Sex and Other Changes (30 page)

Suddenly she realised that she had not really enjoyed one evening of her solitary life since she'd moved to Cluffield. She found herself longing for the company of a man, and for more than the company of a man. She had begun to test her clitoris on her own, and had found it far from entirely unresponsive. Middle-aged masturbation in the Midlands! It seemed as sad as it was alliterative. She found herself longing for sexual fulfilment with a man. Longing for it – and dreading it.

She had endured a difficult day at the Cornucopia because the long-dreaded eruption in the kitchen between Emrys and Leonard Balby had finally happened. Emrys had attacked Leonard with a potato peeler.

Round about twelve o'clock, just at the beginning of preparations for lunch, Nicola was summoned into a kitchen smouldering with onions and resentment. At one side of the room, Mohammed and Gunter were holding Emrys firmly in an arm lock. Emrys had a potato peeler in his hand, and his eyes were bulging with fury. At the other side Leonard, clutching a bain-marie in both hands, was being held in an iron grip by Mrs Frost, the burly washer up.

Nicola hurriedly removed the onions from the gas before they burnt. Then she plonked herself in the middle of the kitchen and shouted, ‘What the hell is going on?'

She could feel the hammering of her heart; she didn't know what to do – where was Ferenc when you needed him? She had no alternative but to attempt to exert her authority, ignoring her fear that she would turn out not to have any. A phrase spoken by someone in the Trumpet came to her: ‘It's a bluffer's world.'

Right.

‘Get a grip,' she shouted. ‘All of you. Get a grip.' She lowered her voice, investing it with a calm she didn't remotely feel. ‘Now, will somebody please tell me what happened?'

Gradually, a picture emerged. It was all caused by recriminations over the previous evening's Twinning Dinner. Emrys had taunted Leonard because his ‘sodding soufflés' hadn't risen. Leonard had blamed Emrys for the fiasco of the parsnips. Suddenly Emrys had been jabbing at Leonard's face with the potato peeler, Leonard had been reaching for the bain-marie to scald Emrys with its contents. It had taken the combined efforts of Mohammed and Gunter to restrain Emrys, while Leonard, more slightly built, had been easily held by Mrs Frost.

Leonard had shouted that he'd resign unless Emrys was sacked. Emrys had shouted that he'd resign unless Leonard was sacked. Mrs Frost had said, quite calmly, that she'd resign unless they were both sacked.

‘It's time to start serving lunch,' said Nicola. ‘After lunch, I promise to deal with the matter fully, firmly and fairly. Let go your potato peeler, Emrys.'

She went up to Emrys, wondering what she would do if he refused.

It was a little miracle. He didn't refuse.

Nor did Leonard. He gave up the bain-marie without a struggle.

‘Set them free,' commanded Nicola with a confidence that was entirely feigned.

Emrys and Leonard were released. For a moment, Nicola
thought that they were going to tear into each other again, but they didn't.

‘Three o'clock. Here. All of you.'

She strode out of the kitchens like a strong woman, then rushed to the toilets and sat there for several minutes, shaking.

She found it hard to believe, on her return, that they were actually cooking lunch. It was indeed a bluffer's world.

Luckily, lunch was reasonably busy, mainly in the bar but three restaurant tables were taken, one of them by Mr Beresford, who lunched with three railway people in an atmosphere of considerable tension. He had annoyed Nicola by asking for her personally when he'd phoned, as if the staff weren't competent, and saying, ‘I'd like a table well away from anyone else. Shouldn't be difficult at the Cornucopia, should it?' Arrogant swine. She'd never liked him.

At another table, far from Mr Beresford as requested by Mr Beresford, there were two men who got drawings out and studied them at intervals throughout the meal. One of them, a tall man with receding brown hair and an intense gaze, fixed that gaze on Nicola for a moment, then looked away, then looked back to meet her eyes very briefly before looking away again. It had been the gaze of a man who found Nicola interesting physically. She didn't get many of those, so she would remember it.

At three o'clock, she entered the kitchens. She had butterflies, moths and mosquitoes in her stomach.

All the kitchen staff were there, standing, facing her. The atmosphere was expectant, cautious, tense, but not openly threatening.

‘What happened this morning was inexcusable,' she began. ‘Totally inexcusable. However, there clearly were reasons for it. Kitchens are places of great tension and intensity at busy times, I appreciate that, and last night was a supremely busy time. Our resources were stretched to the limit by the Twinning Dinner.

‘Mistakes were made last night. Leonard taunted Emrys over
the fiasco of the parsnips. I don't know whose fault the accident was, these things do happen, but I'm sure that Emrys accepts that it was an error to serve the surviving parsnips after they'd been scooped off the floor. It was an error, though, let us not forget, that was made in the heat of battle.

‘Emrys in his turn taunted Leonard because his soufflés didn't rise. Let us not forget, now that we have time for reflection, that this was not Leonard's fault. The person who opened the oven door was on work experience, and the soufflés, though disappointingly flat, were still extremely tasty.

‘Our hosts were upset by certain things in last night's dinner, but please don't think that it was a fiasco. Only one of our visitors, the journalist from
Verona Today
, actually complained about the food, and the bill has been paid almost in full.

‘I am proud of you. Yes, proud of you all.

‘Now, to this morning's little … incident. It was serious, but let's not get things out of proportion. Emrys, of course, should not have attacked Leonard with a potato peeler. That is disgraceful behaviour, but he clearly did so in temper rather than with a real intention to do harm. I can just imagine what Emrys might say.'

Now she gambled. She tried the South Wales accent she had been practising in her office.

‘ “If I'd wanted to hurt the bastard I'd have used a fucking carving knife, isn't it?” '

She'd hated using the f-word even as a tactical ploy, but if it convinced them that she had the common touch it was worth it. It's a bluffer's world.

They all looked at her in astonishment. Then Emrys smiled.

‘Too bloody right,' he said.

‘Leonard should not have gone for the bain-marie,' continued Nicola. ‘He could have caused serious injury, but it was done on the spur of the moment in retaliation for a totally unexpected attack.

‘I really don't want to call the police and have them plodding all over our kitchens. I want to resolve this among ourselves. Thank you, incidentally, Mohammed and Gunter and you, Mrs Frost. That martial arts course at night school came in handy, didn't it?'

Nicola saw Leonard relax slightly at that. She had guessed that he had been smarting in the knowledge that it had taken two men to restrain Emrys, and only one woman to restrain him. She knew perfectly well that Mrs Frost had never been near a martial arts course in her life, but she gambled that she would be bright enough not to contradict her. It's a bluffer's world.

‘Good work has been done in these kitchens over the last few months. I'm grateful to Emrys for his Welsh specialities, which have confounded the cynics among us, just as I'm grateful to Leonard for the brilliant way he has carried out Ferenc's Hungarian specialities, whose success has rocked the Euro-sceptics. This is a well-run kitchen. Today is but a blip in a success story.'

Nicola paused. She met and held Leonard's eye. She met and held Emrys's eye. She felt exhaustion creeping up on her, but she wouldn't give in. In fact, truth to tell, she got just a bit carried away. She had seen a programme about Churchill recently. He hadn't given in under a far greater threat than Emrys and Leonard combined. He was her inspiration.

‘Leonard is an Anglo-Saxon,' she continued. ‘He's from Goole. Emrys is a Celt. He's from Swansea. A clash of personalities is perhaps inevitable, but I would remind them – indeed I would remind you all – that they have more in common than divides them. Yes, they are both temperamental, but why are they temperamental?' She paused. You could have heard a chive drop in the still afternoon kitchen.

The pause continued. She had entirely forgotten what she was going to say next. She recalled – it's amazing what the mind brings to you in moments of panic – a comment somebody had
made at the Collinsons' dinner table, somebody who made public speeches, and he'd mentioned a remark that you could drag into any speech on any subject. She fell back on it gratefully.

‘I believe that the media have a lot to answer for.' Yes! She was off again. ‘It's the media who have created the culture of tension in our kitchens. It's the media who have created the myth of the temperamental chef.'

People were staring at her in astonishment by now, but she didn't care, she was flying. And she had remembered what she was going to say.

‘But, you know, behind every myth there is a reality. Why, I repeat, are Leonard and Emrys temperamental? Because they are artists. We are lucky to have such artists in our kitchen, and I say to them both, frankly, I will not dismiss either of you, but if one of you makes life intolerable for the other, then both will go. I will have no losers in my kitchen, and that means … that means, ladies and gentlemen, that I can have no winners either.'

The spoken word is very powerful. It can so easily carry audiences away, but what is sometimes forgotten is how easily it can carry the speaker away as well. Nicola was becoming very emotional. At that moment she felt that she loved the kitchen, adored Emrys, worshipped Leonard, fancied Mohammed and Gunter, wouldn't even have said ‘no' to Mrs Frost.

‘Let us all learn the lessons of this incident and work together in trust,' she said, ‘and as an act of faith on my part, I'm awarding you all a two per cent rise as of today.'

She strode from the kitchen, strode back to her office, only sorry that Alan and Em and Gray and Lance and Prentice and the slow, incongruously handsome man in the Farm Shop couldn't have been there, to say, ‘This was her finest hour.'

She collapsed zeugmatically into a jelly and her chair. Nobody can know how exhausting it is to spout a load of unmitigated cobblers unless they have done so, and nobody can
know what a load of unmitigated cobblers Nicola's speech was if they haven't eaten in the Kenilworth Brasserie of the Cornucopia Hotel. Artists? Leonard and Emrys? They didn't know the meaning of the word.

But it worked. It's a bluffer's world.

She just hoped that they wouldn't have another row in order to wangle another two per cent. She regretted that offer, as sanity returned.

We have digressed. We left Nicola waiting patiently to cross the southbound carriageway of the main road from Throdnall to Cluffield, in order to go to the Farm Shop, where she hoped to see the good-looking man, whose name, she had learnt, was Gordon.

She was served by his mother. It was that sort of day.

‘Gordon not here?' she asked.

‘It's a Thursday.'

‘Ah!'

Why just ‘ah!'? Why not, ‘So what's the significance of Thursday, Gordon-wise?'

‘Two sirloin steaks, please.'

She wanted to say, ‘Mrs Fowler, will you tell him that I long to touch his beautiful, ordinary, exquisitely stubbly countryman's face?' She couldn't say that, of course, but she could have said, ‘Will you tell him I called?'

She didn't say anything. She had used up her store of courage in the kitchen. She bought her two sirloin steaks and left.

The first thing Alan saw when he came round was the smiling face of his husband Nick. He looked very odd. What on earth had he done to his hair, and why was he wearing …? Of course! He was a woman. And she … he … was a … woman without breasts. She … no, he … felt a stab of disappointment. He had lost his breasts and gained nothing. There was still such a long way to go.

Nicola reached out her hand to him. Alan almost refused to respond. It didn't seem appropriate somehow. Then he relented. He didn't have the strength to resist.

‘I wanted to be here when you came round,' said Nicola. ‘I remember how lonely I felt at first.'

‘I let you down, you mean.'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Have they said anything about how it's gone?'

‘I've only spoken to Mrs Mussolini. You don't get much out of her.'

Alan tried, very cautiously, to move his body. There wasn't a great deal of pain, but then this was only the double mastectomy. The really invasive stuff was still to come.

Mrs Mussolini entered slowly, like a ship in full sail approaching its berth.

‘Ah! Mrs Mussolini!' said Nicola. ‘How have things gone?'

‘ “Mrs Mussolini”!' she gasped. ‘That is not my name. My name is Mrs Pethers.'

‘I'm sorry. I got confused.'

‘It has been satisfactory. Mr McWhinnie's work is always satisfactory.'

She strode off angrily. They weren't surprised.

They shared a little horrified guilty smile when she had gone, and Alan thought, I find it hard to believe there is a
Mr
Pethers.

‘Poor man,' said Nicola.

‘Mr Pethers?'

‘Yes.'

You can't live together for over twenty years without developing the ability to think the same thoughts at the same time, and for a moment or two Alan felt, in that white, starkly antiseptic private ward, that they were still a close married couple. Then he remembered that they hadn't been that close for years, and now they weren't close at all, and he didn't want to be that close, any more than Nicola did. He had a long, long journey to make, and he would need to put all his emotional strength into that. Oh Lord – Nicola had been talking and he'd missed it. He didn't want her to talk. He wanted to sleep.