The Jeweller's Skin (16 page)

‘I’ve got some nice spring lamb,’ Hartley the butcher said, standing in her kitchen, a large male presence, smelling of soap and animal blood, disrupting.  ‘I just thought I’d come up and give you the opportunity.  Do you a good price.’  He looked critically at the row of steel deep-fryers. 

He knows we can’t afford it, Narcisa thought.  He’s come to snoop.  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but we will have the mutton, as usual.’

Was there a look, from the butcher to Rosaleen Shaw?  The woman was standing with her hands on her hips, her pale blue eyes almost hidden beneath the eyebrows.  ‘Personally, I think you should consider it, Cook,’ she said.  ‘You might find neck of spring lamb is just as good value.  Well, scrag end, at least.  Like Mr Hartley says, it’s a special offer.’

She could see June and Peg, peeling carrots at the sink, listening intently with bowed heads.

‘And spring lamb would be a real treat, don’t you think?’

She remembered from her days as a housekeeper, the lacework of fine white fat over the meat, the taste of the juices.  ‘I am afraid we cannot afford it,’ she said to Mr Hartley.  ‘Your mutton will do very well, thank you.  Also some oxtail please; to add to the order.  You will see from the book how much I ordered last time.’

She showed him out and came back to the table, where Rosaleen Shaw was standing, a little flushed, waiting to speak.  Narcisa felt dizzy with sudden anger.  ‘Come to my office, please.’

Behind the desk she made herself speak clearly.  ‘You have made an agreement with the butcher?’

‘Not an agreement.’  The woman’s voice, the defensive tone and the querulous intonation, jarred on her like the sound of a knife being sharpened.  ‘I happened to meet Mr Hartley in the street, and he suggested the spring lamb, at a good price; in fact I bargained him down a bit.  But I said, of course it’s up to Mrs Humphreys.’

She could see them, sneering about her in Epsom market.  Was Rosaleen Shaw getting something from the deal?

‘If I may say so,’ the nasal voice continued.  ‘You never even asked him how much.  I reckon he would have brought it down even more.  He said to me, he’s got a good supplier.’

‘Then it will be black market.  We cannot have anything to do with that.’  She was speaking too loudly.  ‘The ordering is my responsibility; please remember.’

The rough skin was flushed, the eyes glittering blue and narrow, the thick grey eyebrows like some kind of challenge.  ‘I must say,’ the woman said, and Narcisa felt herself trembling with hatred.  ‘I have to say, Cook, I think you are most unfair.  I do not feel you are giving me appropriate responsibility here.  I am an experienced cook myself, as I have told you.  I think you could delegate more to me.  I mean, you could make better use of my skills.  There may be things..’

Things that you believe you could do better, Narcisa thought.  It was a speech; it had been prepared before this morning.

‘Well, I mean, on menu planning, for instance.  I myself learned with a very professional cook, back in Melbourne.  You can plan your week so that nothing ever gets wasted.  And what I see here’ - she stopped herself, red in the face, a visible effort.  ‘And the way the kitchen assistants are managed.  I have to say, I would be much stricter with them.  I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn.. ’

Narcisa was standing now, leaning both hands on the desk, her whole body shaking, not knowing what it was she was going to say.  ‘You are not sorry.  You do this to give yourself some power.  You think that because I am a foreigner..’

The woman’s face seemed distorted, pale and bloated and too far away.  She might have flinched.  Narcisa made herself stand up straight.  Her pen fell off the desk and clattered away across the brown lino.

Rosaleen Shaw looked down at her apron.

The words kept forming themselves in Narcisa’s mind, how stupid and sly this woman was, how callous.  She stared in loathing at the thick eyebrows, the broken veins on the cheeks, the scrawny neck.  Her hands felt full of blood, ready to strike.

She closed her eyes.  ‘You may go.’

On her feet, very tall and angular, Rosaleen Shaw said, ‘I hope you will think about what I told you, Cook.’

‘Please go back to the kitchen.’ Narcisa watched the woman’s big haunches as she turned away.

Alone, she sat in her chair, still trembling.  The woman must be scheming to undermine her.  And Hartley, after her argument with him; he would be only too happy to have someone to side with him, and someone British at that, or as good as British.  To do it all in front of the kitchen staff.  It must be deliberate.

She rubbed both hands over her face.  Then the horror moved up through her like cold water.  She had lost her temper, shouted at the woman.  She had never shouted at a member of staff, never.  And what had she said?  Something about power.  About herself - it was terrible, shameful.  Rosaleen Shaw would know, even if she had been frightened - but it was hard to think of her being frightened - she would know she had won, because Narcisa had lost control.  Perhaps she would even report it, make a complaint.  It was enough for Dr Bosanquet to fire her.

Outside in the corridor there were sounds of sweeping, the broom hitting the skirting-board over and over.  Narcisa sat tense in her office chair.  No, probably Shaw would not make a complaint, because her deal with the butcher might be uncovered.  But still she would know that she had won something.  I will have to be very careful with her, Narcisa thought.

She ought to get back now, to supervise the lunch.  But it was dreadful: not Rosaleen Shaw, but the fact that she, Narcisa, could be provoked so quickly, and not know what she was saying.  She provoked me deliberately, she told herself; but it was no excuse.  Really he will have to fire me after this.  She stood, with a sigh, and bent to pick up the pen that had rolled towards the waste-paper basket by her desk.  The movement made a dull ache in her hip.  Then she locked the office, and went back in a kind of dread to her kitchen.

*

It was true, she thought as they prepared the lunch, watching Rosaleen Shaw organise the working patients to drain the greens.  The woman was more professional than she was.  She moved authoritatively, without hesitation; she knew by heart the order of doing things.  So do I, Narcisa tried to remind herself: I have been working here for more than ten years.  Still the certainty that she was an amateur came back to her as she saw the Australian woman, large and competent in her uniform, checking the meat, making sure there was enough water to steam the puddings.  She is putting on a show, trying to impress me, Narcisa told herself, but it made little difference.  At one point, just as the food was being taken in, she found herself face to face with June Ragless, who was waiting impatiently for an explanation or order.  ‘Ask Miss Shaw,’ she told June hastily, and went back to the larder to check the supply of suet.

I should be learning from her, she thought, in the long cool larder, amongst the earthenware jars.  The idea filled her with resentment.  Anyway, what is it I have to learn?  Mrs Olby taught me; and then I have been cooking for how many years?  She remembered again the house in Pimlico:  the housekeeper, Mrs Rubinstein, from the East End, with a husband shell-shocked from the first world war.  Teach me to cook, she had said, and spent half of every day in the kitchen, watching, or given tasks to do.  Mixing fat with flour, that was the first, the texture as it crumbled between her fingers.  I must have known, she thought, that it wouldn’t last.  That I would have to earn a living on my own.  Or was it just that I wanted something to do, between the times that Claud would come and visit?

She made a note: suet, caster sugar, tapioca.  No, it was because I would have to live alone, with nothing from Edwin, as soon as I had Violeta.  She had gone out one evening, and leaned over the river, breathing in the sweet stale smell, and made herself know it.  Edwin’s money will stop; and Claud will not want me with a three-year-old daughter.  To get her back, I will have to be independent.  And the next day she had gone to the housekeeper. 

It was all Violeta.

She left the larder and closed the door behind her. 

Then she was at the far end of the kitchen, taking off her apron; and one of the patients was swabbing the stone floor; and Rosaleen Shaw was looking strangely at her, as if waiting too long for an answer; and the clock said ten past three; and what had happened in the hours since she closed the door, she had no idea.

The spring was arriving.  The trees round the perimeter fence began to shine with a haze of little leaf-buds.  Beyond the grounds, the snowdrops along the lane had given way to untidy daffodils.  Nurses, coming back at night just before time, lingered with their boyfriends outside the gate, and then sauntered up the drive, turning back once or twice, out of sight of the lodge.  A group of male patients, trusted to keep calm, was taken out to give a hand with the lambing.

It was light when Narcisa came down in the mornings.  Once or twice, with a few minutes to spare, she went outside and stood in the dawn wind, at the back of the hospital, looking at the trees, which were black and close against a deep blue sky.

Wards were re-opened.  The last of the war casualties were transferred, to the London Chest Hospital and the Orthopaedic in Stanmore.  More and more mental patients kept arriving.  Two, an elderly man and a youngish woman, were Polish and refused milk in their tea.  A Polish welfare worker with red lipstick visited them.  A new Deputy Medical Superintendent started: Dr Whitchurch, young and athletic, with intent eyes.  He was said to have new ideas, though no-one knew precisely what these were.  The younger nurses hoped to be noticed by him.  One of them wore her new court shoes to work, and was disciplined.

Esme, the patient who’d been working in the kitchens, had a relapse and was moved to another ward, so the investigation was postponed.

Another blue letter came to the Clerk’s office.  Howard Rathfelders put it aside to show Narcisa, and then forgot.

They had put on the puddings to boil.  The basins rattled in the great boiling-pans.  The steam smelling of suet and sugar spread up along the ceiling and out across the kitchen.  One of the working patients began to cough, till Peg, looking anxious, mimed covering her mouth with her hand.

‘Please Cook,’ June said, lifting a mixing-bowl into the sink.  ‘Isn’t that someone at the door?’

The woman who had been coughing scurried to open.  A thin young girl, no more than seventeen, stood in the doorway, frowning.

Cold air from the corridors began to reach them.  ‘Born in a barn,’ the coughing woman muttered, and pulled the girl by the arm.

The girl took off her glasses and polished them; but almost at once they steamed up again.  Like the farm manager, Narcisa thought, with a shiver.  ‘Yes?’ she asked, quite gently.  ‘You have a message?’

The girl peered around, her glasses in her hand.  Rosaleen Shaw had turned to her from the stove.

‘Are you the Cook?’  A surprising loud voice, casual and confident.

Rosaleen Shaw bowed her head, smiling.  ‘I am the Cook,’ Narcisa said firmly.  The girl looked round at her steadily, unembarrassed, assessing.

Middle class, Narcisa thought.  She is used to servants.  ‘You have a message for me?’ she asked again.

‘It’s from the Medical Superintendent,’ the girl announced.  The attention in the steam-filled kitchen quickened.  ‘He wants the Cook to come and see him at once.’

So now it is happening. 

A pudding-basin began to clatter loudly.  ‘June,’ Narcisa said, ‘will you turn that down?  Thank you.  Peg, did you find enough custard powder?’

Peg nodded.

‘Very well.’  Narcisa turned back to the girl.  ‘What is your name?’

The girl tried her glasses again before answering.  ‘Stevenson,’ she said.  ‘Priscilla Stevenson.’

‘Priscilla.’  She managed to pronounce it; well enough, anyway.  ‘Please tell Dr Bosanquet I will be ten minutes.’

‘He said..’ Priscilla began, and stopped.  At the same time Rosaleen Shaw said, ‘Really, Cook, I..’

‘I’m sure Dr Bosanquet doesn’t want the lunch to spoil,’ she said, smiling.

*

It was theatre, a show; but she didn’t mind.  She was very calm.  She went on confirming the tasks for lunch, though Rosaleen Shaw was standing too close to her, on the point of speaking.  Then she took off her apron and hung it behind the door.

Should she get rid of the overall as well?  she wondered.  But no: Dr Bosanquet should see her like this, in working clothes.  He should understand he had interrupted her.

She was very calm, walking towards his room; almost as if she had wanted this interview.  At least it will be over, she told herself, though the words didn’t seem to match what she was feeling.  She knocked, and heard his heavy voice call out.

There was another man, a big man with fading blond hair, standing close to the fire.  She steadied herself as he came forward to shake her hand.

‘Sir Timothy..’ but she didn’t catch the surname.  ‘Sir Timothy is the Chairman of our Committee.’

So Dr Bosanquet had told the Committee already; they agreed with him.  She had thought he would warn her first; but it didn’t matter. 

‘Mrs Humphreys.  Do sit down.’  Sir Timothy’s voice was light, like a young man’s.  He waved towards a chair, and waited till she was settled before sitting himself, next to Dr Bosanquet behind the table.

‘Now Mrs Humphreys.’  She could see he wanted to be friendly.  The thought made a small surge of anger start up in her chest.  She grasped her hands together, not to allow it.

‘I’m afraid we have a problem.  There has been a complaint.’

I don’t want to know what it is, she thought, impatient, dreading the drawn-out questioning that would follow.  It doesn’t matter.

‘The family - the father, I believe - of one of the war casualties.  The normal patients.  It seems his son is unhappy with his treatment.  More particularly, with the diet here.  The father has taken the matter up with his MP, who raised the matter with me.  Quite rightly, of course.’

He looked at her as if expecting something, a defence, a confession perhaps.  She said nothing.

‘Right,’ he said.  ‘Well.  Now this is a serious matter, Mrs Humphreys, as I’m sure you understand.  These war patients, they’re healthy young men and women.  Or they were, rather.  They’ve come to us so that we can build them up.  They need a good nutritious diet.  Simple, but nourishing.  You understand?’

And the mental patients don’t? she thought, indignant.  She said carefully, ‘There is a particular meal he did not think good enough?  Or all of them?’

‘Mrs Humphreys,’ Dr Bosanquet said, like a warning, but the Chairman interrupted.  ‘No, no, James, perfectly reasonable question.’  He looked down at a sheet of paper on the table.  ‘My feeling is, it’s a general complaint, but one day in particular, if you see what I mean.  Something to do with gammon, as I remember.’  He smiled, as if gammon were something strange.

She was thinking very clearly now.  ‘Thank you.  You would like me to explain the problem with the gammon?’  At least, she thought, I’ll have defended myself.

‘Excuse me, Sir Timothy.’  Dr Bosanquet was leaning forward at his desk.  ‘That will not be necessary, Mrs Humphreys.  Sir Timothy needs to be assured that the culinary standards are of the highest.’

He knows about the problems with supplies, she thought.  He’s defending himself.  She let them wait while she thought how to respond.  Then deliberately she turned back to the Chairman.

‘Before the war I had pork from the farm.  Bacon, sausages, ham: I often boiled ham.  Also potatoes, cabbages, runner beans.’

He nodded, as if he knew about farming.

‘Now there is much I have to buy.  It’s true, I have had a problem with the butcher.  One day he sent me bacon that was unfit.  I had to make do with gammon, but there was not enough.  I understand why someone is unhappy.  The war patients, they are used to better.’

‘Right,’ he said again.  ‘Eh, Bosanquet?’  He seemed unsure what he could say next.  She went on, a little hastily, ‘I am very..’  Conscientious, she wanted to say, but couldn’t pronounce it well enough for him.  ‘Very responsible as Cook.  I would like to give the patients, all the patients, better.  However there is not enough money.  Fruit, for example.’

‘Quite so,’ he said.  She could see it was finished, for him.  ‘Well, fruit, we all wish, eh Bosanquet?  So what shall I write to this man, Mrs Humphreys?  What do you think?’

‘Perhaps you will like to say - ’ she saw Dr Bosanquet wince.  ‘Perhaps you will say that there has been a problem, with one supplier.  But I am dealing with it.’

Dr Bosanquet sat, still frowning, ‘And that you will pay particular attention to the war patients.  Otherwise, I need hardly stress, Mrs Humphreys..’

She flinched.  Of course he had not given up his campaign against her, even if Sir Timothy was more lenient.  And what he wanted was impossible; he knew that all the patients ate together.  She stood.  Sir Timothy came round the table.

‘So glad we’ve got that one sorted out, eh Mrs Humphreys?’  He held out his hand. 

‘You are staying for lunch?’ she asked.

He looked down.  ‘What a pity - good of you.  No, no, I’m afraid I have to be in town.’

Already as the door was closing she could hear Dr Bosanquet’s voice rise in complaint.

*

There was a smell of hot tin as she entered the kitchen.  ‘One of the pans has boiled dry,’ she said sharply.  ‘Peg, put more water, but carefully, it will steam.’

As she put on her apron she heard the hiss of steam behind her, and Rosaleen Shaw’s voice muttering.  You should have noticed, she thought, with satisfaction, and went to the table to look at the menu again.  June was already slicing cold roast meat.

As the girls were serving up, Rosaleen Shaw came and stood beside her.  ‘Anything I should know?’

She pretended ignorance.

‘The Medical Superintendent..  I just wondered.’

‘It was the Chairman as well.’  She watched the woman gape.  ‘Sir Timothy.  But I have dealt with it.’  She was boasting; but her victory merited boasting.  ‘Somebody has complained, a war patient.  But I have explained to Sir Timothy.  There is no problem.’

‘We should learn from complaints.’  The voice was insincere.  ‘Can I ask what it was?’

‘Before you arrived.  You see you need not worry.’  But that was rude.  I have lost my temper with her once; I need to be careful.  ‘A problem with a supplier.  One day we were short of food.’  Your friend Mr Hartley, she thought, but moved away.

So I am not so bad, she told herself.  Today I had something difficult, a crisis - Rosaleen Shaw would see it as a crisis - and I did well.  And perhaps I made it harder for them to fire me.  She surveyed the row of puddings, rounded, unblemished, waiting to be taken through to the dining-room; and the white custard jugs on the next trolley.  I can do this.  I can make all this happen. 

‘Good,’ she said, and Peg pushed open the doors.