by David Nobbs
She rented a little place called ‘Sunny Cottage’ on the very edge of Cluffield, in the direction of Clopthorpe, for those of you who know the area (well, still in the direction of Clopthorpe even if you don’t). It was an old smelt-grinder’s cottage and – you’ve guessed it – it was entirely surrounded by tall trees. Not sunny at all. It had small, latticed windows too, so it really was very dark inside.
The day she left number eight, as Old Bill lumbered her possessions into his smaller van (symptomatic somehow that she couldn’t fill his bigger one), Lance and Rex came out to say goodbye. Rex’s eyes were milky with regret for what might have been. Lance was less honest than his dog.
There was a bit of an awkward silence on the steps of number eight. They were both remembering the night of her arrival. Lance filled the silence with a question that might just have been a cover for his embarrassment or might perhaps have been genuine.
‘You know Ferenc Gulyas, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Er … yes.’
‘Can you do a little favour for me? Could you try to persuade him that he’s a very talented painter?’
‘Is he?’
‘Oh yes. He could be the salvation of the Lafayette.’
‘Ah. Well, of course I will, Lance.’
What a feast of insincerity that morning provided. Nicola had no intention of doing any such thing. The truth was, she just didn’t like Ferenc. It was unfair, she didn’t think the man had ever done anything to hurt her, but it was a fact.
Lance then came hurtling up on the inside in the Insincerity Stakes.
‘I feel I hardly know you,’ he said.
Nicola didn’t bother to reply, ‘Whose fault is that?’
Finally he surged past her in the finishing straight – left her flat-footed, he did.
‘I shall miss you,’ he said.
Cluffield is gloriously dull. It has three pubs, but they’re all owned by chains.
One evening, feeling that she ought to make some attempt to get to know people, Nicola went into one of them, the Black Bull.
It took courage to go into a pub on her own as a woman, especially as it had taken her courage even when she’d been a man.
She strode, with a boldness she didn’t feel, to the bar, uncomfortably aware that silence had fallen as she entered.
‘Red wine, please,’ she said.
‘Large or small?’
‘Oh, large, please.’
Ridiculous. Nobody knew her here, but she would have been ashamed to say ‘small’.
The wine came from near the bottom of an unpromising bottle. It would not have been good even when it was first opened. Goodness knew how long ago that had been, not before 1997, anyway. Nicola had tasted vinegars that had more subtlety.
She sat at a table not too far from the bar, not wishing to look as if she was daunted by the ambience – all the customers were men, most of them were on their own, and they all stared at her. Was it because she was grotesque?
She took a second sip of the wine. There were subtle hints of old herrings and anthracite, just the faintest suggestion of mature dish-cloths, and a dry robust undertone of silage that lingered on the palate – how she regretted that single word ‘Large’ – yet she didn’t feel that she could lose face by leaving it, and she certainly wasn’t prepared to say to the uncomprehending landlord, ‘This is undrinkable.’
She attempted to brazen it out, looking round as if she hadn’t a care in the world. A man winked at her, and another said, ‘Hello, darling,’ and she realised, to her amazed delight and total horror, that they most definitely weren’t looking at her because she was grotesque, they were undressing her because she was prettier than their wives. She heard a customer say, ‘Nice arse on it, but not a lot in the tit department.’ The biggest tit appeared to be over there!
She didn’t know whether it was better to take tiny sips or to face taking large gulps and get through it quicker. She took a large gulp and thought she might die. Three sips followed, then another gulp. Sip sip sip gulp. It seemed to be the best way. Sip sip sip gulp. How large can a glass of wine be? Sip sip sip gulp. There, it was gone. She could hardly breathe.
She took the glass back to the bar. She knew that wasn’t necessary, but having endured such agony she didn’t want to be associated with even the faintest whiff of defeat.
‘Same again?’
‘Better not. Driving. Thank you. Goodnight.’
She beetled out as fast as her high heels would allow, and vowed never to go in a pub on her own again.
There were two small supermarkets in Cluffield, but they were badly stocked (Tahini? Forget it. Fennel? What’s that?), so she soon started to get her meat and veg from the Farm Shop, which wasn’t in Cluffield, it was halfway between Cluffield and Throdnall. In fact, you turned off by the Halfway Inn to get to it. Occasionally she was served by a rather slow but very good-looking man in early middle age, occasionally by a rather slow but very ugly woman in her seventies, who must surely be his mother. Their meetings were the nearest thing to human conversation that she found in the leisure part of her new life, yet she no longer felt tempted by the early evening crowd at the Trumpet. They pointed her towards the past, not the future.
Her remarks at the Farm Shop would be along the lines of ‘Two pork chops, please. They are outdoor reared, aren’t they?’ (influence of Em) and they would say, ‘Yes, madam, that pig was enjoying the spring sunshine only last week.’ The mother never said anything unless spoken to first, but after a few weeks the son ventured the occasional pro-active sally, such as ‘Another nice day, madam’ or even ‘That was a nasty accident on the main road yesterday, madam. The vet’s got three cracked ribs,’ to which she replied, ‘Funny you should mention ribs. Have you any rib of beef?’ at which he laughed and said, ‘Yes, madam, how big?’ and she said, ‘Oh, just enough for two, please.’
Why for two? Did she have company? Had she an unusually large appetite for a woman, a relic of her apprenticeship as a man? No. In her new, uncertain life she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she was on her own. If that wasn’t pathetic, she didn’t know what was.
One day in early summer, she was driving back from Throdnall. She’d had a bad day at the Cornucopia, well, perhaps difficult would be a better word, and she thought, I‘ll pop to the Farm Shop and get two sirloin steaks. She had to wait at the Halfway – it was a very awkward crossing, you had to nip across the other carriageway and sometimes you had to wait for quite a while, and this particular day she did have to – and she thought, Blow it. I’ll go to the Spar in Cluffield, but then she thought, No. I want to see the man in the Farm Shop. Yes, she admitted it to herself, she fancied him. She felt a slight warmth – yes, she really believed she did – in that hitherto inactive organ which she’d had for so long, and dilated for so long, that she no longer thought of it as her neo-vagina.
Suddenly she realised that she had not really enjoyed one evening of her solitary life since she’d moved to Cluffield. She found herself longing for the company of a man, and for more than the company of a man. She had begun to test her clitoris on her own, and had found it far from entirely unresponsive. Middle-aged masturbation in the Midlands! It seemed as sad as it was alliterative. She found herself longing for sexual fulfilment with a man. Longing for it – and dreading it.
She had endured a difficult day at the Cornucopia because the long-dreaded eruption in the kitchen between Emrys and Leonard Balby had finally happened. Emrys had attacked Leonard with a potato peeler.
Round about twelve o’clock, just at the beginning of preparations for lunch, Nicola was summoned into a kitchen smouldering with onions and resentment. At one side of the room, Mohammed and Gunter were holding Emrys firmly in an arm lock. Emrys had a potato peeler in his hand, and his eyes were bulging with fury. At the other side Leonard, clutching a bain-marie in both hands, was being held in an iron grip by Mrs Frost, the burly washer up.
Nicola hurriedly removed the onions from the gas before the
y burnt. Then she plonked herself in the middle of the kitchen and shouted, ‘What the hell is going on?’
She could feel the hammering of her heart; she didn’t know what to do – where was Ferenc when you needed him? She had no alternative but to attempt to exert her authority, ignoring her fear that she would turn out not to have any. A phrase spoken by someone in the Trumpet came to her: ‘It’s a bluffer’s world.’
Right.
‘Get a grip,’ she shouted. ‘All of you. Get a grip.’ She lowered her voice, investing it with a calm she didn’t remotely feel. ‘Now, will somebody please tell me what happened?’
Gradually, a picture emerged. It was all caused by recriminations over the previous evening’s Twinning Dinner. Emrys had taunted Leonard because his ‘sodding soufflés’ hadn’t risen. Leonard had blamed Emrys for the fiasco of the parsnips. Suddenly Emrys had been jabbing at Leonard’s face with the potato peeler, Leonard had been reaching for the bain-marie to scald Emrys with its contents. It had taken the combined efforts of Mohammed and Gunter to restrain Emrys, while Leonard, more slightly built, had been easily held by Mrs Frost.
Leonard had shouted that he’d resign unless Emrys was sacked. Emrys had shouted that he’d resign unless Leonard was sacked. Mrs Frost had said, quite calmly, that she’d resign unless they were both sacked.
‘It’s time to start serving lunch,’ said Nicola. ‘After lunch, I promise to deal with the matter fully, firmly and fairly. Let go your potato peeler, Emrys.’
She went up to Emrys, wondering what she would do if he refused.
It was a little miracle. He didn’t refuse.
Nor did Leonard. He gave up the bain-marie without a struggle.
‘Set them free,’ commanded Nicola with a confidence that was entirely feigned.
Emrys and Leonard were released. For a moment, Nicola thought that they were going to tear into each other again, but they didn’t.
‘Three o’clock. Here. All of you.’
She strode out of the kitchens like a strong woman, then rushed to the toilets and sat there for several minutes, shaking.
She found it hard to believe, on her return, that they were actually cooking lunch. It was indeed a bluffer’s world.
Luckily, lunch was reasonably busy, mainly in the bar but three restaurant tables were taken, one of them by Mr Beresford, who lunched with three railway people in an atmosphere of considerable tension. He had annoyed Nicola by asking for her personally when he’d phoned, as if the staff weren’t competent, and saying, ‘I’d like a table well away from anyone else. Shouldn’t be difficult at the Cornucopia, should it?’ Arrogant swine. She’d never liked him.
At another table, far from Mr Beresford as requested by Mr Beresford, there were two men who got drawings out and studied them at intervals throughout the meal. One of them, a tall man with receding brown hair and an intense gaze, fixed that gaze on Nicola for a moment, then looked away, then looked back to meet her eyes very briefly before looking away again. It had been the gaze of a man who found Nicola interesting physically. She didn’t get many of those, so she would remember it.
At three o’clock, she entered the kitchens. She had butterflies, moths and mosquitoes in her stomach.
All the kitchen staff were there, standing, facing her. The atmosphere was expectant, cautious, tense, but not openly threatening.
‘What happened this morning was inexcusable,’ she began. ‘Totally inexcusable. However, there clearly were reasons for it. Kitchens are places of great tension and intensity at busy times, I appreciate that, and last night was a supremely busy time. Our resources were stretched to the limit by the Twinning Dinner.
‘Mistakes were made last night. Leonard taunted Emrys over the fiasco of the parsnips. I don’t know whose fault the accident was, these things do happen, but I’m sure that Emrys accepts that it was an error to serve the surviving parsnips after they’d been scooped off the floor. It was an error, though, let us not forget, that was made in the heat of battle.
‘Emrys in his turn taunted Leonard because his soufflés didn’t rise. Let us not forget, now that we have time for reflection, that this was not Leonard’s fault. The person who opened the oven door was on work experience, and the soufflés, though disappointingly flat, were still extremely tasty.
‘Our hosts were upset by certain things in last night’s dinner, but please don’t think that it was a fiasco. Only one of our visitors, the journalist from Verona Today, actually complained about the food, and the bill has been paid almost in full.
‘I am proud of you. Yes, proud of you all.
‘Now, to this morning’s little … incident. It was serious, but let’s not get things out of proportion. Emrys, of course, should not have attacked Leonard with a potato peeler. That is disgraceful behaviour, but he clearly did so in temper rather than with a real intention to do harm. I can just imagine what Emrys might say.’
Now she gambled. She tried the South Wales accent she had been practising in her office.
‘ “If I’d wanted to hurt the bastard I’d have used a fucking carving knife, isn’t it?” ’
She’d hated using the f-word even as a tactical ploy, but if it convinced them that she had the common touch it was worth it. It’s a bluffer’s world.
They all looked at her in astonishment. Then Emrys smiled.
‘Too bloody right,’ he said.
‘Leonard should not have gone for the bain-marie,’ continued Nicola. ‘He could have caused serious injury, but it was done on the spur of the moment in retaliation for a totally unexpected attack.
‘I really don’t want to call the police and have them plodding all over our kitchens. I want to resolve this among ourselves. Thank you, incidentally, Mohammed and Gunter and you, Mrs Frost. That martial arts course at night school came in handy, didn’t it?’
Nicola saw Leonard relax slightly at that. She had guessed that he had been smarting in the knowledge that it had taken two men to restrain Emrys, and only one woman to restrain him. She knew perfectly well that Mrs Frost had never been near a martial arts course in her life, but she gambled that she would be bright enough not to contradict her. It’s a bluffer’s world.
‘Good work has been done in these kitchens over the last few months. I’m grateful to Emrys for his Welsh specialities, which have confounded the cynics among us, just as I’m grateful to Leonard for the brilliant way he has carried out Ferenc’s Hungarian specialities, whose success has rocked the Euro-sceptics. This is a well-run kitchen. Today is but a blip in a success story.’
Nicola paused. She met and held Leonard’s eye. She met and held Emrys’s eye. She felt exhaustion creeping up on her, but she wouldn’t give in. In fact, truth to tell, she got just a bit carried away. She had seen a programme about Churchill recently. He hadn’t given in under a far greater threat than Emrys and Leonard combined. He was her inspiration.
‘Leonard is an Anglo-Saxon,’ she continued. ‘He’s from Goole. Emrys is a Celt. He’s from Swansea. A clash of personalities is perhaps inevitable, but I would remind them – indeed I would remind you all – that they have more in common than divides them. Yes, they are both temperamental, but why are they temperamental?’ She paused. You could have heard a chive drop in the still afternoon kitchen.
The pause continued. She had entirely forgotten what she was going to say next. She recalled – it’s amazing what the mind brings to you in moments of panic – a comment somebody had made at the Collinsons’ dinner table, somebody who made public speeches, and he’d mentioned a remark that you could drag into any speech on any subject. She fell back on it gratefully.
‘I believe that the media have a lot to answer for.’ Yes! She was off again. ‘It’s the media who have created the culture of tension in our kitchens. It’s the media who have created the myth of the temperamental chef.’
People were staring at her in astonishment by now, but she didn’t care, she was flying. And she had remembered what she was going to say.
&n
bsp; ‘But, you know, behind every myth there is a reality. Why, I repeat, are Leonard and Emrys temperamental? Because they are artists. We are lucky to have such artists in our kitchen, and I say to them both, frankly, I will not dismiss either of you, but if one of you makes life intolerable for the other, then both will go. I will have no losers in my kitchen, and that means … that means, ladies and gentlemen, that I can have no winners either.’
The spoken word is very powerful. It can so easily carry audiences away, but what is sometimes forgotten is how easily it can carry the speaker away as well. Nicola was becoming very emotional. At that moment she felt that she loved the kitchen, adored Emrys, worshipped Leonard, fancied Mohammed and Gunter, wouldn’t even have said ‘no’ to Mrs Frost.
‘Let us all learn the lessons of this incident and work together in trust,’ she said, ‘and as an act of faith on my part, I’m awarding you all a two per cent rise as of today.’
She strode from the kitchen, strode back to her office, only sorry that Alan and Em and Gray and Lance and Prentice and the slow, incongruously handsome man in the Farm Shop couldn’t have been there, to say, ‘This was her finest hour.’
She collapsed zeugmatically into a jelly and her chair. Nobody can know how exhausting it is to spout a load of unmitigated cobblers unless they have done so, and nobody can know what a load of unmitigated cobblers Nicola’s speech was if they haven’t eaten in the Kenilworth Brasserie of the Cornucopia Hotel. Artists? Leonard and Emrys? They didn’t know the meaning of the word.
But it worked. It’s a bluffer’s world.
She just hoped that they wouldn’t have another row in order to wangle another two per cent. She regretted that offer, as sanity returned.
We have digressed. We left Nicola waiting patiently to cross the southbound carriageway of the main road from Throdnall to Cluffield, in order to go to the Farm Shop, where she hoped to see the good-looking man, whose name, she had learnt, was Gordon.
