by Jane Tulloch
Antoine entered the kitchen on an inauspicious day: the sous chef had not turned up for work and Chef had a great deal of preparation to do by himself. He worked around the kitchen angrily but sinisterly quietly. The other staff stood about nervously awaiting orders. Antoine appeared in immaculate whites and carrying his own set of knives. It seemed to everyone that here was a professional. He nodded to the others and then, with a glance at Chef, proceeded to slice the mounds of beef standing waiting to be turned into beef stroganoff. Chef turned from stirring a sauce and regarded the new member of his brigade.
“OK,” he drawled, “Now sort out the lamb chops.” It felt like a challenge and, indeed, it was. Antoine began to prepare them in the French manner. “Like this?” he enquired?
“No,” came the response.
“I’m surprised you don’t do it this way. It is the way that Kaufman taught us all,” Antoine responded mildly. “Oh well, chacun à son goût.” He shrugged and resumed the task.
“Kaufman? You trained with Kaufman?” Chef was amazed to hear that his own personal hero had trained the newcomer. He had all Kaufman’s books and had even once heard him talk at an event in the Edinburgh Festival.
“Oh yes. I did my time at Chez Maximillian in Paris.”
Mr Pargeter blinked. “Well, we must have a chat once service is out of the way. In the meantime...”
He barked out a rapid series of orders to the staff and the kitchen was soon a blur of activity, a miasma of steam and delicious smells wreathing round the busy figures.
Later that afternoon, after a successful lunch time service, the two men sat in Chef’s little office surrounded by piles of invoices and fluttering paperwork. The conversation started generally, then deepened more and more until Mr Pargeter found himself pouring out his lifetime’s hopes, dreams and disappointments. He found the young man to be such a good listener and source of wisdom that he felt, for the first time in many years, or perhaps ever, that he had a true friend. Their shared interest in food formed a wonderful context for their discussion and he listened with widened eyes to Antoine’s tales of Kaufman’s kitchen. They talked long after the store closed and Chef set off home with a spring in his step, for once feeling refreshed rather than drained by his day at Murrays.
Over the next few weeks, Antoine initiated some interesting changes to Chef’s well-known recipes. The little additions of this and that, the slight alteration to cooking times or seasoning led to very noticeable but welcome differences in the dishes concerned. Although they were, technically, the same, they tasted very slightly different and much more delicious. Chef basked in the glow of a new restaurant review that praised his adherence to old, familiar dishes but with a wonderful new twist. Antoine stayed quietly in the background and his diffident manner endeared him to all, from Chef himself to the humblest kitchen porter.
‘Uncle Toni’ arrived in the Toy Department with all the sudden noise and overall effect of a hand grenade exploding down there. It was a rather dark and dingy department with somewhat lethargic staff. It had been a very popular department in Miss Paterson’s day but, now she had left, the staff seemed to have slumped into almost complete indifference to the excited children who were still brought in by parents and grandparents who remembered a visit to Murrays’ Toy Department as a treat in their past.
Antoine, who had metamorphosed into the exotic Uncle Toni, caused a sensation among the children. Dressed in brightly coloured trousers and harlequin shirt and sporting a large red spongy nose and frizzy ginger hair, he startled most mothers and grandmothers by creeping up behind them and tooting a large horn. The children cried with laughter. The staff looked on helplessly at first, then it was all hands on deck to man the tills. Antoine’s cheery engagement with the customers led to a huge increase in sales. He would individually befriend a small child and, with the parents’ permission, lead them round to the toys most likely to be suited to the child and to the pocket of the accompanying adult. This suited everyone and children clamoured to return to the Toy Department just to see Uncle Toni. He began to perform clownish tricks and to entertain groups of children while the parents shopped in other departments.
His time in the Toy Department was an unqualified success. He only left after ceremonially handing over his lurid suit and accoutrements to Andy, the youngest member of the Toy Department staff, earnestly urging him to keep up with the silly behaviour as children these days needed all the laughter they could get.
Antoine fitted in perfectly to any and every department he was assigned to. At the management team meeting Miss Murray marvelled at his success.
“Not only has he got on well with a very disparate set of staff groups, but he’s actually increased turnover in each department.”
“Wish he’d gone to more departments then,” Mr McElvey replied sourly. He was suspicious of the friendly young Frenchman, as he tended to be of anyone with a degree of social facility.
Ignoring this and warming to her theme, Miss Murray continued, “He demonstrated tact and diplomacy to Mr da Costa, kept the porters happy…”
“No mean feat,” said Mr Soames.
“…and helped to improve the catering, as well as making big changes in the way the Toy Department worked.” Miss Murray was very impressed. “And all along made friends of everyone on the staff.”
“He’s such a handsome young man too,” sighed Mrs Pegram.
“Shame he’s gay then,” snapped Barry Hughes jealously.
“Gay? No he’s not. He certainly cut a swathe among the girls when he was with the porters, you should hear what Jim had to say about it!” Mr Philipson felt compelled to add. Barry glared at him.
“Margaret, he lives at Rosehill, you’ll know him best of all. Once and for all is he a ladies’ man or not?” Mrs Pegram asked.
“Well I don’t know,” she began. “We don’t see much of him really. He’s so self-effacing he doesn’t want to be any trouble to us. Just disappears at weekends. He’s very charming and extremely polite, of course, so I don’t like to ask where he goes. I assume that he has some friends locally, or a girlfriend… or boyfriend.” The latter was directed towards Barry who smiled smugly.
“Be that as it may,” began Mr Philipson. “The boy’s an asset to the shop. Do you think he might stay on if we asked him?”
“Good idea.” Mrs Pegram was keen to recruit him to permanent staff. Miss Murray happily concurred.
She thought for a while, “Do you know, I think I’ll give his mother a ring. I met her a few times when I was working there with Antoine’s dad. It was many years ago, though…” She hesitated, remembering a rather frosty dinner party. Madame had been uncomfortable with the young woman spending so much time with her husband. Certainly, Miss Murray had carried a torch for ‘her’ Antoine, the father of the young man in question. He was long dead of course, but some vague resentment towards her might have lingered.
She made up her mind. “Yes I will. Antoine’s done so very well here. She should be proud of him and might appreciate hearing of his success. I could sound her out about the possibility of him staying on. They will probably have plans for him in their store but it’s worth asking. I’ll phone her tonight.” The meeting moved on to other matters.
That evening, Miss Murray had resolved to speak to Antoine himself about the possibility of prolonging his stay at Murrays. However, when she asked Mrs Glen where he might be, it transpired that he was either gone out or had not yet returned from the store. His movements remained a mystery to Mrs Glen who liked to know exactly what was going on in her domain. She was beginning to be a little irritated at his elusiveness.
“Not to worry. He’s a young man, I expect he has other fish to fry on a Friday evening,” Miss Murray reassured her. “I’ll be phoning his mother later. I just wanted to speak to him first. Doesn’t matter though.” Mrs Glen frowned. International phone calls were very extravagant and rarely made from Rosehill. “None of my business of course,” she told herself with a sniff as she whis
ked out of the room.
Miss Murray turned with a sigh of satisfaction to her well-earned glass of chilled Chablis. “Friday evening at last,” she thought. “I deserve this.”
The unfamiliar ring tones reminded Miss Murray that she was phoning Paris as she listened for a reply. She glanced at her watch, forgetting for a moment the time difference between Scotland and France. Finally, her call was answered by a male voice speaking rapid French. At first she thought the number in the address book must be out of date, but she soon realised this was the butler.
She started out in hesitant rusty French, “Est que c’est possible…”
The butler rapidly recognised a non-native speaker and briskly cut in. “Madame is not taking calls just now. Who shall I say telephoned her?”
“Oh it’s just, it’s Miss Murray phoning from Scotland. I don’t know if she’ll remember me. I’m phoning about Antoine. I want to tell her how well he’s doing here.” There was a pause. She became aware of a whispered conversation going on at the other end of the phone. Then a woman’s voice cut in.
“Good evening Miss Murray. I remember you well. How kind of you to call.” It was Madame. Her icily polite tones echoed down the line.
“Oh well, it’s a pleasure,” Miss Murray gushed. “It’s been such a long time since we met I wasn’t sure if you would remember me.”
“But of course. It was on his way to spend time at your store that…”
“He’s done so well here. We’re all so pleased with him. What a charming young man. You must be so proud of him.” There followed a long pause. Miss Murray could hear an old clock ticking in the background. Trivially, she remembered an old clock with roses painted on the dial in the hall there. She wondered if it was the same one. The ticking continued. She stared at the receiver, frowning. Had the connection been lost she wondered.
Eventually, there was a response. “What do you mean that he’s done so well with you?”
“Just that really, he’s got on so well with everyone and certainly been an invaluable asset in several departments. We don’t want to let him go,” she finished on a cheerful note.
“But he has gone. Gone. He’s gone forever. My Antoine is dead.”
“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean your husband,” Miss Murray continued, confused.
“Neither do I. Antoine. My son, Antoine, was killed on his way to the airport to get the plane to Scotland. Damned Scotland. I wish he’d never heard of it.” She spat out. “He would still be here with me if he hadn’t tried to go there.” She finished in a flurry of French, its general meaning unmistakable.
A hundred thoughts ran through Miss Murray’s mind. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. If he had died, then who was the young man who had caused such a stir in the shop? She became aware that the phone call had been terminated at the other end. She sat down with a thump on the nearest chair. Who was that young man? Who was this chameleon? A chimera?
Sometimes there are no answers. Her eyes filled with tears. Whoever he was, he had supplied just what was needed in every department in which he had worked. It was horrifying to contemplate that he was dead. Her thoughts reeled. Eventually, it occurred to her that Antoine was still, apparently, around. She picked up the phone again.
The next day Antoine presented himself in Miss Murray’s office. He found himself seated in front of Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram both grim-faced
“Now Antoine, or should I call you something else?” Miss Murray opened.
He had the grace to look abashed in the face of such implacable hostility. “I see. I see you know about me.” His assurance slipping visibly. “I can explain.”
“Do so.”
He took a deep breath. “I knew Antoine. He was my boyhood friend, but he grew apart from me as we grew up. You see I was the chauffeur’s son, not the great son of the great household. I watched him though. From my humble position, I watched him. I saw how he spoke, how he dressed, how he treated people. I worked in the family department store in Paris as well. I saw how things could be done, how they should be done, but no one would listen to me. Why should they? I was a nobody. I never had the opportunity to influence change. It was so, how do you say... frustrating.
“I knew from my father, who still worked for the family as Madame’s chauffeur, that Antoine was coming to work for a while here in Murrays. Such a wonderful opportunity, the sort of opportunity that would never come my way. Then…” He faltered finally.
“Then you decided to take advantage of his tragic accident?”
“Oui. Yes.” He hung his head. “I know it was wrong. I’m so sorry. I stole the letter that was addressed to Miss Murray telling her that Antoine, the real Antoine, wouldn’t be coming and why. I tried not to be a burden at all or to take advantage of your hospitality at Rosehill. I knew I could work hard to repay your faith in me at Murrays. I should have known it wouldn’t work out. How could it?” He raised his head suddenly, his eyes blazing in what was either self-reproach or hopefulness.
There was a long pause while the ladies thought about the situation. With her head, Miss Murray thought that they should snap up this exceptionally useful, potential staff member, but her heart said a resounding no. They owed that to the bereaved family. They certainly couldn’t take on this impersonator of their lost son, however good he was at his job. She shook her head.
Mrs Pegram said quietly, picking up the conversation, “No. You’re right. We can’t take you on.” His head dropped.
“But you’re so talented in this field.” She appeared deep in thought then, “I can see how difficult it must have been to stand by and watch Antoine, the real Antoine, have all the opportunities while you never had any.”
He nodded hopefully again. Suddenly, things seemed to be going his way.
“Now Antoine… what is your real name by the way?”
“Marcel.”
“OK Marcel, how would you feel about working in another, similar store?”
“You mean in Glasgow or maybe London?”
Miss Murray interrupted, “I was thinking of New York actually Mrs Pegram. I can certainly arrange that for him.”
His eyes widened. “Really? You would do that for me?”
“I don’t see why not. However, don’t for a single moment think that we’re condoning your behaviour in impersonating the real Antoine. It was a terrible thing to do.”
Suitably chastened, he agreed.
After a short while discussing practicalities and arrangements, he left, bowing deeply to the ladies. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me. I will always remember and appreciate this.”
As the door closed behind him, Mrs Pegram turned to her friend, “Do you know, I think that is the first and only time we’ve ever seen the real Antoine/Marcel? He’s always been someone else. Someone that was needed in each department. What a chameleon he is.”
Miss Murray agreed.
Chapter 16
Rosehill Revels 2
You are invited to attend the annual staff tea party at Rosehill
on Saturday 15th September.
2.00pm–5.00pm. Please arrive promptly.
Tea will be served at 3.00pm.
Appropriate footwear may be appreciated.
No RSVP required.
The annual invitation to Murrays’ staff tea party in its new format led to much discussion in the canteen. A copy was slipped into each pay packet at the end of August.
“What’s the point of arriving promptly at 2pm if we’re not getting any tea till 3pm?” One aggrieved voice asked.
“I know. The whole thing’s usually so boring anyway that the tea is the only reason for going at all,” said another.
“And what’s all this about appropriate footwear may be appreciated?” chipped in a newcomer to the conversation.
“Cheeky besom. Is that her way of saying that our high heels might damage that precious lawn of hers?”
“Her housekeeper is a right nippy sweetie. Bet she’s put her
up to it.” They all agreed and comfortably settled back to deploring the macaroni and glaring at junior staff in too short skirts.
There was no question of them not attending. The invitation to the annual tea party was in the nature of a royal command. No RSVP was required as, basically, there was no choice. Staff were expected to attend.
Surprisingly, the attitude of the management team, with certain obvious exceptions, largely reflected that of the floor staff. They were not looking forward to the event at all. Even Mr Philipson, who could usually be counted on to be relatively upbeat, seemed downcast at the prospect. However, he hid his misgivings. “We’ll just have to pin on the big smiles and support Margaret,” he said with a wry grin. They all tended to refer to Miss Murray as Margaret when she wasn’t there. It was unlikely that she would have objected to such informality face to face but somehow no one could bring themselves to risk it except, perhaps, Mr McElvey, who had known her since she was a child. She occasionally forgot herself and called him Ian. They all speculated from time to time on the relationship between the two and noted that he was invited to dinner at Rosehill on a fairly frequent basis. Kindly Mr Soames had always explained it away as Miss Murray feeling sorry for Mr McElvey living in what he called ‘a home,’ as if his prestigious club residence could be called that. The others remained unconvinced.
