The Little Christmas Kitchen

by Jenny Oliver

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked, a touch out of breath. Somehow the feeling of her mum needing her usurping all thoughts of her broken marriage.

  ‘God Ella, I just don’t know.’ her mum said, her hand on her chest like she couldn't quite catch her breath. ‘I’ve never had this many people here out of season. It’s a Tuesday for goodness’ sake. If it was the summer I’d have four people working. I don’t even know if I have enough food.’ she said, then patted her heart and added, ‘I can actually feel the panic – here, right here in my chest.’

  If there was one thing Ella knew about her mum it was that she was terrible under pressure. Terrible when she was taken by surprise or caught off guard. She liked to plan, liked to be in control. Hence why Ella’s dad leaving had left her so completely derailed. She simply hadn’t seen it coming.

  ‘Ok, look, calm down. Let’s think about this rationally.’ Ella peeked out the kitchen door to the tables packed with people, the plastic rain covers bowing as chairs pushed against them and more tourists tried to squeeze round the edges.

  ‘I feel a bit sick.’ her mum covered her face with her hands and took some calming deep breaths.

  ‘Well for starters, how about we open up the kitchen? We’ve got the fireplace and the tree. We could make an occasion of it?’ Ella said just as her grandparents ambled inside, eyes wide at the flock of guests waiting outside. ‘What do you think? Gran, can you set this big table with coffees, teas and juice?’ If there was one thing Ella was good at it was organising. And, as Adrian always said nearly every board meeting, she never failed to make something out of nothing.

  Ella looked at her grandmother expectantly, who in turn was looking slightly perplexed at Ella’s mum and shaking her head while saying, ‘Well yes I could. But we’ve never had people in here before. I haven’t washed the windows.’

  ‘It’s raining,’ Ella pointed to where the water was cascading down the glass panes. ‘No one will see the windows.’

  ‘I’ll see the windows.’

  ‘Seriously, we don’t have time for cleaning the windows.’ Ella sighed, ignoring her grandmother’s frown and turning to where her granddad was about to lower himself into his chair. ‘Grandpa, you’ll need to light a fire.’

  He glanced over at his wife and Ella’s mum, clearly quite taken aback at having been asked to do something. When neither of them told him not to worry and just sit down, and instead he was faced only with Ella, hands on hips and one eyebrow raised in challenge, he reluctantly pushed himself back up to standing and shuffled towards the big stone fireplace. ‘Let’s get it all festive, make a show of it.’ Ella went on. ‘People can come in, warm up, have something to drink while we put together some sort of set menu. How would that work? Would that work?’ she asked, looking back towards her mum.

  ‘Well I think that sounds like a marvellous idea.’ her grandmother said, pausing in her surreptitious search to find a rag to wipe down the windows with. ‘Jolly fun.’

  ‘All pitching in. I like it, it’s like the war.’ said her granddad as he shuffled over to look for fire lighters.

  ‘Oh Michael,’ her grandmother muttered, ‘Would you please just shut up about the bloody war.’

  Ella watched as her mum went to look through the doorway at all the people, study the scene for a moment running her hand back and forth over her mouth and then glance back at the big table.

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, looking again from the doorway to the table. ‘Yes we could lay out some bread, jams, cheese. I’ve got some yoghurt and stewed berries. There’s cereal, I think. There’s baklava?’ She made a face towards Ella who nodded as if to say the more the better. ‘And actually I could make some croissants quickly. Maddy makes some lovely Christmas ones, we could do them.’

  Ella flinched. Why did Maddy have to be a part of this – this was Ella’s idea, her time.

  ‘What about something a bit more Greek?’ Ella said with a shrug. ‘A bit Christmassy? D’you remember we’d always make melomakarona on Christmas eve? They’re easy aren’t they?’ Ella thought about the melt-in-your-mouth little cookies, super sweet and unbelievably moreish that they’d make together while watching Santa Claus: The Movie or Scrooged and she’d love it because no one else wanted to watch with them. Her dad and Maddy only liked proper Christmas films like White Christmas or It’s a Wonderful Life which they’d watch in the other room while decorating the tree. The taste of melomakarona in her mouth, of the honey spiced syrup on her tongue, wasn’t just the taste of Christmas, but the taste of one of the few times in her life that it was just her and her mum, alone.

  ‘D’you know, I haven’t made them for yonks. Not since–’ her mum paused. ‘Not since the divorce I don’t think.’

  Ella shrugged, pretending to be all casual, like she didn’t really mind if her mum made them again or not and went about laying out the little glasses for coffee on the table.

  But she felt her mum watching her, felt her take a moment from her fretting and remember the sweet, sticky biscuits. ‘Maybe you could help me? You were good at making the syrup.’ she said and Ella turned to see her mum shrug and then look down at the work surface to start sorting through some ingredients. She wondered if she was pretending to be casual as much as Ella.

  After a moment’s pause, Ella nodded and said, ‘Ok, yeah.’ Putting down the last teetering stack of glasses she wiped her hands on her apron and looked over at where her mum was putting weights onto the scales. ‘I could give it a go.’ she said, swallowing, unsure when the last time she’d cooked was, but aware that by taking those tentative steps to walk and stand next to her mum on the other side of the island unit she was crossing into territory that she hadn’t ventured into for years.

  As she took the first few paces, the smell of the fire starting behind her and the coffee brewing, the noise of the tourists outside and the rain smashing against the windows, it felt more important than anything else that was happening in her life. That, stupidly, taking the steps towards baking those sticky little biscuits was a small act of courage.

  One foot in front of the other. Hand trailing on the stainless steel surface. Mum looking up from under her mop of wavy hair, all frizzy and wild from the rain and the stress, the expression in her eyes expectant, possibly nervous. Warmth from the flames that crackled and hissed weaving its way through the air. The corner of the work surface sharp on her hip as she misjudged the distance. Her mum reaching her hand forward to check that she was all right but stopping before she touched her. Ella shaking her head to say it’s nothing. The sound of her grandmother outside telling the tourists what was going to happen, the breakfast rules. Her mum smiling as she listened. Ella smiling as she listened. The two of them looking at each other, sharing the joke. And then suddenly the moment was breeched.

  They were side by side.

  So easy. So quick.

  Yet as Ella reached forward to pick up a bowl it wasn’t only that she noticed her hand was shaking, but it felt like all the strength in her arm had disappeared. She was exhausted. The effort it had taken for her not to walk the opposite way, not to don her Work Ella attitude and leave the cooking at a safe distance while she organised, to peel off a layer of defence and stand next to her mum unguarded and equal, seemed almost overwhelming. Everest-like. And for a second, as her mum handed her a sieve and the weighed out flour, she thought she might cry.

  CHAPTER 20

  MADDY

  ‘Christmas, young lady, is shit.’

  Maddy put the pint of Guinness down on the bar and waited for the man to fish around in his pocket for change.

  ‘I like Christmas.’ she said.

  He blew out a breath. ‘You’re delusional. It’s crap. If I could just go to sleep for week and wake up and it was over that would suit me fine.’

  ‘Still going, Walter. Change the record.’ Mack glanced over from where he was changing the optics, swapping the normal vodka and whiskey for cheap Russian imports because it was two-for-one night, as he’d told Maddy
during her brief induction.

  Walter was one of three customers in the bar. He was in his mid to late sixties she thought, dressed in a black jumper and grey woollen coat. His hair was white and crazy like a mad professor and his glasses had red frames. Maddy had arrived, been snubbed by most of the other staff members, given her Big Mack’s black t-shirt and sent to work the far end of the bar where Walter sat. Where apparently he sat every night of the week.

  ‘No I just love Christmas.’ Maddy shook her head. ‘All the lights and the atmosphere and, my god, you’ve even got snow here.’ She pointed outside to where tiny flakes had been falling like bubbles, drifting weightlessly through the air. Walter didn’t turn and look. ‘And have you seen Piccadilly Circus?’ Maddy went on, ‘I saw it today. Eros is in a giant snow globe. I think that’s amazing. I’ve Instagrammed it.’

  Walter took a sip of Guinness and narrowed his eyes at her, ‘And you noticed the advertising round the bottom I take it? You know the globe popped last year, burst in the storms. Like a metaphor.’

  Maddy heard Mack laugh and turned around to watch him unscrewing the top of a Russian gin and say, ‘A metaphor for what?’

  ‘Hot air.’ Walter reached into his pocket and got out a pipe, putting it in his mouth unlit. ‘So–’ he nodded towards Maddy. ‘Why are you here? You’re far too young and innocent for this place.’

  ‘I tried to tell her–’ Mack called over from where he was battling with a broken optic.

  ‘I needed a job.’ Maddy shrugged. ‘I wanted to come to London. See if I could make it.’

  Walter gave a snort of laughter.

  Maddy looked down at her hands, embarrassed at her admission. The door opened and a group of three young guys walked in, went straight over to one of the velvet booths and hunched round a menu. The icy chill that accompanied the slamming door made Walter wrap his big grey overcoat tighter round him. He was turning his collar up when he said, ‘You know “making it” is a myth. A fallacy.’

  ‘Blimey, you’re full of Christmas cheer aren’t you?’ Mack poured himself a whiskey and turned to lean against the bar, his arms crossed over his belly, his gold signet ring glinting in the dull light. ‘Don’t listen to him, he’s a washed up old hack.’

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ Maddy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s a writer.’ Mack said.

  Walter gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Mack snorted, ‘He wrote those books, for kids. You know he was a regular JK Rowling in his day.’

  ‘You’re not Walter Brown?’ Maddy tilted her head to the side and studied him, the deep grooves in his face, the white stubble, the slanting green eyes.

  Walter turned his head to stare at the door. Maddy looked back at Mack who nodded.

  ‘I loved your books. I read them all. My sister adored them. Oh my god. You can’t hate Christmas, all you wrote about was Christmas.’ She held her fingers to her lips remembering her dad coming home from work with the last book in the series. They’d snatched it from him before he’d even had a chance to take his coat off and were upstairs reading it, Maddy doing voices for all the different characters and feeling a silly sense of pride when she made Ella laugh. ‘I loved your books.’

  ‘They’re shit.’ Walter said, taking a gulp of Guinness.

  ‘He’s never managed to write the Great British Novel.’ Mack said, seemingly loving the wince on Walter’s face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Maddy asked, confused.

  Mack laughed, ‘He’s got a chip on his shoulder about writing for kids. Wants to write a proper book.’

  ‘But I loved them.’

  ‘I promise you–’ Walter leant forward and tapped the bar with his index finger, ignoring her question. ‘You will never make it.’

  ‘Jesus, thanks a lot!’ Maddy laughed.

  One of the guys got up from the table and came over to the bar with the menu. She made a move to serve him but the sullen girl with the hyena stare, who she now knew was called Betty, shooed her away and took the order herself.

  Walter hadn’t stopped talking, he was waving the pipe in the air as he carried on. ‘Because you’ll always want more. Stands to reason. It’s the addiction of the dopamine rush. You’ll never believe that you’ve made it. Ever. Look at you. Tall, pretty, seem to be reasonably funny, you look smart, you have good teeth, you’ve made it already. What more do you want?’

  Maddy got a cloth and wiped down the bar, just for something to do, she didn’t want Mack to think that all she did was stand and talk to Walter all shift. ‘I want–’ she started, then got embarrassed. ‘What did you want? I don’t know what I want.’

  Walter put the pipe back in his mouth and said through clamped teeth, ‘Yes you do.’

  Maddy screwed up her mouth and then said, ‘Ok. I want people to hear me sing. I want that to be how I make my living.’

  ‘Mack, this girl does not want to be a barmaid.’

  Mack nodded where he stood, reclined by the bar, sipping his whiskey and checking his phone. ‘I know that Walter.’

  ‘Well put her on the stage.’

  ‘I don’t need another person on the stage, tonight.’

  ‘Why the hell not? Look at her, she’s much more attractive than anyone else you usually put up there.’ Walter pointed at Maddy with his pipe and then fumbled in his pocket for some matches.

  More groups of guys walked in, more frigid air accompanied them. As the windows darkened and the street lights outside started to come on, big groups came in straight from work and all squeezed into the tiny booths, stealing chairs from other tables so those that didn’t fit on the velvet benches could perch at the end. That was when Betty finally relinquished her stronghold on customers and Maddy began to feel the pressure. When she had no idea where something was, like the flashy champagne or a vintage malt, Walter would lean forward from his stool and point it out for her. Betty certainly wasn’t interested in giving her a hand, and Mack was out front, circulating, chatting up the ladies and laughing with regulars, a bottle of what he called Christmas Spirit in his hand that he poured free shots of into empty glasses. Maddy had had a sip of it early and involuntarily shuddered while trying to stop herself coughing and it coming back up out her nose.

  ‘He gets them so damn pissed they stay all night and spend a fortune.’ Walter said, watching as Mack worked the crowd. ‘They love him.’ Then he looked back at Maddy and said, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll get you on the stage.’

  Maddy was trying to pour three pints at the same time and open a bottle of slimline tonic so couldn’t look up when she asked, ‘Why? Why would you help me?’

  ‘Because I want to see someone realise their dream.’ he said with a wry smile.

  Flicking up the beer pump handle, Maddy gave Walter a massive, toothy grin and said, ‘I’d really appreciate anything you can do.’

  An hour later, as the crowd had started to get more raucous, the music blared full volume and the whole place smelt of alcohol as strong as lighter fluid, Mack leant over the bar and said to Maddy, ‘Ok, you’re on.’

  She looked from Mack to Walter, who cocked his head as if to say I told you so, and then back to Mack who clapped his hands and said, ‘Come on, you’ve got about fifteen minutes to get changed.’

  ‘Ok.’ Maddy stammered. Untying her apron and squeezing past Betty and the other barman whose name she’d forgotten, and joining Mack where he’d followed her to the far end of the bar. ‘Thanks Mack.’ she shouted above the noise of the crowd, ‘Thanks, I really appreciate it. I really do.’

  ‘Save it.’ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder and pushing her through the swing door into the back room.

  The corridor was a dirty cream with scuffs all over the walls and floor, a strip light flickered and stacks of boxes half blocked the way. As the doors swung back they muffled the noise outside and the quiet made her ears ring.

  ‘I didn’t want to put you on because I don’t think you’re right for it. But–’
Mack was marching her forward. ‘I owe Walter a favour and well–’ he shrugged. ‘You’re old enough I suppose to decide what you want.’

  She frowned up at him as he led her into a dressing room where four other girls were busy putting their make-up on, slicking back their hair and straightening the seams on their stockings. In the corner a plastic Santa was shaking his hips to a tinny version of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.

  ‘It’s up to you if you want to do it or not. I thought you seemed a bit too–’ Mack paused. One of the girls looked over, her dressing gown hanging open, underneath was a red satin bunnygirl suit with white fur trimming. ‘Innocent, I suppose. But who am I to stand in the way of someone’s dream.’

  CHAPTER 21

  ELLA

  The Little Greek Kitchen cooked up a feast as the rain poured. The tourists milled in the fire-warmed kitchen and watched with delight as Ella dipped little biscuits into sticky syrup while Sophie dropped batter into bubbling oil to make golden honey puff Loukoumades. She then bathed the donuts in thick honey and cinnamon while piping hot and handed them round on pieces of kitchen towel. Her grandfather was up from his chair and holding court where he stood, leaning against the fireplace, chatting about the move from England to Greece – how he’d never looked back, how they should all do it – and the tourists nodded with wide eyes drunk on holiday memories. The Christmas branches sparkled and the gold star winked in the light of the flames while the fibre optic angel’s wings rainbowed through all its different colours. Ella’s grandmother was handing round plates of baklava and topping up glasses with rich, black coffee with its lacy froth. Big bowls of stewed summer fruits glistened on the table next to a basket of boiled eggs and plaited loaves. As people ate and laughed and asked to book a table for Christmas if they were still stuck by then, the freshly wiped windows steamed up and from outside the kitchen glowed through the opaque glass. Ella’s mum pushed her hair behind her ear with the back of her hand, nudged Ella on the shoulder and gave her a wink, a newfound camaraderie brought about by stress and success. And Ella bit down on a smile, feeling for the first time that she was part of it. Part of this life with her mum.