Питер Ловси - On the Edge

Everything she required was somewhere nearby, only had to be found first. It took the best part of an hour to collect all the ingredients, chop the meat and onion and take it through the frying stage, but she got engrossed in the cooking and didn’t fret about the time.

She hadn’t felt so pleased to be preparing food for months. Cooking lost its appeal when your husband told you frankly that he regarded eating as ‘stoking up’. Barry would have cheerfully stoked up every day with baked beans if they were put in front of him. It wasn’t as if Rose hadn’t tried to educate his taste. Time and again, notwithstanding rationing and shortages, she’d put some special dish on the table after queuing and cooking most of the day only to see him bolt it without looking up from the evening paper.

She stirred in two tablespoonfuls of curry powder, enough, she decided, to produce the strong curry Hector expected without altogether masking the other spices, for she’d found ginger, garlic and paprika lined up on the dresser. Raisins, sliced celery and chopped apple and tomato went into the pot to simmer with the meat until it was tender. Reggiori’s had better watch out!

By then it was getting on for half past four. She washed up and thought about setting the table. It ought to be ready for when he came in. Where was the dining room, she wondered. She didn’t want her famous curry to be eaten off the kitchen table.

She dried her hands and went to explore. She felt she’d earned the right to try those doors in the hall.

As she switched on a light she gave a cry, half admiring, half envious. A spacious, beautifully proportioned room, cream and pale green, with an oval table that could have seated a dozen easily and still didn’t dominate. A fire had been laid in the grate, so she put a match to it and watched it take. Then she went to the windows and drew the curtains. They were ivory-coloured velvet and they skimmed the floor.

She found silver cutlery, placemats and napkins in the top drawer of a mahogany sideboard opposite the fireplace. Like the cooking implements, they’d not been given much use.

It was while she was setting the place for Hector that she had a paralysing thought: why was she putting out a dessert spoon? There was nothing to follow. She’d been so absorbed in preparing the curry that she hadn’t given a thought to the rest of the meal.

There had to be some form of dessert, but what? There wasn’t much time. What would be acceptable after a piping hot curry? Something moist. Fruit? After all the trouble she’d taken with the first course it would be a dreadful letdown just to open a tin of peaches.

A fresh fruit salad would be better. Coming out of Regent’s Park tube station on the way to Antonia’s she’d passed a stall selling apples and pears and there had been hardly any queue to speak of.

She looked at the time, shovelled some more coal on the fire and collected her coat.

On the way she thought of something better. There was a story her mother delighted in telling about the evening Daddy had thrown his annual dinner party at the rectory for the church wardens and their wives. It had always been a staid affair. That year Mummy had found a recipe for pears poached in red wine which proved to be such a success that two or three of the guests had become merry after second helpings. When they’d all tottered out at the end of the evening, Daddy had asked what the recipe was called. Mummy had given an innocent smile and said, ‘Wardens in Wine’. A warden, she’d discovered, was an old English name for a pear used in cooking.

She’d noticed several bottles of Burgundy lying on their sides on the floor of the larder. If there were any pears left on the greengrocer’s stall, her problem would be solved.

Although it was almost dark, the man was still there, working under an electric light bulb. Rose bought three large Comice pears. Twenty-five past five. Ten minutes’ preparation and twenty for the poaching. She could just get everything done in time.

The simmering curry was giving off a rich aroma when Rose got back to the house. She checked that the fire was burning well in the dining room and then set to work in the kitchen. While she was peeling and coring the pears, her thoughts returned to Antonia. How odd that any woman equipped with this dream of a kitchen could take no interest in cooking. Terribly sad, really, that Hector devoted his working life to manufacturing labour-saving machines for women and was married to someone who didn’t appreciate them in the slightest. Perhaps Antonia should have employed a cook. Well, she has, in a way, Rose thought, smiling. I’m in service here. I’m not doing it from altruism. I’m under an obligation to her; she killed my husband, so I cook for hers when she goes away. Not a bad division of responsibility from my point of view.

In fact, I’m enjoying it. It must be years since I had such a satisfying afternoon.

It was too bad that oranges were still blue books only. A few thin strips of peel would have completed the dish. At least there was spice. She added sugar and a few cloves. Then she brought it all to the boil and let it simmer.

Time to heat some water for the rice.

I wonder if Antonia has any idea what a treat this is for me. Or, come to that, what a treat is in store for Hector. To be fair, she provided all the ingredients. That meat is superb. It smells delicious.

She’s so inconsistent, talking to me about wanting to do away with Hector, and then going to no end of trouble to see that he’s properly fed.

Unless...

Unless I’ve totally misunderstood what’s going on.

Please God, no!

She’s capable of it.

She knows I’d refuse point blank if she asked me to administer poison to her husband. But what if I’m unaware of what I’m doing?

‘Be generous with the curry powder.’

Curry will mask the taste of arsenic or strychnine or whatever she managed to obtain from her boyfriend Vic, the chemistry lecturer. The plan is horribly clear. She went to her mother to give herself an alibi. In my ignorance I’m about to serve up a poisoned curry for Hector and kill him. When she comes back from Manchester she’ll fill in the blank death certificate and have him cremated.

Or am I imagining this?

He’ll be here any minute.

Hector opened the kitchen door and looked in. His eyes lit up when he saw her and he gave a huge sigh of relief, almost as if he’d expected somebody else to be there.

‘Smells nice.’

‘Please ignore the smell.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry. There won’t be any curry after all.’

He gave a gurgle of amusement. He was going out of his way to be pleasant. ‘It’s done. I can smell it. Where is it?’

‘It’s gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘Down the toilet.’

‘Is this a joke, Rosie? You wouldn’t make fun of me?’

‘It was a bad curry. You couldn’t possibly have eaten it. I’m going to try and do something else instead. It won’t take long, I promise. Do you like omelettes?’

‘Please — my curry — what went wrong?’

He put it to her with good-natured concern, as if enquiring after the health of a friend. Rose felt compelled to give him an answer. What she told him, however, was a lie. If he was convinced that his wife had set a trap to poison him, he’d go straight to the police. Even if he was unconvinced, he would want an explanation. As sure as God made little apples, the truth about Barry would come out.

She did her best to make it plausible. ‘I suppose I was nervous. Something went wrong in the cooking.’

‘You burnt it?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I can’t smell burning.’

‘No. It was what went into it. The ingredients. They weren’t right. I’d like to try again tomorrow, if you’ll allow me. I’ll get it right next time. Now will you please let me cook you an omelette or a fried egg or something?’