More of something completely different

“Supposing I don’t want to wear it?”

“Well supposing you don’t? You think I want to wear it? You just go ahead and do it anyway.”

Lizzie sniffed it curiously. It smelt of – of – something hard and chemical. A thick smell that caught at the back of her throat. She sniffed again, thinking of long days spent with her grandmother, and nights tucked up in a bed where the sheets were as unyielding as board, ironed and stiffened on ‘washday’. This was every Monday, when her grandparents’ house would transform into a witches cave of steam and powder, and her grandmother would preside over a cauldron of brew, from which grey cloths would emerge a blue-white. Washday. A way of life. A peg on which women hung their lives out to dry in the cold wind. It was only when it stopped, when Grandad went out with Lizzie’s Mum and bought a washing machine, that they knew ‘Nan’ was really ill. Lizzie had thought they’d have to sneak the new machine past her, and then have to make excuses when she saw it.

In the end she never saw it. No one ever knew it was going to be her last trip up the stairs, because it all came more gently and suddenly than that. When they cleaned her sheets, she paused only momentarily at the smell of blue fabric conditioner where starch had once been. Eyes flickering, mind a million miles away. Lizzie hated the smell of fabric conditioner. ‘Summer meadow fresh’ and ‘cool winter pine fragrance’ smelt of death to her. She preferred starch. To her mind it was more honest.

“For heaven’s sake girl! What’s the matter now?”

“It smells …nice.” And Lizzie sniffed it again.

“Well, come on.” One side of Veronica’s mouth twitched involuntarily.

She liked the smell of starch too. To Veronica starch smelt of order, of cleanliness and of propriety. On days when the customers were terse, the food was cold and payday distant, Veronica wanted nothing more than to scurry down to the basement and snuffle amongst the freshly starched aprons.

Of course she never did it.

“We can’t stand around here gassing all day. The evening meal will be down in ten minutes.”

The dining room was perched in an ungainly fashion on the first floor. It had the unmistakable, slightly self-conscious air of an afterthought. It was not there by design, but by accident (“aren’t we all?” said Veronica darkly). Half way down the room a protruding lintel and two pillars betrayed where a wall had been knocked out, and right next to the entrance to the kitchen, stood a rather incongruous fire place. Someone had filled the space where the fire would go with a screen, onto which had been pasted some pictures of flowers in fiery colours of red and orange, now browning and fading in the winter sunlight. The lights in the room were orange coloured, and came on with a loud electrical humming noise, and only warmed up slowly and laboriously. The light they gave was citrus and cast a heady glow, but was never quite bright enough. In the meantime, everyone peered through the fiery coloured gloom at their surroundings, their dining companions and their food, and tried not to scrutinise any of it too closely.

Like Archie before her, Veronica gave Lizzie a whirlwind tour of the dining room. “Tables one to eight, clockwise, here round by the windows. Eleven is by the door. Nine, ten, and twelve to nineteen run up and down here in rows… no table thirteen – punters don’t like it. Twenty four is the little one tucked away by the door. All the rest run as you’d expect, in the main body of the dining hall.” Lizzie struggled, “Oh, it’s quite simple when you know what’s what!” barked Veronica, and bustled off to the far door, flinging it open and waving aside the steam. “This is the kitchen.” Lizzie peered in curiously. “This is Keith, and this is Sam.”

“Hello” Two voices spoken expertly in time.

“Hi.” There was an awkward pause. “ Lizzie.” said Lizzie, helpfully, tapping herself on the chest.

“Hello Lizzie.”

“What’s on the menu today?” Veronica whipped a tiny notebook from somewhere about her person and her pen hovered above the blank page.

“Lasagne. Cheese salad. Or roast turkey.” said Sam, nodding towards a large tray of sizzling food, topped with cooked cheese that had begun to separate into an oily film. Or was that Keith?

“All served with potatoes parmentieres, green beans, and swede.” Said Keith. (or perhaps Sam) nodding towards another tray of food, with the same cheese on top, the same oily film. Potatoes ‘parmentieres’ turned out to be some variant of mashed potato, crushed to the same grey colour as Lizzie’s eyes, and covered in a layer of grated mild cheddar. The beans had been darkly sweated to the colour of old raincoats.

Standing above the food with an air of the proud parent about them, were Sam and Keith. They had the same pale hair, the same heavy, wide features, the same faintly smiling dark eyes, and the same economy of phrase. They spoke softly and moved slowly, as though energy were something precious to be conserved at all costs.

“Bye.” they said. And one of them turned to give a slow smile as Lizzie and Veronica left the kitchen.

“Veronica…?” Lizzie was wondering which one had been Sam, and which one Keith, and how she would tell between them, even if Veronica knew. But Veronica had a mental timetable to keep to.

“Once you’ve taken your order, take it through to them. They’ll deal with it and let you know when it’s ready. Several things: serve all the courses to a table at the same time. Unless one course is going to take significantly longer than the others. In that case, ask if it’s okay, and serve the rest. Never serve one person their next course while someone’s still eating the previous one. Unless of course either the guests are in a hurry or we’re in a hurry, in which case disregard everything I’ve just said. We serve tea at the end of the meal. Unless they want it first, in that case, they can have it. All the stuff for tea is in the kitchen, Sam and Keith will show you where. We sell wine – you’ll see that on the menu. It’s locked up in a cabinet over there. But no one ever buys it. Don’t worry about that. This-” Veronica bustled over to a table, “is how we set up. Knife, fork, spoon, butter knife, etc. all in the normal way. Napkin, folded, pressed – napkins and table cloths come from the basement. When you’re on time-” Veronica’s eyebrows spoke volumes, “I can take you down there again and you can help me set up. When we’re fuller, people might want to mess it around, move about, add on a place, move someone off, squeeze up to make more room. Don’t let them give you any nonsense. If you think something’s going to make your job harder, you tell them. The guests-” and Veronica’s nostrils flared in a conspiratorial manner, “will take all manner of liberties, young woman, and I Don’t Just Mean with the place settings. You look out for them.” She pursed her lips and nodded knowingly to a baffled Lizzie, who tried to nod knowingly back.

continued