by Prue Leith
‘Yes. Please. I’m afraid I’m in a huge hurry. Don’t worry about foil bags, just put them all in a big carrier bag, that will be fine.’
‘I’m sorry, Madam, I’m only allowed to sell you the cooking ones.’ She didn’t look sorry. She looked smug. She parked her ample bottom against the back counter. ‘Health and Safety, you see.’
‘Oh God.’ Kate looked around. ‘Do you think you could ring for the manager?’
The woman shook her head. ‘He’s in a meeting. And anyway I know what he’ll say. He’ll say we can’t sell half-cooked chickens to the public because they may not be safe to eat if they are not cooked through.’
‘Look, I am a professional caterer and I know about salmonella and food poisoning. These chickens will be cut up and reheated in boiling sauce which will kill any bugs. I understand the rules, they are sensible, but surely you can see that in this case …’
‘That is all very well, Madam, but rules are rules. They are there for your protection.’ She stripped off her latex gloves, dropped them in an invisible bin behind the counter and pulled two more out of the box behind her. ‘Do you want to take the cooked ones?’
‘Not unless I can have the ones off the rotisserie too.’ Kate was beginning to feel frantic. She said, ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere. Would you please call the manager?’
‘I am sorry you feel that way, Madam, but I wouldn’t be able to sell you all the chickens even if they were fully roasted. We have a policy to look after our regular customers, and we can’t let caterers clean us out of all our stock at once. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? The limit, unless ordered in advance, is three chickens. So you can see, Madam, I cannot help you.’
Kate’s temper was now rising fast. ‘You mean you will not,’ she snapped. ‘I insist on seeing the manager, right now. If you don’t ring for me, I will just lift my voice and yell for him, and that would be embarrassing for all of us, would it not?‘
‘You had better go to customer services at the front of the store, Madam.’
Kate ran to the front of the store and, forcing herself to stand still, waited while a customer got a refund on a dodgy avocado pear. Then the young assistant turned to her and smiled. ‘How can I help?’
Kate explained the situation, saying she understood the company’s rules, but she needed to ask the manager to make an exception.
‘Poor you!’ said the assistant, ‘I’ll get him now. I’m sure it will be fine.’
Hope beginning to calm her panic, Kate said, ‘Great, would you mind if I ran round your store getting the rest of the ingredients while you call him? I have no time to lose at all.’
‘Yes, OK, that’s fine. I’ll come and get you as soon as he’s here.’
Kate pushed her trolley rapidly round the shelves. In the fresh section she picked up chestnut mushrooms and fresh parsley; in the deli six packets of rindless streaky bacon, a tube of so-called fresh garlic paste and two jars of concentrated chicken stock; in the grocery section, five tins of baby onions and five glass jars of red wine sauce by some chef or other. And she threw in half a dozen tins of cooked mushrooms too.
When she got to the checkout there was still no manager to be seen and Kate’s stomach once more contracted with anxiety. It was now nearly quarter to seven, and if she did not get those chickens almost instantly, she’d be sunk.
Leaving the checkout girl pushing her things through the scanner she ran to the customer service desk.
‘Here,’ said the young woman. ‘Mr Evered said it was fine. He used to be in the restaurant trade, he said, and he knows what it’s like. So I went and got them all packed up for you.’ She dropped her voice. ‘I didn’t think you would want to go back to Shirley. Grumpy old cow. We all hate her.’
As they dumped the chicken on the moving belt, she cut off Kate’s thanks with, ‘You did want all eight chickens off the grill, the two cooked whole ones and the extra ten portions?’
‘I did. And you have been just wonderful. What’s your name?’ Kate looked at her name badge. ‘Sisi! Well, Sisi, I hope they make you a store manager one day soon, because you deserve it.’
On the short drive home Kate rang Amal and said, ‘Can you make a space on the worktop with boards for jointing cooked chickens, and we’ve still got to fry bacon and mushrooms. Could you get a couple of pans ready? The whole job only needs another ten or fifteen mins. One of us can fry while the other joints.’
As Kate deftly split and quartered the hot chickens, trimmed off the extra bone, skin and untidy bits, and laid the neat pieces in the bottom of the two saucepans, Amal fried chopped bacon and quartered mushrooms. Then they scattered the contents of his pans, and the onions he had previously fried, over the chicken.
Both pans were sticky with brown bacon and onion residue and Amal swiftly deglazed them with the reduced wine, then said, ‘OK, now for the sauce. What are we using?’
Kate laughed, ‘Let’s just bung everything in. Can you open these tins for me and then make some beurre manié while I do the sauce?’
She tipped the contents of both frying pans into a saucepan and added, in quick succession, half the tube of garlic paste, the tinned mushrooms and baby onions, the contents of the stock and red wine sauce jars, the rest of the reduced wine and a jug of water.
Meanwhile Amal melted half a block of butter and stirred two teacupfuls of flour into it. He smiled across at Kate. ‘You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?’
It was true. It was satisfying and exciting working fast to get out of a crisis. ‘Of course. Isn’t that the best bit of catering? Working fast and furiously with people who know what they are doing?’
‘Maybe. But I’m not sure tinned mushrooms and reheated chicken are part of my vision!’
Kate’s mixture seemed to take for ever to come to the boil, but once it did, Amal whisked half his beurre manié into it, and watched it thicken.
‘Bit more, I think,’ said Kate. Some juice will run out of those half cooked chickens, which will thin it a bit.’
The sauce did not taste too bad, but Kate added a hefty squeeze of tomato paste and a handful of chopped parsley.
‘Tomato paste? In coq au vin?’ Amal cocked an eye at her.
‘Bet it’s delicious!’ She divided the sauce between the two saucepans, and gave them each a shake to get it flowing round all the chicken pieces. She slammed on the lids, and she and Amal carried one each to the van.
As she went back for her phone and keys, Kate kissed Amal and looked steadily at him for a second. ‘What a fantastic friend you are.’
‘I know, I’m marvellous,’ he said, handing her a plastic pot with a lid.
‘What’s this?’
‘Chopped parsley for the top – to disguise all inadequacies.’
Kate arrived at the Coleridges’ a few minutes before the guests, and hoped her face, beetroot from anxiety, exertion and excitement, would not give her away.
‘Hello, Mrs C. I hope you weren’t worried about us. Did Joan tell you …’
‘Yes, she did. Joan’s wonderful. Everything is ready. She said you would be heating the coq au vin at your place to save us room on the stove. How very thoughtful.’
As soon as she had left the kitchen Kate said, ‘Thanks for the cover-up, Joan. You’re a good woman.’
‘No problem. I knew you’d turn up.’
‘We’ll put the rice in the oven and the chicken on to simmer now. It still has a bit of cooking to do, but keep it very very slow, won’t you.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘And give me a ring tomorrow. I want to know if anyone rumbled us.’
CHAPTER SIX
Oliver was in the kitchen reading the papers, with overweight Obi lying in his favourite position across Oliver’s foot, when he heard Andrea jumping down the stairs. He looked up as she burst into the kitchen. She was in some sort of turquoise costume, skin-tight and printed in scales like a mermaid. She was barefoot.
Andrea did an excited twirl, arms out. Obi waddled
across to her, eager for attention, but she pushed him away with the side of her foot and said, ‘Look, Dad.’ For a second she stood still, steadying herself, and then slowly curled over backwards, bending her knees, thrusting out her pre-adolescent ribcage, her outstretched arms seeking the floor behind her. As she put her palms down close to her heels, she transferred her weight to her hands and lifted first one leg and then the other into a handstand. She scissored her straight legs once or twice, then brought them together and jumped to her feet.
Oliver looked at her in amazement. ‘Good Lord, Andrea! That is astonishing. Where did you learn that?’
‘That’s nothing. I can do it on a horse. And while he’s cantering!’
‘You can’t! Isn’t it dangerous?’ Oliver felt suddenly uncertain, aware that his children were doing things that he had no part in. Or didn’t approve of. Like hunting. They both hunted with the Meynell and he had been unable to persuade Ruth that it was a bad idea, expensive and dangerous and with the potential of grief for all of them. And political embarrassment for him.
‘Not particularly. Mum says it’s less dangerous than hunting, or polo, which Mattie does.’
Oliver blinked, confused. Mattie was playing polo? Surely not. Women and children didn’t play polo, did they? ‘Mattie’s playing polo?’
‘Sure, she’s going on a weekend course to Cowdray Park.’ As she spoke Andrea stepped onto a chair and then onto the pine breakfast table, moving the teapot out of the way with her foot. Standing about two feet from the end, she said, ‘I can do it up here too. Watch, Dad.’
‘No, Andy!’ Oliver jumped up, but Andrea had already bent over backwards so her palms came down on the table edge. She did her backwards handstand again, this time fast. She landed lightly on the floor and straightened up, grinning with triumph. ‘That’s the cool way to dismount.’
Oliver put his arms round his daughter. ‘God, girl, you scared the life out of me!’ He steered her to a chair and said, ‘Sit down and explain it all to me. Why are you wearing this extraordinary costume?’
‘That’s the best part. You don’t have to wear boots and hacking jackets and ties and stuff. We wear sexy stuff, like cat suits and pumps.’
‘Sexy?’ Oliver was beginning to feel a hundred. His daughter was ten years old.
‘Yes, our team has two kinds. The pink ones with silver wavy lines are really cool. They’re my favourite, but Scilla says we all have to wear this one today.’
‘Scilla? Who’s Scilla?’
‘Our teacher. She teaches us vaulting.’
Vaulting? Oliver felt like an idiot, understanding so little he could only repeat words in the hope of enlightenment.
‘Andrea, for God’s sake, explain! From the beginning. What is vaulting? When do you do it? Why? What for?’
Andrea laughed happily, ‘Oh Dad, you’re so useless. Vaulting is gymnastics on horseback. We have a team. Some of the girls are from school, and some from the village and we’re all learning. It’s fun. Sometimes we compete with other teams.’
‘And today?’
‘We’re going to do a display at the Queensmead Spring Fête. You should come. It’ll be cool.’
When Oliver announced that he would go, Ruth looked at him narrowly. ‘Why the sudden interest? You turned down opening the fête, remember?’
‘I want to see Andrea’s display.’
‘Really? But you never watch the girls riding any more.’ Her voice was neutral, but Oliver knew at once he was in dangerous territory.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s just it. Mea culpa. I didn’t even know about the vaulting or whatever it’s called. I knew all three of you would spend all your waking hours on horses if you could, but I didn’t know the girls were doing circus riding.’
‘It’s not circus riding. Vaulting is different,’ Ruth said. ‘Well, if you are coming, it would be great if you could bring the trailer. I’ve got the horsebox full with four, and I’d really like to take Zoro too.’
‘Five horses! I thought only Andrea was doing this.’
‘No, there’s a gymkhana and a little horse show, and both girls are competing, so they need their jumpers. And I want Andrea to give one of the new ponies a tryout with crowds around, and we’ve promised to do pony rides for the fête so we need a couple of plodders for them. Zoro and Tufty.’
Oliver had to agree, but he couldn’t help a flush of irritation. He felt he was doing his bit by going at all, and he’d hoped to drive to the fête, catch the display and skip home again. And maybe, if he got through his papers, he’d reward himself by watching the rugby. Now he’d have to get there early, hang around while his wife gave pony rides, and then God knows how much longer until his daughter did her bit.
But he did want to watch her. It was a constant source of subterranean anxiety for Oliver that he saw his daughters so little. Of course, he told himself, many fathers worked long hours, and modern children led their own lives of school and friends and ballet or tennis classes. But horses! They were such a full time occupation. If it had been swimming or volleyball, it would be all over after the match or the session and his girls might have hung about the house and leaned over his desk, or asked him to help them with something. But they seemed to spend every waking moment they could grooming and feeding, stroking and loving their wretched ponies.
In the event, wearing his Barbour and wellies, and with Obi trotting at his heels on a lead, Oliver enjoyed himself. The committee chairman was delighted he’d made such an effort to come after all, and Oliver knew he was earning brownie points by being out and about among his constituents. ‘Building relationships’, his political agent called it. At least a dozen people came up to tell him they agreed with him on Afghanistan, or Iraq, or Zimbabwe. Oliver was too polite – and too astute – to ask testing questions. He knew they probably had no more idea of his stance on these matters than his daughters did. They were just pleased to see him and discover he was not as chilly and aloof as his reputation. And they adored Ruth.
He had to admit it. Ruth was one hell of an asset in the constituency. She seldom left it, and she was in the thick of any co-operative effort, whether it was funding a village bus, campaigning to keep the post office open, or getting hooligans out of the playground and into the community centre.
He watched Mattie in the grown-up show ring jump two elegant clear rounds to win her class, and yet another silver cup. Then he and Mattie watched Andrea in the gymkhana, first on the new pony whose idea of the bending race was to barge through all the poles, and then on Toppy, who garnered her usual bridleful of rosettes.
When the vicar, acting as compere for the day, announced the ‘Dazzling Display of Equestrian Excellence’ Oliver walked through the village to the far side of the green where a small crowd had gathered round the roped-off area about twenty metres across.
Andrea stood just inside the improvised ring, with seven identically (and scantily) clad girls, shivering in the spring breeze. They ranged from maybe nine to fourteen and Oliver felt a twinge of anxiety for his daughter, one of the youngest. But at least, thought Oliver, she is on her own pony. According to Ruth, Toppy was the safest Welsh cob in the country.
A tall young woman (Scilla he supposed), carrying a carriage whip and leading Toppy, strode into the ring as music sputtered unevenly out of large speakers in the back of a van, its back doors open. She stood in the middle of the circle and shook the reins to set Toppy walking round in a circle.
Toppy had had a lot of spit-and-polishing. Her hooves were oiled black, her mane and tail brushed and her coat gleaming. She had no saddle but there was a wide girth with two half-hoop leather handles, one each side at the top. As Toppy passed the entrance to the ring, a dumpy girl, perhaps ten or eleven, peeled off the row of girls and walked beside the pony for a few paces and then, with surprising agility, sprang onto her back, using the handles to pull herself up. She swung her leg over to sit astride the cob. Then stretching her arms wide, she twisted and turned, lay back on Toppy�
�s bottom, and sat up again, more or less in time to the music. It was briefly interesting, but repetition quickly dulled the spectacle.
Oliver was suddenly conscious of Ruth beside him. It pleased him and he said, ‘Hello, darling. How nice. I thought you were doing pony rides.’
‘Thought I’d take a break to see Andrea.’
They watched for a minute or two, then Oliver whispered, ‘This isn’t very exciting. Andy does more glamorous stuff on the breakfast table.’
‘Give the poor girl a chance. She’s only been vaulting for a fortnight. And it gets better, you’ll see.’
Not a lot, thought Oliver, as one pubescent girl after another jumped onto Toppy and went through a series of manoeuvres and then jumped off again. They all wore skin-tight turquoise catsuits like Andrea’s and what looked like white ballet shoes. Their hair was variously done in tight plaits, buns, or laced with ribbons, neat as a pin and off their faces. All of them had glittery painted eyes, and cheeks dotted with sequins. No wonder Andrea likes this, thought Oliver, she must feel like the fairy on the Christmas tree.
It got better once Toppy was cantering, and the acrobatic skill standard went up with the experience of the girls. Some of them spun round, at a canter, so they were briefly riding backwards. Still, mostly they just seemed to pose like synchronised swimmers as Toppy kept a slow steady pace. Oliver sneaked a look at his watch. The display was advertised as a half-hour show and he was sorry to see they were only halfway through.
The tempo of the music hotted up and the riders became more daring, jumping on and off the horse from both sides, kneeling or standing briefly on her back.
Oliver wondered if he found it boring because they made it look so easy.
At last it was Andrea’s turn, and Oliver could not take his eyes off her. He had had no idea she possessed such control, or could ride with such agility and grace. His fear for her vanished in admiration.
‘Is she a million times better than the others,’ he asked Ruth, ‘or am I just an infatuated dad?’
‘Maybe both?’
