Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 19 Jack

Chapter 19

Jack

I was grateful that Max had insisted I stay in one of the cottages on the grounds. My four-thirty morning alarm woke me horribly early, and I was scarcely awake enough to get ready for the day. As I closed the front door and headed across the park, I noticed the cottage next to mine was dark and silent. When I’d finally fallen into bed the night before, I thought I’d heard the clack of typewriter keys through the shared wall and wondered what in the world could be so important that my neighbor was still writing at eleven o’clock.

When I joined the rest of the staff in the kitchen, we instantly busied ourselves with the day’s tasks. With only a few days until Christmas, more guests had arrived and our work had tripled overnight. I was glad to be assigned the kitchen staff “family” meal again later that day. It was a pleasure to be helpful to Max, who I’d grown to truly respect. He ran an efficient and orderly kitchen that produced some truly delicious dishes, and I wanted to impress him. I’d already made plans for what I’d cook next—and it would knock their socks off.

I pivoted to the dry pantry and the ice box and busied myself peeling shrimp and roasting tomatoes. Mason was working the station beside me.

“Did you hear about that woman from the BBC who was getting under everyone’s feet the other day?” he asked as he reached for a pot and lid.

I looked up from a fistful of shellfish. “Olive Carter?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t catch the name. You know her?”

“She’s an old friend, from a long time ago. We hardly know each other now. Ryan used to know her, too. Why?”

“She was here again yesterday. I heard that she fell on the ice and twisted her ankle. Now she’s laid up in one of the cottages until Evans can drive her back to London.”

“Sounds about right. She was always clumsy, but a good sport. We used to tease her, all in good fun. Too bad about the ankle.”

Max stopped and peered over my shoulder at my work. “I can’t wait to try that.”

“Shrimp and grits,” I replied. “A poor man’s food, but it’s delicious. It was one of my grandpa’s favorites.” This time, I hadn’t bothered to make a classic French or English dish with a twist. I was feeling emboldened by Max’s comments on my flavor combinations, so I figured it was high time I shared some recipes I’d grown up eating. Grits and polenta weren’t common in England, but cornflour was. Though it was ground finer than polenta, it would substitute nicely in a soft creamy base for the shrimp.

I laid out bowls for each of the staff and, moving left to right, carefully ladled the shrimp mixture over the cornflour and broth mixture. I’d made do without andouille sausage—too difficult to come by from our suppliers—and substituted a fresh fennel sausage with roasted chilies, a bit of smoked bacon, and added the must-have smoked tomatoes. I sprinkled each dish with a bright green mix of herbs and a healthy dash of black pepper.

When everyone was seated, Max reached for a clean spoon and scooped up a large bite. His eyes widened. “Good God, man. It’s rich. And delicious.”

I nodded. “Thank you, chef.”

Some really liked the meal, some were surprised by the spice, but I enjoyed watching everyone’s faces as they registered the flavors.

Mason grinned at me in a conspiratorial way. “You keep me on my toes, Jack. You need to teach me about your spice combinations.”

“Not a chance! They’re top secret,” I said, eliciting a laugh.

After the meal, Max motioned for me to follow him outside.

“You’re doing fine work,” he said. “In fact, I’d like to offer you a permanent position.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Yes, a permanent job on my staff. You’d be in line behind two others in terms of rank, but there’s room to move up. I could teach you a few things. You have some natural abilities and do really interesting things with spices, but it’s clear that you lack professional training. Bed and board are included, and the pay is decent.”

I was taken aback by the offer, and flattered. It was a far cry from being at the end of the line at Maison Jerome. Jerome hadn’t liked having an ambitious American in his kitchen, and he’d never taken the time to show me a damn thing. It was nice to be wanted.

“I’m really honored you should ask, chef.”

He smiled. “You should be.”

The knot in my stomach eased ever so slightly for the first time since Andrea’s death. “Would the position be here in Sandringham all year, or...?”

“No. We work at Buckingham Palace most of the year, and then a provisional staff stays behind in November when the rest of us retreat to Norfolk and prepare for Christmas.”

I shook my head in disbelief. I immediately thought of Andrea, of what she would say, the way the light danced in her eyes when she was excited.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Is that a no?”

“No! No, I mean, it isn’t a no. I’m surprised is all.”

“Think about it for a few days.”

“I will. Thank you, chef.”

I headed back to my station, mind racing. It would certainly be a fresh start, but I found the fussiness and the emphasis on proper procedure in the royal household a little stifling. It couldn’t be more different from the way I’d grown up, in my grandpa’s boisterous and messy kitchen, which had still managed to put out one perfect steaming plate of food after another. I didn’t know if I belonged here, working for the royal family with all their formalities and traditions.

And yet, if I worked at the palace, I could leave the London flat behind. Start again. Somehow, I had to close a door on the life I’d built with Andrea and begin a new one.

Perhaps this was the way.

As the day drew to a close, the housekeeper popped her head into the kitchen. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but could someone prepare a dinner plate for a guest in one of the cottages? She’s twisted an ankle and can’t get around, poor dear.” She directed her gaze at me. “I believe she’s staying in the cottage next door to yours, chef.”

So Olive was the one typing into the night? It was strange that our paths kept crossing after all this time. “I was just about to head back,” I said. “I’ll drop by with a plate.”

“That would be very kind of you,” the housekeeper replied.

I made up a plate of leftover shrimp and grits and added a bit of fruit and cheese, then headed back to the cottage. Rather than stop immediately at Olive’s door, I went to my cottage first. Inside, the smell of wood polish greeted me, along with the faint scent of lavender soap. I bathed quickly, combed my hair, and pulled on clean clothes. When I was convinced I looked slightly less grubby and disheveled, I gathered the plate and knocked at Olive’s door.

“Jack!” Leaning on a crutch on her left side, she looked down at the flannel pyjamas someone had clearly lent to her. Her face reddened. “You’re... umm... here.”

“I was told you might be hungry? I’ve brought you a plate from the kitchen.”

Her eyes lit up. “I’m starving! I had a bit of tomato soup earlier, but somehow I’ve managed to work up an appetite since. All of this hobbling around takes it out of you. Would you mind carrying it inside for me?”

I closed the door behind me and followed as she hopped to the table and sat down.

“That looks painful,” I said. “Heard you slipped on the ice?”

“You know me! Clumsy as ever!” She smiled a little shyly. “It’s more inconvenient than painful. I really need to get back home to... Well, I need to go home.”

“It’s freezing in here,” I said as I put the plate down. “How about I light a fire?”

“Would you mind?” she replied. “I couldn’t get it to catch. My dad always does it at home.”

I crumpled newspaper and lined the bottom of the fireplace grate, made a tent of firewood, and fished my silver lighter out of my pocket. I carried it with me, always—a gift from Andrea for my occasional cigar habit. I avoided reading the inscription that I already knew by heart.

The paper lit instantly and soon, the fire crackled and roared.

“Thank you for helping to reunite me with my locket,” Olive said as I put the dinner plate in the oven to warm. “I was so worried about it.”

“It’s a good thing I’m observant,” I said. “I’d noticed you fiddling with it when we met in the library.”

“Nervous habit,” she said.

“Nervous? Around me? Surely not!”

At this, she laughed, but there was something about her that still seemed a little anxious.

“It was my grandmother’s,” she said, quickly changing the subject. She popped the tiny clasp and the delicate silver face opened to reveal a photograph of a little girl about four or five years old. “This is my daughter, Lucy,” she said.

I peered at the picture. I remembered a rumor that Olive had taken up with some new guy, and that was why she’d disappeared suddenly from our group all those years ago. I hadn’t heard that she’d married and had a child.

“She’s cute! No wonder the necklace means so much to you.”

“More than you’d ever know.”

As she closed the locket my eyes fell on the wedding ring on her finger. In my mind, I’d been calling her Olive Carter, but she was clearly a Mrs. Somebody now. “You’re...”

“I’m... widowed,” she said, biting her lip.

She was definitely a little nervous.

“I’m so sorry,” I offered, although I knew well how hollow those words were.

“I go by my maiden name at work. It seemed easier...”

Of course. I remembered Mrs. Leonard calling her Olive Carter. “There’s no need to explain.”

A moment’s silence expanded around us, neither knowing quite what to say next.

“Do you have any children?” she asked at last.

I shook my head. “Andrea desperately wanted a family, but it never worked out for us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked at me for a moment. “I’m so sorry again, Jack. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you.”

“Impossible, really. But life goes on, somehow.” I let out a long breath.

Another strained silence washed around us.

“What a pair we make,” Olive said. “Full of Christmas cheer.” She offered a tentative smile. “How about a drink? There’s a bottle of whisky on the counter if you fancy a drop. Evans brought it over. He felt guilty about not being able to drive me home today, what with all the guests arriving and then a flat tire. It seems as if everyone is conspiring to keep me here!”

I poured us each a splash of whisky.

She took a glass and clinked it against mine. “Cheers. Hopefully it’ll numb the pain.”

I raised my glass in return. “Amen to that.”

Olive ate while I sipped my whisky, and the strains of an Andrews Sisters’ Christmas song drifted from the wireless. I caught myself looking at Olive over the edge of my glass. She’d hardly changed at all.

“Can you believe we’ve run into each other, after all these years?” she said between hungry mouthfuls. “This is delicious, by the way. Did you make it?”

“All my own work. It sure is a surprise to see you again. Have you seen the others from the old gang? I haven’t talked to anyone but Ryan in a long time.”

“Only Rosie,” she admitted. “She’s still my best friend. The rest fell out of touch over time.”

She wouldn’t meet my eye. I had the distinct impression she was a little uncomfortable around me.

“So, tell me more about your job at the BBC. What’s it like?”

“I’ve only just started in this role. I worked in the typing pool for some time and recently worked up the nerve to interview for a position on one of the news teams. I’m hoping the pieces I’ve been researching here will gain my boss’s attention. It can be hard, working among so many men—they don’t trust that women can do what they can. I’d like some proper assignments, and this is the first that fits that description.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed. You always had a way of getting to the heart of a story.”

At this, she smiled. “And what about you? Do you like working here?”

“You know... I do, actually. It isn’t my dream job, but I like working with the head chef. He’s a good man. Matter of fact, he’s just offered me a permanent position at Buckingham Palace, when the staff returns to London after Christmas.”

“Congratulations! That’s quite a job title: royal chef!”

I smiled faintly. “Thanks. I haven’t given him my answer yet, but I’m flattered.” I swirled the remaining liquid in my glass, creating a tiny amber whirlpool before I drained the last of my drink. “Thank you for the whisky, Olive. And the company. It’s been nice to run into you again. Twice.”

“It has been nice.”

“Well, I’d better head to bed. I have a busy few days ahead of me.”

She struggled out of her chair.

“You don’t need to get up,” I said.

“I need to head to bed myself, soon. Can’t lie on the sofa all night! It isn’t the comfiest, if I’m honest.”

She hobbled with me to the door, where I paused for a moment, not quite ready to go. Perhaps it was her open, honest face. Perhaps it was because she’d known me before it all, and because she’d known Andrea. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to go back to my cottage and be alone with my thoughts.

“Thanks again for bringing me the dinner plate,” she said.

We looked at each other for a moment, both of us lost for words.

“Well, if we don’t bump into each other again, happy Christmas, Jack.”

“Happy Christmas, Olive.”

As I stepped out into the bone-chilling air, snow began to fall. In a few short strides, I had crossed the lawn, but rather than going inside, I turned to look out at the clutch of trees waving in the cold wind, fluffs of snow floating to the ground, and the lights of Sandringham House twinkling just beyond.

I was so relieved to have a busy schedule ahead, where I could escape from my thoughts and memories in the company of new friends and new tasks, spending Christmas doing what I did best. Cooking had been my only way forward in the past and suddenly I knew it would be my only way forward again.

I would accept Max’s offer in the morning.