Fresh From the Sea

by Fabian Black

  Turning the radio on David twiddled the dial until he found his favourite station. He enjoyed background sound as he worked and there was usually something to interest him on Radio Four, if the reception was good enough to hear it. He was in luck with the reception today, but out of luck with the programme. A discussion on artist’s paint pigments throughout the ages was in process. It brought dull to new levels, watching the paints drying would have been more interesting than listening about them.

  He turned it off and opted for a CD recording of whale songs set to a background of classical music. It had been a gift from a guest and David rather liked the eerie but somehow soothing sounds.

  It was turning into a beautiful day. The fog had decided to drift back out to sea and not plague the land with its shrouding, clammy presence. The sun shone filling the kitchen with soft buttery light and warmth.

  Opening the back door David allowed the morning air to creep in, bringing with it a combination of scents and sounds from outside. There was the ever present brine of the ocean and the raunchy call of sea birds mixed with smells from the walled garden, musk roses, lavender, thyme, and the softer call of garden birds, all interlaced with the drone of their neighbour's hives of honey bees.

  He gave a sigh of contentment and not for the first time blessed the decision to set up home in this tiny coastal hamlet. He had fallen in love with Stanes the moment he set eyes on it over two and a half years earlier. It had been wintertime then, the steep cobbled streets powdered with snow, the frost sharp air filled with the braying screech of gulls seeking food from the winter sea.

  Accompanied by whale song he set about the task of picnic providing, gathering a selection of ingredients together.

  Mornings were his favourite time, the calm before the storm of afternoon activity, which built up in preparation for the opening of the restaurant at six-thirty.

  Though, his heavy dark brows drew together, some of his mellow evaporating. If a certain someone didn't calm down there would be no opening of The Transit of Venus, tiny, but acclaimed seafood bistro, this particular summer evening. The patrons who gathered to see what the bistro had to offer would find a closed for business notice instead of a menu board hanging on Sandstones handsome Georgian front door.

  “God, that bloody man can rattle on. I thought I was never going to get away.” Lin stumped back into the kitchen, slamming the tray onto the kitchen table.

  “Put the tray back where it belongs without banging it. I hope you were pleasant in there? People don’t pay good money to have you be rude to them. This isn’t Fawlty Towers.”

  Linval blew out his cheeks. “Fear not, Sybil, I was courtesy itself. I stood there smiling and nodding like a rear window car ornament, as he stuffed toast into one half of his gob and prattled out of the other. Did you notice he's wearing socks with his flip-flops? Bad enough with bloody sandals, but flip-flops! He's cut holes in them where the toe post fits. He's a fucking disgrace. I don't know how she can bear to be seen with him. I mean she's hardly haut couture, but at least she's presentable.”

  “What he wears is none of your business. He comes here to relax not take part in a fashion show. Stanes is hardly the French Riviera. Socks with sandals are standard around here, so leave the man alone.”

  David turned his attention to packing up the lunch he’d prepared. He slipped neat triangles of wholemeal bread filled with seasoned fresh crabmeat into a sandwich box, garnishing them with yellow and red cherry tomatoes picked from the greenhouse.

  “We need more scones,” he carefully packed Stilton and salmon tartlets into another box. “Do you want me to knock up a batch or would you prefer to do it?”

  “You do it. I know you want to.” Lin flicked strands of sand gold hair out of his eyes, watching sullenly as David split and buttered the last two scones, filling them with homemade gooseberry preserve before parcelling them into yet another box, along with a pot of thick clotted cream. “I’m not in a baking mood. Just make sure you don’t over knead the dough, or they’ll be dry and tough. You don’t have to pummel it into submission, be gentle, remember you’re baking scones not casting clay pots.”

  “Thank you, you made your point.” David put the boxed repast into a backpack. “There’s no need to labour it and I don’t want you hovering over me when I’m making them.”

  "If you did it right I wouldn't have to hover."

  Ignoring the slight on his scone making ability David made a flask of milky coffee and added some fruit to complete the requested packed lunch. “Do you think it’s enough?”

  “Enough for normal people yes.” Lin walked to the open door. Folding his arms he leaned against the doorjamb, viewing the garden. “Porky Prescott might disagree.” He glanced over his shoulder, “know what, I don’t believe they’re a childless couple at all. The big greedy bugger probably ate the kids when the poor cow wasn’t looking. If he continues to patronise our establishment we’ll be running at a loss.”

  “Behave, Lin. I'm sick of hearing you gripe and bitch, put a lid on it. I won’t tell you again.”

  “Good, suits me.” Unfolding his arms Lin stormed across to the windowsill where the CD player stood, savagely stabbing a finger on the off button. “I hate singing fucking fish. There’s not one of them can do a decent cover of a Lady Gaga single.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies and whales are mammals, not fish. I was listening to it, so it was rude of you to turn it off.”

  "It was getting on my nerves. You only listen to it because the bloke who gave you it fancied you."

  "He did nothing of the sort, and he gave it to both of us not just me. I listen to it because I like it and you should have asked before turning it off." Grasping Lin's arm David towed him over to the kitchen table. Pulling out a chair he thrust him down onto its seat. “You're still sulking about this morning and you have no right, none at all.”

  Placing one hand on the table and the other on the back of the chair he leaned towards Lin, his navy eyes glittering with a dangerous light. "I told you not to go near the beach. It wasn’t an open-ended suggestion. It was a straight instruction, which you ignored. You got exactly what you deserved."

  Hauling Lin once more to his feet, he turned the chair round from the table, facing it towards the old fireplace set in the exposed sandstone wall, before pushing him back onto it. “I'm warning you. Shelve the shitty mood or I'll close The Venus tonight and I'll give you a repeat journey over my knee into the bargain and it won't be my hand I use this time. Is that what you want, is it what you need to snap you out of this acidic temper?"

  "No, David." Lin cast his eyes down.

  "Then sit there in silence and make an effort to get yourself under control. Do your breathing exercises.”

  The area above the fireplace was fortified with a huge, ancient ships timber. It was hung with ornamental brasses left behind as a gift by the previous owners who said they had no room for them in their new abode. Lin wanted to get rid of them in favour of something more modern, but David said they suited the timber and were in keeping with its character. Lin studied them, while mulling over the events of the morning.

  He had woken up in a low mood. He hadn’t slept well. A lack of sleep always made him jittery these days. It was ridiculous. He'd spent years being able to survive on two or three hours sleep a night without any problem and now he needed at least seven or eight. It was like his body was calling in all the lost hours. It was one of the reasons David had forbidden him to go anywhere near the seafront. On edgy days he was more apt to let things upset him, things not to his taste, like sea defences not fitting his perceptions of how things ought to be.

  To make matters worse their neighbour and self-proclaimed weather sage, old Henry Medup, had dropped in as they were breakfasting. Henry got on Lin's tits at the best of times, barmy old sod he was, always yattering on about his 'prophetic' bloody bees. He had been excited because apparently they had told him something dangerous was coming in from the North Sea. He had warned
them not to stray too far afield.

  Raising a hand to his mouth, Lin chewed grumpily at his nails, trying to concentrate his mind on creating something wonderful with a dozen grey mullet, multiple sardines and a solitary mackerel.

  At least he had his cooked crabs to fall back on. He could create an entire menu with crab if he had to. He’d make creamy crab soup to serve with sourdough bread fresh from the oven. It was always a popular starter dish, as were crab and Parmesan cheese patties, he could knock them up in a jiffy.

  He could use crab for one of the main courses too, a mix of white claw and brown meat served with a simple salad with herbs from the garden and his speciality lime balsamic dressing. Not everyone liked a hot dish on a warm day.

  The sardines would also make excellent starters or a light main, quick and easy to prepare and cook. He had some redcurrant jelly in his preserve cupboard that was begging to be used for something like this. Add a splash of dry sherry, some lemon and he’d turn the humble sardine into something to be reckoned with.

  He broke his food thoughts and his silence to ask a question. “Why is George’s sister getting married today? Most people get married on a Saturday, not a Friday?”

  “Malcolm, her husband to be, is a footie fan. There’s a big Euro match tomorrow. All the local lads will be in the Golden Lion watching it. I didn't give you permission to speak, Lin, so be quiet.”

  David picked up the plastic box of fish, placing it in the chiller cabinet to keep fresh until Lin got around to cleaning and gutting them, something David watched with admiration for his speed and skill, the silvery scars on his fingers bearing testimony to the times the knife had slipped in hands made slimy with blood and guts.

  After washing his own hands he put the kettle on.

  “It was fine when I set out. I was fine. I needed a walk.” Lin threw the words over his shoulder.

  “I told you not to go.”

  Lin sighed, listening to David’s calm activity in the kitchen behind him. He felt like arguing, but didn't dare.

  A sudden inspiration for a main course dish using pasta and grey mullet hit him. It was based on something Kenny Steen had recently showcased on a television programme, though he’d used fennel, which to Lin’s mind was too dominating a flavour. He’d ditch it in favour of something more delicate, celeriac perhaps. Kenny thought far too much of himself, posturing bastard, but he knew how to cook a fish dish better than most, except him of course.

  Eager to begin his preps Lin sought to end his predicament without further ado. “I'm sorry, David. I shouldn’t have gone against your wishes.”

  “Thank you, and why did I forbid you to go to the beach?”

  Lin quelled a suicidal impulse to say, because you’re a dictatorial sod. "Because I was anxious and jumpy when I woke up this morning.” He paused, contrition rubbing shoulders with defiance as he added, “and you were worried about mad Medup’s bee story, though what bees know about conditions out at sea is beyond me. It's not as if they go sailing very often is it. I mean you never hear of a bee crewed boat.”

  “Henry might be eccentric,” David nobly defended their aged neighbour, “but he’s often been proved right. His bees might have mistaken fog for a storm on this occasion, but no one else predicted it. What if a storm had swept in while you were perched on the wall? You would have panicked completely. God know what would have happened. You were bad enough with the mist. You were shaking like a leaf when I found you.”

  “Yes, all right. I'm sorry I have nerves of wet spaghetti. May I get up now?”

  David dropped teabags into the teapot and poured boiling water on them. “I take it something has occurred to you regarding this evening’s menu and you want to get started, hence this sudden attitude of repentance, if it can be called such?”

  “Yes.” Lin didn’t see any point in fibbing. David nearly always saw through his lies and challenged them.

  “You’re an incorrigible man, Linval Larkin.”

  “Meaning I’m forgiven and I can get up?”

  “Meaning you can be quiet and sit there until I say otherwise.”

  Lin pulled a face at the fireplace wall, but wisely refrained from complaining.

  David took his time, waiting for the tea to brew, gazing out of the window into the sunny garden while humming a whale tune, which to his annoyance, he aimed a glare at Lin's back, turned into a Lady Gaga tune.

  Pouring tea into two mugs he took them over to the kitchen table and set them down. Placing his hands on Lin’s shoulders he massaged them for a few moments, easing out the crystals of tension he felt there. “So, Mr Larkin, respected chef, culinary writer and cantankerous man about town, what delights have you in store for prospective diners this evening?”

  Lin tipped his head back, his mouth curving a smile.

  Leaning down David placed a kiss on his lips. "Tell all."

  Quickly turning his chair round, Lin propped his elbows on the scrubbed oak table and began to describe the menu taking shape in his mind. His elbows didn't stay propped for long. He couldn't speak without using his hands to back up his words.

  Sipping tea, David listened with pleasure as Lin, animated as only he could be on the subject of cooking, outlined what he had in mind, improvising here and there as new ideas came to him. He once again gave inward thanks for the move to Stanes. It had been good for Lin, though he had strongly opposed it at first.

  Initially it was a recuperative visit, a break in a quiet place to help Lin recover from illness away from the stresses and strains of life in London. The visit was a first for David, but not for Lin, for him it was a return to his roots.

  They had booked accommodation in Sandstones, a handsome seventeenth century listed building whose elderly owners took in bed and breakfast guests to help pay overheads. The house took its name from the material it was built from; hand cut sandstone from a local quarry.

  One morning over breakfast their hosts, Jack and Lily, let slip they were putting Sandstones on the market. They were moving into a modern, purpose built extension to their daughter’s house in nearby Scarburn. David's interest was caught.

  Most tourists go home bearing a few souvenirs, but not many can boast going home with a three storey double fronted house, well, not literally. The house remained where it was, in Stanes, waiting for them to return to it.

  Given his way Lin would never have come back. He wanted to stay in the city to try and revive his career, which had waned in the wake of his illness.

  He wasn't given his way. David exercised full authority and put his foot firmly down. City life didn't suit Lin's personality, it never had. Nervy and excitable the lick and stress of it had stretched him to breaking point. He needed a slower calmer pace of life and he was going to get it.

  Within days of returning from their holiday David put their London home on the market. He also pruned back some of his city based business interests. Four months later they were heading back to Sandstones as owners.

  Lin didn't settle at first, resentful about the enforced move and inactivity. He had been working flat out since he was sixteen, progressing from lowly kitchen hand in a mediocre hotel to head chef in one of London's busiest and most esteemed restaurants, as well as having his own television show and being a food writer to boot. His life had been an endless round of kitchen pressures, studio takes and deadlines.

  David knew Lin's happiness was bound to doing what he loved doing best, cooking. With that in mind he applied for planning permission to turn one of Sandstones large front reception rooms into a tiny bistro. Permission was granted. The Transit of Venus came into being.

  Lin immediately began making grandiose plans and setting impossible goals for the restaurant, which David ruthlessly vetoed. He had no intention of allowing him to return to the kind of punishing schedule that had all but burned him out in the first place. There would be no work shifts of twenty or more hours a day with barely time to eat or sleep.

  Tantrums ensued, but David held his ground, settin
g down strict ground rules for the venture from the offset. Lin might be in sole charge of what food was served in the bistro, but he was in charge of whether or not it actually ‘got’ served. If Lin were having a bad day then the restaurant would remain closed.

  There were other rules too. It would be a non-licensed establishment. Being a licensee brought stresses of its own. If guests wanted alcohol with their food they were invited to bring their own. Glasses and corkscrews would be provided as a courtesy.

  There would be no bookings taken in advance, no phones endlessly ringing with demands for a table, no juggling trying to fit extra people in, keeping the restaurant open later and later. The few available tables would be offered on a strictly first come first served basis.

  There would be no expansion of the business in any sense, no taking over other rooms in the house, no extensions built on, and no chain of Transits to manage. The objective of the exercise was happiness for Lin at a pace he could handle.

  Money in itself couldn't buy happiness, but it could help the process along. David was wealthy enough not to be over concerned with profit. There was no pressure to make the bistro yield an ever-increasing turnover. If it paid for itself with a little left over he would be more than satisfied.

  It had so far proved a success. People enjoyed being able to boast they’d bagged a table at The Transit of Venus, the smallest seafood restaurant in England, run by Linval Larkin, one time celebrity chef and award winning food writer.

  Upon occasion they took paying guests for bed and breakfast, feeling it kept up the spirit of hospitality to travellers the house had been built to accommodate. It had originally been an inn, a reputed hotbed of smuggling activity called The Cat Hawed Sailor; cat hawed being a local term for drunk.

  "So what do you think, does it sound good?" Lin stopped gesticulating with his hands and ended his menu plan with a faux question. He didn't expect any reply other than the one David gave.