2008 - Recipes for Cherubs (17 page)

She caught sight of herself suddenly in the small mirror above the sink. She stepped closer and scrutinised her face. There was a smudge of flour on her nose, an unusual glow to her skin and her eyes were brighter than usual. For a moment, despite her anger, she thought she looked almost pretty.

When the dough had risen as if by magic, she divided it into three equal lots, made dimples and pressed sprigs of rosemary from the garden into the dimples, and then she dribbled olive oil over them. Finally, she sprinkled the loaves with crumbled block salt, put them on a battered baking tray and slipped it into the hot oven.

Later, when she opened the oven door a warm fragrance enveloped her. She lifted the loaves out carefully and put them to rest on a misshapen rusty rack she’d found in the larder.

She looked down proudly at the golden
focaccia
, the sprigs of rosemary crisp to the touch, the sea salt glistening tantalisingly.

Each loaf looked just like the one that Maria Paparella was holding in the painting.

She broke off a tiny piece and popped it into her mouth.

The taste was wonderful and she chewed slowly, savouring it. She was almost tempted to snatch at the bread and stuff it all into her mouth, so great was her hunger. She swallowed hard, walked quickly away from the table out of temptation’s way. She picked flowers in the garden, purple and red blooms which she put in an old blue bottle she found in the larder.

She was exhausted and yet exhilarated by the time she had finished, and she sat up in the window seat, impatient for Aunt Ella to come down for breakfast.

When Ella came into the kitchen sunlight drizzled through the windows and filled the room with a syrupy light. She blinked, surprised to see that Catrin was already up, standing next to the kitchen table like a nymph, a shy smile lighting up her face, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed with excitement in a way that had quite transformed her.

“Good morning, Aunt Ella. Look, I made us some bread for breakfast,” she said hesitantly. “I thought it might be good for me to do some cooking for a change.”

“You don’t take after your mother, then. She couldn’t cook to save her life.”

“She still can’t,” Catrin replied with a grin.

“I must admit that I’m not much cop at cooking, either.”

“I know,” Catrin answered.

Ella looked cross for a moment, but then her face relaxed into a smile. Catrin thought she looked quite nice when she smiled.

“It’s not just me who thinks so. Tony Agosti said you were a hopeless cook.”

“Did he, now? I’ll be having words with him.”

Catrin grew flustered, hastened to add, “He said lots of nice things about you, too.”

“Maybe I’ll let him off the hook, then.”

“My mother said that the food at Shrimp’s was wonderful.”

“That was nothing to do with me. Gladys Beynon used to do all the cooking. I was more of a dogsbody.”

“Tony was telling me all about her.”

“She came to work for us when my parents were alive, and she was with us for years.”

“Where is she now?”

Ella winced. “I don’t know if she’s even still alive. She left just before Shrimp’s closed for good.”

“What did Aunt Alice do at Shrimp’s?”

“This and that. She was good with the guests in her own little way.”

Catrin had noticed that sometimes it was easier than others to draw Aunt Ella into a conversation, but if you mentioned something she didn’t want to talk about she clammed up and an uncomfortable air grew up around them.

Catrin changed tack. “Have something to eat, Aunt Ella.”

Ella pulled a chair up to the table and watched as Catrin poured the tea, noticing that she needed two hands to lift the teapot. Her arms were pitifully thin, the blue veins too close to the surface.

Catrin took her tea without milk or sugar.

“Your Aunt Alice didn’t take milk. She had an allergy to dairy products – and cats as well. Have you the same?”

Catrin shook her head and lied, “I just don’t like milk, or any dairy food, really.”

“This bread you’ve made looks very good. May I?”

Ella broke some off, spread it thickly with butter and popped it into her mouth.

“Now that is gorgeous, mouth-wateringly delicious.”

Catrin wriggled with pleasure. It felt good to have made something all by herself which people enjoyed eating. Maybe that’s why Maria Paparella looked so full of joy as she held out her loaf.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“From an old book called
Recipes for Cherubs
which I found upstairs. It’s full of recipes and paintings.”

“Well, I never. That’ll be Alice’s old book. I thought my mother burnt it years ago.”

“Why would she burn it?”

“Oh, she said it put daft ideas into Alice’s head and gave her dreams.”

Catrin sat quite still. If the book had been burnt she would never have seen the paintings, never have read the recipes.

“Where did Alice find the book?”

“God only knows – she was always sniffing about in the castle. She called it her colouring book of clues.”

“Clues?”

“Oh, it was all gobbledygook. Alice always had her head full of nonsense; she thought the book had clues in it which would help her find the lost treasure of Kilvenny.”

Catrin sat up very straight. “Is there treasure here, do you think?” she asked excitedly.

Ella shook her head and smiled wryly. “There’s nothing much of any value here. Alice was a fanciful child. She used to talk to the pictures in the book, make up imaginary friends, stuff like that.”

“When you saw the book, did you think there were clues in it?”

“I never saw it. I’m not much of a one for books and Alice guarded that one as if it were gold dust. One thing’s for sure, though: if this bread is anything to go by, the recipes are damn good.”

“It’s called
focaccia
and it’s Italian.”

“How strange that you should be making me Italian bread.”

“Why strange?”

“Because if my life had turned out differently I’d always planned on going to Italy but I never got there, and yet here I am eating Italian bread with a great-niece I never thought I’d meet.”

“Why did you want to go to Italy?”

“I had a good friend who told me a lot about it; they’d spent several years out there studying art.”

“Your friend was an artist?”

“Wanted to be one.”

“And why didn’t they become one?”

“Wanting isn’t enough. The desire to paint was there, but not the talent.”

“I see. And your friend, was he from Kilvenny?” Catrin asked, turning her head away.

Aunt Ella wasn’t easily fooled by sneaky questions and her lips set in a straight line, but then suddenly she laughed. “Subtlety isn’t your forte, Catrin, something we have in common.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry your head about it. By damn, I’m enjoying this bread.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“You know, after all those years on my own I never thought I’d take delight in eating again or enjoy eating in someone’s company, and then you turn up out of the blue and, although we didn’t hit it off straight away, I somehow feel as if we were meant to meet.”

For the first time they sat together easily, Ella eating hungrily while Catrin tore small chunks off the bread and ate them guiltily, chewing each piece over and over to savour the taste.

“You don’t have a big appetite?” Ella asked, wiping a smear of butter from her chin.

Catrin shook her head. “Not in the mornings, but when I’m hungry I eat loads, like a horse really. I’m just lucky that I don’t put on weight,” she lied with a smile.

Ella nodded but was not fooled.

Catrin put down her morsel of bread, bit her lip anxiously and said, “I’ve been thinking. I know I can’t go back to school for the holidays and if we do get hold of my mother she’ll be furious if she has to come back from Italy, and the only other place I could go would be my godfather’s, but I’d really rather not go there.”

“Who is your godfather?” Ella asked, helping herself to more bread.

“Dr Campbell.”

“Dr Campbell?” Ella spluttered.

“Dr Arthur Campbell. Do you know him?”

Ella regained her composure. “No. I’m sorry, my tea went down the wrong way. You don’t like him?”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a feeling in my water.”

Catrin looked around as if fearful of being overheard. “No. And I hate his wife.”

“He has a wife?”

“Oh yes, he’s married but they haven’t any children.”

Ella got suddenly to her feet. “That bread was delicious. I’ll clear away, shall I?”

“Mrs Campbell gives me the creeps,” Catrin continued, picking up a crumb and slipping it into her mouth.

Ella busied herself clearing the table, her mind racing.

What the hell was Kizzy Grieve playing at? Why hadn’t she told Catrin that Arthur Campbell was her father, instead of this sham about him being her godfather?

“What does he do, this Dr Campbell?” Ella asked nonchalantly.

“He’s a psychiatrist, a very clever one, some people say.”

“But you don’t think so?”

Catrin shrugged. “Oh, he’s clever but he’s very bossy and asks too many questions and he…” She faltered, almost dropping her cup.

“He what?”

“Well, he’s just not much fun to be with and the thing is, Aunt Ella, I was wondering if I could maybe stay here in the castle for a while. I wouldn’t be any trouble to anyone.” Catrin’s eyes were wide with entreaty.

“And is that why you made the bread? To soften me up?”

“No! Well, maybe a bit. I just wanted you to like it. I’ve never cooked anything before, never ridden a bike or even paddled in the sea before I came to Kilvenny.”

“You’ve never paddled in the sea?” Ella looked horrified.

Catrin shook her head and looked at Ella hopefully.

“I suppose by rights we ought to contact your mother,” Ella said stiffly.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it? She thinks I’m staying at Shrimp’s so she won’t be worried. I’ve got a return ticket to London for September, and it might do me some good to get to know the family I didn’t know I had.”

Ella took the cheese and butter back into the larder and stood there for some moments, thinking. Maybe it would be all right to keep the child here for a few weeks, just so long as she managed to keep her mouth shut and not blurt out the truth about Arthur Campbell. There was no knowing how the truth might affect the child. Ella had always thought the truth was the best option because secrets could be so damaging, and Ella Grieve knew all about secrets. Holding on to them was draining, debilitating; it made you shrivel inside a little more each day.

When Ella came out of the pantry she found Catrin sitting forlornly at the table.

“I could help out here, cook some recipes from the book so that you don’t have to cook,” Catrin said.

“I don’t know.”

“Please?” She looked imploringly at Ella.

“Oh, I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm,” Ella replied, and without warning Catrin ran across the kitchen and flung her arms round her. Startled by this show of affection, Ella flushed with awkwardness. No one had touched her in years…

She put her arms diffidently round Catrin’s tiny body and held her close, feeling the girl’s heart beating erratically behind her rib cage.

C
atrin made the trip up to Shrimp’s alone, unlocked the kitchen door and automatically held her nose to keep out the stink. Then she looked around in surprise. Someone had been in here poking around. The kitchen drawers had been rifled through, and some of the cupboard doors were open, revealing rusty tins and grimy crockery. A window had been opened, letting in the sea breeze.

She stood nervously in the hallway listening for sounds of an intruder. Above her head the curtains of cobwebs danced in the draughts. A thick layer of dust still covered everything and the air was musty, almost sticky.

She made her way slowly up the worn stairs, turned right and slipped behind the rotting green curtain.

There was a peculiar smell in Aunt Alice’s room and it took her a while to realize that the remains of a recent fire lay smouldering in the hearth. She looked warily around. Ghosts didn’t light fires or eat chocolate.

She picked up a chocolate wrapper from the floor and sniffed it – she hated the smell. She sniffed it again and licked her lips. Maybe the man she’d seen slipping out of Aunt Alice’s room had cleaned up the kitchen, but why would anyone do that? He might even be in here now, snooping around. She listened but the house was eerily silent.

She opened the bureau and rummaged about until she found the chequebook that Ella had asked her to bring back to the castle. She slipped it into her pocket and was about to go when the wardrobe door creaked ominously behind her.

She tensed, felt every tendon in her body creak with fear. Sister Matilde always said that the worst kind of fear was the fear of fear itself. With an intake of breath she threw open the wardrobe door and jumped back.

She breathed a sigh of relief. The wardrobe was empty except for a few old dresses which smelt of neglect and mothballs. At the bottom of the wardrobe there was a large cardboard box and she knelt down and pulled it towards her – it was very light. Written on the lid in a spidery hand were the words
To be delivered to Miss Ella Grieve, c⁄o Shrimp’s Hotel, Near Kilvenny
. Nervously she lifted the lid, ready to jump as if she were opening a jack-in-the-box.

Nothing leapt up at her. She lifted out an ivory wedding dress decorated with sparkling gems, marvelling at the feel of the smooth satin, running her fingers over the delicately embroidered bodice. She held the dress against herself, looked in the mirror and was shocked by her reflection. The ivory of the dress heightened her pallor, made her eyes sink deeper into her face, and highlighted the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Suddenly overcome with guilt, she folded the dress back into the box and hastily replaced the lid. Why had Aunt Ella bought herself a wedding dress? She hadn’t ever married, because she was still called Grieve. Maybe the friend she’d talked about had been her lover and she had been jilted at the altar like Miss Havisham in
Great Expectations
and that’s why she’d shut herself up in Shrimp’s for all those years. She shoved the box back into the wardrobe and closed the door thoughtfully.