... He'd got a bit wound up. It was natural. But it had been brief, and it was over now.
Oona threw up her hands. 'You do every last little ting right, but sometimes it don' turn out like you plan.'
'Oona,' said Gabe, 'it's custard. If you do everything right, it turns out right.'
Oona blew sceptically through her teeth.
'Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. It's the protein in the egg that thickens the custard. At about forty degrees the proteins start to expand, they are what's called "denatured". As the temperature rises they begin to link up, network with each other and the sauce gets thicker. You need to get above seventy degrees. If you go higher than eighty, you start to get lumps.
An ideal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It's chemistry, Oona, nothing else.'
'Don' know about that,' said Oona. She shook her head. 'Sometimes you have to say to yourself, this ain't meant to be.'
'Chemistry O-level. I did it as a project. Thought it up myself, actually.'
'And sometimes you have to say to yourself, this is meant to be.'
'I found a meat thermometer when I was clearing up,' said Gabe, hunting around in the snowdrift. 'That'll sort Suleiman out.'
'It's like my niece,' said Oona, rubbing at her bosom, knocking her diamanté hairclips on to her lap. 'Crying over this boy, boo-hoo, never let it alone.
But what the point? I arks you. "Aleesha," I say, "you not suppose be with Errol. You suppose be with someone else." '
'He's a good lad,' said Gabe, strangely moved by Suleiman's dedication. He sniffed, and rubbed his nose.
'Nuttin but a ragamuffin, you arks me. She better off by her own self, that the truth.'
'Wouldn't mind making it myself,' said Gabe. 'Roll my sleeves up, you know.'
Oona fixed her hairclips back on to her coat. 'What? No, no, Mr Bird and his powder come to the rescue. You have a sit and relax. Chemistry,' she said, laughing. 'Don' know how it is with custard but when it come to boy and girl, chemistry the ting.'
For the next hour Gabe made calls to suppliers, marking pleasing ticks against his list. According to the list, the next call would be to his father. He punched two numbers and hung up. He scratched his head, burrowing around in the bald patch. Next time he got as far as five digits and again he cut the line. They had already spoken once and Gabe had promised he would call again today. 'Not so bad,' his father had said when Gabriel asked how he was. Jenny told me, said Gabe. I'm sorry I didn't call you before. 'Aye,' said his father, 'well. We've all got to go some time.'
Gabe wanted to say something significant. He couldn't manage a scrap. 'Love to Nana,' he said. 'I'll call you next week, Dad.' And this was the best he could do.
He would ring his father, but not without thinking what to say. Get your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Another sterling piece of advice from Dad.
Never was short of advice, had to give him that. He'd be doling it out sometimes, sitting in his chair by the fire, big hands laced over knitted waistcoat, an inch or two of shiny leg showing between sock and trouser hem, and Mum would creep up behind him and start to act the fool. She'd do rabbit ears above his head, stick out her tongue, make kissy-kissy faces and cross her eyes. Gabe would poke Jenny to make her laugh and get in trouble. Jenny would pinch him, slyly, on the arm. 'I know what you're doing, Sally Anne,'
Dad would say, without turning round. 'These children will grow up long before their mother ever does.'
Mum did grow up, thought Gabe, after Nana moved in. He never saw her acting silly after that. Maybe it was Nana's influence, maybe it was Mum getting old.
Gabe preferred her before, when she did just as she pleased.
He was eight years old and hopped-up on life, running down Astley Street with the pincushion in his hand. He knocked on Mrs Eversley's door and old Mr Walmsley's, without even breaking his stride. If Bobby or Michael were playing out after tea they'd have a
Oona threw up her hands. 'You do every last little ting right, but sometimes it don' turn out like you plan.'
'Oona,' said Gabe, 'it's custard. If you do everything right, it turns out right.'
Oona blew sceptically through her teeth.
'Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. It's the protein in the egg that thickens the custard. At about forty degrees the proteins start to expand, they are what's called "denatured". As the temperature rises they begin to link up, network with each other and the sauce gets thicker. You need to get above seventy degrees. If you go higher than eighty, you start to get lumps.
An ideal temperature is seventy-five degrees. It's chemistry, Oona, nothing else.'
'Don' know about that,' said Oona. She shook her head. 'Sometimes you have to say to yourself, this ain't meant to be.'
'Chemistry O-level. I did it as a project. Thought it up myself, actually.'
'And sometimes you have to say to yourself, this is meant to be.'
'I found a meat thermometer when I was clearing up,' said Gabe, hunting around in the snowdrift. 'That'll sort Suleiman out.'
'It's like my niece,' said Oona, rubbing at her bosom, knocking her diamanté hairclips on to her lap. 'Crying over this boy, boo-hoo, never let it alone.
But what the point? I arks you. "Aleesha," I say, "you not suppose be with Errol. You suppose be with someone else." '
'He's a good lad,' said Gabe, strangely moved by Suleiman's dedication. He sniffed, and rubbed his nose.
'Nuttin but a ragamuffin, you arks me. She better off by her own self, that the truth.'
'Wouldn't mind making it myself,' said Gabe. 'Roll my sleeves up, you know.'
Oona fixed her hairclips back on to her coat. 'What? No, no, Mr Bird and his powder come to the rescue. You have a sit and relax. Chemistry,' she said, laughing. 'Don' know how it is with custard but when it come to boy and girl, chemistry the ting.'
For the next hour Gabe made calls to suppliers, marking pleasing ticks against his list. According to the list, the next call would be to his father. He punched two numbers and hung up. He scratched his head, burrowing around in the bald patch. Next time he got as far as five digits and again he cut the line. They had already spoken once and Gabe had promised he would call again today. 'Not so bad,' his father had said when Gabriel asked how he was. Jenny told me, said Gabe. I'm sorry I didn't call you before. 'Aye,' said his father, 'well. We've all got to go some time.'
Gabe wanted to say something significant. He couldn't manage a scrap. 'Love to Nana,' he said. 'I'll call you next week, Dad.' And this was the best he could do.
He would ring his father, but not without thinking what to say. Get your brain in gear before you open your mouth. Another sterling piece of advice from Dad.
Never was short of advice, had to give him that. He'd be doling it out sometimes, sitting in his chair by the fire, big hands laced over knitted waistcoat, an inch or two of shiny leg showing between sock and trouser hem, and Mum would creep up behind him and start to act the fool. She'd do rabbit ears above his head, stick out her tongue, make kissy-kissy faces and cross her eyes. Gabe would poke Jenny to make her laugh and get in trouble. Jenny would pinch him, slyly, on the arm. 'I know what you're doing, Sally Anne,'
Dad would say, without turning round. 'These children will grow up long before their mother ever does.'
Mum did grow up, thought Gabe, after Nana moved in. He never saw her acting silly after that. Maybe it was Nana's influence, maybe it was Mum getting old.
Gabe preferred her before, when she did just as she pleased.
He was eight years old and hopped-up on life, running down Astley Street with the pincushion in his hand. He knocked on Mrs Eversley's door and old Mr Walmsley's, without even breaking his stride. If Bobby or Michael were playing out after tea they'd have a
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