by Fiona Gibson
Brad catches me looking quizzically at him. ‘Sous-chef,’ he explains. ‘Second in charge in the kitchen army. Great stuff, Dylan. You’ll be teaching the rest of us a thing or two.’ He turns to the next student.
‘I’m Kate,’ she starts in breathy tones, adjusting her quirky spectacles, ‘and I’ve only done a couple of patisserie courses …’ Only! There’s no only about it … ‘I wanted a broader view of the regional variations of French cuisine,’ she adds with a hopeful smile.
Brad nods. And so it goes on: everyone, it would appear, is an experienced cook. ‘I’m Jenny, and I cater for friends’ parties. I’m looking to expand and build on my business …’
‘My name’s Ruth. I’m starting a supper club in my flat …’
A small hush settles. ‘Audrey?’ Brad prompts me. I lick my dry lips. Can I get away without mentioning the dinner lady thing? It’s not that I’m ashamed of it. It’s just, I know they’ll find it amusing – or sweet, as Hugo put it – and I just want to be viewed as me, as someone who’s eager to learn culinary skills like everyone else here, and didn’t just win it in a competition.
‘Well, I’m here because …’ Ping! Damn, a text. I forgot to switch my phone to silent. I will it to remain quiet in the front pocket of my apron.
‘Is someone’s phone on?’ Brad asks, raising a brow. I pull a baffled look.
Ping! ‘Sorry, I think it’s me,’ I bluster, swiping it from my pocket. Christ, five texts. Can’t check them now, with everyone staring. I switch it to silent and clutch it tightly in my sweaty palm.
‘So, Audrey,’ Brad says pointedly, ‘you’re here because …’
‘I won my place,’ I blurt out, thinking, to hell with it, I need to get this part over with so I can nip outside and read my messages. If they’re all from Morgan, that’s more than he normally sends me in a whole year, and suggests that something is seriously wrong on the home front. ‘I’m here because I won an award,’ I say boldly. ‘I, erm … I’m dinner lady of the year.’
There’s a collective gasp. ‘Really?’ Brad gives me an incredulous stare. ‘You’re a dinner lady? Seriously?’
‘That’s right,’ I say quickly, eyeing the door.
He blinks at me. ‘How long have you been one of those, then?’
‘Er, ten years.’
‘Wow.’ He chuckles in amazement. That’s another dinner lady thing: it makes people laugh. No one finds accountants or bus drivers funny. ‘So what kind of lunches do children have these days?’
‘A lot of it’s quite traditional,’ I explain, ‘although we serve a lot of ethnic food – Indian, Thai, Chinese, as it’s a pretty multi-cultural school …’ Please let’s get this over so I can check my phone …
‘So you have a huge repertoire already,’ he booms, looking genuinely impressed. ‘In fact, you’re probably the most experienced cook in the room …’
‘Well, no, not really because I don’t actually—’
‘Come on, don’t be bashful. I’m very much looking forward to seeing what you produce during the week, Audrey.’ I smile unsteadily as he turns to Hugo, who rearranges his long legs. ‘So – last but not least – what brings you here, er …’ He peers at Hugo’s badge.
‘Um, I’m Hugo and it’s … a little hard to explain.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m here because, well … I suppose I had sort of a mad urge to do something new and different and completely out of my comfort zone …’
Brad gives him a level stare. ‘A sort of personal challenge?’
‘Yeah, something like that,’ Hugo says.
‘Great, that’s very admirable, Hugo. Okay, everyone, it’s time to get started.’ He beams round at all of us. ‘Don’t worry, we’re kicking off with a very simple dish: a classic soupe à l’oignon. Just before we begin, I’ll give you a quick reminder of the knife skills you’ll have learned on the beginner’s course …’
My back teeth are clenched together as one of the kitchen assistants brings Brad a chopping board and a glass bowl containing three large onions. I wish he’d stop mentioning the beginner’s course I didn’t even know existed. ‘As I’m sure you’ll all know,’ he starts, taking an onion from the bowl and fondling it, ‘everything starts with the knife.’ My phone vibrates in my pocket. I have to check it, but Brad has already launched into his demonstration and clearly doesn’t take kindly to mobile-related distractions. I fidget anxiously. ‘We start,’ Brad goes on, ‘by trimming the stem’ – he whacks an end off the onion – ‘but do leave the rude end intact.’ Rude end? ‘We chop the onion in half lengthwise,’ he rattles on, ‘then we peel off the skin and cut parallel to the board, almost but not quite to the rude end. We then make vertical cuts, leaving the rude end intact …’
‘What’s the rude end?’ I whisper to Hugo.
‘The what end?’
‘The rude end, he keeps saying it …’
He chuckles. ‘He means root end, the bit where the—’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ I bluster, as my phone vibrates yet again.
I jump up from my seat.
‘Everything okay?’ Hugo whispers.
‘Yes, but, sorry, I need to pop out for a moment …’
‘Ah. Need a nerve-calming smoke?’ Brad booms, triggering a ripple of laughter. I smile back tensely and scurry across the room, whipping my phone from my pocket as I step outside. There are seven texts – all from Morgan – which read:
Sudsy water??
Mum what dyou mean? Hell, I forgot to respond to his earlier laundry-related query …
Like shampoo washing up liquid or WHAT?
Can you phone me Mum?
Nothing to wear for party!
OK T-shirt washed but dripping wet how to dry?
And finally: OMG Mum am burned!!!!!!
Chapter Eleven
Boiled T-shirt
He doesn’t answer his phone. He can’t because he’s lying in a curtained cubicle at A&E, with a concerned doctor applying ointment and gauze to his wounds while asking, ‘And where was your mother when this terrible thing happened?’ I mean: burns. What degree are we talking? If I leave now, and really put my foot down, I could be home in three hours. I try again and again, pacing back and forth across the courtyard, and on the fourth attempt he finally says, ‘Yeah?’
‘Morgan? What’s happened? I’m worried sick—’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How can you be fine? You just texted me saying you’re burned—’
‘S’just my hands,’ he mutters.
‘Your hands? My God, darling, don’t tell me you burnt yourself on the cooker …’ A terrible image forms of him trying to defrost a frozen brick of chilli con carne over the gas ring.
‘Nah, s’all right. It really hurt at the time, though …’
‘So it’s not a serious burn?’
‘Um … it’s just a bit pink. Well, bright red actually …’
‘You don’t need the doctor or hospital?’
‘Stop fussing, Mum, I’m not five years old—’
‘Fussing? But you texted me!’
He blows out air. ‘Yeah, well, I’m all right now. Jenna’s coming over in a minute …’
I inhale deeply and lean against the warm stone wall. The sweet scent of onions frying is already drifting out of the stable block. Brad thinks I’m out here having a shifty fag; in fact, occasionally I toy with the idea of taking up smoking again. I know it’d blacken my lungs and probably kill me but, on the plus side, when I smoked – even while working as a cleaner at Sunshine Valley Holiday Park, fishing out grubby knickers from the crevices of sofa beds – I wasn’t plagued by constant niggling stress. And now, as a virtuous non-smoker, I’m knotted up with worry pretty much all of the time.
‘Please tell me exactly what happened,’ I say quietly.
‘Well, I hand-washed my T-shirt like you said …’
‘Don’t tell me you used boiling water out of the kettle …’
‘’Course I didn’t. God, Mum. I just used no
rmal water out of the tap but I had to dry it, didn’t I?’
‘Er, presumably, yes, if you’re planning to wear it tonight …’
‘Yeah, so it was soaking, right? It was full of water. It wasn’t spun like when it comes out of the washing machine …’ A tall, athletic-looking blond boy – he can’t be much older than Morgan – strides into the courtyard with a wheelbarrow. On seeing me, he flashes a confident smile and sets about pruning a climbing shrub.
‘You didn’t try to iron it dry, did you?’ I murmur.
‘No, I microwaved it.’
‘You microwaved your T-shirt?’
‘Yeah?’ he says defensively. ‘I thought that was the best way to dry it quick. But when I took it out it was so hot I burnt my fingers …’
‘For Christ’s sake, love!’
He tuts. ‘Thanks for the sympathy, Mum.’
The gentle snip-snip of the boy’s secateurs cuts through the hazy air. ‘The thing is,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level, ‘the microwave basically makes liquids boil, so what you did was cook your T-shirt.’
Silence.
‘Was it all right, just out of interest?’
‘Nah, some bits had burn marks and some were still wet. So basically, it’s ruined.’ Another surly pause. ‘It was from Urban Outfitters as well,’ he adds.
The gainfully-employed teenager has now moved on from pruning to picking up the little twiggy bits that fell on the gravel. This task is performed with remarkable speed and efficiency, with not one fragment left littering the ground. ‘Look, Morgan,’ I add, ‘I’m sorry about your T-shirt, I really am. But, to be honest, I’m more concerned about how you’re managing to cope on your own while I’m away.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he says hotly.
‘Well, you’re eighteen, love. I hope I can trust you not to do any other crazy stuff—’
‘It wasn’t crazy!’
‘Look, should I come home, or what? Just tell me, Morgan …’
‘Of course not. Why would you need to do that?’
I inhale the scent of stocks in a nearby rustic tub, and wonder how best to put it. ‘Okay, I won’t, but only if you promise to think before you do things …’
‘I’m not stupid,’ he mutters.
‘No, I know you’re not. But you are a bona fide adult now and you need to act like one. You can vote, you can get married, you can go off and join the army …’
There’s an audible gasp. ‘You want me to join the army?’
‘No, of course I don’t. I’m just making a point …’
‘You do. Why not just say it? You want me to get shot! That’s charming, that is. Thanks a lot.’ With that, he abruptly finishes the call. I glance at the teenage gardener. He is now hammering a bit of loose trellis back into place. Maybe I could borrow him for a few days, take him home to fix things and pick stuff up from the floor and act as a role model for my son. Bet he can use a washing machine. He’s obviously been raised properly, by capable, fully-functioning parents – that’s the crucial difference. I’ve done my best but, clearly, have fallen way short of the mark somewhere along the line. Morgan is probably the only eighteen-year-old in Yorkshire who is incapable of safely laundering a T-shirt.
I step back into the stable block, trying to shake off my lingering concerns for his safety. ‘Thought you’d done a runner,’ Hugo remarks, shuffling onions around in a saucepan.
‘Just had to call home,’ I say lightly. ‘God, I’m way behind everyone else. You’re all frying already …’
‘Sautéing,’ Brad corrects me, looming disconcertingly at my side. He watches, sturdy arms folded across his broad chest, as I assess the laminated recipe. Ingredients for the soup have been thoughtfully set out for me, just like chefs have on TV. There are plastic pots containing ready-measured portions of butter, flour, olive oil and grated cheese, and even one of white wine and another of red. After my terse exchange with my son, I’d be terribly tempted to have a shifty swig if Brad wasn’t still lurking close by.
Six onions are sitting beside my lime green chopping board. I pause before starting to chop them, hoping that Brad will take this as a signal to move on and watch someone else. It’s not that I’m incapable of cutting up veg. It’s just that his noisy nasal breathing – which is clearly audible, even above all the hubbub of the room – is putting me off. ‘Knife skills, Audrey,’ he murmurs.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. Off you pop and see Lottie, I add silently. She’s looking rather harassed … He remains at my side, waiting, I decide now, for me to mess up so he can crack a dinner lady joke and make everyone laugh. He doesn’t seem to be doing much teaching, as far as I can see. Maybe he views himself more as a sort of kitchen personality. Well, I won’t give him that opportunity. Taking the knife, I start to chop in precisely the way he showed us. I have learned a new skill, I realise. Okay, I know things are going to become trickier with the fancy tarts and all that, but I can do this! I can actually chop an onion like a proper chef.
‘Very good,’ he observes, the wind whooshing out of his nostrils and onto my neck. Hell, does he have to stand so close? Under Brad’s intense gaze, it takes what feels like a month to chop the rest of my onions. ‘Mmmm,’ he says occasionally. ‘Good technique, nice firm movements …’ The only thing to do is to mentally block him out, to focus so hard on the task in hand that this world-renowned chef with his shock of blond curls melts away. This is what Morgan does with me, I decide. When I’m getting on his nerves, grumbling about his whiffy bedroom or our unflushed loo, he fades me from his consciousness until I cease to exist.
In the swing of things now, I drop my chopped onions into the pan and start to sauté. Don’t be put off by him, I remind myself. You’ve sautéed billions of onions in your life. ‘Hmmm, this is looking lovely,’ Brad adds.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur, hovering over my pan. The onions slowly turn golden and I carefully sprinkle in the flour, followed by wine.
‘Taste,’ he murmurs into my ear.
I turn to look at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Taste it, Audrey, every step of the way. Taste, taste taste. How can you create a beaudiful dish if you don’t know what it needs?’
I taste it – mmm, not too bad – and sprinkle in a little salt. I taste again, and add a few grinds of black pepper. God, it’s delicious. As I continue to stir, something incredible starts to happen. I am only vaguely aware of Brad ambling away to check on Tamara. And soon, not only our teacher but the other students and bustling kitchen assistants all start to melt away too. It’s just me, studiously following the recipe, step by step, and tasting, tasting, tasting. Like sight-reading a new piece of music, all you have to do is relax and give it your full attention. You don’t panic and think, ‘I can’t possibly do this, it’s all going to go horribly wrong!’ You just focus hard and let any distractions fade away. As my soup begins to simmer, other things start to disappear too: the spectre of Jenna’s thong on my bathroom floor, and the lingering fear that my son is clearly capable of burning down our house.
I turn my attention to my croutons, slicing a baguette with extreme precision and sprinkling it with grated cheese. I didn’t need to come to a swanky hotel to learn how to make cheese on toast but I’m damn glad I did. Yum, this cheese is delicious, I think as I steal a bit. Must try and educate Morgan away from the industrial orange Cheddar he’s so partial to.
I remove my croutons from the grill and gaze at them reverentially. I taste my soup, adding another touch of salt, then ladle some into a bowl and float the croutons on top. Brad is back at my side, his nostrils quivering as he peers at it. ‘That looks sensational, Audrey. Can I try?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, not sure if he’s having me on: yes, it looks perfectly edible, but it’s just soup.
He picks up a spoon – my spoon – and slurps noisily. ‘Oh, that’s marvellous. Beaudifully seasoned, the onions perfectly caramelised …’
I laugh, not knowing what to say. It’s clearly an over-enthusiasti
c response: like when a child splatters pink paint on a sheet of paper and you cry, ‘That’s wonderful, darling!’
‘I can see you’re a natural,’ he adds, further mortifying me as he raises his voice and says, ‘Everyone? As Audrey has demonstrated, the secret to a beaudiful French onion soup is to never rush, to let the flavours gradually unfold over time. This’ – he turns to me with a beaming smile – ‘is perfection in a bowl.’
‘Thank you,’ I croak, my cheeks blazing as hotly as when I was announced as Dinner Lady of the Year. For years – decades – nothing of note ever happened to me, and now all this.
‘Teacher’s pet,’ Hugo sniggers as we clear up our work stations.
I pull on rubber gloves and plunge them into the sink. ‘Beginner’s luck,’ I say with a grin.
*
With a couple of hours before dinner, I take myself off to my room and am slightly taken aback to discover that it’s been tidied. Not only that, but my bed has been smoothed over after me throwing myself on it, the covers neatly folded back into a triangle shape. A small red foil-wrapped ball has been placed on one of my pillows. I have only ever stayed in budget hotels and B&Bs, and this kind of thing never happens in those places. On closer inspection the pillow present turns out to be a Kirsch Kiss, like the boxed ones in the minibar. It’s too special to eat, I decide, and drop it into my suitcase to take home.
Feeling terribly decadent, I cleanse off the day’s make-up and fill the huge, claw-footed bath way higher than I would normally – because places like Wilton Grange never run out of hot water – and sink into clouds of lilac-scented bubbles. My pleasure is further heightened by the fact that no one will hammer on the bathroom door announcing that they need to pee. I can carry this off, I decide. I can fit in here and learn all kinds of fancy stuff and run a bath that goes right the way up to my neck. It’s going to be okay. Well, of course it is – what was I so afraid of exactly?
I’m feeling immensely cheery as I get dressed for dinner and give Morgan a call. No answer. Still sulking over the fact that I want to send him off to a war zone, probably. Oh well. I consider trying Stevie again, but then, he could call me. Too busy, probably. ‘Always on the road, babe,’ as he puts it, making out that it’s a pain, but obviously thinking it lends him an air of glamour. Instead, I call Kim. ‘How’s it going?’ she asks. ‘I’ve been desperate to hear …’
