by Prue Leith
Best of all, I’ll be home in time for Toby’s tea.
CHAPTER TWO
Oliver was irritated with himself. He had fallen asleep in the train from Euston, and the thought of his Queensmead constituents seeing their elected MP snoring was horrible. What if someone used a mobile phone to take a shot of him slumped and open mouthed, and sent it to Private Eye or posted it on YouTube?
He caught the eye of Jim, his detective, sitting opposite him. He rose and stretched for Oliver’s overcoat in the rack above his seat. Oliver picked up the slightly battered ‘red box’ that told the world he was a cabinet minister. He sometimes thought he should use an ordinary briefcase or one of those wheelie things, or even a backpack carried over one shoulder as his younger officials did. But he was proud of his position, and the red box was a badge of honour. No one, he told himself, should be ashamed of being a politician. Anthony Trollope was right to believe that ‘to sit in the British Parliament should be the highest object of ambition to every educated Englishman.’
They stepped from the First Class compartment onto the fume-filled platform at Birmingham New Street and hurried to the taxi rank, hoping to beat the queue. But, as usual, it curved the length of the pavement in front of the station. Damn, a good fifteen-minute wait.
Of course, as Foreign Secretary, he could be driven from Whitehall to his Staffordshire door in a comfortable Government Jag, the uniformed Debbie at the wheel and the detective beside her. But on a late Friday afternoon that would have taken a good two and a half hours, and, anyway, he considered it his duty sometimes to travel as ordinary citizens did. Not, he thought ruefully, that First Class, with a detective in tow, a driver at one end and a taxi at the other, all paid for by the taxpayer, was exactly slumming it.
Jim kept the taxi to return to the station. His replacement, a copper seconded from the local nick, was already at the Stapler front gate.
As Oliver stepped into the kitchen (they seldom used the front door) and called out Ruth’s name, he secretly hoped she would be out. He would dearly like a quiet quarter of an hour in front of the television news with a whisky in his hand and Obi-Wan Kenobi, their Jack Russell, lying across his foot.
But Ruth emerged from the boot room, still wearing her Barbour and scarf, with her jeans tucked into thick socks. Her muddy wellies were dangling from one hand. She padded across the tiles to the sink, pausing on the way to offer her cheek for a kiss. She began washing the boots under the tap.
‘You’re early,’ she said.
‘And you’re out very late aren’t you? Darling, you’re not mucking out or riding in the dark?’
‘I’ve been lunging one of the yearlings in the school. We floodlit it, remember? So I could work at night?’
He had forgotten. He wasn’t really interested in Ruth’s ponies, except that they kept her busy and moderately happy. She was a much respected breeder of Welsh cobs, with buyers from all over the country and often from abroad. Yet, though she let the old hay barn to a saddler and two of the paddocks to a neighbouring farmer, and ran the yard as economically as she could, the business lost money more years than it made any and the maintenance of farm buildings, stables and land was a worry.
When the girls were very little, both competing in local gymkhanas and going to Pony Club camp in a field half a mile away, he took more interest. He shared with Ruth the pleasure of seeing how many of the ponies being lovingly groomed by their young owners – chequerboard patterns brushed into their gleaming rumps, manes tied with little ribbons, tails plaited, hooves oiled – had been bred by Ruth. She could name them all, and they would sit on a hay bale together watching the jumping, and chalking up ‘their’ rosettes.
But once the girls got really serious about their riding, Oliver had begun to feel excluded. He did not ride himself and couldn’t spare the time to travel miles to see his daughters compete in three-day events or horse shows. Sometimes he felt his only role in the family was to write cheques for more horses, new saddles, bigger horseboxes, endless vet’s bills.
‘I’ll light the fire,’ he said. ‘Shall I get you a drink?’
As soon as they had sat down in front of the fire, whiskies in hand, and Obi had taken up his favourite position on Oliver’s left foot, the girls clattered down the stairs and erupted into the room. Neither looked at their father.
‘What’s for supper, Mum?’ asked Andrea as Mattie said, ‘Mum, Can I have a beer?’
Ruth just shook her head at this, but Oliver said, ‘Of course not. You’re only fourteen.’
‘Nearly fifteen.’
‘… And you don’t even like beer.’
Ruth said, ‘Leave it, Oliver. She’s only doing it for effect.’ She turned to Andrea, ‘It’s bangers and mash. And salad. But nothing’s cooked yet.’
‘But Mum, we’re starving! How long till supper?’
‘Depends if I get any assistance. How about helping? That would speed things up.’ Ruth’s voice had an edge of sarcasm to it that made Oliver long to intervene, but he knew better than to inflame her. ‘Like cook the sausages?’ she persisted. ‘Or make the mash? Or make the salad? Or lay the table?’
‘OK, OK, we get the message,’ muttered Mattie.
I could do without this, thought Oliver. Ruth was plainly exhausted and grumpy. He said, ‘Look, girls, sit down and join the conversation, or go away and we’ll call you when it’s ready.’
The girls sloped out of the room and thudded upstairs again.
Ruth looked at him, faintly hostile. ‘You, I suppose, had a delicious lunch, served by a flunky in white gloves?’
Oliver pretended she was teasing, and said with a smile. ‘No white gloves, sadly. Delicious lunch though, some new cook. Nice girl. She seemed to be the waiter too.’
‘Three courses? Wine? Chocolates? Liqueurs?’
He could not go on ignoring her tone. ‘Ruth darling, don’t be snarky. It’s been a long tough week, in spite of the ministerial perks you object to so much.’
‘If we are to compete on tough weeks, darling Oliver, I think I win hands down.’
He took a slow sip of his whisky and said evenly, ‘I’m sorry. What went wrong?’
‘What didn’t? Neither of those two mares we put to Welsh Dragon at that stud halfway to bloody Scotland are in foal. It pissed with rain all week so the only work I could do was in the covered school. Little Nonny is lame, and the sale of the chestnut, Ruby, fell through. Oh yes, the cost of feed has gone up from the first of next month by four per cent which makes it eleven per cent up on last year. Is that enough to be going on with? And please don’t tell me I should give up the ponies.’
‘I wasn’t going to. You’ve made it very clear you want to stick with it.’ He stood up, fetched the whisky bottle and poured her another half-inch. His free hand on her shoulder, he said, ‘It’s just sad that it’s giving you so much grief and no pleasure.’
She looked up at him, suddenly contrite and said, ‘I’m sorry, Oliver. I’m tired, the girls are driving me nuts and I haven’t made the supper. And I want a shower.’
Relieved, Oliver sank back into his chair and smiled. ‘Darling, don’t worry. I read somewhere that for most couples the risk of flare-ups is highest when one of them walks through the door. He wants slippers and pipe and cosseting, and she wants appreciation.’
‘Do you want slippers and pipe?’
‘Do you want appreciation?’
‘Yes, too right I do!’
Oh God, thought Oliver, she’s going to take off again. I’m too tired for this.
She went on, ‘I work bloody hard, mostly on my own, and do all the domestic stuff. So when you swan in looking sleek as an otter, I guess it gets up my nose.’
‘Would it make you feel better if I told you I fell asleep on the train, and no, that wasn’t due to a boozy lunch, I never drink at lunch. It’s because I went to bed at three a.m. last night because I had to finish my boxes when I got back from an extremely tedious dinner at the QEII Conference Centre. And
that the PM is not finding me as pliable as he’d hoped and I fear we will not agree on West Africa. And the Chancellor told us today that he wants fifteen per cent out of everyone’s budgets because we are in deep shit on the debt front—’
‘OK, OK. I concede that grave affairs of state outrank mere domestic problems.’
Oliver stood up abruptly. ‘Ruth, this is not a competition. Look, why don’t you go and have your shower. I’ll watch the news.’
After half an hour Ruth was not yet down. Oliver walked into the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. There were two packs of sausages – good butchers’ ones, he was glad to see. He tipped them into a roasting pan and used the scissors to separate them, then slid the pan into the top oven of the Aga.
He found the packet of frozen mash in the freezer, stabbed the bag with the tip of a knife and put it in the microwave. While he waited for the blocks to thaw he heated the milk and butter.
He liked cooking. It was calming. He stood quietly stirring the mash until it was smooth, then ground some black pepper into it, suddenly wondering if that jolly little cook with the plump round face ever stooped to frozen mash.
By the time he had tossed the salad the girls had reappeared and the sausages were almost done. He flipped them all over to brown them evenly, and put them back in the oven. Then he rummaged around in the cupboard for the onion marmalade, which he and Ruth liked, and the ketchup without which the girls didn’t seem able to swallow anything.
‘Andrea, go and call your mother, will you? And Mattie, could you lay the table? Knives and forks, big plates, the salad servers, two lots of serving spoons. And glasses, some paper napkins and salt and pepper. Got that?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘If you want any supper you do.’
Oliver wanted to tell Mattie to take her earphones off, and concentrate on the job in hand. She failed on the salad servers, napkins, and pepper and salt, but Oliver lacked the energy for a confrontation. Eventually the table was laid and the food was on it, looking good and smelling delicious. Oliver fetched a bottle of wine and a corkscrew and the three of them sat down at the table.
Ruth had still not appeared, but Oliver resisted the girls’ demands to eat without her. No, he said, this is a family meal, and we need to have it together. But he was tempted to just dish up.
Why did his wife have to be so awkward? It had only taken him twenty minutes to put the supper together, which surely she could have managed hours ago. Because she hadn’t, it was now nine-thirty and they were all hungry and cross.
He sometimes thought Ruth was still fighting the good feminist fight, which had largely been won before she was out of primary school. Daily, or at least weekly, she proved that she did not have to do what he wanted.
Of course, her waywardness was what had attracted him in the first place. He had loved the fact that she – beautiful, intelligent and rich – was scornful, even outraged, at the preoccupations of her generation. In those days she never wore make-up, she ripped the power shoulder pads out of any jacket or suit she bought, and she loathed the Spice Girls and Mrs Thatcher with equal venom.
She’d disapproved of the rampant money-centredness of eighties Toryism, and when they married she had refused her father’s offer of a big marquee wedding (he was High Sheriff of the county and a Labour life peer – a reward, according to Ruth, for his largesse to the party). Instead, she had insisted he give the money he would have spent on their nuptials to Refuge, the battered wives’ charity.
But now Oliver found her little gestures of independence, like not making supper or refusing to attend any political or business functions with him, petty and sad.
Oliver chose not to see Mattie sneak her fork into the bowl of mash and eat a mouthful. Poor girl, they were all very hungry. He got up and fetched the bread and some butter. He cut the girls a slice each. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘eat this. Mum will be down in a minute.’
‘What’s for pudding?’ asked Andrea.
‘God knows. I’ve no idea,’ he replied, and realised that it was the first time he had been deliberately disloyal to Ruth in front of the children. His tone had plainly said, ‘Ask your mother. Her responsibility. Which she’s failing at.’
Then Ruth appeared, looking more cheerful and dressed in a much-washed black and white kaftan that hugged her slender body. She had her fair hair scraped back with a comb, exposing her fine eyes, straight nose and long neck. She had never needed make-up to look good. All she needed, thought Oliver, was to smile.
He tried to get some conversation going, but Ruth seemed distracted, Andrea answered questions about school without enthusiasm and Mattie complained, ‘Dad, why do we have to talk at supper? It’s boring. Why can’t we just eat and go, like other families? And why do we have to have supper in the kitchen anyway? Jason’s family eat in front of the telly. It’s cool.’
Sometimes I wonder why I come home at all, thought Oliver. Ruth is clearly unhappy and the girls have nothing to say to me. So much for the fruits of success.
CHAPTER THREE
Kate had her hands in the water, scrubbing mussels, and Talika was mashing parsnips to a purée in the Robot Coupe, when a child’s loud wail cut through the noise of the food processor. Kate looked up to see her son stumbling away from Sanjay, the red plastic cricket bat in his hands, and Sanjay with his skinny arms in the air, emitting a second cry of protest.
The women looked at each other, silently agreeing that the cries weren’t serious, more indignation than pain, and that they belonged to Sanjay, so Talika would deal with it. Talika stopped the machine and, with an apologetic shake of her head, walked through the little ante room – once a scullery, now a clutter of boots, toys and catering equipment – and into the garden.
Watching her friend through the window, Kate noticed, as she so often did, how thin and graceful Talika was – even in jeans and an oversized shirt, presumably Amal’s. And how calm. She walked quickly but without hurry, taking the same small steps as when she was all dressed up in a tightly wound sari. She dipped her knees to scoop up Sanjay, who, at five, was hardly heavier than a toddler.
From where Kate stood Sanjay looked all skinny arms and legs, like a monkey clinging to his mother’s hip. Talika bent to talk to Toby, who was clutching the cricket bat behind his back. Kate couldn’t hear what Talika said, but Toby was sufficiently mollified to take her outstretched hand, although still gripping the bat in his free hand and truculently dragging his feet. Sanjay’s wails diminished to grizzles as he sunk his head into his mother’s shoulder.
She brought them into the kitchen. ‘How about we park them in front of the telly for an hour? They’re getting tired and tetchy, and it’s cold out there. Toby’s hands are freezing.’
‘Good idea. It’s about time for Ben 10.’
Kate crouched to help Toby out of his wellies and into his trainers. ‘So what happened, Toby? You didn’t hurt Sanjay, did you …?’
Talika looked up from tugging off Sanjay’s boots, ‘No, don’t be silly. In true Indian tradition, Sanjay was disputing Toby’s “Howzat!” and regarded confiscation of the bat as an outrage.’
‘I got him out, Mum! I hit his legs. That’s lbw.’
‘You didn’t!’ protested Sanjay. ‘I wasn’t in front of the wicket. And the ball hit the bat, not my legs!’
Once Ben 10 had worked his instant magic the women got back to work. They were preparing for the dinner Kate was doing at Oliver Stapler’s house in Lambeth. She liked to prep as much as she could at home, especially if it was the first time she was cooking for a new client or in a new kitchen. Mr Stapler’s assistant had told her it was an important dinner and the Prime Minister would be present. The dinner should be delicious and unusual, but not costly, and the ingredients must be mainly British. Her boss had a horror of showing off or making the food the main focus of the evening, she said. And, Kate might like to know, he was knowledgeable about food, having been a minister of it in Defra.
Kate smiled at the memory.
‘Do you know, ’Lika, our Foreign Secretary was once a minister of food? His PA says I need to be aware of that.’
‘What difference does she think the info will make to our cooking?’
‘I guess she thinks it will scare the hell out of us and we’ll try harder. She also told me that he believes dinner parties are for intelligent conversation and serious debate, not primarily about food, so nothing fancy.’
‘Maybe we should give him baked beans and chips.’
‘Pompous prat,’ said Kate. She hated scrubbing mussels. The stringy ‘beards’ were difficult to remove, and you had to stay alert and make sure you discarded any that wouldn’t shut when tapped in case they were dead and poisonous. But cleaning the things was their only drawback. They were relatively cheap, delicious in classic moules marinières, added oomph to any seafood dish and made the best soup in the world.
Kate scooped the cleaned mussels into her biggest saucepan, added a splash of white wine, a cupful of chopped shallots and another of chopped parsley, and set them over the heat, the lid of the pan clamped on firmly. For the next few minutes, she gave the pot an occasional shake, then she opened the lid and peered inside. Good, all open, she thought, breathing in their heady aroma and registering every ingredient: mussels, wine, onion, parsley. Together they made your mouth water.
As Kate set the whole pan in a sinkful of water to cool, with the lid on to prevent the mussels steaming dry, Talika’s husband, Amal, walked in the back door.
‘Great smell!’ He lifted the lid of the mussel pan and inhaled deeply, then replaced the lid and turned to kiss Kate.’ What are you going to do with them?’
‘Mussel soup.’
‘Mmmm. Yum yum. Then what?’
‘These,’ said Talika, nodding at the oven tray of pigeon breasts neatly wrapped in the thinnest of bacon. She was brushing them with a fine coat of melted butter. ‘How come you’re early? I thought you were meeting the EHO?’
