Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 12

Admittedly, it didn’t take me long to learn how to knock up a pretty fair Knickerbocker

Glory. That’s an ice cream sundae intended to harden your arteries at ten paces. I wasn’t too bad at Rum Babas either. No, that’s not a queer sheep, it’s a dessert sodden like a bath time sponge with rum, which was why I enjoyed making them. Gramps enjoyed eating them, too. He became my food taster, like in the old days of the Royal Court.

“They’re a pivotal role in you becoming a fully-fledged alcoholic before your

twentieth birthday,” Gramps said, with a mouthful, and a sardonic half-smile. He shook his head. “But your dad putting you in the deep end with the frozen peas bloody amazes me.”

Gran eyed me off like Cassius Clay sizing up Sonny Liston before the opening bell. She shook her head in sorrow whether at me or my predicament I was unsure. I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You’re giving me tremendous

confidence. If only I can ensure everyone who pushes away from their table is happy.”

“Oh, cheer-up,” Gramps encouraged, “If they’re happy, you won’t have to go sobbing outside in the gutter or running around like Chicken Little crying, the sky’s falling.”

I held my head in my hands. “I haven’t a clue where to start and Dad’s no help. I’ve never cooked anything before.”

“We’re in safe hands then,” Gran muttered, her head in a cupboard looking for the self- raising flour.

Shirley Bassey’s What Kind of Fool Am I? belted out of the wireless while I searched for the Bisto gravy mix.

In reception I paused to admire Gramps’ handiwork with the astonished looking

melon-breasted Greek styled ladies. To me they looked more beautiful every day.

I wondered how long it might be before Medusa the Gorgon would look attractive.

My thoughts were interrupted when Dad felt the need to summarise.

“With you bogged down in catering I’ve decided to manage front of house and the hotel finances.” His eyes searched mine for a response. I gave him none.

He resumed, “Essentially the administration, the book-keeping, banking, accounts

payable and receivable.”

He noticed my far away look. “You do know the Greeks claim to have invented sex,” he smiled.

“So they may have,” I replied tersely, “but we introduced the idea of using women.”

Back in the kitchen, Gramps leaned in close and whispered to me. “He’s become our chief bean counter, a role in which he feels supremely comfortable.”

“I’m glad he’s in his comfort zone,” I replied. “What about mine?”

“At any given time your dad will know exactly how much he owes.”

“True; and hopefully he doesn’t forget how much he owes us. Little gems like pay packets are yet to be discussed.”

“At reception, in-between opening window-faced envelopes, he counts how many heads are in the restaurant.”

“And calculates his losses while sucking a Valium.” I paused. “He’s moved on from Whisky.”

“He also,” Gramps pointed out, “bores the tits off anybody silly enough to listen to him. But if there’s anyone listening to whom he owes money, I’m sure he’d be prepared to forget it if they are.”

“For that, and other reasons, how’s about we nick-name the reception area—our

arena of doom.”

“I like that,” and then I confided to Gramps. “I feel adrift as though the kitchen is about to choke me.”

“Tinned food may yet prove a deadlier weapon than the machine gun,” Gramps

sniggered.