Part 3 (1/2)

'So you definitely had the chicken?' I asked. 'Not the vegetarian pasta?'

'Of course I had the chicken,' she said. 'Never have that vegetarian stuff. Vegetables should accompany meat I say, not replace it. I always have a steak at your place, don't I?'

That's true, I thought. Maybe the chicken was not guilty after all. She was beginning to look puzzled at my questions. Time for me to depart to the kitchen.

'Sorry, Elizabeth, I must dash or you'll get no lunch.'

The lunch service went well in spite of the poor state of the chef. Louisa, one of my staff, came into the kitchen carrying empty plates and said how pleased MaryLou was with the steak and kidney pies. Apparently, everyone had loved them.

I had learnt early on from Marguerite, my mother's cousin's fiery cook, that the real trick to cooking any meat was to not cook away the taste and texture. 'What makes roast beef roast beef is not only its smell and its taste, but its appearance and the feel of it on your tongue,' she had said. 'Food involves all the senses,' she had maintained, and she had revelled in the chance to make food noisy to prove her point: sizzling steaks and even whistling toads in the hole. 'If you want to add flavour,' she would say, 'get it into the meat before you cook it so that the natural taste of the meat still comes through.'

And so I had. The pie filling had been well marinaded in my special concoction of spices and herbs with a little citrus fruit to add zest. Add a good dose or two of Scotch whisky and allow to soak for forty-eight hours or so to absorb the liquid and the flavours. Then cook slowly at first in a moderate oven, then briefly at a higher heat to golden the pastry, and the results are delicious. Piece of cake or pie.

Carl and I sat on stools in the kitchen and dozed. The summer puddings had been served with whipped cream and the strawberry garnish and, thankfully, the coffee was the regular caterer's responsibility. I leaned on the counter top, rested my weary head on my arms, and went to sleep.

'Chef! Chef! Mr Moreton,' said a female voice. Someone shook my shoulder.

'Mr Moreton,' said the voice again. 'Wake up, chef.'

I raised my head and opened an eye. It was Louisa.

'They want you in the dining room,' she said.

'OK,' I said with a sigh, 'I'm coming.'

I dragged myself up, pulled my fingers through my hair to straighten it, and went across the corridor.

They applauded. I smiled. Being a chef was being a showman, an entertainer. Taking one's bow was what made it worthwhile. The heat of the kitchen is forgotten in the glow of appreciation from others.

Even Rolf Schumann smiled broadly. Elizabeth Jennings sat on his right and positively beamed. Reflected glory, I thought rather disingenuously. She stroked his arm and whispered in his ear in a manner which made me think that it was she who was the tease, not he.

Having milked the applause for all I could, I retreated to the kitchen to find Carl had stirred and was starting to clear up and load the wire cages for returning to Stress-Free. I really didn't feel like I had the energy to help him so I went back across the corridor to find myself some strong coffee.

The lunch party was breaking up with some of the guests going to place their wagers on the first race, which was due off any minute. Many decided to sit out the race at the tables, drinking their coffee and watching the action on the television sets placed high in each corner of the room. Others drifted out on to the balcony to watch it live.

Louisa poured me a coffee and I stood drinking the hot black liquid and hoped that it would wake me up a bit.

MaryLou came over. 'That food sure was terrific,' she said.

'Thanks,' I said. 'Glad you enjoyed it.'

'Certainly did,' she said. 'Mr Schumann really liked it too.'

I could tell that his approval was the most important thing. Mr Schumann clearly intimidated her too. A successful lunch might mean her job was safe for a while longer.

The first race was over and the guests drifted back from the balcony and many sat down again at the tables. I realized it would be some time before we could clear everything away and have a decent rest. Louisa and Robert, my other waiter, were busy refilling coffee cups and pa.s.sing out chocolate mints. Everyone was in good humour and enjoying themselves.

The 2000 Guineas was the third race on the card, due off at 3.15. The excitement of the afternoon built towards the big event with jazz bands and street entertainers helping to raise the pulse of the crowd. I could have done with a jazz band in the kitchen just to keep me awake.

As the time of the big race arrived I went back to the boxes where Louisa and Robert were clearing the tables. Finally, all the guests had left their chairs and were crowding on to the balcony or standing inside against the windows, trying to get a good view of the horses as they approached along Newmarket's famous Rowley straight mile.

I picked up some dirty coffee cups and glanced at the television set on the wall. The horses were running down into the dip and the jockeys were jostling for position, ready for their final effort up the rise to the finish. So tired was I that I decided not to stay and watch. I could always see it later on the replay. I turned to take the cups out to the kitchen.

That decision unquestionably saved my life.

CHAPTER 3.

The bomb went off while I was crossing the corridor.

I didn't understand immediately what had happened. There was a great blast of heat on my neck and it felt like someone had hit me in the back with a sledgehammer.

I crashed into the kitchen door upright and fell, half in and half out of the room.

I still couldn't understand what was going on. Everything seemed to be in silence. I couldn't hear. I tried to speak but I couldn't hear myself either. I shouted. Nothing. All I could hear was a high-pitched hissing; it had no direction, and was unchanged when I turned my head from side to side.

I looked down at my hands and they seemed to be all right. I moved them. No problem. I clapped. I could feel my hands coming together but I couldn't hear the sound. It was very frightening.

My left knee hurt. I looked down and noticed that my trousers had been torn where they had hit the doorframe. The white checks were turning red with my blood. What's black and white and red all over...? My brain was drifting.

I felt with my hands but my knee appeared to be in the right place and I could move my foot without any increase in pain. It seemed that the blood was from superficial damage only.

My hearing came back with a rush and suddenly there was a ma.s.s of sound. Someone close by was screaming. A female, high-pitched scream that went on and on, breaking only occasionally for a moment as the screamer drew breath. An alarm bell was ringing incessantly somewhere down the corridor and there were shouts from some male voices, mostly pleading for help.

I lay back and rested my head on the floor. It felt as if I was like that for ages but, I suppose, it was only for a minute or two at most. The screaming went on, otherwise I might have gone to sleep.

I became aware that I wasn't very comfortable. As well as the pain in my left knee, my right leg was aching. I was lying on my foot, which was tangled up underneath my bottom. I straightened the leg and was rewarded with pins and needles. That's a good sign, I thought.

I looked up and could see daylight between the walls and the ceiling where a large crack had opened up. That was not such a good sign. Water was pouring through the crack, probably, I thought lazily, from some burst pipe above. It was running down the wall and spreading across the concrete floor towards me. I turned my head and watched it approach.

I decided that, lovely as it was to lie there and let the world get on without me, I didn't fancy lying in a puddle. The floor was cold enough without being wet as well. Reluctantly, I rolled over and drew my knees up under me so that I was kneeling. Not a good idea, I thought. My left knee complained bitterly and the calf muscle below it began to cramp. I pulled myself up to a standing position using the doorframe, and surveyed the kitchen.

Not much seemed to have changed except that everything was covered in a fine white dust which still hung in the air. I was wondering what had happened to Carl when he appeared next to me.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' he said, 'what happened?'

'Don't know,' I replied. 'Where were you?'

'Having a pee in the gents.' He pointed down the corridor. 'Nearly s.h.i.+t myself when that bang went off.'

I clung on to the kitchen door and felt unwell. I didn't particularly relish going to see what had become of my other two staff and the guests in the boxes but I knew I must. I couldn't just stand here all day while others might need help. The screaming had lessened to a whimper as I gingerly made my way across the corridor and looked in.

I hadn't expected there to be so much blood.

Bright, fresh, scarlet-red blood. Ma.s.ses of the stuff. It was not only on the floor but on the walls, and there were even great splashes of it on the ceiling. The tables had been thrown up against the back wall by the explosion and I had to pick my way over broken chairs to get through the door and into the room that I had so recently vacated with ease.

When I was a child, my father had regularly complained that my bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Like every other little boy, I had tended to dump all my stuff on the floor and had happily lived around it.