In the Kitchen (36 page)

'No,' said Gabe. 'Oh, no. I was interested, I am interested, it's good to ...

I enjoy ... sometimes, it's a low blood sugar thing, and if I was ... if it seemed like I wasn't listening ... no, oh no, it's not often that I get a chance ... with work, and everything. No, I like ...' They were walking along again. Gabe paused to try to pull a sentence together. They had been talking about the economy, about jobs, before he'd fazed out for a minute or two.

'Quite understandable,' said Fairweather, though even Gabe in his current state was capable of recognizing this as an untruth.

Gabriel breathed deeply. He told himself he felt completely fine again. It seemed to help. 'Wealth creation, we were just saying, all the new jobs that have opened up.'

'We politicians,' said Fairweather, reverting to his usual tone, a smooth blend of humility and utter self-belief. 'I'm afraid we do tend to love the sound of our own voices.'

'I wanted to hear your thoughts.'

'We have our own job creation scheme now, don't we?' said Fairweather. 'Eight employees at the start.'

Gabe looked at Fairweather. It was amazing, it really was, how he could flick some kind of switch and change. He had gone into full politician mode. It wasn't just his voice, it was everything; the way he held his body, the expression in his eyes, the attenuation of sharpness, like a sauce that has been thickened with butter and cream.

'And it's a gastronomic desert round here,' Fairweather continued. 'There's nowhere to go. There's a population that's not being served – it's why the streets are so quiet. Then there'll be the Westminster crowd.'

But everyone, thought Gabe, must do it. Wasn't he a different person when he was in the kitchen with Oona or Victor, or out with Charlie (don't think about her) or in Blantwistle with Dad? Gleeson always brought out the worst in him, and Lena, well ... how could he begin to account for himself ?

'Actually,' said Gabe, the words coming out more aggressively than he'd intended, 'I'm quite capable of discussing things on a broader level. I can get my head out of the cooking pot now and then.'

'Of course you can,' said Fairweather. He looked Gabe up and down and appeared to come to some kind of conclusion. 'Look, what do you want to know? It's a matter of interpretation. There is no gospel truth, off the record and between the two of us. There are more people in employment now than when we were elected. I guess that's indisputable; the rest is up for grabs.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning what do you prefer to emphasize? I could say that the financial sector is thriving or I could say there's around a million white-collar drones inputting data and answering phones. Of course the Opposition would bang on about how many more foreigners we've got filling jobs in construction and agriculture and catering and how there's a pool of unemployed and virtually unemployable Brits.'

'There's a lot of xenophobia about,' said Gabe.

'Don't doubt it,' said Fairweather. 'Listen, what happened about that porter chap of yours in the end? The one who died? Did you find out any more about it? Was it one of those bonded labour situations, living in the cellars, desperate to pay off his debts?'

They were moving at a brisk pace down Alderney Street. Gabe could see the plate-glass window where the florists had once been and the restaurant would be soon. 'Not had the inquest yet. I suppose we'll find out more ... What was that about bonded labour? What do you mean by that?'

'A form of slavery,' said Fairweather, 'for the twenty-first century. Taking away passports, debt bondage, threats of violence, that sort of thing. The gangmaster stuff you'll have read about in the newspapers. The pressure groups like to call it slavery, sounds more impressive, and we're really world class at that because we've gone so big on deregulation, you see.'

'But there are new laws,' said Gabe. 'After the Chinese cockle pickers thing.'

'The Gangmaster Licensing Act.' Fairweather stopped at the shopfront, put his hand to the glass and peered inside. 'You know, I think Lucinda's designs aren't bad. She's had an idea for the fascia I think could really work. You have a touching faith in government, by the way. The GLA set up an authority that is tiny and self-funding, it will hardly scratch the surface, but I guess as long as we don't have more mass drownings or other spectaculars, then nobody's really going to notice or mind. Nobody's in favour of rising food prices, you know.'

'I don't know about Yuri,' said Gabe. 'He came through an agency.'

Fairweather stood shoulder to shoulder on the pavement with Gabriel. The plate glass held their reflections, suspended in the dark like two souls lost in the fog. 'Shall we go inside?' said Fairweather, moving for the door. Lingering for a moment, Gabriel examined the figure in the window, the all-purpose jeans and anonymous zip-up jacket, and thought how bland he looked, how indistinct, like a featureless mannequin, every characteristic obliterated or obscured. He leaned forward to find a different angle, to get his face to show, and then the lights came on inside and he vanished and there was Fairweather beckoning him to go in.

Halfway through dinner service Gabriel had to send Damian home after he'd urinated in a bin full of peelings and lain down in the prep area with his flies open and his hat across his face. Gabe sniffed the glass from which Damian had been sipping all evening. He tasted the contents and spat the vodka out. Suleiman and Benny returned from their mission, having poured Damian into a black cab.

'Chef,' said Suleiman, peering up at Gabriel earnestly, 'I am thinking this boy is very much in need of help.'

'I know,' said Gabe. 'I'll sort something out.'

Suleiman nodded; he almost bowed. He was so deeply serious, as if he had every faith in Gabriel's words.

Victor swaggered up with his flies undone and a leek hanging out of his pants.

'Suleiman,' he said, 'Benny! Help me, please!'

'You're having a problem with this vegetable?' said Suleiman.

Benny attempted to lead Victor away from Gabe, saying, 'Now we have to get on with our work.'

'Oh, man,' groaned Victor, 'tuck me into my pants, you big, strong boys.'

Suleiman rocked anxiously on his feet, his little legs bent out. 'He very much likes to joke.'

Oona, on the pass, called an order. The kitchen was like a steam bath, several of the extractor hoods on the blink. Ivan had taken a knife and sliced air vents in his trousers and down the chest of his whites. Work went on at a furious pace, the boys shackled to their stations, without speaking or raising their heads, all except these three, this joker and the two who had stayed to protect him, both of them wringing their hands.

Gabe took a step towards Victor, who jumped away and dodged round the corner.

Gabriel let him go.

'High spirits,' said Benny. 'This is something we cannot help in our youth.'

'Am I unreasonable?' asked Gabriel. 'Am I an unreasonable man?'

He walked round the kitchen without chivvying or prompting or tasting, simply observing his brigade at work. Nikolai's back was covered in sweat at the steam table, his face glowing red as his hair. A watery blister swelled on Ivan's thumb. Suleiman, beneath the little shrine he had erected to Ganesh, toiled devotedly, and Benny, taking on the additional burden of Damian's duties, concentrated on his activities with an uncomplaining hum.

Gabe stepped lightly in and out of the gangways, crossing and recrossing the kitchen, hovering momentarily behind each worker, his presence sufficient to fine-tune the performances, to turn elbows and wrists to full speed.

Satisfied, or at least mollified, he joined Oona as a waitress returned from the dining room with an armful of plates on which the food had hardly been touched. The girl went past and crashed the plates down in the wash-up area and a porter began to scrape them off.

'Hang on,' said Gabe, intercepting the waitress, 'was there a complaint?'

The girl wiped her hands across her backside. 'No.'

'They weren't sending it back? They'd finished?'

The girl looked around, as if seeking someone to save her. 'Maybe they weren't hungry. I don't know. Do you want me to go and ask?'

'No.'

He began to watch the plates and dishes coming back, and to calculate the amount of food going to waste. He abandoned Oona and joined the porter, lifting the lid on the slop bin and taking a good look inside. This terrified the porter, who began to drop things on the floor.

Gabe drifted into the dining room, to the plush tinkle of laughter, the artful cascades of light, the smoky images flickering across the gilded mirrors. He took a seat at the bar, ignoring the heads that turned towards him, watching instead the play of water in the fountain across the room.

'Get you something, Chef ?'

He told the barman no. He looked at the diners. He watched plates being served and plates being cleared. When he looked up at the ceiling he saw in one of the recesses a smattering of stars.

Returning to the kitchen he ran into Gleeson and Ivan, loitering in the passageway. Ivan, low-voiced, growled something to his coconspirator, pushed his heel off the wall and turned without acknowledging Gabe.

'Dining-room inspection completed, Chef ?' said Gleeson, so chirpy he practically sang. 'Think you'll find I run a tight ship.'

Gabriel loathed the sharp line of Gleeson's parting, the gloss of his hair, the too-snug fit of his trousers, the silky tie, the shine of his shoes, the snip of his tongue, the snaky look in his eyes. He loathed this man.

Without answering he moved on and went to his office. It was hotter than the kitchen in here. He pressed the down button on the air-conditioning, which appeared to have jammed. He banged the box with the side of his fist. Then he pressed the up button to see if it responded or if the whole thing had died.

There was a beep and the vents began to blow hot air. Gabe wiped the back of his neck. Sweat trickled down his chest. He went out to the loading bay for a cigarette, from the packet he'd bought on his way back to the Imperial.

It was a clear cold night and he shivered, standing against a wall. He'd stop smoking when he wanted to; when he decided the time was right. Fuck, it was cold. He'd smoke in Ernie's shed.

When he pushed the door open he saw Ernie, unmistakable even in outline, lopsided and scrawny, sitting in the dark.

'How's it going, Ernie?'

'Oh aye,' said Ern
ie.
'According to plan.'

'Great.'

'How's it going wi' you?'

'Great,' repeated Gabriel. 'All going ... according to plan. What is it you're doing? Why haven't you gone home?'

'Ah'm composing,' said Ern
ie.
'In ma head. Somewhere quiet and dark is all Ah need. Compose it in ma head before Ah write it down.'

Gabe took a final drag on his cigarette and put it out in a mug on Ernie's desk.

'Won't disturb you then.' He pulled the door behind him then pushed it open again. 'Ernie, come and see me first thing in the morning. There's something we've got to discuss.'

Before service there'd been no time to check the stock rooms. Gabe decided to do it now. In the basement, in the dry-goods store, running his hand along the shelf of pulses and beans, he remembered that first glimpse of Lena, the way she'd stood in the doorway, light from the naked bulb dripping dankly around her, the look she'd given him. She'd come to him. She had come to him. Keep that in mind. He didn't keep her locked in the flat. He hadn't stolen her identity. She wasn't in his debt. There was no debt bondage here. And anyway, he loved her. Why shouldn't he? Was there a law against that?

He loved Lena. He loved that stupid girl. Something, a little sound, bubbled from his lips. He wiped his eyes.

Dad had to meet her. She had to meet Jenny. She had to meet Dad before ... and Gabe would tell him everything, he wouldn't cover anything up, because he wasn't ashamed of her. Be a man and tell the truth. Hands out of yer pockets.

Stand up straight. Be a man. And tell it like it is.

He was ten years old, hands deep in the pockets of his Bedford cord flares, leaning against a locker in the tacklers' room sucking a Spangle, getting it proper thin and sharp, when Dad flamed through the door and set Gabe's cheeks alight.

'What the bloody hell were you playing at?'

'Me?' said Gabriel. 'What?'

'Get yer hands out of yer pockets.'

Gabe yanked his hands out.

'You cut them threads.'

'I never,' shouted Gabe. Thinking on his feet he added, 'What threads?'

'I should give you a bloody good hiding. Wasting my time like that.'

Dad's ears were a dangerous colour, his lips as thin as a wolf 's. The tacklers on the benches looked up from their papers and their smokes. Mr Howarth coughed.

'What's 'e gone and done?'

'Got some bloody scissors and bloody snipped the warp on number twenty-five.'

Everyone laughed. What was so funny? They were laughing at him for being such a baby. They were laughing at Dad for showing himself up. It wasn't funny. Why didn't they shut it? What did it have to do with them?

'I never did,' yelled Gabe.

He got the blame for everything. Dad shouldn't have brought him in if he didn't have time for him. He'd disappeared for ages and left him standing by a loom. Gabe hadn't done anything, not for ages. The loom wasn't even on. There was nowt to do. Somebody (they weren't getting in trouble) had left them scissors lying around. He hadn't meant to do it and he'd only cut a bit.

'I know you did it,' said Dad. He was laughing now, to make it all of them against Gabe. 'I've just spent best part of an hour piecing together and them's not broken ends, they'd been cut. Let's hear the truth and no more said about it. Be a man. No waterworks. Tell it like it is.'

Gabe wanted to get the bus home. Dad said no. He said to shake hands. Gabe said no. Dad pretended like everything was back to normal (as if that could ever happen) and Gabe wished Dad was dead. He wanted to go home and see Mum.

Trailing after Dad round the weaving shed he shot lethal rays out of his eyes.

Exterminate. Exterminate. Hadn't even said sorry. Laughing. How would he like it?