Rancid Pansies by James Hamilton-Paterson Read Free Book Online Page A

which a perverse pride is taken in elevating crisis fare to the status of national delicacy. Baked beans spring to mind. Salad cream is another example, bearing the same relation to gastronomy as Bryl-creem does to hairdressing. At this nonplussed moment Jennifer returns.
    ‘Oh, hullo, Spud,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise you’d arrived. I was just getting Josh to bed.’
    ‘Evening, Mrs C. I’ll be getting out of your way.’
    ‘There’s a crate of your favourite in the cellar, if you wouldn’t mind? And I’m afraid we may be out of corned beef. Can you make do with cheese and pickle? And onions?’ And soon Spud is settled at a table in the scullery with bottles of Greene King ale and enough bread and cheese for a gang of ploughmen with tapeworms. Producing a rolled-up tabloid newspaper from a deep pocket in his boiler suit he looks all set for an intellectual evening with the Sun crossword.
    ‘Who on earth?’ I ask Adrian sotto voce when he comes in for some olives, and nod towards the scullery.
    ‘Spud? He’s Dougie Monteith’s driver. Or factotum. Partner, really. They’ve been together thirty years at least. Spud’s a Wykehamist, as I expect you could tell. He’s only ever called Spud, but I imagine he must have had a surname at school. You’ll meet Dougie shortly. He’s Sir Douglas Monteith, Bart. A real baronet, ancient family, total black sheep. Passed over for Lord Lieutenant of the county, probably for cohabiting with a Winchester man and much, much more.’
    ‘And Spud doesn’t eat with us?’
    ‘No, no. He doesn’t do formal. He lives quite happily in garages and sculleries and garden sheds and, we presume, used to make himself available in the master bedroom before Dougie got too old.’
    ‘Golly. So that’s what Lord Chatterley got up to that drove his wife into a gamekeeper’s arms.’
    ‘Presumably. It’s pure Suffolk. One foot in the twelfth century and the other in the thirteenth. One day someone’s going to wander into one of these villages and find them drawing up a list for a children’s crusade. How are your hors d’oeuvres?’
    In deference to my artist’s temperament Adrian hurries off to get everyone to the table while I briefly finish off my precious savouries in the top oven.
    There is something about the magic moment when oneenters a dining room bearing fuming dishes of one’s latest creation that can never quite be equalled. Alone, we artists know what it is to make an entrance. The great pianist who walks impassively through a heavy shower of applause towards his waiting instrument; the superbly starved supermodel who sets off down the catwalk, her eyes bright with cocaine; the actress who stalks imperiously from the wings in time for the Act 5 dénouement: all relish their professional moment of glory. But tonight I dare say Samper gives his public that little bit extra when he sails into the Christs’ dark-panelled dining room wearing Erminio Zaccarelli’s linen and merino suit and with a huge tray of original masterpieces. Which, I may say, I come within an ace of dropping when for the first time I have a look at tonight’s guests. Even though I know he will be there, the sight of a gorilla sipping a pre-dinner sherry is still disconcerting , and all the more so because the man inside the suit is making no concessions and is evidently prepared to dine with his costume’s head on. And the rangy aristo in the moth-eaten Norfolk jacket is … good God! … that appalling old buffer who only a few days before so rudely drove me out of his jungle domain full of Bloomsbury plants. Tonight his faded blue eyes hold not the least sign of recognition as he fixes his gaze on my crotch while politely inclining his head to hear his neighbour, who is … Marta! I don’t believe this. What is the frowsty old buzzard doing here, if not come to torment me with crowings over my fallen nest?
    ‘ Gerree! ’ she cries from her perch at the far end of the table.