Bitterly Cold
A depiction of my grandparent's daily eating habits as remembered from my childhood. N.B. This is all made up. My grandmother was not a wanna-be sleuth, and my grandfather was not a prat.
Today’s Menu:
6th November 1991
Lunch - Cream of chicken soup
Tea - Fruitcake with butter
Dinner - Salmon en croute, spinach and minted potatoes
Having struggled to find sleep, Millicent wakes late.
Getting out of bed, pulling on her dressing gown, and opening the curtains, Millicent can see that the snow must have fallen for much of the night. She can see Bill’s footprints heading from the front door and down the drive. They stop abruptly. A stubborn ox, even he must have conceded at that point that today’s morning plans would be cancelled.
‘Is that you darling? Are you up?’ Bill calls up, likely hearing the creaking of her footsteps around the bedroom. She looks a mess and considers staying still a while, letting him think she is still asleep, that it was just the house moving.
She would normally get herself ready properly before heading downstairs, she doesn’t like starting the day before she’s ready. She has her rollers in and some have worked loose. Strands and wisps of greying hair are coupled with a pallid unprepared face. A death mask is presented to her as she sits at her dressing table contemplating responding.
‘I thought I heard you shuffling about.’ Bill says as he opens the door and enters the room, an agenda pregnant upon him.
Why does he get like this, Millicent thinks, as he walks around the bed and then back again, pacing this way and then that. She wishes very much that the snow had not stopped him from going out. It is Bill’s regime, his insistence on routine, that has kept them both sane since his retirement.
Mondays are bin day and bucket shaking for the Royal British Legion; Tuesdays are newspaper clippings, diary writing and walking old Betty’s dog; on Wednesday he busys himself with the oil check, maintenance and hoovering of the car before taking his mother out for lunch; he does dry cleaning and laundry for Mrs Mould, Ms Jenkins, Mrs Beryl and Mr Mackie on Thursdays; calligraphy classes and meals on wheels deliveries on Friday; recycling bins and the minibus for the community centre on Saturday; and he delivers newspapers to Mrs Mould, Ms Jenkins, Mrs Beryl and Mr Mackie on Sunday before church. They set their clocks by it, it keeps them content.
Meals on wheels will be called off, too, Millicent thinks as Bill’s muttering and pacing pick up speed.
‘...and Robin heard from Mick who said the vicar called him first thing. It's the fireworks, I’ve said it all before, they encourage drinking, and for a boy of that age, in this weather. Really. In Ockstead. I mean it’s hardly an urban wasteland…’
‘Sorry Billy, you’ve lost me.’ Millicent says, hoping to snap him out of his reverie, stall him in his pacing, ‘will you start from the beginning?’
‘They found a young boy, Millicent. In the fountain in the village. Snowed under he was. Must have been there all night.’
‘A young boy, Bill? Not dead?’
‘Don’t sound so excited darling, the little rascal was high as a kite, probably out causing trouble. It’s just as I’ve said, dear. They’re coming out to the villages now. Churches losing their roofs for lead, collection boxes smashed open for drug money, corner shops held up for the cash in the tills. Robin says...’
‘Who is the boy Bill? Who found him?’
‘Robin says that Mick told him that the vicar was in the village picking up biscuits for the bell ringers. He must have spotted the boy. Shocking start to the day for the vicar. Last thing he needs, what with all the disruption this snow will cause. Meals on wheels will have a time of it, having to…’
Millicent is off in her own head, leaving Bill to his pontificating, his pacing. She places the occasional ‘yes dear’ and ‘just to think’ where she thinks she hears pauses, where she can tell his feet have stopped pacing. Millicent is working through scenarios, queries, and questions.
For a start how do they know the boy was high? He can only have been found an hour or so ago, Nico doesn’t open the local shop until eight. Unless the vicar was up at the petrol station, but he’d hardly get a decent biscuit in there, not for the bell ringers. They would need to do an autopsy before they could know what had happened. It’s typical of Bill and his chums to put the cart before the horse, Millicent thinks, and they’ll blame anything on drugs, today’s snowfall included no doubt.
Bill is at the window now, looking out across the lane, his hands on his head as he shakes it side to side.
‘Last thing Reverend Swindels needs, absolutely the last thing, poor man.’
‘Now those are tyre tracks’, Millicent mutters, looking out over Bill’s shoulder, the peppery scent of his hair ointment reminding her of how unquestioningly conservative he is. They watch as the Reverend slowly and carefully pulls out from the vicarage driveway and onto the lane.
‘Sorry, dear?’
‘The boy’s parents Billy,’ Millicent continues, ‘they must be worried sick, wracked with grief. Do you think they’ve been told? Who was the boy, Bill? Did anyone say?’
‘The parents want to be questioning themselves if you ask me. Young boy out late, drugged up, troublemaking.’
‘You’re wicked when you're righteous William Thoroughly. I don’t like it one bit. Wicked.’ She says once more with feeling, as she walks to the bathroom and slams the door.
Her hair set, her foundation and blusher flawless, Millicent has resolved to follow her nose. Not that she’ll give Bill a sniff of her intention.
‘I was thinking of an omelette, Billy, we have a little piece of cheddar wrapped in the cheese box. Will you want toast?’
Bill is in his little study off the kitchen. He’s been on the phone and writing letters since she left him upstairs. She can tell this from the pencil sharpenings in his lap, the notes scrawled in the jotter by the phone, the balls of crumpled paper sitting to the left and to the right of the wastepaper bin, that he’s worked himself into quite a stupor.
‘Toast with your Omelette Bill?’ Millicent asks once more, standing at the door to the study, ‘Will you walk into the village? It’ll be cordoned off I’m sure. It’ll be bad for businesses. I can’t imagine Paul will be selling much topside with a corpse on people’s minds. First the snow and then this.’
‘Leave those,’ Bill says, looking up for the first time since Millicent came downstairs and noticing her picking up his discarded notes, ‘toast would be lovely, no pepper in my omelette, dear, a little Gentelman’s Relish on the toast, if you have it?’
‘I thought I’d make shortbread for tea, Billy. I can’t quite face fruitcake after a shock like this. I’ll drop a batch off with the vicar. I suspect he won’t have picked up those biscuits with all the drama this morning. Will you still be going out this afternoon? Good to clear the head I imagine?’
‘Will you give me a minute's peace, dear? An omelette sounds wonderful. I’m drafting a note for the paper. It’s getting serious now. I’ve said it a thousand times since Thatcher left, this country’s gone to the dogs. Didn’t I tell you? John Major has no grip. Look at us out here. Little old Ockstead, a junkie paradise.’
‘Quite right too Billy,’ Millicent says as she pulls the door too, leaving him alone with his indignation.
Millicent busies herself with an omelette for Bill and with weighing and measuring for the shortbreads. She makes a ginger tea and puts two pieces of brown bread in the toaster. She has little appetite when mischief is afoot, something she’s always linked to the Sister’s nimble cane in response to childish indiscretions.
As she cracks two eggs into a little melamine bowl and gives them a good thrashing with a fork, Millicent runs back and forth through what she knows about what’s happened so far.
She adds a small pinch of salt, and goes to grind some back pepper but stops short. She places a little cast iron frying pan on the smallest ring and twists the knob so that the electric filament whirs into life. She loves that mosquito whine, the elements drawing heat, bringing with it such potential. She lets the pan heat up and goes to the fridge for a little margarine and the chunk of cheese. She adds a teaspoon of marg to the pan and lets it fizz and slide around the surface before adding the eggs and leaving them to set slightly at the edges.
The vicar certainly went into the village the evening prior. Or went somewhere beyond the village perhaps? She saw him with her own eyes. It must have snowed throughout the night, but it wasn’t snowing when she woke. Bill’s footprints were left in the snow but any tyre tracks from the houses on their lane were covered up before Bill had gone out.
She uses the fork to bring the edges of the omelette into the centre, tilting the pan to let the uncooked egg seep out to the edge of the pan and fill any gaps. She learned this at Le Cordon Bleu. Six weeks of classes before she and Bill had married. She had hoped to work as a cook, it was the only thing that made much sense to her then.
No wife of mine will work a day in her life. Bill put paid to that.
She grates the cheddar and distributes it over the setting surface of the egg. As the cold cheese hits the hot egg it winces and resists, curling away before the merciless heat turns it to liquid, disappears.
Fascinating to discover what is revealed by the melting snow, Millicent thinks, as she uses her fork to lift and curl the edge of the omelette over itself. She tilts the pan and lets the weight of the omelette flop, sealing the little parcel in a perfect oblong. She fetches two plates from the cupboard and butters a piece of toast on each, adding a smear or two of Gentleman’s Relish to Bill’s. She turns the omelette out onto Bill’s plate and sprinkles the remaining cheese over the top. Millicent will have her toast with cold butter only.
‘Breakfast Billy,’ she singsongs, noting how the morning sun already has drips melting at the tips of the conifers on the drive. ‘I’ll walk into the village with you if you like. These shortbreads won’t take me long.’
You’d think he’d been asked to sherpa for an Arctic tour, Millicent thinks, as she waits at the back door for Bill to finish collecting and collating his outdoor outfit.
He has his walking boots and goloshes from a fateful walking trip once attempted in the Broads. He wears these over his grey woollen slacks, always grey woollen slacks. He wears his slacks, a thick cotton shirt, a knitted tie, a lambswool sweater and a sports coat every day. For today’s sojourn, he has added a zip-collared sweater, a radical addition to his wardrobe from the same walking holiday. The outfit is finished with a felt cap, replete with ear flaps that sit tied above his crown, but will no doubt be unfurled and put into action if the bite in the air is sufficient, and a bright red scarf tied in a knot about his neck.
Millicent stands and watches as, finally, the last items are loaded into his jacket pocket. Into the left-hand pocket goes a flimsy waterproof macintosh that packs down into a little green bag, a pen knife, and a torch. Into the right-hand pocket goes a pair of shearling gloves, a folded map of the village and a copy of the letter he finished writing whilst he ate his omelette. He pats each and every pocket on his person, tightens the scarf about his neck and looks at Millicent as if to ask if she is ready.
‘Quite finished Billy?’ she asks, ‘You’re certain we need the torch?’
‘It’s bitterly cold out there, dear. God knows how long we’ll be out for.’ he says, opening the door and bracing himself at the threshold, ‘Walking to the end of the drive and back this morning gave me a nasty chill about my neck. Have you everything you need?’
Millicent holds up and shakes the biscuit tin containing the shortbread, giving Bill a nod. For her part she has on her long felt coat, little cuffs of fur at the neck and at the wrists. The prudent navy of the coat is set off by an emerald green beret. She has on her sturdiest shoes.
They walk from their house at the top of the village, down the hill, past the station, through the underpass, past Safeway’s, across the road, through the little run of shops where the corner shop is open but Paul at the butchers and Mr Jarret at the greengrocers have decided so far to remain shut, and finally across the road and onto the village green that leads on to the war memorial and, eventually, to the fountain.
The walk is fifteen minutes at a leisurely pace and they don’t see a single soul until they reach the edge of the village green. From there they can see what looks to be the population of the whole village congregated in groups and clusters, spread from edge to edge so one can barely see the war memorial let alone the fountain.
Reaching the edge of the green, Bill disappears immediately into the thick of the crowd, and as Millicent follows him it is confirmed to her, as she might have guessed, that he is heading straight for his stooges, Robin, a local historian and frightful bore, and Mick, an antique dealer and village gossip.
Millicent doesn’t mind Robin, she thinks as she offers him a smile and a shake of the shortbread tin in reply to his wave in her direction, but like many men of his generation, she finds he cannot get past her as a woman indoors.
Mick is a different beast altogether, as evidenced by the fact that he keeps his back firmly turned to Millicent as she tries to find a spot next to Bill in their circle.
‘I would have made a double batch,’ Millicent says to Mick’s back, hoping he might get the hint, ‘if I’d known the scene was due to be so biblical.’
‘Mick was just saying that his wife, Carmen, knows a chap out towards Reigate’ Bill mutters to Millicent as she stands behind his right shoulder, ‘whose son is at school with this poor boy. Mick says the boy is the son of that new Dutch chap.’
‘Was.’ Mick corrects Bill, still refusing to turn and acknowledge Millicent’s arrival.
‘Now we all know that Croydon has had its troubles,’ she can hear Mick braying, ‘and there was that nasty incident at the leisure centre off the Purley Way. But in all my days I’d never expected anything like this out our way. My old Dad would turn in his grave.’
‘You had him cremated,’ Millicent says to Mick’s back.
Having heard enough, Millicent turns and heads further into the crowd. She’ll get a look at the cordoned-off area by the fountain, but baring something staggering occurring between here and there she’ll cut her losses, she thinks, head back and start on the pastry for tonight's supper.
Home and warm, Millicent relishes having the house to herself. Bill will be a good while yet, she thinks. He and the chaps will decamp to the Rotary club, no doubt, where armchair analysis will see them confirm and reaffirm their preconceived ideas and beliefs. This will be an open and shut case, a witch hunt of the scandalous present day, all of which will be followed by a period of nostalgic harking back, some not in my day, plenty of when we first moved down, quite a few corrupted youths, lack of discipline, kids running riot.
Given the rhythm of the day, Millicent forgoes making the cream of chicken soup. Bill will have something he shouldn’t at the club, likely a steak sandwich. He’ll pretend to have had the soup, but Millicent will find clues, last time it was bloodstained droplets of cream of horseradish on his tie.
Needing something to warm her up whilst she organises her thoughts, Millicent boils the kettle and makes a Bovril, a treat that Bill can’t stand, but one that reminds her of her late father, and that is enough to lift the flavour. She slices a few slithers of cheddar and takes an apple from the fruit bowl.
She is not capable of much more, her mind stuck on a rotation of snapshots captured as she walked from the gathering on the green, dropped the biscuit tin on the vicar’s doorstep and walked back home. It is a wonder, she muses as she sips at the warming brown liquid, how suspicious things can look when viewed through the prism of a recent travesty.
The tricky thing about a dish like salmon en croute is timing, Millicent thinks as she checks the kitchen clock for what seems like the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes. She is still sitting at the little breakfast bar that separates her domain, the cooking area, from their domain, the kitchen table and its environs.
She has the empty mug of Bovril, a fully brown apple core and a few crumbs of cheddar on a side plate in front of her. She hasn’t moved in hours. So much for the ready mind of a proactive woman, she thinks, before disappointing herself yet again with thoughts of culinary logistics.
If Billy wants supper at six thirty then she’ll need to have the salmon all wrapped in pastry and ready for the oven by five thirty. It will need to chill in the fridge for half an hour, so she makes that five. She still needs to make the pastry.
She checks the clock yet again, noting how reluctant her mind is to actually take note of what the clock is telling her.
Four o’clock.
If Bill stops out much longer, she thinks, a suggestion of resentment staining the edges of her thoughts like sticky fingerprints, the whole process will need to be pushed back, and god forbid if the salmon is already in the oven. There’s no stopping it then.
The frantic trill of the telephone fills the house.
‘Hello?’ Millicent says, the recently answered phone tucked between ear and shoulder, better that she can continue to collect the flour, butter and salt for the pastry.
‘Vicar has asked one or two of us chaps to help clear away the debris on the green, dear. Don’t suppose you mind? Nice to muck in at a time like this.’
‘You remember I’m making salmon en croute? I did write it up on the board’
‘We won’t be long, dear. Six-thirty, I’d imagine I’ll be back. At the latest. I’ll be ravished I'm sure. I only had soup for lunch.’
‘Yes, yes. I imagined that to be the case. Maybe I’ll do mash rather than boiled spuds, Billy? You’ll want to fill up having been out there in the cold all day.’
‘Must go, dear. Robin is brandishing a bin bag at me.’
Millicent puts down the phone without waiting for a goodbye.
To be fair to Bill, he has always been a man of his word.
At the exact moment that Millicent opens the oven door to pull out the perfectly golden salmon en croute she hears the latch on the back door clatter.
‘Knock the snow off outside, will you Billy.’ Millicent sing-songs, her tone and delivery honed over five decades so as not to relay a scrap of what she’s really thinking.
‘Smells marvellous.’ Bill announces, striding into the room, his cheeks like amethyst, ‘Now. Have I got news for you?’