The King's Park Irregulars

by David Wilson

  As Emma was preparing herself for her interview, in the Mills household Sophie was cooking breakfast for Alasdair – he liked to have a full breakfast to keep him going all day. At least that was what he said, but in reality he liked a full breakfast to keep him going until lunch, via elevenses of course, which was a snack, but come lunchtime he would have a hearty meal to keep him going until dinner. Supper was another often forgotten meal these days he thought, a victim of healthy eating and not having food too close to bedtime. Bad enough, he thought, not being able to have cheese before bed without starving oneself altogether.

  Alasdair came in and put his copy of The Scotsman on the table and sat down without a word. Sophie ignored him and kept poking the rashers of bacon around the frying pan and stirring the scrambled eggs, then dishing those with the beans, mushrooms, eggs and sausages. Alasdair kept reading the front of his paper as Sophie came over with the plates and stood opposite him. He folded his paper to the side and picked up his cutlery; however Sophie just stood there holding the plates expectantly. In the marital home it was the classic full English stand-off. Alasdair put his cutlery down again and looked up at Sophie, ‘I’m still not going,’ he said petulantly, ‘I told you that last night and I’m not going to be swayed.’ Sophie put the plates down in front of them both and sat down at the table, as Alasdair started tucking into his breakfast.

  ‘I do recall you telling me that, however what I don’t recall is getting any sort of explanation why you’re against us having Milton Scott for our guest of honour. Not that it matters particularly since it’s a committee decision, but given that you have shared interests it would be very helpful if you would help get him onboard.’

  Alasdair spluttered as he choked on a piece of sausage. ‘Look Sophie, Milton Scott and I definitely do not have anything shared, interests or otherwise. Yes, he may also be a collector but he’s also been in trouble with the law. I don’t understand why you would want an ex-convict to be associated with high tea?’

  ‘He’s not a convict,’ she sighed, ‘he was accused of some dodgy business deals but he was cleared so he’s not got any criminal record. We checked. Besides, since he’s been in Stirling he’s become quite a local celebrity and is very generous to local charities and youth organisations. He’s a successful businessman and local philanthropist now so I don’t see how you could have any objection.’ Alasdair said nothing and continued with his breakfast while Sophie eyed him tactfully. ‘He’s a descendent of Walter Scott you know, did you know that? I thought you’d enjoy meeting one of the Scott family since you’re so keen on collecting all things to do with him. I believe Milton has some fantastic pieces in his collection. He might let you see them if you come with me.’ Alasdair tried not to show any sign of weakening but Sophie had picked up on the momentary pause in his cutlery before he cut the next piece of sausage. Alasdair felt torn as Milton Scott did have some classic family heirlooms that were well known in collectors’ circles and it would be wonderful to see them, but he just couldn’t stand the man. He had to put his principles before everything else and he could not compromise them just for the chance to see some interesting artefacts or to help Sophie. That was that and he was adamant.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It took only ten minutes for Emma to walk into town and find herself standing outside The Pudding Furnace restaurant. The front window was covered in swirls of whitewash to block out any view of the interior, and pasted across the window was a sign saying ‘One week to opening’. As she stood there a woman wearing a dark blue trouser-suit came out, an exasperated expression on her face, and marched off up the street muttering as she went. Emma watched her go, wishing she had dressed up a bit for her interview but since she didn’t possess a suit of any description, her black jeans, blouse and a jumper would just have to do. She pushed open the door and a small bell chimed above as she walked in. ‘We’re not open yet!’ a voice shouted through from what Emma presumed to be the kitchen.

  She stepped forward a few paces into the restaurant. ‘I’m here about the job. I called yesterday about an interview?’

  A stocky, red-faced man appeared through the door and wiped his face with an old towel in his hand. ‘Oh yes? And what magnificent ideas do you have to offer me? Self-stirring soup pans, waiters on roller skates? What was your name again?’

  ‘Emma Harris. Is now a bad time or are you always like this?’

  The man’s expression softened slightly and he gestured her into a chair as he sat down opposite. ‘Sorry, bad day. The way things are going here I’m not sure there’s ever a good time.’ Emma placed his accent as being from Glasgow but she couldn’t quite picture him as a restaurant owner. ‘I’ve just had a pipe in the kitchen spring a leak, the new oven isn’t working and my drinks licence is tied up in red tape.’

  Emma smiled sympathetically and pointed to the sign in the window. ‘But at least you’ve still got a week until you open? You can get a lot done in a week I bet.’

  ‘Oh the sign. Trouble is, I put that up last week before any of this happened so I’m already behind. Still, I like your positive attitude. Much like myself believe it or not.’ He bellowed with laughter, ‘Not that you’d think it eh? My name’s Alec McAllister, proud owner of The Pudding Furnace.’ He reached over and shook Emma’s hand, before taking a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. ‘So, you’re here for the assistant manager’s job? Do you have any experience?’

  Emma flushed slightly. ‘Not really, no, at least not running a restaurant. I work in the library at the moment but it’s a bit quiet for me and I’d like something to get my teeth into. I think this would be just the thing.’ Rather to her surprise he let out a mock cheer.

  ‘Thank God for that. I’ve interviewed six people for this job so far and not one of them has come in looking like they were ready to do a day’s hard graft. It’s been all wine lists and rhubarb soufflés – not the thing at all for my place. What do you think of rhubarb soufflés?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘I’ve not tried one to be honest; it doesn’t sound like it would beat a good sticky toffee pudding or ice cream.’

  Alec laughed. ‘Exactly. Why is it that everyone who wants to help manage my restaurant wants to try and turn it into the Ritz? You know I was in a restaurant the other day for lunch, research purposes and all that, and do you know what they had on the menu? Soup of the moment. Have you ever heard such a load of rubbish? I mean, soup of the moment! The waiter came to take our drinks order and told us what the soup was and when he came back with our drinks I asked him again what the soup was and he looked a bit puzzled. “You told me what it was a moment ago,” I said, “but I assume it’s changed since then?” Soup of the moment!’

  Emma smiled. ‘I’ve not really been to a lot of fancy restaurants to be honest Mr McAllister, but I’m a hard worker and I would be a great asset to your restaurant as I’m good with people too.’

  ‘Then you might be just who I’m looking for as I’m not opening a fancy restaurant. I’ve always had a dream to open up someplace that people will want to visit all the time. The treat isn’t coming to someplace fancy, it’s about having comfort food. That’s why it’s called what it is, it’s all about the puddings.’

  ‘I think you’re opening up at just the right time for a restaurant like this. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought,’ Emma said enthusiastically, desperate to impress. ‘The recession means people want comfort food and a place where the speciality is lovely puddings is just what people need to help make them feel better. I would definitely come here.’ She looked around at the rustic décor and could see the attempt to create a nice, relaxing place. ‘Especially with the fire going, it’ll put people in a laidback mood.’

  Alec leaned forward on the table. ‘That’s exactly what I think. Hard times mean people want something that will comfort them. It’s like going back to your childhood when you always had nice things and you didn’t have to think about the tough stuff. I want folk to come here to escape their troubles and no
t have to worry about fancy menus to get their heads around.’

  Emma stifled a smirk. ‘So no pudding of the moment on the menu then?’ Alec laughed.

  ‘You’re not from Stirling are you?’ she asked. ‘How come you’ve opened up a restaurant here?’

  ‘Am I not meant to be interviewing you?’ Alec chuckled. ‘I worked at the steelworks in Glasgow for years until they shut it down and that was that. Well, all those people looking for work there was nothing doing so I decided to retrain as a chef. It was always something I’d messed about with at home but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could talk about with my mates or at work. I’d be slated for that with the guys I worked with before. But it turned out I had a knack for it and after paying my dues in some dives for a time I got a job in a nice restaurant in Glasgow. It was a nice place, but then it was bought over by a chain and they made it just the same as everywhere else and told me what I could cook. So I left.’ He sat back. ‘It would probably have been a good job but I just couldn’t stand to do the same thing again, week after week, you know?’

  Emma nodded. ‘So that’s when you came here?’

  ‘No, I got a few other jobs but nothing seemed to keep me interested. I still had some of my payoff from my job tucked away so I decided to take a chance and start something up myself. And here I am, for better or worse.’ He looked at her carefully, ‘So, what’s your story Emma?’

  ‘I’ll be honest Mr McAllister, I just need a chance and I can show you what I’m sure I could do.’ She explained her background and recent saga, deciding that he might be the kind of man who just liked the honest approach.

  He listened carefully, then replied, ‘It does sound like you’ve had a bit of a rough time. Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on. Like I say, sometimes people need a chance, I know that, and I like the idea of being master of my own place. How soon can you start?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Mercedes pulled up to the black wrought-iron gates and Sophie peered through the windscreen up the driveway to the large house beyond. The house had been an old manse and large mature trees and hedges gave it a grand look. One of the bushes on the left-hand side of the gates had been trimmed into the shape of a mouse, and on the opposite side one was trimmed into the shape of a man who had been made to look like he was holding a net. Next to the gates was an intercom at the level of the driver’s window. Sophie waited. ‘Well …?’

  Alasdair sighed loudly and lowered his window, ‘I’m still not happy about this,’ he said as he pressed the button.

  ‘Yes, I think I got that but you’re here now so you might as well behave with some measure of good grace about it. This means a lot to me and if we don’t get Mr Scott on board then I’m going to have a bit of a hole in the event on Sunday as we haven’t come up with any other worthwhile suggestions. Quick, answer the speaker …’

  Alasdair leaned his head out of the window. ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Mills to see Milton Scott.’

  A crackling voice came back through the intercom. ‘Who? Do you have an appointment? Mr Scott is a very busy man and he can’t be available to just anyone who happens to be passing.’

  Alasdair turned to Sophie and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes. We telephoned earlier and we have arranged to meet with him at twelve o’clock. It’s a matter of great importance.’ There was another crackling noise and then a creek as the gates started to swing open. Alasdair closed his window. ‘Why is it that when you have to speak through an intercom it makes you feel like English isn’t your first language? Ghastly contraptions.’ They drove up to the house and parked outside the large, black, double front doors.

  ‘Nice,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Awful,’ Alasdair snorted. ‘It’s all for show. I bet he’s put a stainless steel kitchen in there; it shouldn’t be allowed in a period property.’ Sophie didn’t indulge him any further and got out of the car with Alasdair following. ‘If he’s got a musical doorbell then I’m leaving now,’ he said.

  ‘Come on,’ she rang the bell and a reassuring chiming noise came from within. ‘There you go, no sign of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” to be heard.’ A few moments later the door swung open and a young man with ruffled hair and a goatee beard stood before them.

  ‘If you’d like to come in please,’ he said, gesturing them in. They walked into a large hallway in which antique furniture was placed quite elegantly and a large grandfather clock ticked away at the bottom of the sweeping stairs. Sophie introduced herself to the young man.

  ‘We’re very pleased you could fit us in Mr Scott.’

  He blushed. ‘Oh, I’m not Mr Scott, I just work for him, he told me to let you in. I think he’ll …’

  ‘Thank you Graham,’ a voice came from the stairs and Sophie and Alasdair looked up to see a man of around thirty in a dark pinstripe suit descending towards them. ‘Mr and Mrs Mills, I’m sorry I couldn’t greet you at the door but I was on a conference call to the States. Business never sleeps and all that.’ He came over and shook their hands, giving them both a warm smile. ‘That’s the trouble with running an online business, we’re always open somewhere and there’s always someone asking a question. Still, it keeps the wolf from the door. Why don’t we go into the drawing room and we can have some tea?’ Sophie was smiling and glanced at Alasdair as Milton led them from the hallway into a large room.

  ‘See, I told you he would be fine,’ she whispered, ‘he seems like a real gentleman, just who we need. Don’t be difficult now, you know how you can go.’

  Alasdair raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Me?’ he followed them into a large room which was again adorned with antique furniture and artwork around the walls. He was immediately drawn to a fine oak bookcase in which were housed an array of old books including, he noticed, a complete set of first edition Waverly novels by Sir Walter Scott.

  ‘I thought those might catch your attention,’ Milton Scott wandered over, ‘very difficult to get a hold of but then you know that already I’m sure, not to mention how expensive they were. I managed to source them only recently and they’re one of the most valued parts of my book collection.’ Alasdair scanned along, looking at the other books on the shelf, all of which seemed to be first editions. Kidnapped, Lady of the Lake, Ivanhoe and a few others which made up quite a collection and, much to Alasdair’s annoyance, stirred in him a pang of jealousy.

  ‘Quite an impressive collection, I suppose. They must have cost you quite a bit of money. I’m surprised you could afford all of these given your recent proceedings, which were in the newspaper. I know from personal experience how legal costs can mount up.’

  Sophie cast Alasdair a cold stare. ‘Alasdair, you’re not being very courteous to our host.’

  Milton gestured casually but gave a curt smile. ‘Oh, it was all in the papers so there’s nothing to hide. I’m sure Mr Mills will also have read that I was completely cleared of all charges and even received an apology from HM Revenue and Customs for their preposterous hounding of me and my business.’

  ‘I did read that, but then I don’t always believe everything I read in the papers.’

  ‘Hmm … perhaps only what you want to believe then I wonder? Speaking of which, I was very sorry to hear of your recent burglary. It must have been very traumatic for you Mrs Mills.’

  Sophie, who was now sitting in a comfortable armchair, nodded agreeably. ‘It was quite distressing, although they seem to have been after only one thing, so they thankfully didn’t ransack our house and take any personal items. It was Alasdair that bore the fallout from it really. It must be quite worrying for you as well Mr Scott, knowing that something so valuable from your family heritage has been stolen?’

  ‘Please, I think we can possibly work on first names now, can’t we? I do get concerned when I hear about the careless loss of something valuable but thankfully those slippers weren’t so important in the grand scheme of things.’

  Alasdair could feel his hackles rising. ‘It was not a careless loss as you put it. The police believe it may h
ave been a professional gang that came in to steal them to order, for the very reason that they are so valuable. I suppose it’s not such a big concern for you given that you’re only very distantly descended from Walter Scott. If at all.’

  Milton’s mouth thinned but he didn’t take the bait. ‘We’re all entitled to our opinion, Mr Mills, no matter how ill-informed. Now, if you’ll excuse me for one minute I’ll go and fetch us the tea and we can discuss the reason for your visit.’ He left the room and Alasdair sat down in the chair next to Sophie, who was shooting death rays out of her eyes at him.

  ‘What?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘What! Are you determined to ruin this for me? If you can’t maintain at least a civil attitude then can I ask if you can just keep quiet?’

  Alasdair sat back with his legs crossed. ‘He was asking for it, Soph, lording it up over us like that. Careless loss indeed! But I realise you and the committee are intent on going ahead with this folly so I’ll just keep out of it if that’s what you want. I thought you brought me along so I could discuss our mutual interests. That’s all I was doing.’ He sat with an indignant look on his face, which did nothing to lessen Sophie’s infuriation. She had thought he might be an asset but she should have known when it came to having to give ground to Milton Scott, Alasdair had put his line in the sand. Milton came back into the room with a tea tray, which he set down on the coffee table. A fine china teapot and cups were laid out along with a plate of cream cakes.

  ‘I thought you might appreciate these, Sophie, given the impending event which I understand you are in charge of organising? Quite an undertaking, I hope it’s all going well?’

  Sophie sipped her tea. ‘Oh well Mr Scott,’ she paused, smiling, ‘Milton. We’re well on track and almost everything is in place. We have our performers, catering is in hand and the marquees are going up tomorrow. Even the weather forecast is looking quite favourable so it should be a good day. I’m afraid we just have one problem.’