Trisha Ashley - Every Woman For Herself

‘King Charles?’

‘Not unless he was a bitch.’

‘Take this stuff off my table, Jessie,’ Em ordered. ‘I’m trying to get dinner ready.’

‘I thought we could have something a bit different tonight,’ Jessica said, with a sort of determined jolliness. ‘The girls don’t really like all this meat and stodge, and I’m sure it’s not healthy for a man of Ranulf’s age. And there are vegetables other than mushy peas, you know! So I’ve got some pasta, and sun-dried tomatoes and pesto—’

With one sweep of her muscular arm Em cleared the table, and Flossie found herself under a sudden rain of Cellophane packages. She sat up, looking vaguely surprised.

‘Sod off out of my kitchen,’ Em said. I was relieved she was taking it so well.

Jessica laughed and began to retrieve her goodies. ‘Now, Emily, I know your bark is worse than your bite, so—’

‘No it isn’t,’ I assured her earnestly. One of Em’s bites from a childhood disagreement we had still aches in cold weather, and I certainly don’t come between her and anything she wants, any more than I’d come between a hungry dog and a big, juicy bone.

‘Perhaps we could have pasta tomorrow?’ persisted Jessica. ‘I’ll just put everything in the cupboard, shall I?’

‘You can put it anywhere you like, as long as it isn’t in my kitchen,’ Em said.

‘I – I think I’ll go and see Ran,’ Jessica said, backing towards the door.

‘Do that,’ Em said, and added, ‘Frost’s behind you.’

The great grey lurcher had indeed silently approached up the hall, and was now looming with his sad yellow eyes fixed on her.

Jessica gave a squeak of terror and shot off into the study, slamming the door.

They didn’t emerge until dinner was ready, when Father looked excited and exhausted in equal measure, which I don’t think was caused by writing the book.

The giggly little twins, Chloe and Phoebe, were decanted by someone’s mother at seven. They looked about nine, and were attenuated versions of their mother, with legs like liquorice laces. The presence of Father and Em seemed to subdue them, but once they were sent off to bed they could be heard giggling for ages.

Gloria Mundi (whose only comment on seeing my shorn, silver locks had been: ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of ower stairs!’) stayed for dinner, but Walter had eaten a coddled egg and several scones in the kitchen and gone off to the pub.

Gloria would generally have gone too, by now, but had stayed in order to make sure I ate enough for ten people, and went to bed early. But then, I always was her favourite – probably because I was the runt of the litter.

She sat opposite, smiling at me, her pale bright eyes glowing in her crumpled face like stars in a net. She was about as close to a mother figure as we’d ever got, and it was comforting that night to have someone trying to mollycoddle me, even if, as predicted, she did make me drink a herbal brew that tasted as if it had been strained through an old sock.

Miss Grinch had been an absolute tower of strength, but Gloria was glorious.

Skint Old Cook, No. 1

How to Tell Your Mushy Peas from Your Pease Pudding

These two northern delicacies are easily distinguishable from each other. Mushy peas are simply, as the name suggests, dried marrowfat peas soaked overnight and then cooked until they go mushy and give off liquid. Much runnier than pease pudding, they are often served with chips or pies. The canned variety can be an interesting shade of green – try them with potatoes and gravy for an enticing mixture of colour combinations. Your dinner guests will never forget it!

Pease pudding is a solid, grey-greenish stodge, sometimes sold in little tubs. Made from split yellow peas boiled to a thick paste, it’s cheap, filling and full of fibre. For the desperately hungry and/or hard up, use it as a sandwich filling.

It tastes better than it looks, as so many regional delicacies do: after all, weren’t jellied eels once memorably described as looking like a bad cold in a bucket?

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