Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

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СКАЧАТЬ plate it’s a light salad in progress,”

      I replied flippantly.

      “Normally he’d give the lettuce leaf his middle finger. Then hurl it in the bin and not bother. In your dad’s new world an uncut tomato or a hunk of cheese might herald a

      Mediterranean flavour in the offing,” Gramps added. “Come to that if pressed, he might even open a can of something and reheat.”

      “Anything but actually cook, you mean?”

      “Yes. What he needs are hotel guests who don’t want to eat anything.”

      “He’d prefer to go hungry than prepare a meal himself,” Gran sighed. “He’s always been that way.”

      When Dad was able to steer well clear of the kitchens his spirits visibly soared.

      “Courtesy of your Gran we have inviting kitchen aromas this morning.” Dad lifted his chin and did an exaggerated sniff that reminded me of the old Bisto gravy advertisements ‘Ah! Bisto’ . “Bacon frying at breakfast, onions browning in a pan from about mid morning. Guaranteed to stir anyone’s digestive juices.” Dad beamed his pleasure. “Well done, Mother. It’s the edible equivalent of an orchestra tuning up. How’s about the simmer of a mild curry later in the day?”

      “I don’t do curries.”

      “Why not, Gran?” Pandy asked.

      “Better ask your Gramps.”

      Gramps was thoughtful. “They’re too hot going down, and even hotter on the way out, that’s why, Sweetheart.”

      Pandy giggled.

      “But I did say mild, Mother.”

      “Mild or not, it’s like having a Bunsen burner in your knickers,” Gran was thoughtful for a moment, “but I’ll do liver and bacon, instead.”

      When we were without guests it was only family being enticed by Gran’s smell-a-vision. Dad considered heady beckoning aromas like fresh bread baking to attract more trade but that was frowned on by Gran. When she saw the direction Dad was headed, she

      panicked, and Gran being our only cook, meant we adopt an instant policy of buying-in fresh bread. We were about to move on when Gran intervened. “But not that new fangled sliced bread. You can’t use that.”

      I was dumbfounded. “Why not?”

      “Because it’s not as good and fresh as uncut bread,” Gran explained, “at home Gramps always cuts whole loaves with our bread knife.”

      I looked at Dad. He looked at me.

      In his eyes I could see that he needed support. Any support.

      “Gran,” I paused until I had her attention. “Maybe Gramp’s eyesight is reason enough to doubt how uniform those slices will be.”

      Dad recovered well. “John’s right. Irregular shaped wedges may pose a challenge in our new high-class world, Mother. Added to the difficulty of them getting stuck in the automatic toaster.”

      “Not easily disguised by mood lighting,” I quipped.

      “At home we toasted our bread under the grill or by the fire,” Gran retaliated, “we’ve never had a toaster. No time for them.”

      “What if I draw lines for you, Gramps, with my school ruler?” Pandy suggested.

      “Splendid idea, Sweetheart,” replied Gramps with a huge wink at Pandy.

      This is like the blind leading the blind, I thought.

      After much coaxing, it was decided to use sliced bread and not whole loaves.

      Dad smiled his rally to the flag smile. “Come, come, family. The job, without

      sentimentality or favour, is to entice patrons to eat here. To achieve that we’ll need to

      prepare nothing but the freshest of ingredients for consumption. Anything that walks, hops, runs, crawls, swims or flies, and more besides if that’s what diners want.”

      Gran went into meltdown, again.

      Dad took a deep breath. “Relax, Mother, we don’t need to be an abattoir ourselves.”

      “Do you mean dead animals, as in really dead?” Beau asked, who’d overheard our

      conversation in part, while struggling with a sack of spuds nearly as large as himself and his cane.

      Dad glared. “Is there any other kind of dead?”

      Beau looked confused. Dad continued, “Only fresh dead as in their pulses recently petered out,” he reinforced, and then as an afterthought, “and only fresh squeezed fruit juices will be served at breakfast, nothing that’s been preserved.”

      “Wow! Aren’t we the fucking Windsors,” Gramps exclaimed.

      Beau was impressed too. “You know, Gov, in all the years I’ve been here I’ve not seen anything that moved outside of what came in an A10 sized tin.”

      When he realised animals, alive or dead, may threaten his quiet basement existence he added, “But beware, kind sirs, should there be a full moon on the wane.”

      “Or any other supernatural crap,” Gramps muttered, in a stage whisper that could be clearly heard twenty yards away.

      Beau looked hurt. “I’ll have you know that frequencies are external sources. They’re like vibrating radio bands.”

      “You’d best go off and have a vibration with yourself then,” Gramps glared at him.

      Beau shrugged and continued with the spuds.

      “We need to get on. Next on our agenda is tea bags,” Dad announced from his notes.

      Gran shifted uncomfortably. “I refuse to use them.”

      We all looked at Gran. This time I stayed quiet. But someone had to ask.

      It was Pandy. “Why, Gran?”

      “Because they’re not proper tea, Sweetheart. They’re sweepings from the floor, and mark my words, they’ll never catch on. Not here. English people expect a decent cuppa not a new-fangled useless bag full of rubbish.” Her voice rose, “Next you’ll be adding milk and sugar last.”

      Pandy frowned.

      “Do you know how Moses makes his tea?” Gramps asked.

      Dad sighed.

      “Hebrews it.”

      Dad ignored Gramps and explained for my sister’s benefit. “What your Gran means, Pandy, is only foreigners and English royalty put milk and sugar in last. We always put milk and sugar on the bottom, the tea is on the top, when poured English style.”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ