Unravelling Oliver(13)

Oliver pointed out that Madame Véronique was a widow. Widows, he said, were notoriously ‘sex-mad’. Plus, she was French, and therefore sexy. He didn’t think that the fact she was twice my age should be an impediment. Oliver encouraged me to get closer to her. Offer to help out in the kitchen at mealtimes, compliment her on her clothing, her hair, and so on. Ludicrous, I know, but it meant I could confide in Oliver, spend time with him.

Unsurprisingly, Madame was utterly baffled by my attentions. But what a marvellous woman! She taught me everything I know. In the kitchen.

She aroused my palate if nothing else. Ireland in those days was a gastronomic wilderness. Parsley sauce was considered the height of sophistication. Here, I learned that boiling was not the only way to treat a vegetable; that pastry was an artist’s medium; that meat could be smoked, cured, grilled and braised; that herbs and spices added flavour; and that garlic existed.

My culinary education started by accident. Literally. When I presented myself at the kitchen door offering assistance that first morning, I witnessed the very event that was to shape my future. Anne-Marie, the elderly kitchen helper, tripped and fell on her way to the sink while carrying a large tray of freshly made brioche, breaking her right arm in the process. It wasn’t a terribly bad break – there were no bones piercing skin or anything like that – but it was obviously painful. She yelped in agony and an enormous fuss ensued. The doctor from the village was sent for. Anne-Marie was brought to the local hospital and we didn’t see her again for the duration of our stay. As I was already on the scene, and the show had to go on, Madame demonstrated what needed to be done with the brioche (sprinkle with water and pop into the oven), and seconded me to kitchen duties for the rest of the week. What bliss. I was a quick learner, and by the end of that day I had prepared my first vinaigrette, steamed six fresh trout (steamed!), roasted a sack of carrots and sautéed some courgettes. Of course, it was some time before I could whip up a sauce velouté or produce my own peach barquettes, but I took to it like a canard à l’eau. Madame was an excellent teacher, but, if I may say so, I was an excellent student. Besides, I was indoors doing work I actually enjoyed, and though the heat could be monstrous with two ovens going, it was still better than sweating it out in the fields.

When I came back to the dorm that night, I was glowing with excitement. Oliver assumed that Madame had piqued my interest, but in fact I had completely forgotten that my mission was to seduce her.

Of course, Laura was furious: her brother was living it up in the kitchen; her boyfriend was leading an even more refined life in the library; and there she was, a mere pay-sanne. I tried to pacify her by telling her how well she looked. The physical work was toning her nicely, and once she had got past the broiled-face thing, she had developed quite a tan and was beginning to resemble a diminutive Amazonian warrior. She didn’t accept the compliment graciously, but complained continually of feeling tired and excluded. To my eternal regret, I paid little attention to her plight.

I made a few pathetic attempts to flirt with Madame, but she remained as unconvinced as I was. The language barrier made it that bit more awkward (as if it wasn’t futile enough), but I was determined not to disappoint Oliver. He gave me a few tips and I had my instructions.

At the end of one particularly hot and sweaty day, I brushed Madame’s hair out of her face and asked if I might comb it for her. Oliver insisted it was a guaranteed winner of a move. She was a little taken aback, but assented. Oliver was right. Women love their hair to be handled. As I was combing her hair, I had a marvellous idea. Madame’s hair was quite long. I took a thick strand in one hand and began to weave it into another strand so that it was sort of knotted on the top of her head. Très chic. I had just invented a hairstyle. How stereotypical of me. It was actually a ‘chignon’, a typical French style popular in Paris in the forties, but how were we to know? I had never played with a woman’s hair before, and Madame may have known her bain-marie from her sabayon, but she was bloody hopeless in the style department. Still, she was no fool.

‘Tu es homosexuel?’ she said.

Luckily, the word translated very easily.

‘Oui,’ I said. And then I cried for an hour.

Madame was terribly sweet about it all. I haven’t a damn clue what she was saying, but there was much miming of finger to lips to reassure me that she would keep my secret. She wasn’t at all perturbed by the news; didn’t have me thrown out, didn’t laugh at me, wasn’t horrified. It all fell into place for her. A mystery was solved. Via sign language, I admitted that I was in love with Oliver, and that scandalized her a bit all right. She knew, as everyone did, that Oliver and my sister Laura were an item. She gave me a maternal hug and said a lot of stuff in French while gesticulating up the hill. I think she meant that I should go for a walk. I did. It didn’t help.

That night, back in the dorm, Oliver was eager to know how the seduction was going.

‘Grand,’ I said.

The daily struggle continued. Madame would catch me watching Oliver at the centre of his new family with Monsieur and the boy. Bad enough to have my own sister as competition, but now I had Madame Véronique’s family too. I wondered if she was also jealous of the time her father and son spent with Oliver. She would smile sympathetically, but then thrust her comb into my hands. I suppressed my jealousy, buried myself in my new role and learned as much as I could in the kitchen.