Jonathan Alleyne had never felt at home anywhere in his life until he found himself in the kitchens of the King.
Born in 1967, of a Bajan mother and a British father he never knew, in a minute box room in an attic in Soho, he regularly found himself torn between two worlds – the bright sunny beaches of Barbados and the gray rainy streets of London. He spent most of his youth in the former, for when it was clear his father was never planning on making another appearance, his mother whisked him off across the sea to live with her extended family.
Jon was quite happy in Barbados for the early years of his life, having never known anything different. He started to see less of his mother, as she lost interest in her child to explore the other thing that his father had burdened her with – a dependence on illicit substances. Sometimes, she would disappear for weeks at a time.
The Alleynes were not a wealthy family. The Alleyne house was small, cramped, and packed with four generations. The house was regularly fit to bursting. Jon was often overwhelmed by how many bodies were in the house, and the number seemed to constantly change. At one time he counted three aunts, three uncles, six cousins, one niece, four grandparents, and one ancient great-grandfather, but all that mattered to him was that there was no mother.
Jon’s Gran, his mother’s mother, saw his pain and most likely linked it with some of her own. She took him under her wing and raised him almost as if he were her own. She kept him with her as she pottered around the kitchen making sure everyone was fed. Cooking was taught to him vicariously, while she actively taught him the ways of the world, his need for manners, how to conduct himself. She was good to him in a way he’d never known.
Jon shared a bedroom with his Gran, but when he was old enough he had to move into a room with the six cousins and only three bunk beds. They made him sleep on the floor. He was different to them – he knew it, they knew it, it was plain to see. As children always did, they seized upon that, weaponised it. They used to break into a chant whenever Jon entered the room – ‘Is he White? Is he Black? Dunno where he came from but send him back!’ Jon’s light skin would always mean he did not fit in the Alleyne house.
It was not until his mother’s funeral in 1983 when he really felt his tremendous displacement. He did not cry as his mother was lowered into the ground, surrounded by a town full of mourners who seemed far more interested in her now she was dead than when she was alive. After it was done, he sat on the church steps with Gran and he told her that he had to leave.
Gran did not stop him – she spent a month’s income from her cleaning business to buy him a plane ticket to England and give him enough to get settled. She was the only one who went to the airport to see him off. ‘You do this for you, dear child. You go out there, and you find what you’re looking for. Because the Lord isn’t going to bring it to you. And your momma isn’t neither. It wasn’t the drugs that killed your momma, Little Jon. It was the fact she didn’t know what she was doing here. You go, Little Jon. See the world. And more importantly, let the world see you.’
Jon, only sixteen years old, did cry while watching Gran disappear as his plane rolled onto the runway. He found his tears then because he understood somehow that he would never be back and that he would never see her again and that she had known this all along. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and, instead, found a piece of paper. He unfolded it. It was full of Gran’s swirly scrawl, indecipherable to the untrained eye. But Jon understood – it was her recipe for flying fish, her most prized possession. And that gave Little Jon a place to start.
Jon’s early days in London were defined by exhaustion, loneliness, and a dwindling motivation. He was able to use Gran’s money to rent a small room in Islington, but not to furnish it. He slept on the floor for a year, spending his days trying to get a job at any restaurant that would take him. He got lucky a few months in, as a new establishment was opening up in the West End.
Caribbean Plaza was purportedly a high-end Caribbean fusion restaurant, just around the corner from the Lyceum Theatre, and poised to take full advantage of the theatrical crowd. Jon was taken on as a dogsbody – chopping vegetables and washing dishes. He was just happy to earn a wage.
As the years went by, Jon had the chance to step up into a junior chef role and become part of the team in the kitchen. He was content with how his life was going, finally finding somewhere he thought he could belong – until one night changed his life.
On an unassuming Wednesday in 1989, the restaurant was to be closed to the public for a very exclusive party of guests. The head chef and part owner, Jason Heartland, would not tell any of his team of the guests this party consisted of, just that they had to give their all for the service, and that this was one of the biggest nights for the restaurant in its history.
Jon saw this as a chance to prove himself even further. He was assigned a dish, the duck, and he would be expected to deliver the highest quality all night. As service began, the duck was in high demand, until the worst happened. They ran out, just as another order came in. Heartland swore loudly as he saw the number of the table who had just ordered, but his eyes lit up as he told Jon that he would have to go out and personally apologise to the table. Jon knew what that meant – he was being used as the scapegoat, even though he was not in charge of stock.
Jon tentatively stepped out into the dining room to a sea of black-suited white men. The sight made him pause at its oddity. The man, the woman and the two daughters of his destination table seemed to be the only average, if slightly overdressed, diners. As he approached the table, he started to have the strangest feeling that he knew the young family. He had seen them somewhere before – maybe on the street, or on television, or in the newspaper.
It didn’t really matter who they were though. What mattered was he could not serve them what they had ordered. It turned out that one of the daughters, both looking to be about six or seven, had ordered the duck. Jon apologised profusely as he said that they could order from the menu again or he could make her something personally. The glamorous woman tutted into her wine, but the man was amicable. He said that he would much prefer something personalised too.
Back in the kitchen, Jon kept his head down and talked to no one, even when asked what was happening. If this were a fable, Jon might have made the man and his daughter his Gran’s flying fish recipe, but alas it was not. He rustled up a simple goat pelau, adding flourishes to elevate it to restaurant standard, and took it out to the table. The man thanked him and that was that.
Heartland pulled Jon into his office after service when everyone else had left and started to berate him. Jon had many rebuttals – he was not in charge of ordering produce, and if that was the most important table then why were ingredients not held back for their order? – but he knew where this was going. He was getting sacrificed.
Until there was a knock at the office door. The man from the table appeared from nowhere, and Heartland became very flustered. The man apologised and let him continue, so Heartland did. Jon found himself without a job, in two simple words.
The man at the door frowned and turned his attention to Jon. To his – and Heartland’s – surprise, the man offered him a job. Jon accepted, even before he realised the man was the King of England.
So, no, Jon Alleyne had never truly had a home. But the kitchens of the various castles he attended as the King’s chef were the closest he had ever come. These were now the places that inspired homesickness if he was away from them for too long. This was where his team, not unlike a family, resided.
But today, Christmas Day, it was just himself, in a room that was built to function with twenty, thirty people, all working in tandem. Jon was meant to be a link in the chain, and now he was the whole chain itself. Self-pitying did not cook a meal though. So he began, quickly organising himself at one singular station. His mission was a simple one – provide a Christmas dinner of the highest quality, one that felt as though it were prepared by the usual number of staff.
His chefs had done what they could. Late last night this kitchen was filled with personnel carving carrots, parboiling potatoes, unsheathing sprouts, and boiling beef skin and bones for the gravy, among other activities – all working in tandem. It was the standard nightly ritual before a big event, but this time was slightly different. The actual work the next day would have to be undertaken by a sole chef.
Him.
It had seemed insurmountable at the time – now faced directly with it, it was even worse. He took a deep breath, and put on his white double-breasted jacket (pristine white now, but for how long?) as he got back to the kitchen – his mind swimming with tasks that needed to be done. Almost absentmindedly, he slipped the Christmas card from the King into the small gap beneath a preparation table and above one of the waist-high fridges. He didn’t even have time to open it.
He got to work. The turkey needed prepping, stuffing, and seasoning. The slow-roast duck needed a reduced temperature in twenty minutes, as it had been in since he’d risen. The gammon was ready to go in, but that had to be timed right. The potatoes – Jon’s specialty – were the key and would have to be carefully monitored. The vegetables needed checking. The bread sauce needed finishing. The starter – a British Christmas soup of Jon’s own concoction – and one of the desserts – a traditional trifle – needed to be conjured up in their entirety, as all but the Christmas pudding needed to be fresh. Those were just the major jobs. So Jon began.
There were to be eight members of the Royal Family present at the Christmas banquet: King Eric and Princess Marjorie were joined by their twin daughters, Princesses Emeline and Maud, the latter of which was joined by her partner, Thomas Crockley, and their two children, Princes Matthew and Martin. Princess Emeline was courting, but her partner, Anton Blake, had not been invited to the castle, which was likely to come up at some point. Rounding out the party was Prince David, the King’s younger (although, at a certain age, that distinction seemed moot) brother, whose presence was likely to be the looming shadow over the day. It was not Jon’s place to speculate, but he was sure that no one actually wanted Prince David there. There was an ugliness prevailing around the King’s brother, but the government was keen to move past it and must have appealed to the King for David’s place at the table.
Jon had observed that the entire family seemed to be on rough ground, or at the very least rougher than usual. Not one for eavesdropping, it was still impossible for Jon not to hear the short snippy conversations and the curt untoward remarks to one another, coupled with the fact that the Windsor family had not all been in the same room for quite some time.
Princess Emeline had arrived just two days ago from her home in Yorkshire, more than a week after she had been due to come, which was likely due to the fact that she would understandably rather be spending Christmas with her beloved. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Princess Maud’s family unit had been at Balmoral for nearly a month and never usually stayed in one place for so long. They were positively bouncing off the walls, with only Maud leaving for the odd engagement.
The King and Princess Marjorie always avoided each other, and Jon was not unaware of the disdain they shared, set against the backdrop of a love that they couldn’t quite remember but must have been nice at the time. Marjorie had become something of a blizzard herself the last decade, and although Eric’s true feelings were often hidden behind rhetoric, Marjorie frequently attempted to tell anyone and everyone exactly what she thought about her family when she had had a tipple – and tipples were becoming a startlingly regular occurrence.
Analysts reported Princess Marjorie’s change in demeanour towards the King as well as his (and officials’) consistent refusal to allow her the title of queen. Jon had not known this to be a part of legislation until it had become relevant, but while a queen’s husband was not the king, a king’s wife was usually the queen, so in that context, it was slightly odd that Marjorie was still a princess. The Princess Royal, but a princess nonetheless.
A timer buzzed as if the universe were reminding him of what he should concern himself with. He thought on what that particular timer had been for, and then checked the duck and turned the oven down, setting a new timer for when he had to check it again. He used egg timers, and colour-coded them with minuscule Post-it notes. He coded the duck timer red. Now he just had to remember what red meant. He put it on the side.
Next, Jon prepped the turkey. The bird had been seasoned two days ago so it would be as succulent as possible. Firstly, he carefully pierced the skin and lifted it, spreading a homemade garlic butter underneath. Then, he wrapped the turkey in the finest Scottish pancetta that money could buy. He prepped the shallots, garlic, and carrots that would be cooked in the tin with the bird and then put them inside it partway through cooking. Finally, he arranged the roasting tin, and put the turkey in the oven. He spun a timer to the desired length of time, coded it yellow, and put it next to the other one.
The bread sauce was a major component – King Eric’s favourite. As a chef, Jon saw the value in all types of different dishes, ingredients, condiments, and components. He knew that, although he had preferences, everything had its place in world cuisine. There was one exception, however – Jon could not understand how anyone could even tolerate bread sauce. The mere name, bread sauce, made Jon feel queasy, but the King practically begged Jon to make it every Christmas.
Jon continued to do what he could for his other tasks – the other components of the dinner. The gammon had a green timer. The soup had a purple timer. The pudding had an orange one. When Jon was done, there were six egg timers on the prep table.
He stopped for a moment to update his list of jobs, using the towel tucked into his waistband to dab at his brow. He knew that he was overdoing it, but what else was to be done? He sat down for a moment to catch his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a figure standing in the archway at the entrance to the kitchens. There was only one person it could possibly be – one who had a habit of popping up at the worst times.
Tony Speck announced his arrival, unnecessarily, with a severe clearing of the throat. His mountainous frame had been pressed into a crisp black suit – happily denoting his role as head of security – and he was currently zipping up a blue parka that was somehow even smaller for him than the suit. ‘Taking a break, Alleyne?’ He was an odd specimen – an ex-SAS powerhouse who was now being house-trained with a newly acquired pencil moustache. Jon didn’t like the fellow, but even he had to concede that it was hard not to feel safe around him. ‘I trust everyone has had their breakfast.’ His voice was devoid of anything denoting character, which in a way was all one needed to know about him.
‘I took the King his breakfast personally. I highly doubt Princess Marjorie will rise until dinner. Prince David requested no breakfast last night. And the Princesses were quite adamant that they wanted to prepare their own.’
Speck sighed, forcing Jon to meet his gaze. It involved peering upwards, even though Jon was quite far away. Speck seemed positively repulsed. ‘Princesses getting their own breakfasts? Jesus. And you let them get it, did you?’
‘I wouldn’t know. Breakfast is usually served in the kitchens closer to the bedrooms. Are they even awake yet?’ Jon inspected at the clock. It was eight a.m. Where had the time gone? He couldn’t be standing here making idle chitchat.
‘Princesses going to the kitchens?’ The exact same diction and tone. It was really rather impressive. ‘They’ll be popping to the shops next.’
‘Well, let it be known that the royal revolution started with a bowl of cornflakes,’ Jon snipped. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘Yes, Alleyne, I need you to go down to the drawing room and make sure everything is well for the rest of the day.’
Jon could not quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Sir, I am rather busy here. Could you not do it? Or ask – ’ He stopped there. There was no one else, no other name to finish that sentence with. It was quite the adjustment to realise this.
‘No, Alleyne, I am going to patrol the grounds. Hence the parka. A blizzard such as this would make a perfect cover for some kind of assassination attempt, don’t you think? Look, I know this situation is not ideal, but it is what it is. So, be a sport and do as you are told.’
Jon’s eyes fell on his list. There was too much to do, but Speck was of a higher rank and Jon did indeed have to do what he was told. He looked back up to see that Tony Speck was already gone, fleeing to a less chaotic place – a blizzard.
Jon let a long and steady breath out before ripping off his jacket and stuffing the timers into his pockets.