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Yuan Ju’s first week went well, although no one would have used the word comfortable when she was in the kitchen. It only seemed to relax when all the workers were there and the talk was loud; or when Mrs Cromwell had taken herself off, which did not always happen, as she liked to be there to pass comment on her daughter and her frankly bizarre choice of help around the home.
Daisy twisted inside and passed her loathing and anger on to Pitt.
Yuan Ju seemed to spend even longer in the kitchen on her first Saturday. A long morning preparing breakfast and lunch, the afternoon devoted to dinner. At just after four o’clock she appeared beside Daisy in the front garden wearing a light summer coat. Daisy had forgotten that the agency had told her Yuan Ju would need every Saturday evening away from the farmhouse.
Yuan Ju stood with her small black shoes neatly placed together. She bowed her head, and turned and walked down the long path through the trees to the gate.
Daisy went into the kitchen to see how Ju had left the room, suddenly worried that she would have to prepare dinner for her mother and husband. Five days and already she had lost any confidence. The kitchen was immaculate; the table set for dinner; the oven light was on, a dish was cooking on low heat; the air was filled with a wonderful, exotic aroma.
Daisy’s chest relaxed with relief; tightened with annoyance at the efficiency. The door opened from the laundry and her mother creaked into the room. The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. An argument never seemed more than one sentence away.
‘She’s gone,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
‘She’ll be back tomorrow,’ replied Daisy. ‘She gets Saturday evenings.’
Mrs Cromwell gave a desultory nod.
‘Evening starts early,’ she muttered. She looked at the clock, walked slowly to the kitchen table, an affected walk that became worse every time her daughter was in the room, and sat down, straight-backed.
‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Cromwell, with the forced casual air that always precluded bile, ‘you can make some proper food for dinner. God knows what you were thinking.’
‘She prepared something already,’ said Daisy, as ever mustering more confidence in speaking to her mother than she felt. ‘If you don’t like it, you can make a sandwich.’
‘God knows what you were thinking,’ repeated Mrs Cromwell. ‘I don’t know why you couldn’t just have done all the work yourself. You think I had someone to help me?’
Daisy had only once answered that question. The ensuing argument had drained her enough to ensure that on future occasions she would let it go.
‘She’s only been here five days and now she’s got a night off,’ continued Mrs Cromwell. She had raised her child in a small two-bedroomed flat in Hounslow; yet now she viewed herself as the matriarchal figure, presiding over the long-standing family business.
Having an Asian cook somehow gave her the feeling of empire; this was how it would have been in Shanghai in 1890. Should the cook get any time off at all?
‘I’m surprised anyone eats anything anymore,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
Daisy had a knife in her hands. She wondered if she would have the strength to do it; take her mother’s life. Turn and throw, or walk deliberately behind her and slit her throat.
The door from outside opened and Pitt walked in, removing his hat. He saw the two women; saw that Yuan Ju was not there. He knew nothing of her leaving, assumed she was in the laundry or somewhere around the house. He would only realise she was gone when Daisy served dinner. At least it would be apparent that, while she was serving it, she definitely hadn’t cooked it.