Sisters

by Prue Leith

At Robin Hood gate there was the sound of television from the front room. Carrie banged the brass knocker, up and down, hard. She waited a few seconds then did it again.

  God, they’ll never hear above that racket, she thought as a burst of canned laughter assailed her. She stepped into a flowerbed, and knocked hard on the window.

  Thank God, she thought, as the TV died. Then the curtain flipped open and a man, bearded and angry, mouthed silently at her through the glass. The curtain dropped back into place and the next minute the door swung open and there he was, shouting, “What the hell do you think you are doing in my flowerbed? Them’s new petunias in there . . .”

  Carrie stepped back onto the path and said, “I’m so sorry, but there was no answer . . .”

  “Too bloody right there’s no answer. It’s fucking nighttime and I’m off duty.”

  God, he’s going to close the door, thought Carrie, and she stuck her foot in the gap.

  He banged the door on it.

  “Ow. That hurt,” she yelled, hopping up and down, but trying to keep her leg in the door. “Look, I’m sorry about the petunias, but you’ve got to help me. I’m cooking Princess Alice’s dinner. It’s her fiftieth birthday and she’s got Prince Charles and all sorts to dinner, and I’ve got locked out . . .”

  “Princess Alice! Prince Charles!” His mouth curled. “Fucking toffs”. He opened the door a little and for a second Carrie thought he was going to come out and assault her. Until she realized he was opening it only to bang it the harder. She jumped back as he slammed it inches from her face.

  Carrie’s blood was now up. Her foot hurt. She had had, she thought, just about enough of unco-operative or non-existent gatekeepers. She hammered again on the door, shouting, “If you’ve got a problem with Royals why the hell are you a gatekeeper in a Royal Park? And anyway, why take it out on me? I’m only the fucking cook, Comrade. And I’ll lose my job if you are too bloody-minded to help. How about some solidarity for the bleeding worker?”

  There was no reply, but she knew he was behind the door. She raised her voice and shouted, “What is it with you anyway?” Suddenly she knew he wasn’t going to help, and she turned away, saying loudly, “What a bastard.”

  She heard the door open behind her. Christ, he’s going to clobber me one, she thought, trying not to run down the path. But he shouted, “I don’t have a key, lady. The police have them. Ring the cops.”

  Carrie swung round. “Oh, thank you” she said, forcing her voice to be civil. “Could I use your telephone? I haven’t brought my mobile . . .”

  The sneer returned. “Don’t push your luck, lady. There’s a box over there.”

  Carrie rubbed out threatening tears with the back of her fist. The unkindness of the woman gatekeeper and the aggression of the man had unpicked her. And it was now 10 o’clock and the guests would be being seated at the long refectory tables. Poor Lulu.

  Carrie ran across to the phone-box, which was yellow and announced itself as an emergency telephone connected to the Parks Police.

  Oh thank God, she thought. She jerked the door open and picked up the handset. Dead. Nothing. No dial tone. No friendly park copper.

  Carrie let out a scream of frustration and banged the set down. She flung herself back in the car and drove on, trying to calm herself, until she found a BT box. It was getting dark, and the light fitting had been vandalized. It was hard to see the buttons, but at least the telephone was working. She rang 999.

  But the police did not regard her problem as an emergency and told her to ring the Richmond police station. They gave her the number. She hadn’t a pen and had to memorize it.

  She dialed.

  “Richmond police station.”

  She started to answer, then: Beep beep beep. Oh God, it wasn’t a free call. And she had no money. No handbag. She needed coins or a phone card.

  She dashed back to the car. There were three pound coins, two 20p ones and a 10p in the parking money dispenser.

  She dialed again. Thank God. A ringing tone. As soon as the efficient female voice answered, Carrie launched into her story about the royal party, no sorbets, locked gates and unhelpful gatekeepers.

  There was a pause. Then the woman said, “I’m terribly sorry, dearie. I do feel sorry for you. But I don’t see how I can help you. I’m a housewife in Slough.”

  Carrie put her head against the windowpane and closed her eyes. Now what? She thought.

  She dialed 192, asked for the Richmond Police number, and accepted the offer to connect her. They put her through.

  Once again she told her story.

  “OK miss, we’ll send someone round to Richmond gate with the keys. Meet you there, OK?”

  She hurtled round the rest of the perimeter road—she’d now driven right round the park—to get back to Richmond gate where she’d started.

  And then she waited. And waited.

  It was agony. Had they come before she’d arrived and gone again? Should she risk leaving to find another telephone box? Should she go through the open pedestrian gate and carry the sorbets? No, ridiculous. Must be at least a mile. Why the hell had she not brought her mobile? Poor Lulu must be frantic.

  Finally she could stand it no longer and knocked on the door of a big double-fronted house, its garden overlooking the park, its elegant front rooms facing the road. The woman who answered was wearing a silk shirt tucked into well-tailored wool trousers, pearls at the neck, and buck teeth. She did not open the door very far.

  “Could I possibly use your telephone?” said Carrie. As she spoke she thought she heard a car, and thinking it might be the police, glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Why? Who are you looking for?” asked Buck Teeth, her voice firm, peremptory.

  “The police,” said Carrie and immediately wished she hadn’t. She was going to have to explain the whole story or this woman would never let her in.

  But even when she’d finished her tale, her troubles were not over. Carrie wanted the woman to stay at her front door so that if the police came she could call her. But Buck Teeth, looking at Carrie’s tear-streaked face and the smears of partridge blood on her apron, was not going to leave her unguarded in her house. She insisted on coming with Carrie.

  Carrie had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s suspicion turn to curiosity, even to sympathy, as she once again repeated her tale to the police. The panda car had left ten minutes ago.

  Carrie dropped the phone into its cradle and ran back to the front door, the house owner on her heels. It was now almost dark, and as they emerged into the street, she saw the tail-lights of a car disappearing into the park, beyond the once more locked gates.

  “Oh God, no-o-o,” cried Carrie, all control finally evaporating. She ran forward and heard herself shouting, “Come back, come back” as she shook the massive gates. She felt tiny, like Alice in Wonderland, and utterly despairing.

  “That’s Tommie Fenton’s car. He lives in the park too. He could have let you in. Oh dear,” said Buck Teeth.

  At precisely 10:30, the police arrived, keys in hand.

  *

  Carrie burst into the kitchen in time to see the last of the red tunic’d waiters, huge silver trays of soused mackerel with mustard potato salad and a grape relish carried shoulder height, disappearing through the swing door.

  “Oh God, Lulu, I’m so sorry.”

  Lulu straightened up from the oven with a roasting tray of gleaming partridge. Her round face was crimson from heat and exertion and she staggered slightly with the weight of the tray. She banged it down on the central table and smiled. “No sweat,” she said.

  “Oh Lulu, you are a star,” said Carrie, giving her a quick hug before she dashed her hands under the tap, and stuffed the corner of a tea towel into her apron strings. “But ‘No sweat’ doesn’t quite describe the look of you.” Lulu’s dark curls were stuck to her neck and forehe
ad.

  “Did you get the sorbets?” asked Lulu. “We should be plating them now. They won’t be long with the fish.”

  “Oh God. I’d forgotten them. They’ll probably be soup by now, it’s taken me so long.” Carrie hurried out to the car and brought in the box.

  But they were perfect. The hollowed-out lime shells she’d used as containers had provided good insulation, and the sorbet was soft but not melted. They arranged them in silver eggcups set on mirrored trays, and decorated them with twining ivy and halved pomegranates.

  “There aren’t enough for everyone to have both kinds,” said Lulu, counting.

  Carrie nodded. “I know, but they won’t want them. It’s a mad idea eating sorbet in the middle of a meal anyway.”

  Once the waiters had been dragooned into an orderly line and sent in with the sorbets, the four of them worked fast and furiously, but in near silence, with only an occasional barked “Gravy, Kitty” or “Two more flats, Jamie” from Lulu or Carrie.

  As the stress mounted, Carrie felt the familiar adrenaline high. This was what she liked about catering. The danger of the whole thing going pear-shaped, the team effort to ensure it didn’t. The kitchen was very noisy. From the children’s playroom next door, which had been commandeered for the “clear”, came the clatter and ring of cutlery tipped into boxes, plates sorted and stacked, silver flats flung onto piles.

  It was also very hot. Carrie didn’t wear a chef’s hat and she had to wipe her face with her apron to stop the sweat running into her eyes.

  They dished up the veg first, then covered each dish with a layer of foil and a couple of tea-towels to keep in the heat while they did the partridges. Five flats were lined up on the central table. Jamie held the hot partridge trays as Carrie, using a fish slice under and her fingers on top, rapidly put ten birds on each flat, in a circle, breasts out, feet in. Lulu followed her with a catering size bag of Smiths Crisps and poured a pile of them into the middle of the birds—Carrie had long since decided making game chips wasn’t worth the effort. Kitty came next, twisting the stalks off watercress, and planting little bunches of leaves between each bird. Carrie then ladled gravy over each partridge to give it a last-minute shine.

  The waiters lined up, partridge bearers alternating with vegetable waiters. Carrie stood at the door and waited until David signaled. As the waiters passed her Carrie scattered parsley liberally on the parsnip cakes.

  When they’d gone, the cooks, with one accord, disappeared to the backyard for a smoke. Their job was pretty much done. The desserts were already on the buffet, and coffee was David’s problem.

  It was blissfully cool out here, and Carrie leaned against the back wall, eyes cold, suddenly completely knackered. She was usually elated, on a high, if a job had gone well. But the adrenaline rush had faded and now all she wanted was a cigarette. Then a whisky. Then bed.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” It was Eduardo, dressed as a highwayman, looking ridiculously handsome.

  “Have you got a fag?” asked Carrie.

  “I thought you’d given up.” He spoke mildly, putting a cigarette between her lips. He lit it for her, his hand sheltering hers as she bent her head to pull on it.

  She flicked her hair out of her face.

  “How did you escape?” she asked.

  “Everyone’s fighting over the desserts on that great construction of yours. They’ll be ages at it.”

  Eduardo’s eyes traveled up and down Carrie. She forestalled any comment with “I know, don’t tell me. I look incredibly fetching in a cook’s apron, no make-up and sweaty face.” The cigarette seemed to revive her, and she grinned. “And you look a complete prat in that rig.” She twitched his lace jabot and poked the shiny buttons of his jacket.

  “Actually, you look like orphan Annie—have you been crying?” He touched the mascara smudges under her eyes with his thumb.

  Carrie started to tell him her adventures with the park keepers, but they were interrupted by the appearance of Poppy, emerging from the kitchen. Carrie saw, with a burn of jealousy, that she looked sensational. Clever corseting and a wonderful low neck emphasized her narrow waist and high, plump breasts, and the flawless expanse of her neck and shoulders was pink and creamy. She was wearing her contact lenses, and theatrical make-up made her already wide eyes huge. Carrie felt both baffled and cheated. Poppy always wore her glasses and seldom wore make-up except on stage. Her sister was meant to be a comfortable mum, not a glamorous courtesan.

  Poppy kissed Carrie’s cheek and said, “Eduardo, I knew you’d be slumming it in more interesting company. Carrie, that dinner was a triumph.”

  Carrie thought: Madame Bloody Bountiful. But she smiled and touched her forelock in mock subservience and said, “Thank’ee kindly, m’lady.”

  Poppy put her arm through Eduardo’s and said, “Everyone’s back at the table eating pud. We’ll be missed.” Eduardo nodded, and she led him away, round to the front of the house. Back to the bright lights, back to the ball.

  When they’d gone Carrie stayed leaning against the wall, miserable. It was Poppy’s ownership of Eduardo that hurt. The authority with which she had claimed him, and the obedience with which he’d gone. Carrie did not know what she expected Eduardo to do. He could hardly say, “sorry Poppy, I’d prefer to stay here with my lover.”

  Jealousy and anger took turns with self-pity. She hadn’t even been able to finish her tale of the park gates. And Poppy and Eduardo both looked so stunning, the epitome of fashion’s beautiful people. Come to think of it, they looked noticeably happy and relaxed these days. Was that her function? To service the husband so he’d be nice to the wife?

  Eduardo had practically said as much. He’d certainly said that because Carrie made him so happy, he was a less ratty father and a more considerate husband. Bloody hell, thought Carrie, why does she have to be my sister? If it was anyone else I’d just march in there and blow her out of the water.

  Carrie dropped her cigarette butt on the gravel and ground it out with a vicious foot. Stuff them both, she thought, and went back to help with the clear.

  Chapter 11

  Poppy pushed the dog away from Lorato, saying,

  “Out, Olaf, out.”

  Olaf, abandoning hope of a breakfast titbit, lumbered off to a respectable distance and sank down, his mournful eyes fixed on Poppy’s face.

  “Good dog,” said Poppy, kissing the soft carpet of Lorato’s tight curls. She moved her thigh so the little girl could get her arms round her jean-clad knee. Lorato’s favorite position, if she could not be spread-eagled on Poppy’s back, was clinging to a leg. Poppy stretched for the marmalade and said, “Guess what? We’re coming off on Saturday.”

  Eduardo’s slice of toast stopped before his open mouth. “What! Why? I thought the play was a sell-out.”

  Poppy shrugged. She did not seem the least put out. “I know. It’s mad, but the theater is booked for yet another Lloyd Webber musical. We were supposed to transfer to the Lyric, but the deal wasn’t watertight and the Lyric’s decided to keep that gay dance thing they’ve got.”

  Poppy reached down and picked up Tom as his unsteady dash across the floor ended with a collision into Lorato. Poppy stood him on her lap and buried her face in his neck, Her voice muffled, she said, “So Mummy will have the summer off. What about that, Tom-tom?” Tom shrieked with pleasure and echoed, “Tom-tom, Tom-tom.”

  Poppy stroked Lorato’s head. “What about that, Lorato?” Lorato lifted her solemn eyes to Poppy’s and said, “Tom-tom, Tom-tom.”

  Eduardo watched the familiar breakfast scene without seeing it. “Summer off? Does that mean you’ve got another job lined up already?”

  Poppy shook her head. “No, thank God. They want us to reopen with Filumena in August or September. Same cast.”

  Poppy hoisted Tom over to Eduardo, who had to put down his toast to take him. Then she reached dow
n and picked up Lorato. Eduardo asked, “Surely the cast will all have drifted off? They can’t hold you all summer without paying you, can they?”

  Poppy smiled. “No pay, I’m afraid. But I don’t think we’ll lose anyone. We’re such a tiny company and the others feel like I do: nice to have the summer off.” She handed a segment of orange to Lorato, who crammed it, whole, into her mouth. Juice ran down her chin, her eyes rounded and bulged, and she started to choke. Poppy hooked a finger into her mouth, and extracted the orange. She caught Eduardo’s look of mild disgust as she cut the mangled segment into two and handed Lorato half of it. “We’ll get a week’s rehearsal before we reopen,” she said.

  While Lorato devoured the second bit of orange, Poppy poured more coffee. She liked filter coffee in the morning, in great French bowls, with full-cream milk, to hell with the calories. She said, “The management would have liked us to go on tour to fill the gap, so they’re fed up with me.”

  “Do you mind? Them being mad, I mean.”

  Poppy shrugged. “Not really. They’ve known all along. I said I’d only go back to work at all if I could sleep every night in my own bed. It’s been in my contract from the beginning.”

  Tom plunged his fist into the sugar bowl and Eduardo moved it out of reach. “Hey, Basta, keep your hands out of there,” he said, handing Tom a finger of toast from his neat pile of discarded crusts.

  Lorato immediately set up a wail, reaching toward Tom’s prize. Poppy said, “Oh Eduardo, now you’ll have to give her one. She’ll be as fat as butter at this rate.” Eduardo reached over with a crust, holding it just out of her reach.

  “What’s this, Lorato?” he said. Lorato stopped crying at once, and looked anxiously at Eduardo. “Say ‘Toast,’ Lorato, ‘Toast.’”

  “Toast,” she said. She said it perfectly, without a lisp.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Eduardo, giving her the crust. He turned to Tom. “Say ‘Toast,’ Tom.”

  “Shosh,” said Tom, beaming with pride.

  “Shosh, shosh,” continued Tom as he wriggled off Eduardo’s lap and made for the French windows in a rapid crab-wise crawl. Poppy set Lorato down and went up to open the doors. Lorato walked fast ahead of her and, when she caught up with Tom, stood in front of him, sturdy as a rock, blocking his path. She commanded, “Up, up, Tom.” Tom, pulled by Lorato, obediently stood up and finished the distance at a wobbly walk.