Aside from her own troubles the whole country seemed to be in a state of depression. Edward Heath had ordered the farcical three-day week back in December, when the miners went on strike, and although Heath had now resigned and Harold Wilson had taken over, things still looked bleak.
Mrs Smethwick, Mel's landlady, was cleaning the brass on the front door as she turned into Stevendale Road. From a distance she looked like Andy Capp's wife: a cross-over pinny in pinks and reds, nylon scarf tied over her curlers, cigarette dangling from her lips, and a large protruding bottom.
Mrs Smethwick cleaned the brass daily, more for an excuse to spy on her neighbours and goggle at the new young executives who were moving in than out of any desire to make number forty-seven attractive.
Many of the Victorian terraced houses in the road now sported coach lamps and paved front gardens with evergreen bushes in tubs. Estate agents were fond of describing these as 'town houses of character' or even 'artisans cottages'. But even they would be hard pressed to find something inspiring to say about Mrs Smethwick's house. The area between pavement and house held a collection of open dustbins, and an ancient armchair left to rot all winter. The window frames sagged, the paint was chipped and a broken downpipe had left a green slimy streak from roof to street level.
As Mel drew nearer, her landlady grinned at her, revealing an absence of upper teeth. 'Did yer get the job, ducks? Yer don't 'alf look smart.'
'It wasn't quite what I wanted,' Mel replied, smiling politely even though she loathed the woman. 'How did you know I was going for an interview?'
'I put two and two together,' Mrs Smethwick said, small bright eyes glinting with pride at her powers of deduction. 'I seen yer newspapers with rings round. And then you went out all done up.'
Mel felt she might just write something nasty about the woman one day and put it in her bin – but not yet. She needed the cheap room a little longer.
Trudging up to her room on the first floor, she covered her nose with her hand. The house always smelt dreadful: a mixture of boiled cabbage, cats, nappies and the unspeakable emissions from her neighbours' bowels.
Mel's room had been advertised as a 'serviced flatlet for business person'. In fact it was a poky ten-by-eight room with a diseased mattress on the bed and an electric hotplate and sink in a cupboard. The servicing meant that Mrs Smethwick emptied the wastepaper bin, put a fresh sheet on the bed once a fortnight and pushed the hoover round the bits that showed. As far as Mel could see she was the only one of the six tenants who had a job and sometimes the noise in the house was on a level with living at London airport.
Back at Christmas she had stayed in bed all day reading, pretending to herself it was just another Sunday. When her mind switched back to the Christmas tree in the drawing room at Oaklands or the dining room laid up with silver, starched white napkins and crystal wine glasses, she had pulled the covers over her head and sobbed.
Mel put a coin in the meter, then switched on the kettle and fire. Someone was cooking curry upstairs and by evening the smell would be trapped everywhere in the house. If it hadn't been so cold she would have gone for a walk after the interview to delay returning here.
There were no comforts – not a radio, television or even a bedside lamp. Everything in the room belonged to Mrs Smethwick, from the unmatched thick china to the picture of swans hiding a nasty stain on the wall. Mel knew she was almost at the end of her tether.
How many more plates of pie and chips could she dish out before screaming aloud? How many more nights could she come home exhausted and cry herself to sleep before she cracked up?
Nick's face haunted her. He was on her mind from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning until she fell asleep at night. Daily she blamed herself for the events of that last morning at Oaklands and cursed her stupidity for not having left six months earlier. As for Magnus, that hurt even more because as well as missing him desperately she didn't know what sort of state he was in. Could he walk yet? Was his speech distorted like many stroke victims? She knew he was back at Oaklands before Christmas because she'd telephoned but the girl on reception had said he was confined to a wheelchair. Whenever she'd phoned since, Mrs Downes or Sally had answered, and she'd had to put the receiver down without speaking.
She pined for her pretty room, the beauty of her surroundings and the other staff who had been her friends. She was so lonely that sometimes death seemed preferable to the constant pain inside her.
'You're just tired,' she whispered, looking at herself in the mirror as she took off her navy-blue suit and hung it on a hanger. Her hair and eyes were dull, even her skin had a yellowish tinge. She had lost weight too, and her shoulders looked gaunt. Even her bra was too big now.
Back in the autumn she had intended to write to Magnus, to tell him exactly why she left in such a hurry and why she could never come back. But she had no idea if he was able to read a letter himself, and if it fell into the wrong hands it would be awkward for him. Now she knew she could never write: she must stay away for good, for his family's sake.
It was tempting to pack her bags, go to the airport and get a flight somewhere, yet she knew now that running wasn't the answer. She had to start living again. What she needed was a job she could be proud of, and a permanent home for herself.
The rattling sound of a milk float woke her and the grey early morning light indicated she had slept right round the clock from four in the afternoon until almost six the next morning.
Shivering she got out of bed and switched on the fire and kettle, getting back under the covers until the kettle boiled and the room warmed a little.
By the time she'd had a second cup of tea, she realised she felt calmer, much better than she had for weeks. Maybe this was a sign she was getting over Nick at last?
Peggy's café was in the shabby World's End part of King's Road, where the big houses were divided into bedsitters and occupied by itinerant artists, musicians and a great many refugees from the sixties who clung to the area along with their philosophies of astrology, brown rice and free love. There were still a few hippie shops, with the inevitable handmade candles, incense, Indian clothes and packets of Tarot cards. Peggy's café was tucked between a smart lighting shop and a large junk shop called Bizarre, the only one left in the area that offered cheap home-cooked meals from six in the morning till well past nine at night.
Mel winced as she crossed King's Road. She could see Peggy through the steamed-up window, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She'd managed to break Arthur of the habit of sticking his fingers in the cups, and got them both to agree sauce bottles looked more attractive with the tops wiped, but she still couldn't find a way of preventing them from smoking behind the counter!
'Hullo, love,' Peggy called out cheerfully. 'You're early!'
Peggy was well past forty but she had the body of a twenty-year-old and bouffant, bleached blonde hair. Despite her messy habits she took great pride in her appearance. Today she was wearing tight pink trousers and a matching spotted short top which showed up her rounded bottom and narrow hips to advantage. It was a shame her face didn't match up to her body: she had deep lines round her eyes, and the pink foundation she plastered on emphasised them even more. Mel had often seen lorry drivers pinch or slap her youthful bottom only to be startled when she rounded on them and they saw her face.
'I woke up full of beans today,' Mel grinned, nipping behind the counter and going through to hang up her coat and find an apron to tie over her jeans.
It had been a matter of pride never to let on to Peggy and Arthur just how dejected or alone she was. Because of her confident air, her manner of speaking and her knowledge of gourmet foods, she'd inadvertently given them the impression that she came from an illustrious background. It suited her to play along with this myth. Peggy was an inverted snob, sneering at anyone she believed came from a higher branch of the social tree, and therefore she asked no direct questions. If she chose to imagine Mel was slumming it out of some misguided r
ebellion, that was fine. Barbed sarcastic comments were easier to live with than sympathy or curiosity.
'What's the special?' Mel asked as she came back behind the counter.
'How about that goulash?' Peggy suggested, pouring out a cup of tea for her. The radio was on as always and Slade's 'Cum on Feel the Noize' blared out.
'That needs slow cooking,' Mel said thoughtfully. 'I could do that for tomorrow. What about lasagne?'
'I don't know what the customers did before you came,' Peggy sniggered. 'Cor you ain't 'alf changed our image, love.'
Mel smiled. Peggy would be very disappointed if she was to discover that she hadn't picked up her cooking skills by eating in fancy restaurants or going to a posh finishing school, but by standing at Antoine's elbow and studying recipe books. Six months ago Peggy and Arthur had sniffed disapprovingly at the herbs, spices and garlic she used, but time and the customers' enthusiasm for the hearty casseroles and special pasta dishes she created had mellowed their attitude.
'How did the curry go down yesterday?' Mel sat down at one of the tables. There were only two customers so far, both sitting with giant bacon sandwiches and half-pint mugs of tea, their noses deep in the Daily Mirror.
'One complaint it was too hot, but the rest liked it.' Peggy wiped a greasy cloth over the glass cake display cabinet. 'Art had the last bit for 'is supper.'
Mel saw the glass coming up more smeared than it had been at the start, she forgot herself and suggested Peggy got a clean cloth.
'Getting a bit above ourselves aren't we?' her employer snapped.
There were countless things here which Mel frowned upon: the way uncooked chops were left out in the hot kitchen, cooked and raw meat shoved in the refrigerator together and crumbs left on the floor all night, encouraging mice. But she had to be diplomatic about it, for jolly and fun-loving as Peggy was most of the time, she could round on Mel quicker than a snake, spitting out venom with such ferocity it left her shaking.
There were a great deal of inconsistencies in Peggy and Arthur. They spent an inordinate amount of money on clothes, and their flat above the café had every last luxury, yet they wouldn't buy a new fridge or lay new flooring which would be easier to clean. They liked the way Mel's cooking packed the place at lunchtime, yet they wouldn't give her more money. The more she took on, the less they both did. Even the improved menu was something to snigger about rather than praise. On several occasions she'd heard Peggy ask customers, 'D'you want the fancy muck or a fry up?'
The café filled up quickly, with a mixture of labourers, lorry drivers and students coming in for a mountainous breakfast.
'Glad to see you back today,' Tony one of the regulars called to her through the hatch to the kitchen. 'My breakfast was swimming in fat yesterday!'
It wasn't until after the lunch hour that Mel sat down for the first time. She sipped her coffee and picked at the left-over lasagne, idly looking through the situations vacant. One job caught her eye.
'Chief, cook and bottlewasher wanted for new Supper Rooms in Fulham. Must be smart, hardworking and adaptable. Accommodation available if required. Good wages and bonus to right person.'
Mel jotted down the number and stuck it in her pocket. It was worth a try. She might be able to get round her lack of references by suggesting they called to sample her cooking.
It was quiet late in the afternoon. There would be another rush before six, but under the pretence of buying tights, she slipped off to a public phone.
'Could you call round tonight?' a man said after she explained where she worked. 'I know Peggy's café, I've been in there several times and I was impressed with the specials. Are you the dark-haired girl?'
The man introduced himself as Conrad Deeley. He gave her a good feeling: his deep resonant voice reminded her just a little of Magnus although he had a trace of an Irish accent. If his place was only half decent and he wanted her as cook, she'd take it. Nothing could be as bad as Peggy's.
'Yes, that's me,' she said. 'Camellia Norton, though they know me as Mel,' She didn't know why she'd suddenly reverted back to her real name after so long. Perhaps it was just instinctive: she'd had enough of pretence. 'I could come straight from here,' she said quickly, afraid someone else might beat her to it. 'But I have to warn you I'm not dressed for an interview and I'll stink of chips!'
'You'll stink of garlic here,' he replied and laughed unaffectedly. 'Just ring the bell on the side door. I'm not ready to open yet.'
On the bus to Fulham Broadway, Mel pictured Conrad Deeley as around sixty, big and balding. She had the idea that his restaurant would be in a basement. But she was wrong on both counts.
The windows and door of the narrow building were covered in something white which prevented her looking in, but the outside frames and fascia board had been painted a glossy dark green. It was sandwiched between a greengrocers and a chemists, and she guessed that like its neighbours inside it was just one long room with a kitchen right at the back. There were two more floors above, the top one attic rooms with tiny windows. She quite liked the idea of living here: Fulham Broadway was a bustling place with a street market during the day and it had an interesting mix of residents ranging from working-class families and immigrants to young executive types who had bought houses here in the property boom of 1972.
When the side door was answered by a young, thin weed of a man with wire-rimmed spectacles and a Fair Isle cardigan, her heart sank.
'I have an appointment with Mr Deeley,' she said. 'Is he here?'
'I am Deeley, and you must be Camellia. Do come in.' His voice confirmed he was the man she had spoken to, but the deep tone was at odds with his puny appearance. He winced at the cold wind and quickly shut the door behind her. 'Well that wind must have blown the chip smell away, you smell like frosty clean washing.'
Mel was disappointed. Everything about Deeley was untidy, from his lank mousy hair to his paint-splattered shoes. He didn't look capable of running a restaurant. If it hadn't been for his warm voice and his welcoming manner, she might have turned and left immediately.
'Everything's in chaos,' he said with a friendly boyish grin. 'I'll just hope you have a good enough imagination to get an idea of how it will be when it's finished. I'll quickly show you the kitchen for now, then after we've had a cup of tea and a chat, I'll show you round properly.'
There was a strong smell of fresh paint and new plaster in the narrow passage. He led her past an uncarpeted staircase, down another two steps. As they reached the kitchen Mel's spirits lifted instantly.
Setting aside a mucky floor littered with tools, odd bits of timber and a couple of sacks of plaster, it was superb: attractive pale-green fitted units, plenty of working surfaces and a huge cooker. Even at a glance Mel could see Conrad knew what he was doing. It had clearly been designed with heavy duty use in mind. The lighting was excellent, the positioning of the double sink, cooker and refrigerator was practical, the walls were tiled from floor to ceiling for easy cleaning, and he was in the process of unpacking a vast array of professional copper-bottomed saucepans.
Although it was dark outside, the big window and a glazed door leading out onto a backyard gave the impression that by day it would be a light, cheerful place to work, a far cry from the gloomy, cramped and awkward kitchen she'd endured at Peggy's café.
'I'm looking for someone who will work with me, not just for me,' he said pointedly. 'It's my intention to make Conrad's Supper Rooms "the" place to eat in South West London. The best meat and fish, fresh vegetables, simple food but beautifully cooked and presented. Until I can see how it's going to go, I can't afford to take on a lot of staff. In the beginning it will be a case of doing anything and everything between us.'
She liked the way he said 'us'. As he opened cupboards for her inspection and exuberantly spoke of other equipment he had ordered, she found herself forgetting his appearance. She was charmed by his enthusiasm and astounded by his business-like knowledge of food preparation.
As he led her upstairs
into a room at the back piled high with green-stained tables and chairs, he began to rattle out a potted history of himself: how he'd once been a teacher in a boys' school but left because he wanted to be a writer and taken a job in a restaurant to keep the wolf from the door. 'I hardly knew how to peel a spud when I started,' he laughed. 'I worked my way up from washing up, and waiting at tables to cooking, and I found I was born to it.'
Whilst speaking at a hundred miles an hour, about this restaurant down in Hampshire, his family back in Ireland and what a hopeless teacher he had proved to be, he made a pot of tea. Then he pulled a chair down for Mel to sit on by the fire, and asked her a few questions. His face was pale, with a small mouth and a sharp chin, but behind his thick glasses large brown eyes danced with unsuppressed merriment and intelligence.
Conrad, or Con as he preferred, came from a large family back in Limerick. 'If I'd been a puppy or kitten,' he said cheerfully, I'm the one in the litter they would have drowned,' and without the slightest pause proceeded to tell her why.
'I didn't fit in you see, I was always sickly and gormless. So when I was nine they sent me off to live with my Great-aunt Bridget in Galway. Luckily, she and I got on like a house on fire. She was a bit odd you see, like me. If I didn't want to go to school she'd let me stay home reading books or we'd go walking along the beach. I was thirteen when she died. I went home for a bit, but couldn't settle in the school where my other brothers had been, so they shipped me off to my grandfather, Great-aunt Bridget's brother, in England. I liked him as much as I'd liked Aunt Bridget. He was a bit of an old reprobate, made all his money in the construction business. He was over seventy and a great one for the ladies and he could've been captain of the Irish drinking team! But he sent me to a small school in Weybridge and I caught up with all the schooling I'd missed. We had a wonderfully close relationship and when he died while I was at University he left me all his money.'
Camellia Page 43
