had arrived. ‘I’ll miss you too, Mam. All of you, but it’s something I have to do. You must remember that, and tell Da.’
Her mother called for the waiter and paid. ‘Come along. You sound as though it’s forever, but the time will fly. What’s more, your French is so good that you will adore Paris, and love the course, but you’ll ignore the debs who will be there, finishing their “finishing”. Instead, you will make sensible friends, and come back showing off, until Mrs Moore slaps your wrist.’
An elegant woman walked by, with a white poodle on a lead, which made her think of Raisin and Currant.
Bridie said, ‘You’ll look after the horses, and the foal? Primrose is coming along so beautifully. Dave, Clive and Young Stan know what to do. Young Daniel is doing very well, but there will be others that Matron will want to send to riding therapy. Tell Young Stan that Fanny’s trained sufficiently, but to keep an eye on her.’
‘Everything is set up for the few months you’re away, so stop fretting. Now come along, you carry three of the hat boxes and I’ll take two, and I promise not to buy any more on the way to the train tomorrow. Madame Beauchesne will wonder where we’ve got to, or worry, because she knows too well.’ Her mother handed her the hat boxes. What would her father think and when would she actually wear the frothy concoctions? Bridie smiled. Well, whatever her mam did was wonderful in her da’s eyes.
That night, in bed, trying to sleep, it wasn’t Spain that kept Bridie awake, but the thought of the Haute Cuisine Institute, and trying to imagine what it would be like. Her mother had told her that one of the tutors was a cousin of the Allards, who had looked after her da following the explosion which took his leg. It wasn’t during the war, but afterwards, when he had been helping them to clear shells along the old front line.
She lay on the bed, not in it, such was the heat of Paris in June, and remembered the Allards coming to Easterleigh Hall six or so years ago. The chef had spent more time in the kitchen, applauding all her mam was doing, than strolling the grounds. He had shown Bridie how to make shortcrust pastry, unaware that her mother had shown her when she was eight. She checked her clock at three a.m., and then the next thing she knew it was dawn.
Bridie arrived at the Institute alone, at her own insistence, and with her mother’s map. Her mother would leave for home today, and had no need of it. ‘It’s best I go alone, Mam. It’s not school, it’s more like a university, and I need to seem independent and strong,’ she’d said.
She climbed the wide steps to the impressive old building, which had ancient gas lights on either side of the doors. She halted, peering back to the corner. Her mam was still there, hiding under an umbrella though it wasn’t raining. She grinned, loving her to the depth of her being. She called, ‘I love you, Mam. Remember that, and thank you for guarding me, all my life.’
Her mother lowered the umbrella. People were sidestepping her, probably thinking, ‘Folle Anglaise.’
Evie waved. ‘Caught in the act. I love you, Bridie Brampton, we all love you. Make sure you write to tell me how your day went. Are you sure you won’t let me stay just for another night?’
‘Go home, Mam. I’m a big girl now.’ She waved and blew a kiss as other girls arrived, some climbing the steps uncertainly, some boldly. Her mam returned her kiss, and walked away.
Bridie felt utter relief, because as long as her mother remained, the lie loomed too large, and the need to stay with her family grew stronger.
When she entered the foyer the girls were standing still and silent, staring up at the high ceiling with its chandelier, then, as one it seemed, they turned to look at the gracious staircase. Bridie said in English to the girl next to her, ‘By, it’s grand, isn’t it? I wonder if the kitchens will be as posh. Ours at the Hall is old-fashioned and we still use the stoves, not electric or gas, but we produce good food for the guests. I want to get better, though.’
The girl, red-haired, tall and obviously older than Bridie, spread her hands and replied in French, ‘I cannot understand.’
Effortlessly Bridie switched to French. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Your French is perfect.’ The girl was smiling. Her eyes were almost the same green as Aunt Grace. Bridie felt her heart twist. She wanted to go home, and be content to let the world do what it had to do.
‘No, it is not but I hope it will be. I was taught by my mother and my aunt, because I am a cook and need French. It’s a beautiful language, and my Uncle Jack and Auntie Gracie speak it too.’ She was speaking in French, her words running one into the other out of sheer nervousness. She said, again in French, ‘I am a cook. I need to improve. Let me say that again in English, slowly, if you would like me to?’ The girl nodded, and so she did.
A small group of girls near them were whispering together, and now Bridie heard, ‘Oh, my God, did you hear, she’s actually a cook. I thought they’d all be like us, finishing.’ The girls tittered and agreed.
A man’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs, speaking in French. ‘Welcome, ladies. If you will follow me, we will start immediately. There is much to learn.’
The French girl with the red hair walked alongside Bridie, as the British group pushed past them, their Chanel perfume lingering like a choking cloud. She repeated in English, ‘I am a cook, I . . .’ Then in French, ‘Now I’ve forgotten.’
Bridie told her again, quietly, adding, ‘Don’t worry, we have three months.’
The French girl said, ‘Four. We have four months.’
Bridie just nodded because she only had about three, perhaps less, because then it would be August and James would be here. They were at the entrance to a huge salon. A smart woman dressed in black stood in the doorway, indicating places on the small, close-packed circular tables where the girls were to sit. On the stage was a long table covered in a white damask cloth, set up with what seemed like hundreds of wine bottles. The woman pointed Bridie to a place at the table with the English girls, and the French girl to a neighbouring table.
Once seated, the French girl turned, and told Bridie that her name was Marthe Deschamps. Bridie introduced herself as Bridget Brampton, but commonly called Bridie by her friends, ‘So Bridie to you.’ She repeated it in English, slowly.
She turned back to the girls on her table. One had just whispered, ‘Can you see her hands? I expect they’re really rough.’
‘You girls, however, may call me Bridget.’
They flushed, and then rallied and introduced themselves as the Honourable this, that and the other. She grinned, because in her home no-one used titles if they could help it.
A man in a dark suit made an entrance, sweeping between the tables, heading for the front. His black hair looked dyed, and was cut short. His neat moustache was similarly dark. H
e sprang up the three steps onto the stage, and introduced himself as Monsieur Favre. He talked in heavily accented English about wine, to the thirty or so girls who sat around the room. There were five girls to each table. Bridie saw that Marthe was struggling to understand, as were several others around the room. Still sitting, she shoved her chair across to the neighbouring table. It scraped on the wooden floor.
Monsieur Favre stopped, looked and called, ‘Ah, Miss Brampton, I believe. Are you on the move for any reason, or merely because you felt like it? Are you bored, perhaps?’
The girls at her table tittered. She stood, and said in French, ‘Certainly not, Monsieur Favre, but you risk boring those French students in the class who understand little English. I was taught, as a cook, that I should learn French. I suspect that here, in France, it is not suggested that French cooks absorb English. Why would they, when recipes are invariably in the French language?’
She did not sit down, but waited for his reply. First he repeated in English a precis of all she had said, then fingered the white wine bottle he had been using to explain the bottling process. He pursed his lips. Bridie felt the eyes of the room switching from him, to her, and back again, and wondered if this was to be the shortest course for any student in the history of the Institute. She almost turned, to walk out, rather than be humiliated, but saw the Honourable Edith Hardcastle tittering at the table, and whispering to her friends. No, she’d wait it out.
Monsieur Favre now held the bottle up to the long windows along the length of the room. In his fractured English he said, finally, ‘Indeed, Miss Brampton, you are quite correct. Usually we have an interpreter, as our students from across the Channel perhaps do not have our language. Out of courtesy we thought we would speak your language; however, I promote you. For today you are our interpreter, and let us see how well you manage.’ He gestured to the stage. ‘Join me, Miss Brampton, and remedy the shortcomings of the Institute.’
A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 15