The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

Chapter 69: Preparing Canapés with Frances

Caroline’s mother, Frances, was preparing canapés in the kitchen. Caroline was helping her but only desultorily, as she was more interested in paging through a large recipe book that she had found lying on the kitchen table.

“I’m so pleased that you managed to come down this weekend rather than next,” said Frances. “We’ve been meaning to hold this drinks party for ages and it’s lovely to have you with us.” She paused. “And your friend, Jo, of course.”

Caroline turned a page of the cookery book. “Delia,” she said. “The blessed Delia. You call her that, don’t you? And everybody uses her book. Everybody, as far as I can see. How does she do it?”

“She’s a real cook,” said Frances. “She actually knows how to do it. And she rescued English cooking more or less singlehanded. Back when she was training everybody used French recipes. Delia went into the British Museum one day and looked through the seventeenth-century cookbooks – English cookbooks – wrote out the recipes and published her own versions.”

“Nice.”

“Yes, and then she went on and showed everybody how to cook proper roast potatoes. And the whole nation started to eat crispy roast potatoes after that.” She clicked her fingers. “Pass me the pepper please, Caroline. It’s over there.”

Caroline handed the pepper grinder to her mother.

“Are you unhappy, darling?” her mother said rather absent-mindedly, as she sprinkled pepper on a small side of smoked salmon.

Caroline stared at the recipe book. “A bit.”

Frances started to cut the salmon into squares. “You’ll get over it,” she said. “I remember being unhappy at your age. The whole world seems so complicated. Nobody seems to understand you. And so on. Then things sort themselves out. You don’t believe it now, but they’ll sort themselves out.”

She turned and looked at her daughter. “You do know, darling, that Daddy and I will always be behind you. You know that, don’t you? No matter what you choose to do, we’ll always be there to support you. And I do like Jo – or what I’ve seen of her. You mustn’t worry …”

“About what? Worry about what?”

“About … about … You know what I’m talking about.”

Caroline shook her head. “Actually, I don’t.”

Her mother sighed. “Well, darling, let me let you in on a little secret. You know that I married Daddy because, well, I supposed it was the thing to do. I’m sure you must have gathered that. And sometimes when you do that you don’t actually know what you’re doing, or what you’re really about. Daddy is a lovely man, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But he’s not exactly the most romantic figure in the county, is he?”

Caroline shrugged. It had never occurred to her to wonder how her father rated in romantic terms. “Daddy’s quite good-looking,” she said. “I imagine that …”

It was as if Frances had not heard her. “So if you’re wondering what I think about Jo, then let me assure you that I understand.”

Caroline was now beginning to see where the conversation was going. She realised that she would need to correct her mother, but before she had the opportunity to do so, Frances went on, “So many of us are, well, a little bit that way, including me. I had a tremendous passion for somebody, you know. Not that I had the chance to do anything about it. She was—”

Caroline’s jaw sagged. “Mummy! Please!”

Frances looked at her, smiling. “But darling, I only want you to know that if you’re wondering where it comes from, obviously it comes from me!”

Caroline put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Mummy, I wish you hadn’t started to talk about all this. There’s nothing between Jo and me. And I don’t think Jo would want it anyway. So she wears boots. She’s Australian. From Perth. You need boots there. She’s just my flatmate – that’s all.”

Frances collected herself quickly. “Mummy’s little joke,” she said. “Not at all serious. I was just having a little fun.”

“Of course.”

“So, let’s get on with the canapés,” Frances went on briskly. “Tell me what Delia says I have to do after I’ve cut the puff pastry.”

They began to work in silence, each remembering and reconstructing the conversation that had gone before. When they were finished, they each went to change and get ready for the arrival of the guests. Caroline thought: Our parents are not always what we think they are. And Frances could have had the same thought about her daughter, but had decided not to think about it at all. She had her duty as hostess before her, and she always attended first to her duty, no matter what.

The guests arrived. They were mostly neighbours or Rufus’s colleagues. But a newly arrived retired couple was there – people who had recently moved to Cheltenham from Ely – and they had with them their son, Anthony. He was a year or two older than Caroline, and he was brought across the room by Frances to be introduced.

Caroline looked at him as he spoke to her. He had grey eyes, she noticed, and a pearl-grey jersey. He matched. She looked down at his shoes: he was wearing ankle boots. They somehow matched his trousers. His hair was blonde and swept back to reveal a strong forehead. His hair seemed just right too. He asked her where she lived in London. His voice matched … matched him.

“I live in Pimlico,” she said. “In a block of flats called Corduroy Mansions.”

He laughed. His laugh matched his voice. “Hey, I know that place,” he said. “I live quite close by. Three streets away, in fact.”

She could think of nothing to say but, “Oh.” There was so much else she could say; so much else that she wanted to tell him.

“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked. “After this? After this party?”

She did not hesitate for a moment. Why hesitate when you were so sure, so utterly sure? “Of course. That would be great.” Jo would entertain herself; she was good at that.

“Italian?”

“Perfect.”

Anything would have been perfect. Italian, French, Indian, Chinese, Thai. Anything. She remembered Delia. Even English.