The girls tittered again. Bridie made her way between the tables and mounted the stage, her heart beating so hard it seemed to be about to burst up and out through her throat. Without pause he commenced in French, explaining how to taste and examine wines by developing an evaluating technique he described as ‘sensorielle’, and suggested that those who were not writing notes should do so. She hesitated for a moment over sensorielle, but took a stab at ‘sensory’, and from his single raised eyebrow and slight nod she knew she had guessed correctly.
The woman had by now joined them on stage, and as he drew to a close, he explained to the room that he would be bringing spittoons to each table. They would activate the skills he had just outlined, and instead of drinking, they would use the spittoons. The next step would be to take a drink to cleanse the palate, and spit again, and taste the next wine. At that stage they would write down their thoughts. He then bowed to Bridie, and gestured that she should resume her place at the table, to applause from the audience.
Bridie picked up her chair, which remained next to Marthe, and tried to fit it back into her place. The ‘Hons’, though, had closed the gap. Bridie kept ramming until the girls were jolted enough to move, just enough. The atmosphere was frosty. The Honourable Beatrice Gordon said, sotto voce, but designed to be heard, ‘One does not exhibit oneself, if one knows how to behave.’
On the table to their left, a girl with a blonde bob turned in her chair and articulated impressively, ‘Or, of course, if one cannot speak the language.’
She reached across and held out her hand to Bridie. ‘Lucinda Fortnum, at your service – though my friends call me Lucy – and I know that you are Bridget. Well met, indeed.’
Monsieur Favre was at Bridie’s table now, with two spittoons. The woman followed, carrying a tray with six bottles of chilled white wine. ‘You, ladies, will smell, swirl, sip, spit. Miss Brampton, I have managed to translate as I have travelled the room. However, when Monsieur Allard takes over this afternoon to conduct an exotic gastronomic tour, you will be needed. While I am here, he asked that I send his best wishes to your grandparents, Lord and Lady Brampton.’ He winked and moved on, stopping by Lucinda, ‘Enjoy your tasting, Lady Lucinda.’
There was a silence around the table. Lucinda leaned over from the other table, grinned, and held up her empty glass to Bridie’s table companions. ‘Touché, I feel we can safely say, don’t you?’
That evening, as Bridie strolled down the steps at the end of the day, Monsieur Allard followed her, catching her up as she reached the pavement. ‘You will find, Mademoiselle Bridie, that your mother will have taught you all that you need to know. Here, in your case, the best we can do is to refine and broaden. For many of the others, pouf, they merely want to be able to instruct a cook. You, my dear, are the cook, the magician.’ He swept on, neat and small, but without a moustache, and his brown hair was longer than Monsieur Favre’s.
Bridie set off in the direction of Madame Beauchesne’s apartment, but paused as Marthe ran down the steps after her, her jacket swinging in the breeze. They strode along talking about their aims, and the kitchens they’d worked in, for Marthe was a cook in her father’s restaurant in Lyon. They talked of the joy they felt creating dishes, the need to learn. Before they reached the first corner, they heard, ‘Wait up, you two.’
It was Lady Lucinda Fortnum, a good egg, as James would have said, with a wink. Together, still in French, they talked cooking and wine, for Lucinda Fortnum was determined to drag her family’s estate into the modern age. She felt the need to improve the gardens and perhaps charge people to have a look around. If this succeeded, then a restaurant would be essential. ‘There’s such a ghastly great roof on the whole pile, needing to be repaired. All I have to do is convince the old dears that it’s an excellent scheme,’ she drawled. They reached the Café Adrienne, and by tacit agreement took a pavement table, ordering a coffee.
After coffee, they moved on to wine, and this time there was no spitting, just a lot of swallowing. It was unusual for Bridie, and within minutes she felt her mind slip into some easy place. After an hour they went their separate ways.
A letter from James awaited her at Madame Beauchesne’s, and a cup of coffee, thick and black, which she needed. Madame Beauchesne, grey-haired, elegant and charming, had been a friend of the first wife of Lord Brampton, and was now a friend of Aunt Ver. She spoke perfect English but insisted that Bridie use her French, gently correcting flaws of accent and grammar, and applauding her tale of being a temporary interpreter. She listened intently to the descriptions of the girls she had met, the nice and the nasty.
After a dinner prepared by Cécile, the cook, who had trained at a similar institute, they listened to the wireless, though Madame Beauchesne leafed through her book on English gardens that Evie had brought as a gift while she did so. All the time Bridie was aware of James’ letter in her pocket and longed to retire to her room. As though reading her mind, Madame Beauchesne stirred as the gold clock on the mantelpiece chimed nine o’clock, placing the book on the side table, removing her glasses. ‘Bridie, my dear. I retire early, as you know, and this evening I feel it advisable for you to do the same.’
Almost before her hostess had finished Bridie was on her feet. Madame Beauchesne smiled. ‘Yes, there, in the privacy of your room, you can read your letter. Perhaps it is one from an admirer? Soon you will be seventeen, such a lovely age, a time of joy, fun and hope before the serious business of marriage, perhaps at eighteen?’
She switched off the lamps on both tables, and led the way towards the door. She stopped for a moment at the photograph of her husband, in a French officer’s uniform. As she had told Bridie and Evie on the night of their arrival, he had been killed at Verdun.
‘Please God, Bridie, that Germany does not see fit to rise again, though the signs are not good. You will know that the Germans’ Condor Legion bombed Guernica, the Basque capital in Northern Spain, in April. Should they even have an air force after the great war, one asks oneself? Should we not have objected to that unpleasant little man, Hitler, being allowed to issue his edicts and carry out his adventures?’
She picked up the photograph. ‘Some say the bombing was a rehearsal, but if so, I ask, for what? Or am I wrong? Perhaps they are prancing buffoons and harmless?’
She replaced the photograph and turned to Bridie. ‘I do so wish someone would reply, for I need to have answers to these questions, but all seem asleep. Hitler signs a friendship with that fascist, Mussolini. He signs a pact with Japan. Why? As I say, all seem asleep.’ She touched her fingers to her lips, then laid them on the face of her husband. ‘Goodnight, my love. Come, Bridie, take no notice of a lonely old widow living in France, which does not have a Channel between it and the Nazis. I have seen my country destroyed once, and fear for it again.’
Bridie closed the door of her room, and leaned back against it. Yes, she had known that Guernica had been bombed; it was after Prancer died. She and James had talked of little else when it happened. She sank onto her bed. Her room smelt of lavender, and had windows that opened onto a square around which tall buildings clustered. Some of the windows opposite were shuttered, some were open with lamps burning. Each building consisted of apartments, probably similar to this. She ripped open James’ letter.
Dear Bridie
I do wonder how the Institute is managing with you there. Are you causing mayhem, or is it too early for you to get going? I hope that you enjoy every minute. I know it is something you want to do, and it will help Easterleigh Hall.
Sir Anthony has had another of his meetings at the Hall, and missed you, though Annie and Aunt Evie were called in to circulate for a moment. Lady Margaret and Penny were there, and when they left I saw that Lady M was wearing a fascist badge as you said, but it seems it’s all in the cause of peace. After all, as you say, Sir Anthony is at the head of their little club. Annie and Aunt Evie were helped by two Basque refugees who arrived at Easterleigh Hall recently, Maria and Estrella. A friend o
f mine knew of them, and asked if I could help find employment. Of course, my mother and your mam were only too happy to help. I have tried to talk a little to them in my pathetic Spanish, but it’s laughable. I nip in for tea from time to time, and listen hard to their Basque to try and pick some up. Without much success, I have to say, but I will keep at it, as it will be valuable.
Young Stan is managing Terry and Fanny very well, and David is good with advice. I help most days. I will leave at the end of July, not August, as your father has a new boy starting in time for the harvest. I still have Arthur’s information, you know, the medic I met on the Jarrow march, and will find the enrolment office in London. Who knows, I might see him in Spain. I will come to Madame Beauchesne’s to say farewell, probably early August, then leave for Spain, straight away.
Mother is writing to her to ask if I may stay for two nights, as I have explained that I wish to travel the continent before university. I will return by the start of university if I am more useless than I hope to be. But I hope that I get the hang of things quickly, and can make a difference. If I do stay, then tell them where I have gone, will you? But insist that you knew nothing, and that I wrote to you from Arles with the news.
If they think you were in on it, you’ll be put in the corner, for not stopping me. The horses will be glad to see you when you finish the course. So will Young Stan, because for a short while he’ll be without both of us helping.
I will write again soon, Bridie. I do hope that you are regaining your old enthusiasm, and that the wine tasting listed on the prospectus is interesting. In France you should learn how to actually drink the stuff. Perhaps I will help a bit more with that when I come.
Your loving cousin,
James
Bridie ripped the letter into shreds, gathered the pieces up, and dropped them in the bin near the window. No-one must know his plans, because they were her plans too. She had brought her stable boots, which had annoyed her mother when she had helped her unpack. ‘Why on earth have you brought these?’
‘In case I find a riding stables.’
Her mother had shaken her head, and put them in the bottom of the wardrobe, with the jodhpurs she also discovered. ‘I don’t know, I’m surprised you could drag yourself away for even a few months, as it’s the toss of a coin whether the horses will miss you more, or you them.’
For a moment, during this first day at the Institute, she had faltered in her aim, loving the pleasure of learning, thrilling at the thought of helping Easterleigh Hall hotel. But James was going to do something, so she must also.
Chapter Fifteen
Paris, August 1937
Today, the Terrible Trio, as Bridie, Marthe and Lucy had been named by Monsieur Allard, met at the food market at seven thirty in the morning. They were to prepare their own version of mushroom soup as part of their certification. He had insisted that he wanted a flavour that he had never experienced before. Together they hunted for the mushrooms of their choice, selecting the best, before taking time for a coffee at the market café. They sat outside, chatting about the two Basque refugees that Easterleigh Hall was employing in the kitchens.
Marthe almost spat as she cursed the Nazi Condor Legion, which had bombed the port. ‘We know the Hun too well, from the war. We are without a ditch, like you, my dear Bridie. How lucky that you have the Channel.’
They sat for a moment with their thoughts. Lucy said, ‘They won’t come again.’
Again the silence.
Bridie checked her watch and leaned back in her chair. Though it was still only eight o’clock the early August sun was already warm. She loved the feel of it, and knew that soon, when James arrived and they reached Spain, it would be even hotter. She hoped he was progressing with his Spanish, as she was trying to, and also picking up some Basque, and could teach her. ‘I forgot I need dill sprigs,’ she murmured.
The others laughed. Lucy picked up her basket, and stood. ‘Trust Bridie: food first, and politics a long way behind.’
Marthe just shook her head, gulping her coffee. ‘Crazy English.’
‘Mushroom soup takes first place in any situation,’ Bridie said, leading the way back to the market. It was best that her friends thought of her in this way, because then, when James came, they wouldn’t suspect her plans and try to stop her, or worse, tell Madame Beauchesne.
In the kitchen at the Institute, there were many workbenches and many electric stoves, and half as many cooks as there had been. The debs who had shared Bridie’s table had lasted a mere two weeks. It seemed that getting their hands dirty was not part of their ‘finishing’. Others had followed in their wake, and now the Institute class contained debs who had, to their surprise, found themselves interested, and a few cooks who, from the beginning, had known why they were there.
Bridie liked the chatter all around; it reminded her of home. She liked the friendship of Marthe and Lucy, but always she kept a slight distance because she would have to leave them. Monsieur Allard was at her shoulder now, looking at the coarsely chopped mushrooms, which still retained their stalks.
‘Perhaps it would be best to discard the stems,’ he suggested.
She replied, ‘Mam says that most of the flavour resides there.’ She found she was using his terminology more and more.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, if Mam says, then who am I to disagree?’ He patted her shoulder and moved on, as the class laughed, with her, not at her. He called, ‘Remember, girls, we must make these last few weeks count. For as autumn falls, you return home, and put into practice what you have learned, or not, Michelle.’ Again laughter, but friendly and kind, for Michelle was a girl who liked to pick and choose the days she attended.
Bridie sliced two cloves of garlic, which she had not used at Easterleigh Hall, but which she felt she had ‘discovered’ under Monsieur Allard’s tutelage. She chopped the dill, not sure if that was indeed the right herb, but she was going with her gut, as her Uncle Jack would have said.
Though Lucy and Marthe had decided to use vegetable stock, she had hesitated, then chosen chicken, which she had prepared yesterday. Which was right? She didn’t know, but her mam used chicken. Was she teaching Maria to cook? And what about Estrella? Would they be able to take her place for as long as she was away? And what about the horses, Terry and Fanny? Was Young Stan good enough? Would he stick at it? Well, he’d just have to, and that was that.
She looked at the chopped mushrooms and removed the black gills from beneath the caps, keeping them for garnish. She should have done that first, but she hadn’t thought about it soon enough. She fought to concentrate. She needed to learn as much as possible, so that when she did return to Easterleigh she would be of use, because she must make up for what she was about to do.
‘Concentrate,’ she said aloud.
Lucy looked up. ‘Are you alright, Bridie? You’ve been a bit distracted these last few days.’
‘I had a letter from my cousin; he’s coming to Paris for a day or two any day now with a few friends.’
She moved to the stove and melted butter in a pan, as Marthe was doing on her hotplate. Marthe said, ‘How exciting. We must all have wine together.’
Lucy was melting butter too, and all along the row of stoves, others were beavering away. Bridie said, ‘Yes, he’d like that.’ But would he? Or might he be worried that questions would be asked?
She added the mushrooms, garlic, salt and pepper, then covered and simmered for five minutes, until all were softened but not discoloured. She lifted the lid and breathed in the steam, and the smell. Wonderful. Gently she added the broth, slowly, slowly, and then, almost drip by drip, added half a cup of cream and half the dill. She replaced the lid and simmered again, for ten minutes.
Monsieur Allard was behind her again. ‘I would suggest, Bridie, that you do not add the dill so early. Perhaps leave it as a garnish. It might stain the soup. On the other hand, it might not. Interesting. Yes, interesting.’ He moved on.
She would miss him. She would miss th
em all.
After ten minutes she sieved the ingredients through a fine hair-sieve. She hated doing this at Easterleigh, because everything was always such a rush. When she had complained about this to Monsieur Allard last month, he had shrugged, throwing his arms wide. ‘You think you will find a kitchen that is not rushed. Ah, Mademoiselle Bridie, think again. Such innocence.’
Well, today she did have time. Her arm ached when she was finished, and he was right, her soup had a slight green stain. Damn. She added salt and pepper to taste, and whisked in more cream. It frothed and did seem to lighten.
‘One more minute only, and by then it must be served, ladies,’ Monsieur Allard called, standing in front of the workbenches, his arms crossed, his chef’s hat as pristine as ever.
‘Crikey,’ breathed Lucy next to her. ‘One minute?’
‘Merde,’ muttered Marthe, the other side of her.
‘Damn,’ murmured Bridie, and removed the pan from the heat. She whisked some cold cream, ladled the soup into the waiting bowls, then swirled the cream onto the surface of the soup. It shone cream against the hint of green as though it was an intended difference. She scattered the gills and remaining dill. Then stood back as Monsieur clapped his hands.
The girls all looked at one another and stepped back as he tasted along the line, talking to each cook as he did so. It was important, because it would count towards the certificate. She stopped. A certificate she would not receive. Suddenly her throat was full. She loved this place, these people.
Monsieur Allard tasted hers. He replaced the spoon on the workbench. ‘This, Miss Bridie, is a happy accident, or perhaps, like your mother, you have the gift. More than perfect, and I have never said that before. Inspired. The cream is a successful trick, but one that you must use again. Come, gather round, all you young ladies. Bridie used the dill in the cooking. I felt it would stain the soup and ruin the presentation. She rescued it with cream, changing the “mistake” to a statement. Bravo. You will take your certificate home, if you produce more work like this.’
A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel Page 16
