Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 23 Jack

Chapter 23

Jack

Royal Yacht SS Gothic , South Pacific, December 1953

I watched as Ben, the patissier, pulled a tray of gingerbread from the oven. It smelled delicious—and festive—despite the oppressive temperatures.

“I can’t get used to the summer heat at Christmas,” I said.

“I know what you mean,” Ben replied. “Who wants to eat turkey and Christmas pudding and then change into swimming trunks?”

We talked a little about the many colorful and fascinating differences from the English ways that we’d seen on tour already—different climate, the landscapes, cultural customs—and we still had months of the tour ahead of us.

Life at sea was turning out to be a real good time. The camaraderie among the kitchen staff and the rest of the crew felt like a brotherhood of sorts, like being in the Navy again. They were a lively bunch, and I finally started to feel my loneliness falling away. Had I been in London, I would have visited Andrea’s grave with flowers and told her how much I missed her. Perhaps, after all, it was best that I wasn’t there to mark the anniversary. Everyone kept telling me I had to move on, to live my life, as she would have wanted.

The kitchen prep for Christmas would be somewhat limited, since the queen and the duke and the rest of the royal party would disembark for a time to celebrate with the governor of New Zealand and his wife. But the staff staying aboard had to eat, and though we wouldn’t feast like royalty, we’d certainly celebrate. After we finished the lunch service, I tucked Grandpa’s notebook under my arm, planning to check on a recipe to prepare for the next day, and climbed the steps leading to the upper decks. It was a beautiful golden afternoon. The white exterior of the ship gleamed so brightly that I had to shield my eyes. A handful of people were bathing in the sun, while others milled about, attempting to stretch their legs and get what little exercise they could.

The queen stood near the bow, filming the placid waters of the Pacific. She must have taken hours of footage over the last few weeks. Her fascination with documenting everything around her made me realize how little I’d documented my own life in photographs, drawings, or family portraits, let alone fancy new cine cameras like the queen’s. Perhaps one day I’d regret it, but without Andrea—without a family of my own—I didn’t see the point.

I flopped down into a deck chair and exhaled a breath. It was good to be outside, in the shade, with the wind on my face.

I thumbed through the recipe book, looking for a dessert I thought the crew might like, and settled on fresh bananas, whipped cream, and a rum butter sauce, perfect and light in the warm weather. As I skimmed the notes, voices drifted on a breeze from the pair of men standing at the railing.

I thought I recognized the older gentleman. He was part of the press, worked for the BBC, if I wasn’t mistaken.

“Damned place is being taken over by women. A busy news desk is no place for a mother. She should be at home, looking after her child, not running around as a reporter, and a poor one at that.”

My thoughts turned to a conversation I’d had with Olive last Christmas. She’d told me how difficult it was to be taken seriously in such a male-dominated environment. After years at Maison Jerome, I knew, all too well, what it was like to work with someone with old-fashioned ideas. I turned my deckchair a little, straining to make out the rest of their conversation.

I had been pleased to hear from Olive soon after Christmas, when she’d returned my lighter, along with a note. When she said she’d struggled with the shrimp and grits, I’d sent her an easier recipe. After all, she’d admitted she was a terrible cook, and I thought she might appreciate a little assistance. She immediately wrote again to thank me, and since then, the cycle had continued. I tried to send her recipes when I had time, which admittedly wasn’t often.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that, Charlie,” the younger man said now.

“It’s the truth, and you know it. These women are taking our jobs. I’d fire the lot of them if I had any say. Tom puts up with too much.”

“It’s because of that wife of his,” the young man replied. “She was a reporter, you know.”

“At least she could write.”

They both chuckled at his indirect insult to the rest of the female staff. I thought of Olive again, and frowned. I was about to say something as a shadow fell over me, and I glanced to my right.

“Mind if I join you?” Max asked, pulling up a chair next to me.

“Not at all.”

We didn’t often relax during the day, but we’d been hard at work for weeks, so he’d promised us a leisurely afternoon.

“You’ve been a real godsend this past year, Jack,” he said. “You know that?”

I glanced at him, sprawled in the deck chair, lying back with his arms loose at his sides, his big barrel chest, his round but kind face. “How so?” I asked.

“For starters, this time last year, we were short-staffed and you stepped in, despite your own hardships. But you didn’t act like a regular temporary hire. You worked as hard as three men, and you brought inventive recipes and ideas. Since then, you’ve continued to work hard. You never complain, regardless of the task. And you help others in the kitchen when they need it. I don’t know how we got so lucky.”

I warmed to his praise. “Thank you. I didn’t set out to impress, but I like to work hard.”

“That’s what makes you special, Jack. You’re unassuming. You come in, do your job, and do it well, and you help the rest of the crew do theirs, too. You know, you have real talent. And I’ve said this before, but if you dedicate yourself, I see you moving up in the ranks.”

“Thank you, Max.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to move up the ranks in the royal kitchens, rather than striking out on my own one day, but I appreciated the praise and the support. It was a bright spot in my life.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. I wanted to ask—do you mind if I look at that notebook of yours? Wouldn’t mind checking out some of the recipes.”

“Sure thing. Just be careful. It was my grandpa’s, so it’s pretty old. The pages are worn.”

“Not to worry. I know how much it means to you.”

Max thumbed through the recipes, commenting on this spice or that, the surprising combination of French, Spanish, and Creole flavors, the odd dish that seemed distinctly American in some way.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I see you in these pages. His influence has clearly rubbed off on you.”

That thought made me happier than he could know. “This recipe book is a piece of him,” I said. “His whole life—memories and moments—marked by different dishes.”

I thought back to the first time Grandpa had given me the notebook and told me to cook something from it, on my own. “Choose something you want to make,” he’d said. “That’s the best way to learn. You have your eye on something delicious, and you attempt to recreate it.”

I’d gazed at a picture of a beautiful soufflé pasted into the book. I’d never had one, but it looked puffy and light and crispy all at the same time, and my twelve-year-old self had wondered how I could make eggs do that. “I want to make a soufflé,” I’d said.

Grandpa had nodded. “Gather the ingredients first. Next, read all of the instructions one time through so you know what to expect. After that, begin with step one.”

I did exactly as he said, but the soufflé came out burned on top and soupy in the middle. The moment I’d removed it from the oven, it had collapsed. I was frustrated, disheartened. Though I’d followed the instructions, somehow I’d done everything wrong: I didn’t whip enough air into the egg whites, and had used too much butter to grease the dish.

My grandpa had clapped me on the back. “Don’t be disheartened, boy. It’s all right to make a mistake. Listen, recipes—and life—don’t always go the way we want them to go, even when we think we’ve done everything right. It’s in the doing—and doing again—where the success lies. Keep at it, my boy.”

He had been right that day and he was right now. I was glad I’d kept cooking and learning and trying new things. I wouldn’t have ended up on the SS Gothic with the royal family had I not. I glanced at Max, who was caught up in reading some of Grandpa’s notes in the margins of one of the recipes.

“This is a nice legacy to leave,” Max said, snapping the book closed. “You should keep up the tradition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Start documenting your own recipes. Where you were when you first cooked it. How it was received. How the recipe develops and changes.”

I liked the idea. Rather than use a cine camera, I could record my life in recipes; write notes about textures and flavors and smells, divided by the chapters of my life. My years at home in New Orleans; my time in the Navy when recipes had been more about making available food palatable than anything else; and of course, the years with Andrea and her favorite traditional English recipes; then my time with Jerome; and now Max and his astute classical French training. The more I thought about it, the more the idea of my own recipe book intrigued me.

“Well, you’ve certainly given me food for thought,” I said. “Literally.”

Max smiled at my terrible pun. “You’re the perfect man for it. Ever the ambitious one, you are. That’s something I like about you, Jack. You’re always looking for ways to challenge yourself. It makes you stand out, you know. You don’t play it safe, and that shows in your cooking.”

I’d never thought of myself in that light before, but I supposed it was true. In all ways but one: love. With the exception of Andrea, I’d never been brave about expressing my feelings. She had made everything so easy.

“Thank you, Max. You’ve been an excellent boss. I’ve learned so much from you and it inspires me.”

He smiled. “Maybe one day you’ll have your chance in the spotlight.”

“Maybe.” For now, I wanted only to work toward the things that made me happy, and as I looked down at my grandpa’s recipe book, I knew I was on the right track.

“Good! Enjoy the afternoon off,” Max said, standing. “We’ve a busy few days ahead until we reach Auckland.”

I settled into the deck chair, face tilted toward the sky, and kicked up my feet for a long nap.