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The day arrived for Agnes’s dinner-party. Preparations for this important event started two weeks previously. They commenced slowly at first, and then more rapidly with increasing momentum as the day drew near. Food and drink for thirteen guests now piled high in the small kitchen, and overflowed to a table, borrowed from the porter, and set up in the hall.
Good, thought Agnes, surveying the victuals, this evening is bound to be a success; it cannot fail to be good with Inga’s cooking.
In truth all the guests looked forward to the French dinner. The very sound of the words, ‘French dinner,’ was enough to induce gastric juices to flow and whet the appetite. The late war with the corresponding food shortages hit hard, and even now, more than ten years later, certain luxury food items were in short supply and not easily obtained. A continental dinner cooked by a Danish chef! Who could resist that?
That morning, Inga left the house early to collect her pay from the agent in Holborn. She promised Agnes that she would return in all haste to prepare for the evening. The success of the dinner depended very greatly on Inga, but Agnes had every confidence in her, and knew she would not let her down. Later than expected at eleven thirty, Inga returned looking very flustered. ‘Oh, I am veer sorry Miss. Braarken, the buses, they are bad on Saturday, I am having to wait a long time to return.’
‘There is plenty of time Inga,’ said Agnes, in a carefree manner as she sat looking very relaxed in the lounge reading a newspaper, ‘the meal does not commence until six, and we will not be eating until eight; so, we have time in plenty to make sure everything is just right.’
The meal, being French inspired, was ambitious. Agnes compiled a carefully chosen menu based on hints she picked up from La Petite Poule; but when she looked at her shopping list and realised how costly the ingredients were, she became seriously alarmed. The dinner would have to conform to a careful budget and corners reluctantly cut. Fortunately, for Agnes, Inga’s vast catering and cookery knowledge came to the rescue. She reassured her ambitious friend that a very respectable French dinner for thirteen people could be cooked and served with wine for a modest outlay. Agnes therefore left all the arrangements to Inga, and was pleased that the components of the feast, when tallied up, did not stretch her purse too far.
Agnes, despite her composure, that afternoon, followed Inga into the kitchen, not to help in any way, but to supervise the proceedings. The kitchen was to be out of bounds to the guests, and to some extent Agnes herself. This was Inga’s request, and in Agnes’s view, entirely satisfactory. Why should guests at a dinner party wish to visit the kitchen? Unless they suspected it was rat-ridden and dirty; and then they could not mention such things to the hostess anyway for fear of offense, and instead would opt to slink out unseen and not eat anything at all. The kitchen is the powerhouse and an area sacred to the chef. A place akin to the captain’s bridge or the engine driver’s cab. A kitchen is hallowed ground, and the guests must remain in the lounge.
Agnes had measured the table and after allowing a certain space for each guest, found they could all fit at a squeeze. They were three chairs short, but Agnes took an early morning excursion to reception where she found three office chairs that no one was sitting on, and these she borrowed. The table was now laid with the best of the crockery and cutlery belonging to Mr. Brown and now put to good use. She stood back to admire the display.
The French dinner comprised three courses. The first course was a French onion soup, fragrant with caramelised onions and herbs that Inga declared to be her speciality. For those who did not like soup, small cheese tarts, and liver pate would tempt the guests, and if these failed to please, well, they could cut their teeth on Inga’s fresh baked bread rolls. Inga cooked one main course, a beef stew that Agnes insisted be referred to as “ragoût de boeuf.” They did discuss serving chicken as an alternative to beef, but the cost prohibited this option. Two dessert dishes were to follow; baked egg custard and fruit cheesecake; or as Agnes called them, “crème brûlée and gâteaux au fromage.” Tea and coffee concluded the repast. The coffee freshly brewed in a percolator, and made from roasted beans with a dash of milk, became café au lait under Agnes’s watchful guidance.
‘Let me see what we have towards the meal Inga,’ said Agnes, walking over to a cardboard box on the kitchen table; ‘ah, these are the tarts with the cheese filling — tarte au fromage, I believe we have to say; very nice and homemade, these will do very well.’
‘Yes Miss. Braarken, and the cheese I paid small money. The grocer, he let me have it cheaply; and the pâté Miss. Braarken, it is not made from chicken liver, but with some lamb liver, with herbs from the garden and brandy, Mr. Brown’s brandy, it will be veer nice. Will you be wanting to taste now Miss. Braarken?’
‘No thank you Inga,’ said Agnes, frowning, ‘I will wait. You used Mr. Brown’s brandy; I hope not much as we mustn’t use anything belonging to him. When the guests are here, we must refer to the pâté as pâté de foie gras, and not just pâté, it sounds so much better.’
‘I do not use much brandy for pâté or it makes it bitter; my skill is knowing how much Miss. Braarken. And this is my surprise. You are wanting champagne but it is expensive, see what I have done,’ Inga went over and removed a cloth that covered some bottles at the end of the table to reveal a soda syphon and bottles of dry cider. The soda syphon belonged to Mr. Brown, but Inga assured Agnes that she would purchase some more pressure bulbs for the device if she used them all. ‘This is my idea for cutting expense Miss. Braarken, soda water mixed with cider is very like champagne. I have seen it done and people cannot tell from the real drink.’
Agnes stared at her, unsure and slightly horrified at Inga’s suggestion that cider and soda water could pass as fine French champagne, but when Inga pressed her into tasting the deceiving mixture, she admitted that it was indistinguishable from the real thing.
‘The same with wine, Miss. Braarken. I bought white wine, cheap dry wine but veer good quality. When for red wine the guests are asking, I add red colour.’ Inga held up a small bottle of cochineal. ‘When we are serving dessert, I am adding sugar to the white wine to make sauterne, I have seen it done Miss. Braarken.’
Agnes became doubtful, pursed her lips, and frowned. ‘Oh, I am unsure. I think I can tell the difference between white and red wines; I wish you had bought real red wine and dessert wine as I asked Inga.’
‘No, no, Miss. Braarken, you will be tasting again. You will be finding my mix as good as expensive red wine. Also, for the port served after dinner, I am using the same red wine with a little brandy and a small spoon of sugar.’
Agnes sampled the white wine, then the doctored red wine, and then Inga’s mock port, and much to her surprise declared them all excellent. She pondered over this discovery. It had not occurred to her before how we rely upon preconceived ideas, and how deceived we are by expectations and appearances. She felt the effects of the three generous tastings, and leaned back against the wall. ‘Now just to recap on the main course Inga, we have the beef and that’s easy, are you ready with everything else you need for the dinner?’
‘I want to start cooking now Miss. Braarken, long and slow is the way to make the beef tender; it is cheapest beef I am buying from Brixton market, and mushrooms and vegetable also from market. I was looking at horsemeat to buy but knowing you will not like it. Restaurants will cook with it, I have seen it done, and the customers, they do not know.’
‘I can take a step up from using horse,’ said Agnes, ‘I do have some money, beef is best. People will recognise the taste of horsemeat as they sold it during the war. Now, let us move forward, are the desserts ready?’
‘Yes Miss. Braarken, I have ready, and in the refrigerator, pots of baked custard and the cheesecake.’
‘Good. We must refer to them in French. These are of course the creme brûlée and the gâteaux au fromage — excellent! Lastly the coffee, and I see the percolator over there by the sink, and you bought the brand of coffee I asked for?’ Inga nodded, ‘well done.’
To Inga’s relief, Agnes returned to the lounge, pleased with the progress towards her dinner party. She wanted to type the menu on her portable typewriter, and could not do so until Inga had confirmed the courses. She rolled a sheet of paper decorated with flowers around the edge into her machine and typed the menu. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, ‘this will look nice set in a gilt photo frame in the centre of the table.’ There were also the place names to set on the table for each guest, but Agnes decided to handwrite these rather than to type them; they looked more personal when written in her fine cursive hand.
While she was writing the last card, the phone rang. It was Jeremy Spode, who was sorry, but something had come up and he could not make it. Oh well thought Agnes, that leaves more for the rest of us. She could not help thinking that he caught wind that Mr. Artole was going to be at the dinner, and that had put him off.
‘Twelve people now!’ she called to Inga, whose clattering of saucepans reached a crescendo in the kitchen, ‘the dinner might work out better with twelve rather than thirteen; it is an odd number, and unlucky for the superstitious.’
Inga did not hear. She was concerned about her frying onions burning, the overpowering smell was suffocating in the tiny kitchen, and she opened the window, releasing a billowing plume of onion rich steam into the cold white Balham sky. The small kitchen could not really cope with a meal on this scale, and harboured every whiff of smell and every ounce of steam. However, with Inga holding the whip hand, and by virtue of her careful planning, she calmed the bubbling saucepans, and the large pot containing the savoury beef, which she submitted to the oven. At last, the viands that could be prepared in advance were ready, and the boeuf bourguignon was coming along fast; becoming more fragrant and more French by the minute. Working in this small kitchen was similar to a ship’s galley with its close confines, and Inga’s thoughts turned to Bernt, drowned on that fateful passage across the North Sea. How suddenly can life change and hurl us from the peaks of happiness into the murky pits of despair. I was happy in those days, thought Inga, happy although I didn’t realise it; and now! She shed a tear into the potato pot. No! I must think forwards, what’s done is done and the future awaits, but what a strange situation I am currently in.
‘Did you hear me, Inga?’ called Agnes from the door, ‘twelve coming now as Jeremy has cancelled; he didn’t want to talk shop with Mr. Artole I’ll be bound. Now listen, I have the places set and put the name cards against each. I think it is better if you sit next to the door and I will sit next to you; that way, you can bring in the courses. I will be the wine waiter; have you the cloth to hide the bottle?’
‘Better than that Miss. Braarken, I have a Spanish wine bottle basket, a teacher at school has lent it. It looks nice, I am thinking.’
‘Good, yes, that is a good idea, the eye that doesn’t see the wine bottle label doesn’t grieve over the quality.’
‘Please Miss. Braarken, let me alone in the kitchen to get the food and the drinks ready, you are wanting to dress up I am thinking?’
‘Yes, yes, I will leave you to it Inga, I will go and change. I am going to wear my mauve twinset tonight, I feel purple looks regal on a woman, what will you wear tonight?’
However, Inga turned away to sort out the serving spoons and ignored the question. Agnes shrugged and went into her room to change. She smiled to herself. This will be an event spoken of and relished for months to come. Inga was a good cook; of that she now held no doubts.
Later, Agnes, in her mauve twinset, and wearing fashionable shoes in the same colour, paraded impatiently up and down the lounge, and finally slumped into a chair to await the arrival of the guests. At a little after five, the doorbell rang that made her jump out of her chair in nervous alarm. ‘They are arriving now Inga,’ she called, ‘they are early, but never mind, I wonder who is first?’ Agnes opened the door to reveal Miss. Primm, who stood with her hands in her coat pockets and a bag at her feet.
‘Hello Agnes, I know I am a mite early, but I got an unexpected lift from someone who was going to Clapham. Here is a little something for you.’ Miss. Primm handed Agnes the bag containing a bottle of sherry. ‘Just a little contribution to oil the proceedings, I never like to arrive empty handed.’
Agnes did not mind, and before Miss. Primm entered, thanked her by remarking that wine at a party was as welcome as oil for a car engine, and like a car, dinner party proceedings were just as likely to seize up without lubrication. ‘What am I saying? Come in, do,’ said Agnes, stepping aside, ‘and take off your coat and place it in my room. Oh! I see you have chosen mauve! Well, great minds think alike I suppose, ha!’
Miss. Primm was wearing exactly the same outfit as Agnes, and both women looked at each other in alarm for a few seconds. It was one of those annoying coincidences that cannot be predicted and spring up to baffle the unwary dresser from time to time.
Inga came out from the kitchen holding a tea cloth and looking very red in the face; she smiled and greeted Miss. Primm; she asked after her health. They had briefly met one evening at the technical college, and Inga felt that she knew all there was to know about Agnes’s tutor.
‘Now Inga, please,’ said Agnes, ‘for goodness’ sake have a break and get ready, the remaining guests will be here shortly, and you don’t want to greet them looking as you do — like a scullery maid.’
‘I am sorry Miss. Braarken, yes, I will be getting ready now. My preparations, they are complete, except for white sauce. I will be changing into my purple dress, it will be matching yours and Miss. Primm’s, I am thinking.’
Agnes glanced sharply at Inga who gave her the tea cloth before she disappeared into her room; she was about to speak, but Inga closed the door.
Miss. Primm grabbed the bottle of sherry from the bag and poured a glass. She held her drink aloft and said Skoal in a loud voice for Inga’s benefit. She imbibed a huge mouthful before pouring a similar bumper for Agnes. ‘Splendid! Splendid!’ she announced, running her tongue round her lips, ‘down the hatch Agnes.’
Before Agnes could take a sip, there came another ring at the door followed by an explosion of laughter. This could only emanate from one person, Michael. In he strode followed by the two nurses, Janet and Christine.
Agnes introduced them to Miss. Primm, who giggled following her glass of sherry, and insisted that tonight everyone should call her Prudence. She made a brief curtsy, to Michael, and said she was very pleased and honoured to meet them all. Hearing the name of the hospital where the nurses worked, she said that she attended that very place to have her tonsils removed... and not so very long ago, when she was a girl.
‘Oh, tonsils,’ cried Christine, ‘a useless organ, and a hot-bed for infection; whip them out, that’s what I say.’
‘Tonight, cool your tonsils with a flush of red wine,’ said Michael, drawing the cork from a bottle that he produced from under his jacket, ‘and no medical talk please, clinical matters spoil the appetite, and I already have a mental image of Prudence’s tonsils in a hospital kidney basin.’
‘Quite so, yes, quite so,’ said Agnes, ‘now please go into the lounge where you will find peanuts and other appetisers laid out for you.’
‘What, no music?’ said Michael, going over to look into the record cabinet, ‘we must have music, can I select something from your collection?’
‘Yes, please do, but be careful, they are not my records,’ said Agnes. ‘Ah! The doorbell, there is another one arriving, please excuse me.’
Mildred peeped nervously around the door when Agnes opened it, as if expecting a wild dog to spring out to savage her. ‘Please come in,’ said Agnes, ‘you are Mildred I presume? We have not met but Inga has told me about you.’ Mildred nodded and stepped into the hall, but at that moment a blast of jazz burst from the lounge that made her clutch the hall table in alarm. ‘Oh! I am sorry, that is too loud,’ said Agnes, ‘I must ask him to moderate the volume, now here is Inga, and she will look after you.’
Inga emerged from her room attired in a long deep purple dress that made her look taller and lankier than ever. She gave Mildred a hug, asked if her lodgings were still cold and damp, and was the mouse still there? Yes, was the answer to these questions.
A soft and more discrete knock on the door announced the arrival of Mr. Artole holding a bottle in one hand with another tucked under his arm. ‘I didn’t like to ring the bell as I could hear you talking through the door. I am glad not to be first, it shows unwonted keenness that will never do. Hah! Music... and Jazz! The heart of a good party is music. Well, we have the heart in place and here are two other vital organs.’ He presented Agnes with two bottles of fine champagne.
The remaining guests arrived just after six. The first of these was Grace, with her hair piled so high that she ducked under the door threshold to enter. She greeted Agnes with a blast of coughing, and handed her a box of chocolates. Next, and five minutes later, Brian arrived; who for this occasion, had a very short haircut that made him look like an escapee from a concentration camp. He handed Agnes a bunch of flowers that he said had come freshly picked from his mother’s garden. Then Silvia and Pauline arrived together, but as they did not know each other, walked from the bus, into the flats, and then into the lift without speaking.
‘Ah! Silvia,’ said Agnes, ‘come in do; and Pauline, how nice to see you both, did you meet in the lift? Silvia, this is a celebration for you as well, as your new job starts Monday does it not? Mr. Artole is here, but don’t let that worry you.’
Agnes made the introductions and seated everyone in the lounge, while Inga once more disappeared into the kitchen to put the final touches to the meal.
‘Well, this is all very nice,’ announced Agnes, who smirked and gazed at her guests in turn to make sure there were no downturned faces and everyone was happy. ‘Has everyone a drink? I see there are hands without glasses, and Mr. Artole, whom I have introduced to you as Arthur, but I will respectfully call Mr. Artole, has kindly given us champagne, the drink of celebration. So, who is for a tipple before the meal?’ Everyone did, with the exception of Mildred, who favoured orange juice. She whispered to Agnes that she had sipped wine once, but became worried that she should lose her inhibitions and become reckless.
Mr. Artole, aware of Inga’s absence, called her in from the kitchen and proposed a toast to their hostesses; Agnes and Inga, and to thank them in advance for what should prove to be a lovely evening. He then took Agnes aside with a worried look on his face to tell her in a subdued voice that he had some rather disturbing news.
‘I don’t want to cast blight on the evening, but something has come to light at Duncan Court which may or may not affect you. Keep this quiet if you please because there is currently a police investigation, and strictly speaking, I should not be disclosing this. One of the porters, you may know him as George Oram, has been arrested for stealing property from the tenants.’
‘No, really!’ said Agnes looking shocked, ‘I cannot believe that to be true, I have spoken to him on several occasions. I feel I am a good judge of character, and I cannot believe him to be a thief.’
‘Oram was arrested after stolen property was found in his flat; he has a one-roomer here as you may know. The case is quite clear but he is maintaining his innocence of course, they all do that. Anyway, I am telling you this because I am on the governing committee of Duncan Court, did you know that? The committee will shortly make this known to the tenants via a letter. I don’t suppose you have had anything taken, but please check because the police are holding property recovered from his flat.’
‘I still don’t believe it,’ said Agnes, ‘but I will ask Inga later; tomorrow perhaps. She has not said anything to me.’
‘Yes, please do that. Oram’s arrest, incidentally, clears up a spate of burglaries from the flats that occurred a while back; the thief was never caught, but it is likely that it was George Oram. I am sorry to dampen things seeing it is your party, but now seems like a good time before things get going. Pray do not think of it any more this evening. I can see Inga moving towards that dinner gong, and I think we will be summoned to the table.’