The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  ‘I agree, I always enjoyed cooking with a friend.’ I smiled at her.

  She narrowed her eyes at me and I realized I’d spoken in the past tense. Bad habit. I’d cooked canapés on Friday with Mags and Pixie and I’d made prawn and pea risotto for Mags and the dogs on Sunday. I suppose that meant I was officially cooking again.

  My chest heaved with a lightness I recognized as pleasure.

  ‘Enjoy, I mean,’ I said, making a mental note to speak to Gloria about cooking with friends. Perhaps we could offer a discount if you booked two places.

  ‘I’m so thrilled with my éclairs,’ she confided. ‘My husband has got the parish council coming round this evening; last time I only offered them ginger biscuits. There’s something a bit special about serving something that you’ve made yourself, isn’t there?’

  I agreed again and left her to it, walking past the sole male student, who had already clocked up a tall stack of rather singed crumpets.

  ‘Watch the temperature of your griddle pan,’ Tom said loudly to the room. ‘Low and slow is better than hot and fast.’

  He caught my eye and made a beeline for me, raising his eyebrow just a fraction. I was so glad Mags wasn’t there to make an innuendo out of that comment. Oh damn, I swallowed, now I’d thought of it anyway and my face was going red . . .

  He leaned down to whisper in my ear. ‘Better, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘If you say so . . .’ I gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘I’m being much more mellow and I haven’t made them say “Yes, Chef” once,’ he continued.

  ‘Absolutely.’ I nodded firmly, pressing a palm to my face to hide the worst of my blushes. ‘Much better.’

  He grinned at me. ‘So you can stop spying on me now. You’ve worn a groove in the floor this afternoon walking backwards and forwards from your office.’

  ‘That’s not true. Well, maybe a bit.’ I laughed, tweaking a packet of tissues out of my pocket to show him. ‘Just a precaution, in case I came across a blubbering wreck in the kitchen.’

  ‘Tom, is this OK?’ called a wavering voice.

  We both looked across to the teaching station, where Pixie was obscured behind a cloud of smoke rising from her griddle pan.

  ‘There, ladies and gentlemen, is a prime example of too hot and fast,’ Tom said loudly, and with a roll of his eyes, he pinched one of my tissues and strode across to help her out.

  Later that afternoon, Pixie was eating leftover crumpets for tea before her shift at the pub and I was boxing up slices of buttered Yorkshire tea loaf and mini éclairs to drop into the hospital for the nurses. (They deserved a treat; Gabe had phoned this afternoon to say that Gloria had been caught packing her case in secret and trying to book a taxi home.) Both Pixie and I were listening to Tom’s justification for spending a ludicrous amount of money on Italian flour.

  ‘It has to be Tipo 00 or the pasta won’t be—’

  ‘Verity! Are you there?’

  We didn’t find out what the pasta would or wouldn’t be because Mags came thudding up the stairs from reception. Strands of her bright blonde hair had stuck to her red lipstick in her rush to share her news. She pressed a hand to her heaving bosom and panted. ‘Verity, you’ll never guess, there’s a girl on the phone from the telly asking for you. They want to come and film. Here. On Saturday.’

  ‘Television? Oh my goodness!’ I gasped. ‘I’ll take it on the office line.’

  All four of us scampered to the office and I grabbed the phone.

  This was it; this was what I’d been hoping for, all those press releases I’d sent out to the BBC. This news would cheer Gloria up no end; in fact, I might bribe her with it to stay in hospital.

  ‘Verity Bloom speaking,’ I said, widening my eyes excitedly at Tom. ‘Marketing manager of the Plumberry School of Comfort Food.’

  ‘Hiya, this is Cheryl from Challenge Chester?’ said a gum-chewing female voice.

  I’d never heard of it. I crossed my fingers. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘What show is it? MasterChef?’ Tom scooted closer and pressed his head to mine so he could hear the person on the other end.

  ‘Challenge Chester,’ I hissed, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.

  Tom’s shoulders sagged and he slouched away to lean against the doorframe.

  ‘Cool.’ Pixie popped the end of a buttery crumpet in her mouth while Mags perched on the edge of Gloria’s chair. ‘Love that show.’

  ‘He must be a new chef,’ Mags whispered, peeling her hair off her lipstick. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Someone passed on your press release,’ Cheryl continued. ‘So Chester Fulwood, the presenter, yeah? He gets challenged to do wacky stuff every week and the producer thought it would be cool to make a loaf of bread in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. And I got your press release and thought, “Cookery School, sorted”. Interested?’

  ‘Er, a loaf of bread in the shape of the Eiffel Tower?’ I repeated for the benefit of the room.

  Tom covered his face with his hands and his shoulders drooped further towards the floor. I twisted my body away from him to avoid the negative vibes.

  ‘Well, that does sound like fun,’ I beamed. ‘We’d be delighted.’

  I sorted out a few details with Cheryl and ended the call.

  ‘That is perfect,’ I said, clapping my hands together and trying to ignore Tom’s thunderous expression. ‘And it will prove how fun cooking should be. Tom will teach this presenter Chester Fulwood to make bread and then turn it into the Eiffel Tower and we get prime-time TV coverage. Sorted, as Chewing Cheryl would say.’

  ‘Verity.’ Tom folded his arms. ‘Remember when I accused your BOGOF idea of being tacky, saying it cheapened the product more than any other strategy?’

  I nodded nervously. He sounded really cross.

  ‘I take it back.’ His dark eyes blazed at me. ‘This one takes the biscuit.’

  ‘Or the loaf,’ Pixie piped up.

  Tom made a noise like a bear who’d had his porridge pinched and began to untie the strings of his apron.

  ‘Lighten up, chuck,’ said Mags, plucking a nail file out of a pot on Gloria’s desk. ‘Just think of the publicity.’

  ‘Yeah, use your loaf.’ Pixie sniggered through her fingers.

  Tom dumped his apron on the desk.

  ‘It’s the publicity I am thinking of,’ he muttered. ‘So count me out. In fact, count me out of the cookery school completely. This just isn’t going to work.’

  ‘Tom?’ I gasped, my jaw flapping. ‘What about Friday? What about your Knife Skills course? We’ve got four booked in for that.’

  But Tom strode across the kitchen, ran down the stairs and disappeared.

  ‘Oh my God, he’s walked.’ Pixie blinked her heavily kohled eyes at me. ‘That’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

  I gulped. Just a bit.

  ‘But he can’t leave now,’ I stuttered. ‘He promised to stay.’

  I charged down the staircase after him and saw the doors to the Aga kitchen still swinging.

  My stomach fluttered. At least he hadn’t left, which meant I still had a chance to persuade him to stay. I pushed through the double doors. He was out on the deck in the rain, leaning over the balustrade, head hanging low.

  ‘Tom?’ I said. ‘Come back in. Let’s talk about this.’

  I pulled the collar up on my jacket to avoid the worst of the drips and hunched my shoulders against the chill wind.

  He didn’t move a muscle, simply stared at the flowing river, which had been gaining in speed all week. It gushed and splashed against the rocks now, compared to the meandering burble it had made when I’d first arrived in Plumberry.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m being a complete tosser,’ he muttered.

  Privately I agreed. But as it wasn’t a question, I decided to neither confirm nor deny it.

  ‘You probably think I’m being precious—’

  ‘Noo!’ I protested. Yes. Totally.

  ‘But being a chef is a profession. I
’ve battled, literally battled—’ he turned to me, his dark eyes searching mine, ‘to get where I am, or was. I served under Jordi Rocha at La Casa in Barcelona for two years; I worked unpaid as an intern at the Ritz in Paris for six months. Do you know how hard it is to get into those places?’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘A few weeks ago I felt on top of my game. Now I’m reduced to this: being seen making a giant phallus out of bread on some ridiculous TV show that doesn’t give a fig about food.’

  Phallus? I stared at him.

  ‘It would make me a laughing stock.’ He shook his head. ‘As if I’m not already.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ My eyes narrowed. ‘Working here shouldn’t make you a laughing stock.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he snapped.

  The two of us stared at each other through the rain: me breathless with indignation and him looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  He wiped a hand across his wet face and sighed.

  ‘I didn’t mean working here,’ he said curtly. ‘I was referring to my exit from Salinger’s . . . Look, forget it. I’ll stay, OK?’

  If my housemate Rosie was here, she’d pin him down until he spilled the beans. But she wasn’t and I was too polite to push for details. But the pain on his face told me all I needed to know for now: something or someone had damaged his professional pride. And if forcing him to work with Chester Fulwood made life even more uncomfortable for him, I wouldn’t push him to do that either.

  ‘Thanks, and Tom,’ I reached a hand out to touch his arm, ‘if you ever want to talk . . .’

  There was a cough from somewhere behind us.

  Tom and I span round to see Dave standing in the doorway, hands in pockets, jingling his change.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, but Mags insists that you come in out of the rain.’ He shrugged sheepishly. ‘And the kettle’s on.’

  ‘Tell her we’re on our way,’ I said, giving him the thumbs-up as he turned back into the Aga kitchen.

  Tom gave me a weak smile. ‘She who must be obeyed.’

  I looped my arm through his and led him inside. ‘Look, don’t worry about Challenge Chester, we’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Like what?’ He chuckled. ‘You take my place in front of the camera?’

  ‘What’s so funny about that?’ I retorted.

  ‘You?’ he repeated with a snort.

  And before my brain had a chance to filter out what had to be one of my most ridiculous ideas ever, my mouth took over.

  ‘Yes, actually, Tom,’ I said haughtily. ‘If it means that the cookery school makes national TV, that is exactly what I propose to do.’

  Back inside the Aga kitchen Mags was waiting anxiously with a tray of tea. My hands shook as I accepted a cup from her.

  ‘Sorted?’ she whispered, inclining her head to Tom, who was showing Dave the difference between the Aga’s two ovens.

  ‘Kind of.’ I swallowed. ‘I’ve volunteered to take part in Challenge Chester in his place.’

  ‘Good for you, chuck,’ she beamed. ‘You’ll do us proud.’

  There was one problem with this particular idea: I’d never made bread in my life.

  Chapter 14

  ‘I just dropped by on my way to visit Gloria,’ Dave said, before sipping the camomile tea that Mags kept specially for him. ‘Is there any post or anything to give to her?’

  I shook my head; I’d be going myself later. I needed a crash course in bread-making, or at least pointing in the right direction towards a really good cookery book. But Mags didn’t need asking twice.

  ‘Give her this from me.’ She crushed Dave to her, pressing her lips to his noisily. ‘A big kiss and a hug from Mags. I can’t visit tonight; I’ve got my art class.’ Adding with a wink, ‘Nude art class.’

  ‘I didn’t know you painted.’ Tom grinned.

  Mags sashayed in front of him and peeled the neckline of her dress down to reveal a freckled shoulder. ‘I don’t.’

  Pixie and I exchanged amused glances. We already knew Mags was a life model. The men’s red faces indicated that they didn’t.

  I came to Dave’s rescue. ‘Did your mother enjoy being at the cookery school on Monday?’

  ‘Very much.’ He shot me a look of gratitude. ‘We ate the hotpot—’

  ‘Navarin of lamb,’ Tom corrected.

  I examined my toes to hide my smirk. Tom was a stickler for the proper name for dishes.

  ‘Yes, we ate that on Monday night and Mother’s put the chicken thing . . .?’ He looked at Tom.

  ‘Moroccan chicken tagine,’ Tom supplied.

  ‘Yes, that, in the freezer for next week.’

  ‘And did she enjoy the actual course?’ I asked.

  ‘Um, she, er . . .’ Dave hunted round for the right phrase. ‘She said you were old school, Tom.’

  ‘I’ll take that.’ Tom folded his arms. ‘There you go, Verity, Nora appreciates me. Firm but fair.’

  ‘Wait, I got that wrong,’ Dave remembered suddenly, sticking his finger in the air. ‘You reminded her of her old schoolmaster. A bit handy with the cane, apparently.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Tom murmured drily.

  Pixie exploded with a coughing fit and I leapt up to relieve her of her cup.

  ‘Evening all, I’m off to my other job. Say hi to Gloria for me,’ said Pixie when she got her voice back.

  We bid Pixie goodnight and Dave started his usual probing about how business was going. Mags began clearing away the tea things.

  ‘We are going to be filmed for national TV on Saturday,’ I announced proudly. ‘So expect bookings to go through the roof.’

  ‘Cheap gimmick,’ muttered Tom, ‘which will do nothing for the long-term reputation of the school.’

  I huffed at him. ‘It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more positive now and again, surely?’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Dave.

  I could have kissed him.

  ‘Settle an argument for us, please,’ I said and told him about the disagreement Tom and I had had about the place of fun in the kitchen.

  ‘I believe food is deeply connected with our well-being,’ Dave said earnestly. ‘Feed the person and you feed their soul.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, nodding at Tom. ‘Sharing is caring.’

  ‘And food is also a sign of respect,’ Dave continued.

  ‘Which is what I said,’ Tom said smugly.

  I glared at him. That was stretching the truth a bit.

  ‘I have every faith you’ll find a middle ground,’ Dave said diplomatically, looking to Mags for assistance. Unfortunately, the phone rang in reception and she dashed out to answer it.

  Tom and I regarded each other doubtfully. I couldn’t see him budging an inch and I wasn’t going to because . . . well, because I was right.

  ‘Although it may all be immaterial,’ said Dave, plunging his hands back in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. ‘The classes need to be much fuller to cover our costs.’

  And Gloria would have to cover my salary for a little longer, although it wasn’t a huge amount seeing as I was living at her house rent-free. But it all had an impact on the bottom line.

  I swallowed. ‘We’ll make it work, won’t we, Tom?’

  Mags reappeared. ‘That was a lady wanting to know if we do kids’ cookery classes. I said we had nothing in the calendar, but I’ve taken her details.’

  She bustled back to the washing-up and Tom and I looked at each other. I braced myself, expecting him to say he’d only have children in the kitchen over his dead body.

  ‘Why not?’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘I love kids.’

  ‘You do?’ I blinked at him. Which reminded me, I needed to sort out a date for Gabe to bring Noah up. I missed that smiley little face with the scruffy sandy hair and eyes that were full of questions and laughter and mischief. And Gabe too, actually.

  ‘Oh yeah, I have a god-daughter, Saoirse, back home in Ireland. She’s a cracker.
’

  Tom smiled proudly as he spoke about her and I felt an unexpected rush of warmth towards him. He might be gruff in the kitchen, he might take his food a tad too seriously, but here was proof that somewhere underneath he was a good man with a kind heart.

  Mags popped her head back out, caught me gazing at Tom and pressed a hand to her bosom.

  ‘Tom MacDonald: a demon in the kitchen and he loves kids, that’s what I call husband material, eh, Verity?’

  ‘If the idea of marrying a demon appeals,’ I said airily, trying not to blush.

  ‘I didn’t know you were looking for a husband, Mags.’ Tom grinned.

  Dave stood tall and puffed out his chest but Mags missed the signs.

  ‘If I was ten years younger you’d know about it,’ she chuckled.

  Dave’s face fell and Tom cleared his throat.

  ‘Teach a child to cook and they’ve a skill for life,’ he said. ‘So yeah, I’m up for that.’

  Dave checked his watch. ‘Visiting hours are about to start; any other messages for Gloria?’ He glanced at Mags in case she tried to jump on him again. I couldn’t quite make out whether he was hoping she would or not.

  I ran and fetched the food parcel for the nurses – better for them to have it while everything was still fresh – and walked Dave to the door.

  ‘I won’t tell Gloria about the TV thing, I’ll leave that to you.’ He tucked the box under his arm and smiled at me. ‘Remunerative issues aside, you’re doing a grand job, Verity.’

  I sighed. I hoped he’d still think that after I’d made my first ever loaf of bread. In the shape of the Eiffel Tower. On national television.

  ‘Tom doesn’t think so. We disagree about everything. Well, most things. And neither of us is officially in charge, so I can’t make him do things my way,’ I added grumpily.

  ‘Competition sometimes adds a bit of spice,’ Dave said, patting my arm.

  I watched Dave run across the car park in the rain. A competition: now that might raise our profile a bit. Food for thought. Definitely.