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Authors: David Dickinson
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carrots, turnips, swedes, local potatoes, a few chestnuts and
whatever other delicacies the chef might have to hand. It went down very well with the dry white wine.
Beside Connolly, Delaney watched a forty-year-old Christian Brother in his black gown begin the attack on the soup. Brother White, Brother James White, taught Religion at one of the leading
Catholic schools for boys in England. He felt the call to pilgrimage, as he had felt the call to join the Brothers all those years before. He knew he could do no other. He persuaded his abbot to
give him leave of absence.
The waiters were clearing the empty plates now, filling up the glasses. Opposite Brother White was a prosperous gentleman of about fifty-five years, wearing a business suit with a flower in his
buttonhole. He was quite short, and round, with a kindly face, looking as if he might be a sympathetic bank manager or a friendly headmaster. In fact, Stephen Lewis, a Delaney on his mother’s
side, was the senior partner at Daniel and Lewis, the leading firm of solicitors in the little town of Frome in Somerset. His children were grown up. His wife was more interested in the garden than
in routes of pilgrimage. Stephen Lewis had two reasons for coming on this journey. He had always been passionate about railway travel. He did not intend to dirty his expensive boots walking across
the dusty roads of France and Spain. Bentley had fixed it so that he could travel most of the way by train, and they would, he knew, be different sorts of train. Stephen Lewis could have told you
about the different gauges operating in the two countries, the different sorts of engines that would pull the passengers, the different bridges they would cross. He had the Baedeker Guide to
European Train Travel by his bedside. Lewis’s second reason was much more irrational. He sold a lot of insurance policies in his office in Frome, looking out at the sluggish river and the
dirty façade of the George Hotel where the stagecoach used to leave for London before the railways came. This pilgrimage was a form of insurance policy. It would, he felt, buy him a credit
entry in God’s bank, a favourable note in the celestial account book that might mean that the days the Lord his God gave him here on earth would be long and healthy. Beside him was the empty
seat, the name John Delaney standing out in Alex Bentley’s handwriting. The empty place troubled the pilgrims. It was as if there was a hole in the table, a gap left in a face where a
malevolent tooth had just been extracted by the dentist.
Father Kennedy had enjoyed the soup. He took a second helping. He was fond of his food, Father Kennedy, punishing himself from time to time with days of fasting, but he never seemed to last out
the full week he had promised himself at the start. Now the doors into the kitchen were opening again. Great dishes of vegetables were being brought in and placed on the tables. Then the three
waiters reappeared, each bearing an enormous earthenware pot. Even with the lids firmly on, the smell began to percolate through the dining room. One pot was placed in the centre of each table and
the waiters whipped off the lids simultaneously. Steam now rose up to join the cooking aromas and the pilgrims peered forward to inspect the contents, a stew in a light brown sauce with all kinds
of appetizing things floating on the surface.
‘This’, Alex Bentley began, reading from a note in front of him, ‘is a delicacy of the region. Its name is potée or pork stew, and the original recipe comes from
a local poet. This’, he looked up brightly at his audience, ‘is what it says: “Take a cabbage, a large succulent cabbage, firm and close and not too damaged by frost, a knuckle of
pork with its bristle just singed, two lumps of pork fat, two good lumps, some fat and thin bacon on the turn but only just, turnips from the Planèze, Ussel or Lusclade.”’ The
waiters were ladling out great helpings of the
whatever other delicacies the chef might have to hand. It went down very well with the dry white wine.
Beside Connolly, Delaney watched a forty-year-old Christian Brother in his black gown begin the attack on the soup. Brother White, Brother James White, taught Religion at one of the leading
Catholic schools for boys in England. He felt the call to pilgrimage, as he had felt the call to join the Brothers all those years before. He knew he could do no other. He persuaded his abbot to
give him leave of absence.
The waiters were clearing the empty plates now, filling up the glasses. Opposite Brother White was a prosperous gentleman of about fifty-five years, wearing a business suit with a flower in his
buttonhole. He was quite short, and round, with a kindly face, looking as if he might be a sympathetic bank manager or a friendly headmaster. In fact, Stephen Lewis, a Delaney on his mother’s
side, was the senior partner at Daniel and Lewis, the leading firm of solicitors in the little town of Frome in Somerset. His children were grown up. His wife was more interested in the garden than
in routes of pilgrimage. Stephen Lewis had two reasons for coming on this journey. He had always been passionate about railway travel. He did not intend to dirty his expensive boots walking across
the dusty roads of France and Spain. Bentley had fixed it so that he could travel most of the way by train, and they would, he knew, be different sorts of train. Stephen Lewis could have told you
about the different gauges operating in the two countries, the different sorts of engines that would pull the passengers, the different bridges they would cross. He had the Baedeker Guide to
European Train Travel by his bedside. Lewis’s second reason was much more irrational. He sold a lot of insurance policies in his office in Frome, looking out at the sluggish river and the
dirty façade of the George Hotel where the stagecoach used to leave for London before the railways came. This pilgrimage was a form of insurance policy. It would, he felt, buy him a credit
entry in God’s bank, a favourable note in the celestial account book that might mean that the days the Lord his God gave him here on earth would be long and healthy. Beside him was the empty
seat, the name John Delaney standing out in Alex Bentley’s handwriting. The empty place troubled the pilgrims. It was as if there was a hole in the table, a gap left in a face where a
malevolent tooth had just been extracted by the dentist.
Father Kennedy had enjoyed the soup. He took a second helping. He was fond of his food, Father Kennedy, punishing himself from time to time with days of fasting, but he never seemed to last out
the full week he had promised himself at the start. Now the doors into the kitchen were opening again. Great dishes of vegetables were being brought in and placed on the tables. Then the three
waiters reappeared, each bearing an enormous earthenware pot. Even with the lids firmly on, the smell began to percolate through the dining room. One pot was placed in the centre of each table and
the waiters whipped off the lids simultaneously. Steam now rose up to join the cooking aromas and the pilgrims peered forward to inspect the contents, a stew in a light brown sauce with all kinds
of appetizing things floating on the surface.
‘This’, Alex Bentley began, reading from a note in front of him, ‘is a delicacy of the region. Its name is potée or pork stew, and the original recipe comes from
a local poet. This’, he looked up brightly at his audience, ‘is what it says: “Take a cabbage, a large succulent cabbage, firm and close and not too damaged by frost, a knuckle of
pork with its bristle just singed, two lumps of pork fat, two good lumps, some fat and thin bacon on the turn but only just, turnips from the Planèze, Ussel or Lusclade.”’ The
waiters were ladling out great helpings of the
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