The Italian Affair (32 page)

I
broke the reverie by complaining bitterly about the bloody TV chef. Jace and Nancy laughed.

“Don’t
worry we’ll put him in the yellow room, the bed is very lumpy and if it rains, the window leaks,” Nancy said comfortably.

“Yeah,
and I’ll get him slaughtered at The Ram, an’ he’ll be that hungover he won’t want to cook,” Jace said helpfully.

I
laughed and relaxed. The granite wall behind me was warm to the touch, the honeysuckle was out and an early fat bee was buzzing around – how bad could it be? I could handle a jumped up chef for a couple of days. I leant down and tweaked a leaf of lavender, and pinched it under my nose. Lavender was meant to help when you were feeling stressed – it may or it may not, of course, but it certainly smells good.

Nancy
finished her tea and we all walked into the kitchen together chattering about the beach picnic. Jace was persuading Nancy to try on his wet suit and brave the rollers with him, and she was happy to be try and be persuaded.

We’d
just got inside when Nelson spied Baxter. He flapped his wings, as a prelude to a launch upon him and screeched at the top of his voice “Little bastard!”

We
all rounded on Baxter and shut him outside and went to calm the parrot down.

He
glared at us all balefully and then added to his already very unsuitable vocabulary. “Bloody TV Chefs!, bloody TV chefs!” he crowed, looking very, very pleased with himself.

Oh
dear.

Chapter Two

Some marriages are made in heaven. My parents, for instance. Other examples I could site would be peas and mint, chicken and mushroom, Edward and Mrs Simpson, bacon and eggs, strawberries and balsamic vinegar, Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner, beef and horseradish, Richard and Judy, oh you get the picture. But onions? Hmm, well, maybe something cheesy and herby. Rosemary, perhaps? Although it’s not my favourite, as it can overwhelm things very easily.

I
glanced over at my kitchen wall full of cookery books, to get some inspiration. I strongly resisted my favourite mediaeval recipe book, given to me by my friend Martha, whose intriguing first recipe started with “First pluck your peacock…” and pulled down a Mediterranean vegetable book and started to skim through it.

Baxter’s
ivory nails made a clicking sound on the wooden floor as he came over to sit next to me. With a sigh, he settled himself down. Nelson, for once was quiet, and the kitchen was very peaceful. The sun was fading and I knew that it would get chilly quite soon, but I was too comfortable to get up and put the heating on. I made do with sliding my bare feet under Baxter’s warm little body. Without the radio on, or anyone talking I could hear the sound of the sea, which I know to anyone living in the centre of a city must sound like bliss. It was, on the whole. But on a stormy day in November when the waves were crashing and the sky was dumping water on us, I would gladly have exchanged a little bit of inner city warmth for the drama and wetness of Cornwall. But, today was lovely. Or would have been, if I could get the niggle out of my mind about the bloody chef.

I
leant back and my head fitted neatly into a dent in the wall, known by us as the Martyr’s Memorial. It had been caused by my father once demonstrating to my mother how he’d bowled someone out. The cricket ball had slipped from his hand, crashing into a very nasty picture of the martyrdom of St Anne, smashing it into a hundred splinters, hence the name.

Penmorah
was crammed full of these sorts of memories. My fathers walking stick was still propped up in the flag stoned hall, as if any minute its master was about to claim it. The stick was standing sentry duty, ready to swish out at the stinging nettles in the lane, or thwack the thistles any moment it was asked. I’d taken it with me on a walk a few times, but it hadn’t felt right.

Nancy
came into the kitchen, with a large basket of laundry. I jumped up to help her, but she shooed me away.

“You’re
working, aren’t you?” she said.

“Hardly.
I’m just skimming through a few books for inspiration. What would
you
like to eat with roast onions?” I said, idly turning the pages.

“Oh,
darling, I do wish you wouldn’t ask me that sort of thing. You know I’m just a cheese and pickle sandwich sort of person!” Nancy said, stuffing washing into the ever open maw of the machine.

Indeed,
that was true. Well, to be really honest with you, we both were. People who didn’t know me very well assumed that I spent my life in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Nothing, in fact, could be further from the truth. I mean,
obviously
I did cook, but usually by the end of the day if I’d been working on a recipe, I’d tasted so much of the damn stuff, that the last thing I wanted was a meal. And as I made Nancy do a lot of tasting as well, we were both far more likely to be found at The Ram, with a pint and a packet of crisps than sitting down to dinner.

Nancy
wandered away, her dark brown eyes gleaming with determination for her next task, which could well be a spot of gardening, or her painting, or the never ending biography that she was writing of a very obscure French woman artist called Angelique Flavell. The fact that
nobody
had ever heard of this painter, and there was only one remaining picture of hers left in the world in no way dimmed Nancy’s enthusiasm for the project. It caused Harry endless amusement, and he had promised Nancy that if she ever finished it, he
personally
would publish it. (Apparently Angelique had led a scandalous life, revolving around absinthe and illegitimate babies and Harry thought he’d make a killing by updating it and turning it into a sort of modern day bodice ripper.) But as she’d been writing it for the past ten years, I don’t think there was any danger of that happening.

I
heard the fax machine whirring into life from my office off the kitchen. It had once been a still room, then had become a general dumping ground for wellington boots, fishing tackle, painting gear, picnic paraphernalia, broken croquet sets and the all round general stuff found in a house like this. I had, in a fit of energy, some years ago cleared it out, painted it a pale primrose, put up shelves and installed an office. I had to have help though, with the setting up of the computer – why is it that all instruction manuals are written in impenetrable gobbledygook? Jace had finally cracked it, scornfully
not
by reading the book, but by telling me that he had a ‘feel’ for computers, and that really I should have bought an apple. (Nancy had to explain to me that he meant an
Apple
, not a knobby russet, much to all round general hilarity at my lack of knowledge.) When the damn machine wouldn’t behave itself, Nancy could normally sort it out, telling me to go away and calm down and to come back in ten minutes, muttering,“
Just
like your father, absolutely no patience at all!”

I
picked up the fax and studied it.

From:
The desk of Harry Richardson.

To:
Finisterre Spencer

Fin
darling, I know that you’ll be spitting feathers, but Oliver Dean wants to come and see you on June 14th. That’s a Friday, and I think he’s expecting to stay for about a week. Don’t worry, he seems very nice, try and catch his show on Channel 4 tonight. Anyway, it’s weeks and weeks away, so it gives you long enough to get over your bad mood about him! I might pop down too… so light the chandelier, dust off the silver goblets and sprinkle the rose petals! Don’t put him in the yellow room, will you? Love to Nancy, and a smack to Baxter. Big kisses, Harry xxx .

P.S.
Don’t forget to tell me all about the beach picnic. Who’s going to get off with Jace this year?

Hmm,
well. The yellow room was out, then. I crumpled the fax up and chucked in the bin. There was no way I’d be watching Oliver bloody Dean tonight anyway, channel 4 was out of the question down here. What we got instead was a shadow image of French TV, interesting in a sort of impressionistic sort of way, but not actually watchable.

There
was a toot outside the kitchen door, and then the cheery sound of Richard calling my name. Baxter burst into life and did a fair imitation of a guard dog, giving excited little barks with his tail wagging, whilst Nelson shifted on his perch, screeching. Richard was a flame haired boy, who delivered (amongst other things) shellfish, fish (caught legally and or not), ice, and his mother’s clotted cream.

“Afternoon,
Fin. ‘Ave I missed Jace, then? I wanted to ask ‘im summat – get down you little bugger! Anyway, I ‘spect I’ll catch ‘im at The Ram tonight.”

He
heaved a parcel on the table, and I noticed with amusement that he too was wearing a pair of the Italian loafers. He caught my glance and did a little soft shoe shuffle.

“Right
proper job, aren’t they?” he said, proudly.

Hmm,
well yes, I suppose they were. At least they would be if they were on a linen suited man from Milan, wearing shades and a posh pong – but frankly, on Richard, no. The thing about Cornwall is that we are, to put it mildly, just a tad backwards on the fashion front. Some of us had natural style, Nancy, and Jace for instance, but the rest of us were rubbish at any attempt towards sartorial elegance. Comfort and weather proof is what we aimed at, not knock ‘em dead glamour. I habitually wore a sweat shirt and a pair of jeans, and considered myself fairly well dressed compared to the other residents of Port Charles. So you can but imagine what the rest of them wore…Although I did buck my ideas up a bit when Harry came down, or if I went out (which was rarely, and only when forced to go to London to sample the delights of a new restaurant that I could claim as research and then constituted the perennial but ultimately quite boring Little Black Dress).

“What’s
in the parcel then?” I asked, gesturing towards the table.

“Summat
for you to cook for the picnic, an’ I got yer prawns in the van. Shall I put ‘em on the bill?” Richard asked.

I
thanked him and switched the kettle on. The boys usually stopped for tea and a chat, but it seemed that Richard was in a hurry. Well, as much of a hurry as anyone was in Cornwall. Perhaps we were all twinned with a county in Mexico where the manyana philosophy ruled supreme. It was fun to watch visitors from London get twitchy in shops here, as they had to wait for the shop assistant to finish a leisurely conversation with a friend before they got served. Some visitors seemed on the verge of having a stroke as they waited for the interminable (and mainly indecipherable) chat to finish. But it was hard to complain as the shop assistant invariably turned with a big guileless smile on their face, innocence radiating from their eyes and said, “Now then my lover, what is it you’m be wantin’?”

Before
Richard left, he jerked his head towards my office, and looked enquiringly at me.

“Oh,
go on then,” I said, as I watched him squirm slightly.

Richard
had been using my computer for some time, going on the internet. Other than assuring me that it was nothing ‘smutty’ I had no idea what he was doing on there. I suppose I could have found out, but I wasn’t that curious. If pushed I would guess he was in some chat room or something. Hell, what did I know? He could well have been looking up Wall Street stocks and bonds, although with a limited income from flogging fish it seemed unlikely. This time he was very quick, just about long enough to send an e-mail.

“Cheers
then, Fin. See you at the picnic.”

I
waved him off, and settled back to the cookery book.

The
boys were my lifeline to the world outside that sold any ingredient that couldn’t be found in the Port Charles store – which meant practically anything. The store was a dismal place, it doubled as a post office, and seemed only to stock plastic bread and sweaty processed cheese. Oh, and of course, pre-packaged pasties for the tourists, as they would certainly be the only people who bought them. So the boys were essential. They were the stars of my work really. They left no stone unturned to find exactly what I needed. I suppose with modern technology I could have ordered on-line and had obscure spices delivered to me straight from Fortnum and Mason, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I
got the gossip with the boys, as well as a feeling of continuity. I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Penmorah was still considered to be the ‘Big House’. Certain things were expected of us here… even though we no longer sat in the named pew for us in the church, all of that had died out with my grandparents. We didn’t even employ anyone from the village any more, although my parents had kept a skeleton staff here, they had long gone. When I was a child, I was addresses as Miss Fin, but that too, thank God, had died out. Everyone knew in the village of the appalling debt I had inherited and had been kind beyond words. But there was still a tattered remnant of expectation from me. I had shrunk from it, till I realised that it was something I just couldn’t shake off. If my parents were still alive it would be different, well, everything would be, but they weren’t, and I just had to get on with it.