Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  *

  Since the Woolpack kitchen was warm, I stayed there all afternoon making replacement gateaux for the freezer. Although Rhoda didn’t mention the binned cheesecake, her spikiness told me it was not forgiven. Brendan, perplexed, kept trying to urge her to go and have a rest. Rhoda did not take this well. She eventually huffed off to shop in Macclesfield and I was left in the peaceful, familiar company of flour and eggs and cocoa. For the first time since leaving Manchester, the snake of anxiety coiled tightly in my stomach began to unwind.

  Brendan stuck his head around the door. “Pop out here for a minute, would you, Lannie?”

  I wiped myself down, assuming he needed a hand at the bar.

  “There’s someone here wants to talk to you,” said Brendan.

  Someone stood up. He was well over six foot in a flashy leather jacket and a baseball cap and stared at me with pale blue eyes whose cold gaze hit me like a jackhammer. The snake in my stomach wound itself up again into a rigid ball. This was it, then. The hitman, not out in the street, but here. I was paralysed.

  “That’s her,” said Brendan, nodding at me affably.

  “Lannie Herron,” said Someone, his voice as soft as flour.

  Even if I could have run, there was no point. There might be more of them outside. At least I was on the opposite side of the bar to him and close to the kitchen with its array of knives and rolling pins and large, heavy pans: and I had Brendan beside me, though much use he would be, all unwary as he was.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Someone purred. As he reached inside his jacket, I grabbed the nearest bottle of Scotch and had it ready to smash against the beer tap.

  “Whoa, Lannie,” said Brendan, startled, “careful with that! That’s the best Macallan!”

  The big guy didn’t even seem to notice. From inside his jacket, he was pulling a cylinder of paper which he unrolled carefully on the bar. “Now then,” he said. “These are the menus for the Saturday teas. Good plain cooking, nothing fancy. It’s a four-week rota.”

  “Menus?” I stared at the paper blankly.

  “Meat pie and peas,” he read with a soft Irish lilt. “Sausage, mash and beans, meat and potato pie and peas, and chilli. Think you can cope with that?”

  “This is Niall,” put in Brendan helplessly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about the teas at the rugby club.”

  “But we’re open to innovation,” Niall said. “Any suggestions?” He pulled off the baseball cap to reveal a sun-bleached thatch of red-gold hair that matched his big red hands. He was too bloody old for that stupid bloody baseball cap, I thought confusedly, putting down the bottle and letting out a long breath. I felt weak from the adrenalin rush.

  The trouble was, it could have been him. It could be anybody. They would just walk in and Brendan would have no idea. There would be nothing he could do.

  Every loud voice, every sudden movement, had me hyperventilating. I would have to get a grip of myself or people here would think I was an idiot.

  Niall was gazing at me with his eyebrows cocked as if he already did. Feeling like a fool, I nodded wisely at the menu and tried to get my head round rugby teas. “How about lamb hotpot?”

  “Lamb? We have a budget.”

  “Spag bol, then? Lasagne?”

  Niall frowned. “Not sure how that’d go down at all. They like their spuds.” The Irish burr didn’t sound quite genuine.

  “Shepherd’s pie?”

  “Is that lamb again? What’s wrong with beef?”

  “You need a vegetarian option?”

  “Never been asked for it yet,” said Niall complacently.

  “Cumberland sausage, mustard mash, and braised cabbage?”

  “Hold the mustard,” said Niall. “And no cabbage. Otherwise, spot on. It can replace the chilli. You’ll do it, then.” It wasn’t a question. “You can start on Saturday.”

  “How many do you cater for?”

  “Seventy or eighty, when there are two teams at home. We’re hoping to get a regular fourth team out next season, if I can only get the other members to pull their weight and bring a few more people down.”

  I was a bit staggered. “Eighty? On my own?”

  “The wives help on a rota. Our kitchen,” said Niall proudly, “is the finest in the league. Thanks to lottery money and several words in ears.” He tapped his own ear significantly. “I’ve pulled a good few strings for that club, building it up, sorting it out. Not that it’s appreciated, mind.”

  “Now then, Niall,” said Brendan placatingly, “it’s all appreciated. The place wouldn’t run properly without you.”

  “That’s God’s truth, and I’m glad you understand it, Brendan, though there’s plenty who don’t! All they care about is their beer. Honest to God, I sometimes feel like I’m all on my own trying to keep the place afloat.” Niall fixed me with his pale blue stare. “Well? What do you say?”

  “Will I get paid?”

  Niall frowned. “It’s a social club. I don’t pay myself for all the hours I put in and God knows they’re enough.”

  “We’ll pay you the same as here, don’t worry,” Brendan reassured me. “Bloody hell, I haven’t paid you yet, have I?” I watched him pull a bundle of tenners out of the till and count through them. It was waitress wages. Still, it was money. “Will you do it, then?”

  He sounded anxious. I knew why. This was for Rhoda, who couldn’t cope any more.

  “I’ll be in charge of the kitchen?” I said.

  “All yours,” said Niall, throwing up his hands expansively. “I don’t intrude in there, that’s women’s territory. You’ll have the run of it.”

  Being dead, I should not be able to feel desire. But I felt its silky handcuffs clasp around my wrists and ankles. Boss of my own empire for half a day a week. I wouldn’t have Rhoda on my back; I would see Hugh on a regular basis.

  And the rugby club would be a place of safety, where I could escape my grinning phantoms and cook in peace. Dead or not, I wanted that kitchen and those eighty covers. Even if they were all pies.