Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel by Bowen Rhys

Author:Bowen, Rhys [Bowen, Rhys]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2020-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

After Chef Lepin had gone, I wandered into the section of the market that sold household goods and bric-a-brac and found a stall selling fabrics. These were fabrics for the common people, no silks or brocades amongst them, but I found a length of a cotton weave that felt soft and pleasing to the touch. It was in a pretty bluish green that would go well with my hair and colouring, and it seemed extraordinarily cheap to me. I added a couple of yards of thin muslin lining, then I went off to find Claudette’s mother. After many directions and pointings, I found her dwelling up a flight of stone steps ascending the castle hill. She greeted me cordially when I explained that her daughter had sent me, and I handed her the cloth. I found her extremely difficult to understand—her local accent was so strong, and she lacked most of her teeth—but the gist I got was that the cloth was of inferior quality and she didn’t know if she could make a decent dress out of it. I explained that I had very little money. She said she would try and took my measurements. I went away not feeling too hopeful. Had I wasted precious money on something that would be useless? But how was I to know? I had had no experience in selecting fabric for my clothes; in fact, I had not had new clothes for many years. At least it would be better than nothing, and if it didn’t last, as the old woman had suggested, I didn’t really care. And if I liked the quality of the woman’s work, I would splurge and spend some of my hard-earned wages on a new wardrobe.

I reported back to Mr Angelo. We tried a dish using the aubergine, peppers and onion—sautéing them together with the forbidden garlic and tomatoes, then declaring it to be quite interesting. After my description of the market, Mr Angelo decided he would order his meat through the hotel, just to be on the safe side. “I know what I like,” he said.

I also told him that we had been invited to join the French chefs at their dinner that evening. He thought it was quite neighbourly of them. I wasn’t so sure. I suspected it was Chef Lepin’s way of saying, “Look what we can do.” A way of scoring points over the stupid English.

We got down to work, discussing what meals we should prepare for Her Majesty’s arrival.

“She will have been travelling for two days and be tired,” Mr Williams said. “A light meal, easily digestible. Maybe a soufflé? A fish dish? A roast capon?”

“I think she’ll be starving,” Mr Angelo disagreed. “There is no proper food served on the train. No dining car. They have to take it on at stations and keep it hot for her. I think we should tempt her appetite. Make her glad she’s arrived. Give her some of her old favourites. We know she

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