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Authors: Judith Cutler
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Volvo Estate. Spud lay in the back looking, even to a non-doggy person like me, pretty miserable.
I got back to find some of Barbara’s flowers in my arrangements – my lovely golds dotted with turquoise, that sort of thing. ‘I found I had some to spare,’ she smiled graciously.
‘But there are a couple of gaps in your own,’ I said, pointing them out and returning my lectern arrangement to the original. ‘There.’
By the time she’d rearranged them to her satisfaction I’d retrieved some bright pink carnations from my bronze chrysanthemums – not my favourite flower, I have to admit, but it would have been churlish to spurn Sue’s choice.
‘They stick out a bit,’ I said, aiming for apologetic.
She pulled her half-moon specs a little lower down her nose, and looked slowly from me to the flowers and back again. Shedidn’t need to say it: the interlopers were a metaphor for newcomers to the village. I was a shocking pink carnation amid the mature, sensible natives. I could have pursued the theme: we were more fragrant, easier to arrange and a good deal less unyielding. As it was, I simply held her gaze longer than she thought comfortable .
To do her justice, she fished the carnations out and shoved them into her medley. If I’d been more charitable, I’d have said it was a wonderful floral image of a multicultural city like dear old Brum. As it was, it simply added to the mess.
She might see my suggestion about the hunt as a peace- offering , or even as a desire to appease. Hell. In any case, was it my place to ask her? That had never stopped me yet. I plunged in.
For all I might have been suggesting she host a drug-taking convention, she was tempted. I could see that. She agreed, with a show of reluctance, to discuss it with the Master. We bade each other extremely courteous farewells and I left.
The feel of the secateurs in my hand reminded me of another job involving cutting. The obstruction on the footpath. When I took my walk that afternoon I went armed. First of all I photographed the tangle of barbed and razor wire. Then, with my pliers , I attacked it, piece by vicious piece. It wasn’t as easy by any means as I’d expected, and I was glad of my old outsize gardening jacket over my Barbour, not to mention two pairs of leather gloves. With my walking stick, I shoved the stuff into the brambles beside the path. I didn’t want to be accused of theft, did I?
Rain came squalling down. I ignored it for a couple of hundred yards, but it was really so unpleasant I gave up with ill grace and headed back to the sanctuary of my living room.
There was an excellent turn out for Sunday lunch, the organic rib of beef earning a lot of plaudits, which I was happy to pass on to my Sunday chef, a bone thin lad called Tom Dearborn, who looked as if he couldn’t tell the time of day, but had the nose and palate of an angel. He responded with a close inspection of his clogs.
‘Thing is, Mrs Welford, I don’t think as how I can work here any more.’
‘Tom! But you know I was hoping to take you on full-time as soon as the restaurant was up and running. You’re more than good enough.’ He was: he was wasted on simple Sunday roasts.
A further inspection of the clogs.
‘Have you had a better offer? I’ll match it if I can.’
‘’Tisn’t that, Mrs Welford.’
‘And you’ll be working in a brand new kitchen, with all that state of the art equipment.’
‘I know. It’s just that …’
I closed the kitchen door so we wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Just what?’ As he hesitated, I asked, ‘Has someone suggested it would be better if you didn’t work for me? Just because I’m a grockle? Hell, Tom, there aren’t many employers round here who aren’t grockles! There aren’t many employers round here full stop.’
‘I know. And you’re a very good one, don’t get me wrong. And I told him –’ He wrung his hands miserably, the big knuckles crunching.
‘Told who, Tom?’
If there’d
I got back to find some of Barbara’s flowers in my arrangements – my lovely golds dotted with turquoise, that sort of thing. ‘I found I had some to spare,’ she smiled graciously.
‘But there are a couple of gaps in your own,’ I said, pointing them out and returning my lectern arrangement to the original. ‘There.’
By the time she’d rearranged them to her satisfaction I’d retrieved some bright pink carnations from my bronze chrysanthemums – not my favourite flower, I have to admit, but it would have been churlish to spurn Sue’s choice.
‘They stick out a bit,’ I said, aiming for apologetic.
She pulled her half-moon specs a little lower down her nose, and looked slowly from me to the flowers and back again. Shedidn’t need to say it: the interlopers were a metaphor for newcomers to the village. I was a shocking pink carnation amid the mature, sensible natives. I could have pursued the theme: we were more fragrant, easier to arrange and a good deal less unyielding. As it was, I simply held her gaze longer than she thought comfortable .
To do her justice, she fished the carnations out and shoved them into her medley. If I’d been more charitable, I’d have said it was a wonderful floral image of a multicultural city like dear old Brum. As it was, it simply added to the mess.
She might see my suggestion about the hunt as a peace- offering , or even as a desire to appease. Hell. In any case, was it my place to ask her? That had never stopped me yet. I plunged in.
For all I might have been suggesting she host a drug-taking convention, she was tempted. I could see that. She agreed, with a show of reluctance, to discuss it with the Master. We bade each other extremely courteous farewells and I left.
The feel of the secateurs in my hand reminded me of another job involving cutting. The obstruction on the footpath. When I took my walk that afternoon I went armed. First of all I photographed the tangle of barbed and razor wire. Then, with my pliers , I attacked it, piece by vicious piece. It wasn’t as easy by any means as I’d expected, and I was glad of my old outsize gardening jacket over my Barbour, not to mention two pairs of leather gloves. With my walking stick, I shoved the stuff into the brambles beside the path. I didn’t want to be accused of theft, did I?
Rain came squalling down. I ignored it for a couple of hundred yards, but it was really so unpleasant I gave up with ill grace and headed back to the sanctuary of my living room.
There was an excellent turn out for Sunday lunch, the organic rib of beef earning a lot of plaudits, which I was happy to pass on to my Sunday chef, a bone thin lad called Tom Dearborn, who looked as if he couldn’t tell the time of day, but had the nose and palate of an angel. He responded with a close inspection of his clogs.
‘Thing is, Mrs Welford, I don’t think as how I can work here any more.’
‘Tom! But you know I was hoping to take you on full-time as soon as the restaurant was up and running. You’re more than good enough.’ He was: he was wasted on simple Sunday roasts.
A further inspection of the clogs.
‘Have you had a better offer? I’ll match it if I can.’
‘’Tisn’t that, Mrs Welford.’
‘And you’ll be working in a brand new kitchen, with all that state of the art equipment.’
‘I know. It’s just that …’
I closed the kitchen door so we wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Just what?’ As he hesitated, I asked, ‘Has someone suggested it would be better if you didn’t work for me? Just because I’m a grockle? Hell, Tom, there aren’t many employers round here who aren’t grockles! There aren’t many employers round here full stop.’
‘I know. And you’re a very good one, don’t get me wrong. And I told him –’ He wrung his hands miserably, the big knuckles crunching.
‘Told who, Tom?’
If there’d
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