by Tracy Bloom
‘It’s never that time already, is it?’ said Kathleen, frantically rubbing her hands on a towel. ‘Come on, Ray. We need to see if Winston finally gets knocked out today.’ She grabbed Ray’s arm as she hustled out of the kitchen and within moments the familiar buzz of afternoon telly could be heard.
‘Me and Sean are going upstairs. Shout when tea’s ready,’ Josie stated, shoving a grateful Sean out of the room.
‘Why don’t you go and put your feet up, Rob, mate?’ said Daz, slapping Rob on the shoulder. ‘Me and Michelle have got it licked in here, I reckon, haven’t we, ’Chelle?’
‘Look, both of you go and keep Mum and Dad company next door and I’ll cook tea. It’ll be easier on my own. Honestly.’
‘Course, Michelle, whatever you say. Maybe we could slide to the pub afterwards, then, and have that chat like we said we would, seeing as it’s a bit crowded here,’ replied Daz, staring at Rob.
‘Do you know what, love?’ said Kathleen later as she polished off a plate of Michelle’s special Salted Chilli Chicken. ‘That was lovely but not as good as the time you did it last New Year’s Eve. I think you slightly overdid the chilli tonight, and you know your father doesn’t like too much chilli.’
There had been mostly silence in the kitchen as the seven of them crowded round the kitchen table that was meant for four, an array of odd chairs called in from all four corners of the house to accommodate the surprise guests. There was the odd ooh and aah when everyone had first tucked in to the recipe, which Michelle had been honing since her days at culinary school until it was exactly to her liking and was pretty much the best way to eat chicken, even for someone who worked with the damn things day after day.
‘That, Michelle,’ said Daz, smacking his lips, ‘would defo give my chicken-in-a-basket a run for its money. I am going to have to up my game, I can see.’
‘That was gorgeous,’ said Rob, sliding his knife and fork together and pushing his empty plate forward. ‘You’ve not lost your touch, have you, Michelle?’
‘Nice to have a home-cooked square meal in you, is it, Rob?’ clucked Kathleen. ‘You know our Michelle loves cooking; I’m sure you’d be welcome round here for food any time, wouldn’t he, love?’
Michelle stared at her mother, open-mouthed. The audacity of inviting the oblivious father of her oblivious daughter to eat with them whenever he liked was just too much.
‘You trying to fix Mum up with Rob, Granny?’ asked Josie.
Michelle dropped her knife and fork down on her plate and looked up to see the colour of her cheeks reflected in Rob’s face.
Kathleen laughed heartily, avoiding the need for either party to speak.
‘Of course not, Josie,’ said Kathleen, still laughing.
‘Michelle isn’t Rob’s type.’
‘No, she’s not,’ Daz agreed rapidly.
‘No, Rob likes the quiet, clever type like Jane was, don’t you, love?’ said Kathleen.
Rob hesitated, then mumbled, ‘To be honest, I’m not interested in another relationship just yet. Too soon.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Josie. ‘A death and a divorce must’ve put you off forming any lasting relationship ever again.’
‘Something like that,’ Rob agreed, before grabbing Daz’s wine from the middle of the table and emptying the remaining contents into his glass.
‘We’ll drink the wine you bought next, shall we?’ said Daz, staring pointedly at the empty bottle.
‘Sorry,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve got beer in my boot from the brewery. I’ll go and get some.’
‘Beer,’ said Ray, rubbing his hands together. ‘I knew there was a reason why I missed that boy.’
‘Just because he gets free beer doesn’t mean you have to drink it,’ chided Kathleen.
‘But it tastes so much better when it’s free,’ said Ray. ‘Even you agreed with me on that one.’
‘That’s true,’ Kathleen admitted. ‘I wonder if he’d be able to get us a few crates for your sixty-fifth birthday party?’
Rob stumbled back in at that point, heaving not one but two crates of beer onto the table.
‘Help yourselves,’ he declared. ‘This lot cost me next to nothing from the brewery shop.’
Daz, Ray and Sean’s eyes were wide with awe. All of them were rendered pretty powerless in the face of a table full of free beer.
‘Why don’t we stay here and not go to the pub?’ said Daz.
‘How many am I allowed on a week night?’ asked Ray.
‘Awesome,’ said Sean, reaching up and grabbing a bottle.
‘Sean, you are underage for alcohol, and aren’t you supposed to be going fishing?’ demanded Michelle, snatching the bottle from him. ‘Dad, you are nearly sixty-five, you can drink what the hell you like on a week night, and Daz, we’re supposed to be having a meeting about you-know-what, aren’t we? Not getting pissed on free beer.’
‘But it’s free beer,’ said Daz. ‘Free beer trumps every card known to man . . . apart from . . . free sex, maybe?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Not that I ever pay for sex, of course,’ he said quickly. ‘I was just being hypothetical, you know. Anyway, Michelle, we can have our meeting here – with the free beer.’
This was not going how Michelle had planned. She’d been so looking forward to having another practice at her speciality chicken dish, as well as the opportunity to discuss the details of the Chickens For Charity event with Daz. It was only when she talked to him that it seemed like a remotely feasible plan.
‘So what you two meeting about, anyway?’ asked Josie. ‘Are you planning me a surprise birthday party, Mum? If you’re asking Daz to DJ then he must agree to my playlist.’
‘You know that’s not the way I work, Josie, and you know it’s for your own good and cultural education,’ said Daz. ‘But as it happens, me and your mother have much bigger fish to fry than your birthday.’
Michelle prayed silently that Daz wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag just yet.
‘Your mother and I are planning the charity event to end all charity events. Chickens For Charity will soon be what the whole of Malton is freaking out about, you mark my words.’
‘Chickens For Charity?’ said Josie. ‘Are you kidding me?’
‘Oh no, young lady,’ Daz continued. ‘Your mother may well be a genius. Not only has she come up with a stunningly original idea – with my help, of course – but she’s also got the buy-in from the chicken factory.’
‘So what exactly will these chickens be doing for charity?’ asked Rob, grabbing a beer and taking a swig. Ray hastily helped himself too now that Rob had started and Kathleen appeared to be distracted by Daz.
‘Tell ’em, ’Chelle,’ said Daz, leaning forward and helping himself to the stash.
‘Well,’ she started. She tried not to take a deep breath, as she was sick of doing so every time she attempted to explain her plan. ‘For a good cause I have asked the factory if they’ll give us a load of chicken and then we’re going to get a few teams together to cook the best chicken dish they possibly can and bring it to our event. Then people can buy tickets and come and try the food and then vote for their favourite. And we’ll have prizes and a beer tent.’
‘And I’ll be compering, of course, and providing entertainment,’ Daz added.
‘So it’ll all be for a good cause,’ Michelle continued, ‘and we can try and get the whole community involved and stuff . . .’
‘And I’m going to do my speciality of chicken-in-abasket,’ Daz interrupted again. ‘If you think Michelle’s dish is good you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
‘So that’s kind of it, really.’ Michelle grabbed a beer and downed a massive slug.
The room was silent until Kathleen leant forward to quiz Michelle.
‘Are you thinking of doing your Salted Chilli Chicken?’
‘Well, yes. Unless I create something else before then.’
‘Mmmmmm. You see, if I were you, if I wanted to win, I wouldn’t enter a dish with chilli in it. Now I
have exotic tastes, but there are other people like your dad who just don’t really like chilli.’
‘But I like Michelle’s Chilli Chicken,’ Ray protested.
‘I know, love, but that’s different,’ said Kathleen. ‘Take my advice. You’re never going to win with a dish with chilli in it. You ask anyone in the Women’s Institute, we know about these things.’
‘So, now you’ve told us what not to cook, what would you cook, Mrs H?’ asked Daz.
‘Well, I don’t know offhand,’ said Kathleen. ‘I’d have to think about it very carefully. Ask Pauline down the WI, she’s a dab hand with savoury. Sweets are more my thing.’
‘Women’s Institute!’ Daz exclaimed, slapping his forehead. He turned to face Michelle. ‘Women’s Institute, that’s the answer, don’t you see? They’re perfect!’
‘Not following,’ said Michelle.
‘Cooking Challenge! Where else do we go to find a group of over-competitive women who are obsessed with food?’
‘That is not all we do in the WI, you know,’ Kathleen said tartly.
‘The WI are exactly the type of people we should get involved,’ Daz exulted. ‘You throw ’em some free chicken and the whiff of a rosette and they’ll come back with a banquet. Now come on, think of some other groups like that. Competitive people obsessed with food?’
‘Let me say again . . .’ Kathleen began.
‘Shut up, Mum, he’s onto something,’ said Michelle. ‘Right, let me think. People obsessed with food.’
‘Dieters,’ grinned Ray, polishing off his first bottle and grabbing the next.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Kathleen, slapping him in the gut.
‘Brilliant, Dad!’ Michelle shrieked. ‘A Slimming Club! There’s a group meets in the Town Hall every week. Gina still goes post her wedding diet to keep herself skinny for that husband of hers. They could do a low fat option. More ideas, come on, everyone!’
‘What about the rugby club?’ offered Rob. ‘I remember, when I used to play, we’d take it in turns to do a barbecue after a match, and if you so much as burnt a sausage you’d get flung in the showers, fully clothed.’
‘And how exactly do you think you’re going to get the great unwashed of Malton Rugby Club to give up their free time to cook chicken, eh, clever clogs?’ said Daz, sneering at Rob. ‘I’ve done many a rugby club do, and it strikes me they don’t do anything out of the goodness of their hearts.’
Rob stared steadily back at Daz, deep in thought, swilling his beer round his mouth.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ Daz challenged. ‘A totally useless idea.’
Rob continued to swill beer around his mouth as he placed his bottle on the table.
‘I think I know what will make them cook chicken for charity,’ he said eventually.
‘Oh yeah. Go on, then, hit us with this amazing idea,’ said Daz.
‘Two words. Free. Beer.’
‘Brilliant!’ cried Ray. ‘The lad’s cracked it!’
‘There is no way you can get enough free beer to satisfy an entire rugby club,’ said Daz, helping himself to his third free beer, courtesy of Rob.
‘That would be a lot of beer,’ said Michelle, keen to halt the stand-off.
Rob turned to look at her and put his hand on her shoulder. Daz bristled beside her and she prayed Rob would take his hand away as quickly as possible.
‘Michelle,’ he said gently. She wished he wouldn’t say her name like that. The familiarity of it made her want to curl up and sob. ‘I’ll tell them it’s for charity. My wife left me for my boss, who I know for a fact has an employee discount allocation that will more than satisfy the entire rugby team. I reckon he owes me, don’t you?’
He took his hand away from Michelle’s shoulder and sighed deeply.
‘Quite right, son,’ said Ray, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Oh, you poor thing!’ cried Kathleen, leaping up and flinging her arms around him. ‘You poor, poor thing!’
‘For crying out loud,’ muttered Daz under his breath.
Kathleen rounded on him. ‘Have some respect! This lad has not only lost the love of his life when poor Jane died, but now he’s lost his wife. If you’d ever lost a member of your family you’d know what it feels like. It’s like having a limb chopped off, it really is.’
‘Come on, love,’ said Ray. ‘Calm down.’
‘My dad buggered off when I was five,’ said Daz bleakly. ‘I know what it feels like to lose a member of my family. Just ’cause he didn’t die doesn’t mean I’m not cut up about it every day. You don’t see me throwing myself around demanding sympathy, do you? Unlike some.’ He folded his arms firmly to his chest and stuck his bottom lip out in a sulk.
‘Least you had a dad,’ Josie muttered.
‘What was that, love?’ asked Kathleen, now sniffing into a pink tissue.
‘I said at least Daz had a dad,’ Josie repeated, staring straight at Michelle. ‘At least he knew his dad.’ Michelle froze.
The room fell silent. Everyone looked awkward.
Sean grunted.
Rob began to move. Michelle thought she might throw up. He placed his hand on Josie’s shoulder. It was all Michelle could do to stop herself getting up and fleeing the room.
‘If it helps, Josie,’ Rob said, ‘I think no dad’s better than a rubbish one. My father never took any interest in me; he was obsessed with building his business. He thinks I’m an absolute failure because I don’t want to take it over, and instead I went to work for those “damn
Americans”. He can hardly bear to speak to me.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘Really,’ Rob nodded sadly. ‘I reckon as long as you have people around you that care about you then that’s all the family you need, believe me. And it strikes me, looking round this table, that you do have all the family you need.’
Michelle was aware her breathing had speeded up, and either she needed to get out right now or she needed to get Rob out, right now.
‘Oh, Rob,’ sighed Kathleen. ‘What a wonderful thing to say.’
‘Well said, lad.’ Ray slapped Rob on the back and sneaked out his next beer from the crate whilst Kathleen was occupied being tearful.
Josie’s eyes were burning into Michelle’s, and Michelle wished with all her heart she could come out with the right thing to say to end this nightmare conversation.
She watched as Rob squeezed Josie’s shoulder.
‘You okay?’ he asked her.
Josie turned her attention away from Michelle. ‘I was just thinking that Auntie Jane clearly had much better taste in men than Mum ever did.’
Chapter Twelve
March 1997 – The Rose & Crown
Was it the seventh or eighth time she’d heard booming baritones from the bar totally destroying ‘Wonderwall’ by Oasis? They were virtually lifting the roof and Michelle wondered what on earth was kicking off. She hoisted an enormous bag of frozen chips back into the industrial freezer at the back of the kitchen. It had been a busy night for pub meals. She reached for the mop standing in the corner and began sloshing it around the floor.
‘You ever going to wipe that smirk off your face?’ the chef enquired as Michelle brushed the edge of his shoes with the grey strands of the mop.
‘No.’ She looked up at him and allowed the smirk to develop into a massive, full-on grin.
‘For the life of me I cannot understand why you would want to leave all this,’ he said, sweeping his hand around the tiny, greasy, fume-filled kitchen at the back of the pub. ‘Why you want to leave me in the lurch to go and work for some la-di-da restaurant in London is totally beyond me.’
‘Not just any old la-di-da restaurant,’ Michelle corrected him. ‘Only the la-di-da bloody restaurant in the Savoy.’
‘I bet you get down there and find they can’t teach you how to master a temperamental chip fryer the way I have.’ He fished a sausage out from the vat of oil that must have been forgotten at some point in the evening. Michelle s
huddered and quietly prayed that she would never again work in the sort of kitchen that cooked frozen sausages in a deep fat fryer.
‘I’ll just have to content myself with passing my wisdom on to your replacement,’ sighed the chef.
‘Well, there’s no rush,’ said Michelle quickly. ‘I’ll be here until the end of July, until my course finishes. I’ll need all the shifts I can get to save up for living in London.’ She felt a tremor rush through her body. Every time she talked about living in London it felt so unreal, like it was happening to someone else. She had to keep saying it to make sure it was true.
‘That suits me as long as you’re not shoving how they do it at the Savoy down my throat every shift.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Michelle, not very convincingly.
‘Just you remember, they’re lucky to have you. You’re good, Michelle. This place is going to really miss you.’
Michelle felt her jaw drop. It was the closest the chef had ever got to paying her a compliment.
‘Right,’ he said, whipping his apron off. ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘What for?’ she asked.
‘To celebrate,’ he said, smirking. ‘Me getting rid of you at last.’
The scene that greeted them as they entered the bar was not for the faint-hearted. The source of the drunken revelry was revealed in more ways than one as they discovered the entire rugby team celebrating a win in the only way they knew how: mass drinking, singing and nakedness. Five of the team were currently standing on chairs at the far end of the bar, where, unfortunately, the haze of cigarette smoke could not hide the fact that they had all just dropped their trousers, as required by the lyrics of the song they were singing.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Michelle, covering her eyes. It was not a sight to experience sober.
‘Think we need to catch up,’ said her boss, nodding at the landlord behind the bar, who magically produced two pints of lager out of nowhere.
‘Get that down you,’ said the chef. ‘Proud of you. Really.’
