The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs (17 page)

This factor, and her sense that she was intruding on her son’s space, made her more inclined to visit the garden shed. She liked it there, enjoying the paraffin and creosote smells she associated with her husband. She tackled the spiders and their webs and the slugs and their slimy trails, for though those creatures made her squeamish, they couldn’t be allowed to desecrate Keith’s special place. Growing appreciative of the tranquillity, Joyce quickly came to see what he had liked about sitting in there with a book. She would sometimes take a pot of tea in with her, switching on the oil heater, which gave the place a cosy, intimate warmth the dry central heating indoors couldn’t match.

It was in the shed that she came across the diaries, a big pile of notebooks in an old drawer under a workbench that was covered in ringed coffee stains from the edge of his mug. They were a guilty pleasure; she kept them to herself, feeling like a greedy hoarder of a treasure that should be shared.

Joyce had read them many times since finding them, but was still intoxicated with anticipation whenever she picked them up. And she always froze a little on reading his words; pondering and re-interpreting the most innocuous until her head spun and the narrative became meaningless. The journals, which
started in 1981 and ended in 1998, were written in a peculiar spidery script that hardly seemed to be his. She found it difficult to make them out and even bought a magnifying glass to help her, despite feeling bad about her intrusiveness. Yet even in the mundane day-to-day observations, a fierce love burned through their pages, vindicating her stance and ultimately never failing to give her anything other than great comfort.

She often whiled away hours poring through them. On this occasion she tutted in self-reproach when she looked at the shed’s rusty old alarm clock, putting the diaries back and heading indoors. Upstairs, she loaded the dirty laundry into the washing basket, catching a scent in her nostrils and holding a pair of underpants up to the light. Puckering in sour disgust, she put them back into the basket and didn’t look as she squashed them into the washing machine.

It had been a good weekend for Brian Kibby. Working with devoted industry on his offering for Tuesday, he was pleased to see what he considered to be a slick, well-argued presentation come together. Additionally, he’d been able to get up to Nethy Bridge for a Hyp Hykers weekend ramble where he sat beside Lucy Moore on the bus back to the city. Into the bargain, three of his
Harvest Moon
chickens had lain eggs. But when he arrived home from the trip he found his mother crying, with a set of John Menzies notebooks on her lap.

Kibby swallowed hard. Somehow those black-bound desk diaries had a coldly portentous aspect to them. — What’s is it, Mum?

His mother gazed up at him, an evangelical stain in her brown eyes. Since her husband’s death she’d dug herself deep into the foxhole of her religious belief, rediscovering the literalist Free Church faith of her girlhood, to the concern of Mr Godfrey, her local Church of Scotland minister. Her obsession with spiritual matters, while reducing down to the base ingredients of her beliefs, simultaneously became more eclectic. In
town shopping recently, she’d engaged in an intense debate with some Buddhists, and had even started regularly seeing some visiting young Texan missionaries. Those suited, crew-cutted, bespectacled young men from the New Church of the Apostles of Christ came round to the house with pamphlets, which Joyce studied with enthusiasm. They often gave her succour, though not as much as the notebooks she was reading. — Read this, Brian. It’s your dad’s diaries. I found them in his cupboard in the garden shed. I’d never gone in there . . . I didn’t like to . . . it was always his place. I just heard this voice, like he’d be there, and I know it’s daft, but I went . . .

Although at that point he saw that his mother’s tears were bitter-sweet, Brian Kibby was highly resistant to this idea. — Mum, I don’t want to, it’s Dad’s private stuff . . . he said, feeling as if they were prising the lid off his father’s coffin.

Joyce, though, was insistent, infused as she was with an energy and enthusiasm he hadn’t seen in her for a long time. — Read it, son, it’s okay, you’ll see. Just from there, she pointed at an entry, compelling his widening eyes to follow.

Brian Kibby read with tears welling up in his eyes.

— See, son, see how much he loved you! Joyce jaggedly shrieked, desperate that her son interpret her late husband’s words as she herself had done.

But they were unambiguous enough. It was true; it was there in black and white. –Aye . . . aye . . . it’s great to read it, he gasped in affirmation.

— We should show them to Caroline . . . Joyce ventured.

A ball of unease rattled in Brian Kibby’s chest. — Naw, Mum, she’s going through a tough time.

— But they might give her comfort . . .

— She needs tae stay focused on her studies though, Mum, not wasting time reading old journals. Let’s leave it till she’s stronger and got the course out the way. That’s what Dad would want!

Joyce Kibby saw the fervour in her son’s eyes and was happy to defer. —Yes . . . that was so important for him, she conceded.

Kibby ground his teeth, savouring his assertiveness. He was going to show them all, especially that bully Skinner, what he was made of.

Danny Skinner’s heart thudded in crazed rhythm like a child’s stick dragged against a long set of railings as he ascended in the lift towards the departmental conference room. The cocaine had been the best idea though; it had given his mind some clarity, and restored his confidence.

What had happened with Cooper was outside of work hours and fuck all to do with anything.

He’d look Cooper straight in the eye when he walked into that conference suite, and if he wanted to say something, then let him.

Either we sort it out through official channels, Cooper ya cunt, or we sort it out outside, man to man. What’s it to be, Cooper? Eh? Sorry, what was that? Didnae quite fuckin well catch ye thaire, ya radge, what is it you’re fuckin well sayin then, cunt? Eh? Nowt?
Aw, so it’s ‘nowt’ wir gittin now, is it? Aye, thought so.

The doors of the lift flew open and Danny Skinner marched stiff-backed down the corridor and into the conference room. On entry he was almost taken aback as the white light from the neon strips bounced off the cream walls and into his wired head, evoking the white room before death, he considered, but without apprehension, as he had the white powder on his side.

Fuck them.

Most of the staff stood around the coffee trolley, waiting to fill their beakers from the urn. He could do with a coffee, but he was late and the fact that many hadn’t taken their seats handed him back the initiative. So Danny Skinner flashed a cokehead’s grin at Cooper, who gave a slow, expressionless nod in return. Skinner thought that you could hang Tolstoy’s complete works into a heartbeat of Cooper’s silence.

— Hi, folks, Danny Skinner said breezily, making his way to the overhead projector. A click of his thumb switched it on, as he snapped open his briefcase. His stuff was only half ready, but he’d wing it okay.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Foy looking at his watch.

Cooper stood up. — Please be seated, folks, he said gregariously, then gruffly added, — Danny, are you ready?

— Willing and able, Skinner smiled, continuing to stand as the last of his colleagues sat down. He heard a wheeze of laughter and watched Kibby dance into his chair like a puppet on a string, twitching inanely at a remark of Foy’s.

They’re fuckin talking about me.

Skinner felt his pores open up and bleed like a victim’s skin under a psychopath’s blade. Despite his nagging suspicion that everyone present saw him as a Victorian freak show, he began authoritatively. — So much of our city’s reputation as a major tourist centre rests on the quality of its restaurants and cafés. This, in turn, is dependent on the rigour and vigilance of this
department, and, specifically, the quality of its inspection and supervisory teams . . .

He took out his first slide and let the static tear it on to the projector’s surface. He looked at the shock on the assorted faces as he turned to see

CCS RULE

in big green letters on the screen behind him. McKenzie, he cursed, then smiled, quickly putting the slide down and picking up the correct one, which showed a flow chart of the current reporting procedure. — We have saboteurs in our midst, he smiled, to largely reciprocated grins. Pleased that his friend’s casual subversion couldn’t faze him, he continued: — As we know, the quality of our staff is of the highest level. The same, however, cannot be said of some of the anachronistic working procedures we are currently adopting. The reporting procedures, particularly, are in serious need of an overhaul. There’s no question about that in my mind. They don’t meet my own section’s requirements, let alone the broader needs of the department as a whole, he said earnestly, sweeping his hands around the room to magnanimously include colleagues from the other two sections.

Time to kick up a gear.

—
Far less do they meet the exigencies of the service, Skinner barked, almost threateningly, watching Foy’s face turn the colour of the Forth Bridge. It was common knowledge that Foy had designed these procedures years ago, and had steadfastly resisted their overhaul. — The present system of inspector responsibility for designated units, without rotation, for years, and under the same supervision, leaves far too much room to develop the kind of relationships with restaurateurs that encourages the turning of blind eyes and petty corruption.

As Foy tried to control his shaking and Kibby pouted in hostility, Skinner flicked on another slide and started to outline
his alternative procedure, involving cross-checking and the rotation of duties. However, towards the end of his spiel, he started to feel unwell, becoming tired and faltering. His voice had dropped to the extent that they could hardly hear him at the back.

— Can you speak up a wee bit please, Danny? Shannon asked him.

A sharp bolt of betrayal thumped like an arrow into Skinner’s chest. He tried to compose himself, but was overwhelmed by the thought that Shannon had also applied for this job.

Surely she’s no trying tae set me up, she wouldnae be such a cunt, surely . . .

—
Sorry . . . eh . . . a bit of a cold, he said, looking icily at her before addressing the table again. — Eh . . . I think I’ve run out of steam here. Anyway, that’s the suggested procedure. It’s in the briefing notes . . . any questions? he slurred, slumping into the seat.

A few quizzical faces flashed looks across the table, but the silence was short-lived. — How much is the new procedure likely to cost? Kibby squeaked loudly, sitting forward in the chair, his big eyes trained on Skinner.

One fucking clean shot at that cunt’s face . . . that’s all it would take . . .

—
I haven’t come up with specific figures, Skinner said, so repulsed he couldn’t even look at Kibby, — but I’d envisage no significant cost increases.

Skinner felt the limpness of his response in the semi-incredulous faces of those around him.

If only I’d given myself that half an hour with a calculator! That was all it would take to crunch out a set of bullshit cost-benefit analysis numbers to pull the wool over every cunt round the table’s eyes. If only I’d just gone the fuck home last night . . .

Foy let one eyelid half close and the other rise like a venetian blind. His mouth formed a crescent. — No significant cost
increases? With this extra level of supervision, checking and cross-checking? Foy shook his head in a sadness, which seemed almost earnest. — We’re in cloud-cuckoo-land here, he contended, his head still shaking slowly.

Before Skinner could respond, Kibby had started again. — I don’t think anybody could ehm seriously ehm argue that there wouldn’t be a significant increase in costs. But ehm Danny’s making the point that this would be ehm offset by an intangible increase in tourist revenue. The point is that I hardly think that tourists perceive of our restaurants as hotbeds of plague, pestilence and disease. I also think that there’s no reason for us to ehm believe that members of staff in this department don’t ehm carry out their duties professionally and honestly. If we’re to ehm change a system due to the possibility that this system is ehm corrupt, ehm then we ehm have to have evidence that this is indeed the ehm case. If not, apart from ehm costing ourselves time and ehm money, we’re also ehm undermining staff morale. So, Danny, Brian Kibby smiled, — do you ehm know something the rest of us don’t?

Skinner glared at Kibby in such a stare of concentrated, raw hatred, it froze not only its recipient but also the entire room. And he was going to hold it. He sat there, quietly, coldly; judging Brian Kibby, peering into his soul, watching his eyes water, until Kibby, face flushed, was forced to avert his gaze and look down at the table. Skinner kept staring, and would keep staring silently, for ever if need be, until somebody else spoke. If they wanted to up the stakes and talk about corruption and taking bungs, he was ready to do it. In his mind’s eye, the worms were already slithering from the rusty can
.

The atmosphere in the room was becoming highly uncomfortable. Then Colin McGhee spoke up. — I think we have to cost the new procedure as a starting point. If there’s any concrete evidence of corrupt practices, then the current set of arrangements need looking at in light of that evidence. But we can’t
shelve a cost-effective set of procedures purely on the basis of daft rumour and speculation.