The Undomestic Goddess
Page 55
“Don’t fall asleep!” Iris’s voice jolts me back to the present. “This is our reward! Nathaniel love, put Samantha’s roast chicken down there. You can carve.”
I open my eyes to see Nathaniel carrying over the serving dish bearing the roast chicken, and feel a fresh glow of pride. My first roast chicken. I almost want to take a photo.
“You’re not telling me you made this?” says Nathaniel.
Ha ha. He knows full well I made it.
“Just something I rustled up earlier.” I wink at him. “As we Cordon Bleu chefs do.”
Nathaniel carves the chicken with an expert ease, and Iris dishes out the vegetables. When we’re all served she sits down and raises her glass.
“To you, Samantha. You’ve done splendidly.”
“Thanks.” I smile and am about to sip my wine when I realize the other two aren’t moving.
“And to Ben,” Iris adds softly.
“On Sundays we always remember Dad,” Nathaniel explains.
“Oh.” I hesitate, then raise my glass.
“And now.” Iris reaches for her knife and fork. “The moment of truth.” She takes a bite of chicken while I try to hide my nerves.
“Very good.” She nods at last. “Very good indeed.”
I can’t stop beaming. “Really? It’s … good?”
Iris lifts her glass to me. “By George. She’s got roast chicken, at any rate.”
I sit in the glow of the evening light, not talking much but eating and listening to Iris and Nathaniel chat. They tell me stories about Eddie and Trish, about when they tried to buy the local church and turn it into a guest cottage, and I can’t help laughing. Nathaniel outlines his plans for the Geigers’ garden and draws a sketch of the avenue of limes he created at Marchant House. When he gets animated he draws more and more quickly, his hand dwarfing the stub of pencil he’s using. Iris notices me watching in admiration and points out a watercolor of the village pond, hanging on the wall.
“Ben did that.” She nods toward Nathaniel. “He takes after his father.”
The atmosphere is so relaxed and easy, so different from any meal I’ve ever had at home. No one’s on the phone. No one’s rushing to get anywhere else. I could sit here all night.
As the meal is finally drawing to a close I clear my throat. “Iris, I just want to say thank you again.”
“I enjoyed it.” Iris takes a forkful of plum crumble. “I always did enjoy bossing people about.”
“But really. I’m so grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. Is there any way I can repay you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Iris takes a sip of wine and dabs her mouth. “Next weekend we’ll make lasagne. And gnocchi!”
“Next weekend?” I stare at her. “But—”
“You don’t think you’ve finished? I’ve only just started on you!”
“But … I can’t take up all your weekends …”
“I’m not graduating you yet,” she says with a cheerful asperity. “So you have no choice. Now, what else do you need help with? Cleaning? Washing?”
I feel a twinge of embarrassment. She clearly knows exactly how much of a mess I got myself into the other day.
“I’m not really sure how to use the washing machine,” I admit at last.
“We’ll cover that.” She nods. “I’ll pop up to the house when they’re out and have a look at it.”
“And I can’t sew on buttons.”
“Buttons …” She reaches for a piece of paper and a pencil, and writes it down, still munching on the crumble. “I suppose you can’t hem either.”
“Er …”
“Hemming …” She scribbles it down. “What about ironing?” She looks up, suddenly alert. “You must have had to iron. How did you wriggle out of that one?”
“I’m sending the clothes out to Stacey Nicholson,” I confess. “In the village. She charges three pounds a shirt.”
“Stacey Nicholson?” Iris puts her pencil down. “That flibbertigibbet?”
“In her ad she said she was an experienced laundress.”
“She’s fifteen years old!” Galvanized, Iris pushes back her chair. “Samantha, you are not paying Stacey Nicholson to do your ironing. You’re going to learn how to do it yourself.”
“But I’ve never—”
“I’ll teach you. Anyone can iron.” She reaches into a little side room, pulls out an old ironing board covered in flowery material, and sets it up, then beckons me over. “What do you have to iron?”
I open my eyes to see Nathaniel carrying over the serving dish bearing the roast chicken, and feel a fresh glow of pride. My first roast chicken. I almost want to take a photo.
“You’re not telling me you made this?” says Nathaniel.
Ha ha. He knows full well I made it.
“Just something I rustled up earlier.” I wink at him. “As we Cordon Bleu chefs do.”
Nathaniel carves the chicken with an expert ease, and Iris dishes out the vegetables. When we’re all served she sits down and raises her glass.
“To you, Samantha. You’ve done splendidly.”
“Thanks.” I smile and am about to sip my wine when I realize the other two aren’t moving.
“And to Ben,” Iris adds softly.
“On Sundays we always remember Dad,” Nathaniel explains.
“Oh.” I hesitate, then raise my glass.
“And now.” Iris reaches for her knife and fork. “The moment of truth.” She takes a bite of chicken while I try to hide my nerves.
“Very good.” She nods at last. “Very good indeed.”
I can’t stop beaming. “Really? It’s … good?”
Iris lifts her glass to me. “By George. She’s got roast chicken, at any rate.”
I sit in the glow of the evening light, not talking much but eating and listening to Iris and Nathaniel chat. They tell me stories about Eddie and Trish, about when they tried to buy the local church and turn it into a guest cottage, and I can’t help laughing. Nathaniel outlines his plans for the Geigers’ garden and draws a sketch of the avenue of limes he created at Marchant House. When he gets animated he draws more and more quickly, his hand dwarfing the stub of pencil he’s using. Iris notices me watching in admiration and points out a watercolor of the village pond, hanging on the wall.
“Ben did that.” She nods toward Nathaniel. “He takes after his father.”
The atmosphere is so relaxed and easy, so different from any meal I’ve ever had at home. No one’s on the phone. No one’s rushing to get anywhere else. I could sit here all night.
As the meal is finally drawing to a close I clear my throat. “Iris, I just want to say thank you again.”
“I enjoyed it.” Iris takes a forkful of plum crumble. “I always did enjoy bossing people about.”
“But really. I’m so grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. Is there any way I can repay you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Iris takes a sip of wine and dabs her mouth. “Next weekend we’ll make lasagne. And gnocchi!”
“Next weekend?” I stare at her. “But—”
“You don’t think you’ve finished? I’ve only just started on you!”
“But … I can’t take up all your weekends …”
“I’m not graduating you yet,” she says with a cheerful asperity. “So you have no choice. Now, what else do you need help with? Cleaning? Washing?”
I feel a twinge of embarrassment. She clearly knows exactly how much of a mess I got myself into the other day.
“I’m not really sure how to use the washing machine,” I admit at last.
“We’ll cover that.” She nods. “I’ll pop up to the house when they’re out and have a look at it.”
“And I can’t sew on buttons.”
“Buttons …” She reaches for a piece of paper and a pencil, and writes it down, still munching on the crumble. “I suppose you can’t hem either.”
“Er …”
“Hemming …” She scribbles it down. “What about ironing?” She looks up, suddenly alert. “You must have had to iron. How did you wriggle out of that one?”
“I’m sending the clothes out to Stacey Nicholson,” I confess. “In the village. She charges three pounds a shirt.”
“Stacey Nicholson?” Iris puts her pencil down. “That flibbertigibbet?”
“In her ad she said she was an experienced laundress.”
“She’s fifteen years old!” Galvanized, Iris pushes back her chair. “Samantha, you are not paying Stacey Nicholson to do your ironing. You’re going to learn how to do it yourself.”
“But I’ve never—”
“I’ll teach you. Anyone can iron.” She reaches into a little side room, pulls out an old ironing board covered in flowery material, and sets it up, then beckons me over. “What do you have to iron?”
