More Than Meets the Eye (5 page)

Alison looked startled when she saw him standing before her in the hall. For a second, something near to panic seemed to freeze her familiar face. It was the most fleeting of moments, so brief that afterwards Dennis was not sure that it had occurred at all. Then she said, ‘This is a surprise! I thought you'd be much in demand, with all these visitors pouring through the gates. Have you time for coffee?'

‘I've had my coffee. I was planning to have it with you. You're later than you said.'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. Carrie kept me talking.'

It was clipped and nervous on both sides. Dennis wondered why that should be. ‘I thought she had to be at work at nine.'

‘She does. I think she must have made herself late, talking to me. Then I took longer than I intended to get my things together. I left a top behind last time. I wanted to be certain I had everything in my bag.'

She lifted the sports bag she used for her overnight things in front of her – as if it were evidence, he thought. He said stiffly, ‘I expected you back earlier.'

‘The traffic was bad. Especially on this last section, through the lanes. That took me a lot longer than I expected. Does it matter?'

‘No. You missed having coffee with your husband, that's all. No big deal.' He forced a smile, feeling a little ridiculous.

‘That's all right then.' She stepped forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I'll be here at lunchtime, if you can get away.'

He glanced at her sharply, then nodded, forcing himself to relax. As he went back to his office, he wondered why she hadn't mentioned the traffic first as the most obvious cause of her late return from her friend's house.

In the house he had left, Alison Cooper slid the dress she had worn to the theatre on the previous night swiftly back into the wardrobe.

It was the hottest day of the summer so far and a Saturday. Everyone predicted the biggest attendance at Westbourne Park this year. The restaurant was already busy. By one o'clock, there would be a queue at the door, with visitors waiting for early diners to vacate their tables.

Dennis Cooper, who didn't like Hugo Wilkinson, had thought he would need to investigate his private life if he was to find anything to undermine him. The man was highly competent and reigned supreme in his kitchen. Yet ironically, it was in that kitchen that Hugo was about to provide him with just the sort of transgression Dennis had thought unlikely.

In retrospect, it was the classic situation for trouble in a kitchen. Hugo should have been ready for the problem and he should have dealt with it capably. He had handled much worse incidents in his previous post, where a demanding clientele had expected not only quality but swift service for the high prices they paid by the Thames. But surely chefs were expected to have short fuses; wasn't it almost a condition of the job? Their staff should not only expect abuse, but take it in their stride.

The warning signs were there for all to see. Two of the unskilled but necessary kitchen workers had called in sick; Hugo was sure that one of them at least was swinging the lead, but there was little he could do about that. He set to work with the staff he had and tried hard to keep ahead of the game.

The pressure built as he knew it would as midday approached and the dining room filled up. Most of the meals were served plated, so that the waiters had little to do at the tables. The pressure was in the kitchen. They needed to dish up quickly to allow people the illusion they were eating a leisurely meal. That is one of the paradoxes of restaurant service. People need to receive their food as soon as is possible after they have ordered it, so that they can eat without haste and yet still be finished in time for the tables to accommodate a second sitting.

That is where the profit comes from; more than in any other business, the number of bums on seats dictates profits, as Hugo explained carefully to each new member of staff he took on. There was more stress than usual today. The highest number of diners who had eaten in the restaurant this year were being serviced by what was little more than a skeleton kitchen staff.

Hugo Wilkinson worked fast himself, as he had always been able to do. He almost enjoyed the pressure, hearing his decibel levels rise as the tempo increased and he yelled at his staff to keep up with him. There was excitement and satisfaction in showing that you could work at ever-increasing speed without losing any of your competence. Those nearest to him admired the spectacle of a professional operating at the top of his form.

At twelve thirty-five, there was a clash in the doorway between a waiter leaving the kitchen with a full tray of main courses and a waitress returning from the restaurant with a full load of used crockery. One of the oldest and commonest of accidents, and one which should never occur in a smoothly running operation, as Hugo had repeatedly told his workers. A huge crash of filthy plates in the doorway, screams and stifled recriminations in the kitchen, a ragged, friendly cheer from the patrons of the restaurant. Nothing too boisterous: the patrons of the National Trust are not given to rowdiness.

There was indeed much sympathy for the two young people involved from the tables nearest to the disaster, but it meant that one of the precious kitchen staff had to be spared to clean up the mess as quickly and unobtrusively as was possible in this catering Hyde Park corner. Two of the entrées had ended on the floor, resulting in even swifter movements from Hugo to replace them. There was a rise in the volume and intensity of industrial language amidst the other noises in the kitchen.

In this situation, it could have been anyone who became the unfortunate focus of the chef's attention. It was in fact a young Asian man who had only been taken on three weeks previously. He was methodical but slow. He felt he could not speed up without losing the method he had been taught. In fact, he became slower rather than faster under pressure. The process would have interested a psychologist, but head chefs are not interested in the workings of the mind in a frantic kitchen.

‘Shoab! For God's sake move your arse!' Hugo yelled at him.

Shoab tried to speed up, but the hands and fingers which were entirely reliable when he moved at his own pace began to make mistakes. He felt he was the centre of attention, found himself watching his shaking hands as if they belonged to someone else. The hands faltered, dropping the cabbage he had just strained on to the floor. Other hands, swifter and more dexterous than his, swept up the green mass and flung it in the bin. He said he was sorry, several times, but no one had the time or the space to acknowledge him.

Shoab gave extra care to his next task. He drained the peas and beans competently, taking care to allot exactly the right share of them to each plate. The waitress stood by patiently, glancing at her watch, understanding that if she rushed this novice things would only get worse. She slid each plate on to her tray the moment it was ready, glancing at the calmer and more ordered scene in the restaurant as the door swung open and her colleague re-entered the kitchen, yelling out the orders he had taken for dessert courses.

This was the point at which Hugo Wilkinson lost all patience and hurled a phrase he should never have used at the wretched Shoab. It was racialist and it was uttered at the top of his voice. Even in the chaos and frenzied movement of the overheated kitchen, most people stopped what they were doing for an instant, as if a film had faltered and frozen this larger than life moment upon a screen.

It was but an instant. Then things moved again, as if the film had resumed its running. Hugo had shared this moment of truth with everyone else around him. He knew as everyone knew that he had overstepped the mark, even in a world where excess was expected and permitted under stress.

He could not possibly have known at that time how far the effects of his outburst would carry him.

O
n Monday morning, Lorna Green ate her breakfast slowly, sitting in the conservatory at the back of the big house. She looked out with a mind full of memories at the lawn where she had played as a child. She had already helped to dress her mother and measured out her cereals in the kitchen. She acknowledged to herself with a little flush of shame that she had come out here to get away from Barbara. She needed a few moments to herself with
The Times
and her own thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, she looked at her watch, scrambled hastily to her feet, and went indoors to install her mother in the sitting room. ‘There'll be tennis on later, Mum. I'll leave the set ready for you.' Lorna Green set the remote control on the small table at her mother's elbow. ‘All you have to do is press this button and the tennis should come on for you. This afternoon, that will be. After Jean's delivered your meal at lunchtime.'

Barbara Green looked down at the remote control. For a moment she was puzzled. Then she gathered herself and said with exaggerated dignity, ‘I'm not a child you know. I'm quite capable of arranging my own viewing.'

‘No, of course you're not a child. I was only trying to help.' Lorna tried not to think of the number of times she had returned to find children's programmes blaring loud and unheeded whilst her mother stared at the wall or through the window. ‘Anyway, if you want it, just push that little red button.'

Her mother looked at the button as if seeing it for the first time and nodded sagely. ‘I'll do that.' She looked up into her daughter's face, as if anxious to fix a stranger's image in her mind. ‘Going out to the shops, are you?'

‘No, Mum. I'm going to Westbourne Park. You remember, the beautiful gardens? The ones which are arranged like separate rooms? You used to enjoy going there. Perhaps we'll go again, when it's quieter.' Yet in that moment she realized with a searing, shocking certainty that Barbara would never go there again.

‘Wally does the garden.'

‘He used to, Mum, when he was alive. Dad was keen on his garden, wasn't he? Fred comes in to help us with it now. You like Fred, don't you?'

But Barbara Green's face had set into that mask-like expression which meant that she had shut her ears to any words which might be confusing or unwelcome. Lorna sighed and gathered her things together for her day at Westbourne Park. She always took her notes on the history of the house and the gardens with her, though she never needed to refer to them nowadays. The National Trust depended on voluntary helpers like her for its very existence. Probably she now knew more about Westbourne Park and its past than any living soul, she thought.

That idea brought her considerable satisfaction as she drove beneath green canopies of leaf from oaks and beeches which arched over the road. She liked this time of the year, when growth was burgeoning but the leaves were still new enough for nature to display a seemingly infinite range of greens. She felt the tension drop away as she drove the blue Corsa through the Cotswold lanes. It was only when she was away from her mother that she realized the strain she was enduring. Some day it would all become too much and she would have to find a retirement home for Barbara. But she refused to think about that at the moment.

Dennis Cooper was giving one of his introductory talks to a group of visitors when she arrived at Westbourne. ‘This site was once a muddy field on a draughty hilltop. Six hundred feet up in the northern Cotswolds is not the obvious place to choose for a great garden experiment. Nevertheless, Westbourne is now the gardening jewel in the National Trust crown. Indeed, it was the first place to be acquired by the NT purely for its garden, in 1948 . . .'

Cooper became more self-conscious when he saw Lorna standing at the back of the hall. But most people in his audience thought he spoke with authority and confidence. They were surprised when the clear female voice spoke up behind them as he concluded. ‘Just a couple of points, Mr Cooper. Our American founder did indeed fight in the 1914–1918 war, as you indicated. But this was not his first military service. He became a British citizen as early as 1900 and fought for Britain in the Boer War in South Africa. And in the Great War, he was injured not at Mons but at the first battle of Ypres – one of one and a half million casualties there. That is important, because it was during his convalescence that he began his researches in the Royal Horticultural Society library. His great bible was
The Art and Craft of Garden-Making
by Thomas Mawson.'

‘Thank you, Lorna.' Dennis spoke with measured neutrality, then forced a welcoming smile. ‘Ms Lorna Green is one of our most willing and energetic voluntary helpers at Westbourne. She helps us on three days a week and she is, as you can probably already appreciate, very knowledgeable on the history of our gardens.'

It was not until an hour later that Cooper called Lorna into his office. He said to his PA, ‘Ros, make sure that we're not disturbed for ten minutes or so, please,' and shut the door carefully himself.

He gestured towards the chair he had set in front of his desk and then turned and stared out of the window for a moment. Lorna sat down carefully, feeling as she had done long ago when she had been called into the headmistress's study as a sixth-form prefect. Perhaps he was going to discuss policy with her. There was a tray with a coffee pot on it upon his desk, but he had not asked for another cup.

Dennis turned abruptly from his consideration of the scene from the window and came and sat down opposite her. He put his hands on the edge of his desk and contemplated her for a moment. She wanted to break the silence, to reduce the tension she suddenly felt in the room, but she sensed that it was not she who should speak first.

He said, ‘How's your mother?'

‘Getting worse. I think I shall need to get someone in to sit with her, when I come here.'

‘I'm sorry about that.' He sought desperately for something less trite, came up only with, ‘She used to be so sharp.'

Lorna smiled for the first time. ‘She was. She never quite approved of you, did she?'