In the following hour or so, I peeled all the vegetables, prepared the joint of beef and put it in the range, then set about straightening the kitchen. Having found the gin and added some rather flat tonic to it, Marguerite left me in charge as she floated in and out to tend to her son, greet arriving guests and set the table for lunch. I hummed as I pottered round what – without the current disorganised detritus – was my dream kitchen. The heat from the range warmed the room, and as I looked up at the cracks on the ceiling, I imagined the old yellowed walls with a fresh coat of white paint. Clearing the oak table, which was pockmarked with wax from dripping candles, I then washed up what was probably a week’s worth of pans and plates.
Once everything was under control, I gazed out of the window, with its uneven glass panes, onto a kitchen garden that must have once been the source of vegetables for the house. I stepped out of the kitchen door to look closer and saw that it was now overgrown and in disarray, but I found a hardy rosemary bush and clipped some of the herb off it to flavour the roast potatoes.
I could live here, I thought as Marguerite returned, having changed into a rather creased honey-coloured silk blouse and a purple scarf that complemented her eyes.
‘Oh my God, Star, you miracle worker! I haven’t seen the kitchen look like this for years! Thank you. Do you want a job?’
‘I already have one with Orlando.’
‘I know, and I’m so happy you’re there for him. Maybe you could occasionally dissuade him from spending large amounts of money to fund what is becoming his own personal library.’
‘He does actually sell quite a lot of books online,’ I replied, defending him as Marguerite poured herself another measure of gin.
‘I know,’ she said fondly. ‘Right, Rory’s having a fine old time opening all his presents in the sitting room and Orlando’s gone down to the cellar to get more wine for the guests, so I can sit down for five minutes.’ She checked her watch before letting out a sigh. ‘Mouse is late again, but we shan’t postpone lunch. I presume you gathered this morning that Rory’s deaf?’
‘Yes, I did,’ I replied, thinking that, just like her cousin, Marguerite’s brain flitted from one subject to the next like a butterfly.
‘And has been since birth. He has a little hearing in his left ear, but his hearing aids only go so far. I just . . .’ She paused, meeting my gaze. ‘I never want him to feel as if he can’t do something, as if he’s lesser than anyone else. The things that people say sometimes . . .’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘He’s the most wonderful, smart little boy there is.’
‘He and Orlando seem very close,’ I ventured.
‘Orlando was the one who taught him to read when he was five, having mastered British Sign Language so he could speak to Rory and teach him. We’ve mainstreamed him – that is, placed him in the local primary school – and he’s even teaching the other children to sign. He’s got a fantastic speech therapist working with him every week to encourage him to talk and lip-read and he’s doing brilliantly. Children at his age learn so quickly. Now, I should be taking you through to meet the guests, rather than keeping you locked away in the kitchen like Cinderella.’
‘Really, it’s fine. I’ll check the beef.’ I walked over to the range and bent down to retrieve the joint and the roast potatoes. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve added some honey and sesame seeds I found in the pantry to give the carrots some flavour.’
‘Goodness! I don’t mind at all. I’ve never been much of a cook and it’s been heaven having you do the lunch. What with Rory, and this troublesome house, not to mention my job, which I desperately need to pay the bills on it, I’m constantly chasing my tail. I’ve been offered a fantastic commission to paint a mural in France, but I just don’t know if I can leave Rory . . .’ Marguerite’s voice trailed off. ‘My apologies, Star, these aren’t your problems.’
‘You’re an artist?’
‘I’d like to think I was, yes, although someone said to me recently that I merely design wallpaper.’ Marguerite raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, thanks for today.’
‘I don’t mind helping, really. What time do you want to eat? The beef is done, it just needs to rest.’
‘Whenever you’re ready. Everyone who comes to High Weald is used to waiting for as long as it takes.’
‘How about half an hour? If you have some eggs, I can make Yorkshire puddings.’
‘Oh, we have eggs; the chickens run free range round the kitchen garden. We live on omelettes here. I’ll get them for you,’ she said as she walked into the pantry.
‘Mag! I’m hungry!’
I turned and saw Rory entering the kitchen.
‘Hello,’ I signed, then tried to mimic Orlando’s hand movements from earlier, clapping my hands together twice, then sweeping my palms flat upwards and forwards. ‘Happy Birthday,’ I managed.
He looked startled, then smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he signed back. Then pointed at the range and tapped his wrist as if there was a watch, before shrugging his shoulders in a question.
‘Lunch is ready in thirty minutes.’
‘Okay.’ Rory made his way over to look at the beef.
‘Cow,’ I signed, putting my fingers against my head in little horns. Rory burst into giggles and made the sign back to me with the correct finger placements. I took a knife and sliced a little off the joint for him as Marguerite emerged from the pantry. Rory put it into his mouth and chewed it.
‘Good.’ He gave me a thumbs up.
‘Thank you,’ I signed by placing my fingers against my chin and then moving my hand away, hoping the French and British signs were similar.
‘Don’t tell me you know sign language as well, Star?’ Marguerite said.
‘I learnt some when I was young, but I’m not very good, am I, Rory?’
Rory turned to his mother and signed quickly to her, making her laugh.
‘He says your signing is dreadful, but your “cow” makes up for it. Apparently you’re a far better cook than me. You cheeky monkey.’ She ruffled his hair.
‘Mouse here,’ Rory said, as he gazed out of the window. He made a little darting motion with one hand, like an animal scurrying.
‘And about time. Star, do you mind if I leave you here for a while and go and entertain my guests?’ She put the eggs for the Yorkshire puddings down on the table.
‘Of course not,’ I said as Rory grasped his mother’s hands and dragged her out of the kitchen.
‘I promise to be back to help you serve,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘No problem,’ I said as I went to the pantry in search of flour.
During the next half hour, I put some of the tricks I had learnt on my course into practice, and by the time Marguerite returned, lunch was ready. I’d sourced serving dishes from the pine dresser and Marguerite’s eyebrows raised in surprise as I began handing her dishes to carry through.
‘Goodness, I’d forgotten where all this china had got to. Star, you really are an angel to do this.’
‘I don’t mind. I’ve enjoyed it.’
And I had. It was rare I got to cook for anyone other than CeCe. I was just thinking that perhaps I should place a card in our local newsagent’s advertising my services when a man appeared in the kitchen.