Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 5 Jack

Chapter 5

Jack

Norfolk, December 1952

I changed my mind three times as I lay in bed that morning, turning my thoughts and feelings over and over, trying to find some enthusiasm for my impending new role. In another life—a life where Andrea had not crossed that road—I would have been excited, if a little nervous, to get started. As it was, all I felt was an overwhelming desire to hide beneath my bed covers and fade into oblivion. But that wasn’t possible here, with Maggie and Ivy bustling about, and the constant gentle encouragement to face another day. Eventually, I dressed and made my way downstairs to wait for Mason to arrive. I’d finally decided I’d rather be in a kitchen than anywhere else—the place where I was most comfortable, most myself.

Mason pulled up outside the house just before seven, as arranged.

“Ready?” he asked as I opened the car door.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. I guess.” I gave a shrug and tried to smile, but what emerged was more of a grimace. Mason kindly pretended not to notice my reserve, my hesitation, and general disposition.

We didn’t talk much on the way. The silence suited my mood and the peaceful morning.

As we approached the gates to the estate, a mist arose from the immaculate lawns. We were met instantly by a guard, who checked our names and papers, after which, we were waved inside the gates. The house had a red-brick facade with cream trim, dozens of windows, and several small pointed roofs in the Dutch style. The sprawling grounds were beautiful even in winter, intersected with winding paths and bordered by evergreens and holly bushes. Acres of woodland were scattered beyond the gardens that hugged the house. Sandringham was so different from the colder, stately grandeur of Buckingham Palace in the best way possible, and despite my unshakable sadness, I found myself warming to its charm.

Mason parked near the stables and showed me to the easternmost wing of the house, where the kitchens were located.

“The kitchens are quite far from the dining room,” he said as we walked. “The Duke of Edinburgh often complains about the food being cold. Takes a while to ferry all the dishes on trolleys and lay it out on the buffet. I don’t know what we’re to do about it.” He shrugged. “It’s an old house. The Victorians certainly didn’t think the way we do.”

The main kitchen itself was definitely in need of updating, the appliances and pots and pans were heavily used and worn. The few newer contraptions looked ill-fitted in the cramped room. The staff clearly made do with what they had, including separate workstations, much like those at Maison Jerome. It appeared they operated with the same French hierarchy as Jerome’s as well. I felt the smallest sense of relief. One less thing I’d have to learn.

“There’s talk of renovations,” Mason added. “But who knows when that will be. I’m sure it would cost an absolute fortune. Now, let’s get you kitted out, chef!” He sorted through the linens and handed me a freshly starched double-breasted chef’s jacket and a pair of trousers, along with a crisp white apron and hat.

“Thanks,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed at the prospect of finding my place in a new team, learning the rhythm of an unfamiliar kitchen.

I clung to Andrea’s encouraging words, repeating them in my head like a mantra.

The air was thick with the smell of bone broth boiling away on a gas burner. The music of the kitchen that I knew as well as my own heartbeat swirled around me. There was nothing I loved more than the clang of pots and pans, a chorus of voices shouting orders, a chef singing to the roasted duck as it was stuffed and trussed and sauced. The rhythm never failed to sweep me into its current as I plated a tender pork loin, or arranged a fan of crisped potatoes dusted with flake salt and chives.

Something sparked inside me for a moment before flickering out again.

“You’ll report to Max Barrington,” Mason said. “He’s the head chef.” He pointed to a man with dark hair and a barrel chest. He wore a pristine white chef’s coat with miniature Union Jacks on both sides of his collar. His face was cragged from age and hard work; his hands were thick with muscles forged over years of chopping vegetables and whipping eggs and sugar. His toque blanche—the familiar pleated chef’s hat—made him appear ten feet high.

I paused, unsure how to proceed.

Mason clutched my shoulder with brotherly affection. “Max will decide what you’ll be doing each day. I’ll be around if you need anything, too, but I’d better get to it.” He joined the crowd of kitchen staff.

I took a deep breath and scooted expertly around the others, busy at their stations, racing back and forth for ingredients, or carrying dirty dishes to the sink. The place whirred like gears in a well-oiled clock.

At Max’s prep table, I paused, watching as he plated scrambled eggs topped with smoked salmon before someone—presumably a butler, or a footman—whisked the plate immediately away to a cart already laden with a teapot, sugar and milk, a silver rack with delicate triangles of toast, and small silver dishes filled with preserves. In an instant, breakfast was wheeled out of the kitchen and down a long corridor.

“That’s it, then,” the head chef said, exhaling. “We’ll start on lunch prep in fifteen minutes.”

I cleared my throat. “Pardon me, chef. I’m Jack Devereux.” I extended a hand. “A temporary hire, for Christmas.”

Max raised an eyebrow at me. “ Very happy to have you here, Jack.” He wiped his hand on his apron and shook mine firmly. “You’re American?”

“Yes, chef.”

“Southern, by the sounds of it.” He smiled warmly. Judging by the laugh lines around his eyes, I got the sense he smiled often.

I nodded. “New Orleans, but I’ve lived in London since the war ended.”

“New Orleans!” Recognition lit his dark eyes. “Spent some time there myself—a long while ago, mind. My mouth was on fire the whole time. Loved every minute of it!”

I felt my shoulders relax. “We do love our spices and peppers.”

“What kitchen experience do you have?”

“I’ve worked at Maison Jerome for the past seven years. Galley cook in the US Navy before that. And a childhood spent at my grandpa’s side—he owned his own restaurant.”

At this, he smiled again. “No better teacher than a grandfather! As for Jerome Laurent —you must be classically trained, I imagine. And sufficiently shouted at.”

I felt heat around my collar. This was the part I always dreaded, explaining my lack of a formal culinary education. At least Max knew what a bully Jerome could be. “I was shouted at plenty, but I’m not classically trained, chef.”

“I see.” Max eyed me a little more closely. “Well, we don’t need a Michelin-star chef to help for the next few weeks. We’re happy to have you.”

I liked this man instantly. If he had the arrogance of most head chefs I’d met, it was hidden beneath a warm nature and perpetual grin. The exact opposite of Jerome. Something about that pleased me.

“I was sorry to hear about your wife,” Max added. “Bloody awful news. Hopefully a busy kitchen will help to distract you.”

I stiffened at the mention of Andrea, her presence conjured instantly, hovering and cloying like a cloud of perfume.

I choked out a “Thank you, chef.”

“Right. There’s plenty to do. Come, I’ll show you around.”

I followed him, lump in my throat, but grateful for his stiff British ways and his reluctance to dwell on my emotions.

He took me on a tour of the kitchens, pointing out the various stations and the storage cupboards. He also underscored the kitchen rules before setting me loose. For the next three hours, I ferried vegetables, cheese and cream and dozens of other items to the chefs’ and sous-chefs’ stations; washed dishes, scrubbed tabletops and butcher blocks, emptied buckets of carrot ends and pepper husks and onion skins that would be fed to the estate pigs. In short, I was an errand boy. Under any other circumstances, I would have been irritable at the barrage of simple tasks, but today, I was thankful for the mindless work.

I lost myself in the work and the sea of new faces, watching my temporary boss alternate between barking out orders and sharing jokes with his staff. It was clear they respected him, and that he respected them. As I heard his belly laugh echo against the cabinets and the gleaming windows, I realized why I liked him so much: he reminded me of my grandpa.

Pascal Devereux had shared Max’s jovial nature and friendly—if firm—way with his staff. I remembered how he used to bustle around his restaurant kitchen in the French Quarter, a quaint little place down the road from our home, cooking up turtle soup, game pies and oyster gumbo, candied fruits and eggnog, and small fried cakes dusted in sugar. He’d dance along with the jazz band that played on Friday nights, pulling customers from their chairs to join him. Grandpa knew nearly everyone who walked through his door, and those he didn’t, he’d made into friends by the end of their meal. He was a man who inspired joy in everyone he met. It felt like only yesterday that we were cooking side by side, tasting another of his new dishes. “You need to feel the recipe, boy,” he’d say as he took a bite and closed his eyes. “Stop trying to be so exact about everything.” And I was exact about everything—I liked things orderly, logical, and as presentable and predictable as possible—a habit born of an absent father and a flighty mother never at home.

As I ruminated on my dear old grandpa and lost myself in memories, I slid into the rhythm of this new kitchen. And silently, I thanked Ryan and Mason for being good friends—for throwing me a life raft when I needed it most.