“It’s quail,” I correct her.
Jemma grabs one with her hand and looks at it sceptically. “They looked like chicken wings from a distance.”
And she bites. Yes. She holds the quail firmly in her hand and takes a big bite.
My mother almost faints, so much so that she asks to have some lemon squeezed into her water.
“Jemma,” I call her, swinging my fork in an attempt to draw her attention and suggest that she uses the cutlery.
I can only think of one word: Neanderthal.
Jemma struggles with the cutlery and I hear her mumble: ‘Sodding little bones.’ Then, she gives up, puts the cutlery on the table and pushes her plate away.
“Serve the dessert,” I order sharply, but I’m partly relieved because this will put an end to this disastrous dinner. Thank God for that.
Jemma sinks her spoon into the white foam inside her dessert cup, she sniffs it and drops the spoon back in it. “Where’s the real dessert?”
“That’s the real dessert, Jemma,” I hiss, irritated.
“Listen, I played the shaving cream prank myself, but I was four years old!”
“This is syllabub. It’s been popular since Tudor times and this particular version is from the Parker family’s recipe book,” my mother replies icily.
“Is there anything with chocolate in your family’s recipe book?”
My mother breathes slowly in order to keep calm. “Not this evening.”
I start peeling an apple, wanting the dining room floor to swallow them up.
“What’s for tomorrow evening? Biscuits stuffed with toothpaste? Or dish soap ice cream?”
My mother loses her temper: “I can’t tolerate our culinary tradition being ridiculed by a fried chicken eater!”
“Well, fried chicken is far better than a bony little bird!”
My mother’s face is contracted in disgust. “Miss, before you can decide what is to be served, you need to learn some table manners. I’m not used to having savages at dinner!”
“Ladies,” I cut in, standing up. “I’ll be at the club.”
*
I’m out! Out! Out! Away from that madhouse. For the whole journey I hold the steering wheel of my car as tightly as a prisoner holds a sheet to escape.
I thought it was impossible to find a woman whose character is worse than my mother’s, but I have changed my mind. And now, these two women live in the same house: mine.
They are never quiet, they have an opinion on every single thing, and they feel the uncontrollable need to share them all with me. Half a day like this, and I’m already exhausted.
I had never thought that I would have to hide in my own house, but I’ll have to invent all sorts of tricks in order to avoid them.
Anyway, I fooled them both tonight. I grabbed my jacket, my keys and I said goodbye. I’m going to the club, which is strictly reserved for gentlemen.
“Duke of Burlingham,” says Furber, the butler at the club, greeting me with a bow as I give him my raincoat and umbrella.
“How’s life, Furber? Are there many people tonight?” I ask, taking a look at the half empty rooms on the first floor.
“Not too many, for now.”
“Is Harring here already?”
