‘Where’s Sorrel? Thisisa special lunch for her.’ Robyn repeated Jayden’s question as the others stood around, not quite sure where to put themselves.
‘And what have you done with Fabian? Have you left him behind?’
‘We set off together.’ Robyn frowned. ‘He said he was popping up to The White House before heading down here. He’s not been up to the place for a couple of days and wanted to see how the kitchens were coming along. He’s so excited – it’s all he thinks about.’
‘I’mhere,’ Sorrel shouted, appearing at the door before attempting to battle her way through the Easter-egg-laden crowd. This was beginning to resemble some sort of on-stage farce: one door opening as another closed. I began to count on my fingers: I’d originally catered for seven, but with Dean, his mother and Jayden, we were now up to ten. Could I even fit ten round the kitchen table? Oh, forget ten, here wasanotherbody. Everyone turned as Sorrel pulled Joel Sinclair through the doorway where he’d been hovering on the doorstep, introducing himself to Arthur rather than making his presence known and adding to the confusion in the kitchen.
‘Joel, how lovely to see you.’ Robyn went to give the boy a kiss on the cheek (should a teacher be so familiar with one of her pupils? I wondered) and everyone turned again.
‘I did try to ring you, Jess,’ Sorrel said.
Joel, handing over a bunch of primroses, murmured, ‘Look, if this is a bad time, Mrs Butterworth…’
Seeing the sixteen-year-old’s utter embarrassment, and that he was obviously about to turn and leave, I took the proffered spring flowers from him and ushered him towards Kamran, Mum and Robyn, who were pouring champagne into crystal flutes. ‘You’re very welcome, Joel,’ I said gently. ‘You’ve had a bad time recently, I know. Oh, and please, it’s Jess.’ I patted Joel’s arm and headed for the fridge.
* * *
‘What exactly is this, Jess?’ Pat Butterworth poked suspiciously at her starter, her elbow knocking over Kamran’s glass of water as she did so.
‘It’s a chicken, black olive and truffle terrine with baby leeks, Pat,’ I managed to get out through gritted teeth as I mopped the table with kitchen paper. Thank goodness I’d made plenty, the long terrine more than enough to feed the eleven we’d ended up with. Well, ten. Fabian hadn’t yet put in an appearance and Robyn, despite several phone calls, didn’t appear to know where he’d got to.
‘And is itforeign?’ I was brought back from wondering where Fabian was by Pat’s plaintive tones.
‘Foreign?’
‘Well, you know, it doesn’t look very English, does it?’ Pat actually sniffed at her forkful of food before nibbling cautiously at the contents like a rabbit, her nose twitching both at the starter’s fragrance and taste. ‘You see, our Dean likes to have Yorkshire pudding as a starter. You know, before the roast. Well, we all do. It’s traditional, isn’t it?’
‘Yorkshire pudding as a starter?’ Kamran smiled at Pat, pouring wine for her. ‘Never heard of that one.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you?’
‘Wouldn’t I?’ Kamran appeared puzzled.
‘Well, you know, you’re not from Yorkshire, are you? Not English even.’
Kamran laughed politely. ‘I think my birth certificate says I was born here in Yorkshire. And in England.’
Pat sipped at her glass of wine, screwing up her face at the beautiful amber liquid which obviously didn’t meet with her approval. ‘D’you think I could have a cup of tea, Jessica? Wine does have a tendency to make me bilious. And then I’ll be awake all night as well with cramp and restless legs. I’m a total martyr to my legs in the middle of the night.’
‘Tea?’ I stared, fork halfway to my mouth, momentarily distracted from the starter, which I knew was just right: it was fabulous, tasted heavenly. I added a tick to my mental scoreboard.
‘I’ll make you one, Granny Pat.’ Lola slid from the cork-topped stool that had been brought over from Lisa’s bathroom, not meeting my eyes.
‘Well, yes, that’s what it willsayon your birth certificate,’ Pat went on. ‘But, I mean, you’re notEnglish, are you? I’m sure where you lot all come from it’s all very exotic and the like… and I’m not saying anything against it… you know?’
‘Not really, no, I don’t know. Do go on.’ Kamran smiled and cocked his head questioningly at the older woman.
Pat looked somewhat disdainfully round at the rest of the guests who were, to my delight, tucking into the starter with relish. ‘I mean, how many of these people round this tablecancall themselves English?’ She looked pointedly across at Jayden and then at Joel manfully trying to engage in conversation with Mum while breaking his bread roll politely, butter on the side of his plate, and who, up until today, had not actually met any of our family. Apart from Robyn, of course. ‘Me and our Dean are the only really fully white folk here.’ Pat Butterworth paused, pleased to see she now appeared to have a bit of an audience.
‘Black lives matter, Pat.’ Sorrel shook her head at the woman.
‘Andblack olives mattertoo.’ Kamran grinned, chasing the last morsel of black olive round his plate with his fork. ‘Jess,’ he called up the table, ‘we have to have this on the menu at The White House.’
‘The thing is’ – Pat wasn’t letting it go – ‘and I’m sure you can understand this, I do sometimes feel I’m anethnic minority– isn’t that what it’s called? – in my own country. It’s come to a pretty pass when England’s ended up with a prime minister who isn’t English. I was reading only this morning in the paper?—’
‘So, who’d you like in charge, Patricia?’ Jayden leaned across the table towards Pat, adopting an over-emphasised Jamaican patois for effect, despite my glaring in his direction.
‘I’d feel a lot better if Mrs Thatcher was back at the helm.’ Pat pouted. ‘We all knew where we were whenshewas in charge.’
