A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (21 page)

Almost before her hostess had finished Bridie was on her feet. Madame Beauchesne smiled. ‘Yes, there, in the privacy of your room, you can read your letter. Perhaps it is one from an admirer? Soon you will be seventeen, such a lovely age, a time of joy, fun and hope before the serious business of marriage, perhaps at eighteen?'

She switched off the lamps on both tables, and led the way towards the door. She stopped for a moment at the photograph of her husband, in a French officer's uniform. As she had told Bridie and Evie on the night of their arrival, he had been killed at Verdun.

‘Please God, Bridie, that Germany does not see fit to rise again, though the signs are not good. You will know that the Germans' Condor Legion bombed Guernica, the Basque capital in Northern Spain, in April. Should they even have an air force after the great war, one asks oneself? Should we not have objected to that unpleasant little man, Hitler, being allowed to issue his edicts and carry out his adventures?'

She picked up the photograph. ‘Some say the
bombing was a rehearsal, but if so, I ask, for what? Or am I wrong? Perhaps they are prancing buffoons and harmless?'

She replaced the photograph and turned to Bridie. ‘I do so wish someone would reply, for I need to have answers to these questions, but all seem asleep. Hitler signs a friendship with that fascist, Mussolini. He signs a pact with Japan. Why? As I say, all seem asleep.' She touched her fingers to her lips, then laid them on the face of her husband. ‘Goodnight, my love. Come, Bridie, take no notice of a lonely old widow living in France, which does not have a Channel between it and the Nazis. I have seen my country destroyed once, and fear for it again.'

Bridie closed the door of her room, and leaned back against it. Yes, she had known that Guernica had been bombed; it was after Prancer died. She and James had talked of little else when it happened. She sank onto her bed. Her room smelt of lavender, and had windows that opened onto a square around which tall buildings clustered. Some of the windows opposite were shuttered, some were open with lamps burning. Each building consisted of apartments, probably similar to this. She ripped open James' letter.

Bridie ripped the letter into shreds, gathered the pieces up, and dropped them in the bin near the window. No-one must know his plans, because they were her plans too. She had brought her stable boots, which had annoyed her mother when she had helped her unpack. ‘Why on earth have you brought these?'

‘In case I find a riding stables.'

Her mother had shaken her head, and put them in the bottom of the wardrobe, with the jodhpurs she also discovered. ‘I don't know, I'm surprised you could drag yourself away for even a few months, as it's the toss of a coin whether the horses will miss you more, or you them.'

For a moment, during this first day at the Institute, she had faltered in her aim, loving the pleasure of learning, thrilling at the thought of helping Easterleigh Hall hotel. But James was going to do something, so she must also.

Today, the Terrible Trio, as Bridie, Marthe and Lucy had been named by Monsieur Allard, met at the food market at seven thirty in the morning. They were to prepare their own version of mushroom soup as part of their certification. He had insisted that he wanted a flavour that he had never experienced before. Together they hunted for the mushrooms of their choice, selecting the best, before taking time for a coffee at the market café. They sat outside, chatting about the two Basque refugees that Easterleigh Hall was employing in the kitchens.

Marthe almost spat as she cursed the Nazi Condor Legion, which had bombed the port. ‘We know the Hun too well, from the war. We are without a ditch, like you, my dear Bridie. How lucky that you have the Channel.'

They sat for a moment with their thoughts. Lucy said, ‘They won't come again.'

Again the silence.

Bridie checked her watch and leaned back in her chair. Though it was still only eight o'clock the early
August sun was already warm. She loved the feel of it, and knew that soon, when James arrived and they reached Spain, it would be even hotter. She hoped he was progressing with his Spanish, as she was trying to, and also picking up some Basque, and could teach her. ‘I forgot I need dill sprigs,' she murmured.

The others laughed. Lucy picked up her basket, and stood. ‘Trust Bridie: food first, and politics a long way behind.'

Marthe just shook her head, gulping her coffee. ‘Crazy English.'

‘Mushroom soup takes first place in any situation,' Bridie said, leading the way back to the market. It was best that her friends thought of her in this way, because then, when James came, they wouldn't suspect her plans and try to stop her, or worse, tell Madame Beauchesne.

In the kitchen at the Institute, there were many workbenches and many electric stoves, and half as many cooks as there had been. The debs who had shared Bridie's table had lasted a mere two weeks. It seemed that getting their hands dirty was not part of their ‘finishing'. Others had followed in their wake, and now the Institute class contained debs who had, to their surprise, found themselves interested, and a few cooks who, from the beginning, had known why they were there.

Bridie liked the chatter all around; it reminded her of home. She liked the friendship of Marthe and
Lucy, but always she kept a slight distance because she would have to leave them. Monsieur Allard was at her shoulder now, looking at the coarsely chopped mushrooms, which still retained their stalks.

‘Perhaps it would be best to discard the stems,' he suggested.

She replied, ‘Mam says that most of the flavour resides there.' She found she was using his terminology more and more.

‘Ah,' he said. ‘Well, if Mam says, then who am I to disagree?' He patted her shoulder and moved on, as the class laughed, with her, not at her. He called, ‘Remember, girls, we must make these last few weeks count. For as autumn falls, you return home, and put into practice what you have learned, or not, Michelle.' Again laughter, but friendly and kind, for Michelle was a girl who liked to pick and choose the days she attended.

Bridie sliced two cloves of garlic, which she had not used at Easterleigh Hall, but which she felt she had ‘discovered' under Monsieur Allard's tutelage. She chopped the dill, not sure if that was indeed the right herb, but she was going with her gut, as her Uncle Jack would have said.

Though Lucy and Marthe had decided to use vegetable stock, she had hesitated, then chosen chicken, which she had prepared yesterday. Which was right? She didn't know, but her mam used chicken. Was she teaching Maria to cook? And what about Estrella? Would they be able to take her place for as long as
she was away? And what about the horses, Terry and Fanny? Was Young Stan good enough? Would he stick at it? Well, he'd just have to, and that was that.

She looked at the chopped mushrooms and removed the black gills from beneath the caps, keeping them for garnish. She should have done that first, but she hadn't thought about it soon enough. She fought to concentrate. She needed to learn as much as possible, so that when she did return to Easterleigh she would be of use, because she must make up for what she was about to do.

‘Concentrate,' she said aloud.

Lucy looked up. ‘Are you alright, Bridie? You've been a bit distracted these last few days.'

‘I had a letter from my cousin; he's coming to Paris for a day or two any day now with a few friends.'

She moved to the stove and melted butter in a pan, as Marthe was doing on her hotplate. Marthe said, ‘How exciting. We must all have wine together.'

Lucy was melting butter too, and all along the row of stoves, others were beavering away. Bridie said, ‘Yes, he'd like that.' But would he? Or might he be worried that questions would be asked?

She added the mushrooms, garlic, salt and pepper, then covered and simmered for five minutes, until all were softened but not discoloured. She lifted the lid and breathed in the steam, and the smell. Wonderful. Gently she added the broth, slowly,
slowly, and then, almost drip by drip, added half a cup of cream and half the dill. She replaced the lid and simmered again, for ten minutes.

Monsieur Allard was behind her again. ‘I would suggest, Bridie, that you do not add the dill so early. Perhaps leave it as a garnish. It might stain the soup. On the other hand, it might not. Interesting. Yes, interesting.' He moved on.

She would miss him. She would miss them all.

After ten minutes she sieved the ingredients through a fine hair-sieve. She hated doing this at Easterleigh, because everything was always such a rush. When she had complained about this to Monsieur Allard last month, he had shrugged, throwing his arms wide. ‘You think you will find a kitchen that is not rushed. Ah, Mademoiselle Bridie, think again. Such innocence.'

Well, today she did have time. Her arm ached when she was finished, and he was right, her soup had a slight green stain. Damn. She added salt and pepper to taste, and whisked in more cream. It frothed and did seem to lighten.

‘One more minute only, and by then it must be served, ladies,' Monsieur Allard called, standing in front of the workbenches, his arms crossed, his chef's hat as pristine as ever.

‘Crikey,' breathed Lucy next to her. ‘One minute?'

‘
Merde
,' muttered Marthe, the other side of her.

‘Damn,' murmured Bridie, and removed the pan from the heat. She whisked some cold cream, ladled
the soup into the waiting bowls, then swirled the cream onto the surface of the soup. It shone cream against the hint of green as though it was an intended difference. She scattered the gills and remaining dill. Then stood back as Monsieur clapped his hands.

The girls all looked at one another and stepped back as he tasted along the line, talking to each cook as he did so. It was important, because it would count towards the certificate. She stopped. A certificate she would not receive. Suddenly her throat was full. She loved this place, these people.

Monsieur Allard tasted hers. He replaced the spoon on the workbench. ‘This, Miss Bridie, is a happy accident, or perhaps, like your mother, you have the gift. More than perfect, and I have never said that before. Inspired. The cream is a successful trick, but one that you must use again. Come, gather round, all you young ladies. Bridie used the dill in the cooking. I felt it would stain the soup and ruin the presentation. She rescued it with cream, changing the “mistake” to a statement. Bravo. You will take your certificate home, if you produce more work like this.'

He continued along the line, praising Marthe and Lucy too, but not as effusively. Later, as they washed up their utensils, he said quietly to Bridie. ‘You have a gift. Remember that. Your mother was right to send you to us. You bring credit to her, and to us.'

She felt the pleasure, and then the pain. But as her mam had said for as long as she could remember,
‘Smile. It's what those at Easterleigh Hall do, however dire the situation.'

At the day's end, she walked with Lucy and Marthe, and they stopped as usual at the café for a coffee, sitting at a table outside, and then ordering a glass of red wine. They sat under the shade of the awning as the sun beat down. Bridie leaned back, soaking up every second, because soon it would be only a memory – but one that would sustain her, just as much as Easterleigh Hall. Lucy brought out her gold cigarette case and offered it round, as she always did. As always, Bridie and Marthe shook their heads. Lucy lit up with her gold lighter.