Read Online The Inn at the Edge of the World by Alice Thomas Ellis - Free Book Online Page A

always known who she was, and he, of course, knew her better than anybody.
     
    Eric had made the bold decision to seat all his guests at one table without first asking their approval. He had given the matter careful consideration, and having entertained a mental image of five people sitting at separate tables sucking defrosted asparagus stalks in solitary state, he had enlisted Finlay’s help in removing the small tables and installing the large, round Victorian one from the parlour where it had taken up too much space anyway. As far as the locals were concerned the restaurant – or, as he preferred to call it, the dining room – would be closed for Christmas. Some of them and several of the incomers would be annoyed by this: they liked to drift in for chicken and chips when they felt like it and couldn’t be bothered to cook. They could boil their heads, thought Eric vengefully. The little tables were out in the old stables. Ha. ‘Any chance of a meal tonight, Eric?’ the professor had asked. ‘No,’ Eric had said. Ha, Ha. He wondered briefly if all innkeepers detested some of their customers as much as he did.
    ‘Dinner’s ready when you are, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘There’s not a great deal of choice, but what there is is all home-cooked.’ He was modestly proud of this speech, which he considered to be frank, open and serenely confident. Finlay’s sister-in-law was a more than adequate cook with occasional flashes of inspiration: her soups, broths and
potages
were particularly good, since not only was she Scotch but she had spent a little time working in an
auberge
in Dieppe. Finlay, when he was half seas over at festival times, was apt to remark that she had swum the Channel to get there, and then fall down laughing. Eric had never understood why Finlay found this so funny. She also had a way with fish, and her cakes rose in the middle in the proper fashion. She wasn’t so good with meat: she made the steak go tough – still, you couldn’t go far wrong with a roast, and you couldn’t have everything.
    For breakfast (seven to nine) the guests could choose between bacon and egg and eggs – boiled, fried, poached, scrambled,
en cocotte
, or flattened into an omelette. Or they could opt for kippers or finnan haddie, or have the continental with hot rolls, which were no trouble to prepare since you just got them out of the freezer and bunged them in the Raeburn for a minute or two, and which always made a good impression; and marmalade or rowan jelly boiled up by Finlay’s wife. Such homely little touches made all the difference. Lunch was to be a simple affair of soup followed by ham and cheese and tomatoes and cucumber and things like that because Finlay’s sister-in-law went home to rest at midday; but they could have more hot rolls with their soup. If they wanted to go out and wander round the dripping island they could take sandwiches. Everything was under control.
    And as for dinner . . .
    ‘Gosh,’ said Jessica scrutinizing the typed menu.
    ‘I’ll have soup and steak-and-kidney pudding and Queen of Puddings,’ said Ronald making up his mind unusually quickly because he was starving and seduced by the word ‘pudding’.
    ‘Soup and the mackerel,’ said Harry.
    ‘I’ll have the steak – rare,’ said Jon.
    Damn, thought Eric.
    ‘Can I have the grapefruit?’ said Jessica, ‘only not grilled – just as it is.’
    ‘Me too,’ said Anita.
    ‘. . . and the steak,’ said Jessica.
    ‘And me,’ said Anita.
    Eric was tempted to suggest that they would be better advised to stick to the steak-and-kidney which would melt in the mouth (because, to be perfectly truthful, he’d bought it from a butcher’s shop on the mainland), but he’d left it too late.
    The grapefruit was rather small and bitter. Perhaps they grew them locally, thought Jessica irritably. She was not familiar with the problems of getting fresh and flawless produce on to islands. Turning to talk to Harry she