The next part of the lesson was simple. They spread their ingredients out on their tables in some sort of order and tried to make them into some sort of sense. For Al, this meant pouring breadcrumbs into a bowl and breaking an egg over them, then stirring the whole mixture together with a fork until he had a satisfyingly soggy mess. Next came the onion—a medium one, like the recipe said. He topped and tailed it, peeled it, sliced it then chopped the slices into small cubes. These he then added to the soggy mess.
Next was the parsley. He wasn’t sure about parsley, didn’t know what you used it for. But the recipe said parsley so he’d brought along parsley, and he sliced it and chopped it and threw the pieces into the mess, too. Then one level tablespoon of tomato ketchup…a level teaspoon of salt…a generous shake of black pepper…a quick stir to mix it all together…and it was done. Just as easily as that.
That left only the mince. He looked at it oozing blood in its plastic tray, bits of mangled animal corpse passed fit for human consumption—though exactly which bits, he didn’t really want to know. Strange but he was beginning to see why people turned vegetarian. He unwrapped it and turned it out into the bowl, stirred it round and somehow managed to turn his soggy mess into a soggy bloody mess. At this stage, it wasn’t looking very appetising. Even so, he had to admit he was enjoying this, and he then had to further admit that it felt a little weird. Ever since he’d started this lousy class, he’d fought it, kicked against it, tried his level best to do his utmost worst. And now, here he was, taking care over what he was doing, actually wanting to make something that looked and tasted good. Strange, he thought, how things sometimes turn out…
‘I’m glad to see you taking your work seriously at long last, Alex Bristow,’ said a voice. He looked up. It was Miss Palmer, standing behind him and looking over his shoulder at his efforts so far.
‘Yeah, well, it ain’t like I’m gonna be doing this forever, is it?’ he mumbled.
‘Don’t you believe it! You might be glad one day that you learned these few basic rules of cookery.’ She paused to look down at the remaining ingredients spread over the table, at the soggy mess in the bowl. ‘So what are you making?’
‘Like I said, Miss, it’s a surprise.’
‘And one you’re determined to keep from me until the last possible moment.’
‘Got it in one, Miss.’
‘Well, I have to say you’ve got me intrigued. Are the ingredients fresh?’
‘Like I killed them only yesterday, Miss.’
‘I think you mean picked them, Alex Bristow.’
‘I know what I mean, Miss.’
He said it quietly, almost half to himself, but she didn’t respond, just shook her head wearily and passed on by. Another of his sordid little jokes, no doubt.
He looked across at the others. They all seemed to be ready to start cooking. Jon had his pasta ready in a pan and his sauce ready for heating. Tony had his mince ready and was just making up the cheese sauce to pour over it. And Eddie had managed to peel and slice his potatoes without cutting his fingers off. All in all, he’d done quite well, really.
He looked across at Spike. Try as he might, he couldn’t even begin to tell how he was doing. All those ingredients, all that preparation…pity it was all about to be wasted.
People were lining up to use the cookers now. It was now or never if Spike was going to do his stuff. The plan was for him to “accidentally” drop a spoon into his sauce and make it seem like he’d splashed some of it in his eye as a result. And while Miss took him along to the secretary for some First Aid, he’d be giving his eye a good rubbing to make it water, just to make it look good. And while she was away, they’d be adding their special ingredients to their dishes. Simple, really.
Even as he was thinking this, Spike looked up, looked across at him. Al glanced round—no sign of Miss—and sidled over to his table.
‘Ready?’ was all he said.
‘It’s now or never, methinks,’ Spike whispered back. ‘Are all of you ready?’
Al glanced round at the others. They were all watching him, almost as though waiting for some sort of signal.
‘Looks like it,’ he whispered back. ‘You’re still sure about this?’
‘I believe you’ve asked me that once already this afternoon. I’ve always fancied a career in acting. This will give me the chance to get a little practice in.’
‘Okay, it’s all yours.’
He slipped back to his table and started rummaging his soggy mess around again. The next time he looked up, he decided, it would be to the sound of Spike’s yell of pain as something “splashed” into his eye. It didn’t quite work out that way.
The next thing he was actually aware of was Keren’s voice commenting to someone about all those fantastic ingredients and asking where did he get them from? He looked up to see Keren standing just where she shouldn’t be, next to Spike and talking to him, a bowl of steaming water on the table in front of him. This wasn’t in the plan. Without even stopping to check where Miss might be, he was back at Spike’s table in a flash.
‘What are you doing here, Keren?’ he hissed. She turned to him, puzzled.
‘Is there some reason I shouldn’t be here?’ she asked.
Just at that particular moment, he could think of a hundred. ‘What do you want here?’ he said instead.
‘What do I want?’ Keren repeated shortly. ‘If it’s any business of yours, Alex Bristow, I was just asking Sebastian here how long I should soak egg noodles in boiling water to soften them.’
She gestured at the steaming bowl and block of something that looked like fossilised spaghetti beside it.
‘Doesn’t it say on the packet?’
‘I haven’t got the packet. My mum just sent me in with some she had spare. Why? What’s it to you who I ask, anyway? Getting jealous or something?’
‘Jealous! Dream on, lady!’
They stood there glaring at each other. If Spike was troubled by this exchange, he gave no sign. He just leaned on the table and watched them both.
‘If I may interject at this point,’ he said carefully, ‘as far as I recall, one needs to soak egg noodles for about four minutes or so. That will usually suffice.’
‘There you are,’ said Al, ‘four minutes. So now you know, what are you still here for?’
Keren glared even harder at him. ‘What do you mean What are you still here for?’
‘I mean you can get back to your own table now, can’t you?’
‘I’ll soak my noodles where I want!’
She didn’t mean it to sound ridiculous but it did, and all she could then salvage from her embarrassment was to snatch up the block of fossilised spaghetti and almost throw it into the steaming bowl. Even as she did so, Al could see it coming, could see the near-boiling water splash out in a graceful arc, out of the bowl and right over Spike’s hand, still spread on the table as he leaned on it in amused tolerance.
Spike needed no acting ability for the yell that followed. The whole class seemed to freeze, all eyes suddenly turned their way. Miss Palmer was beside them in an instant. She sized up the situation in a single glance.
‘Under the cold tap!’ she snapped. ‘Take the heat out of it!’
She almost dragged him to the sink, yanked the tap on and thrust his hand under the stream.
‘How did it happen?’ she yelled back over her shoulder.
Al and Keren looked sheepishly at each other, wondering just who was going to own up first. Then Spike was speaking, the decision made for them.
‘My own stupid fault, Miss Palmer,’ he was saying. ‘I was just showing Keren and Alex the artistry of egg noodles in their uncooked form and I’m afraid I got a little careless.’
‘Did you, now?’ said Miss Palmer dryly, glancing back at the pair of them. ‘Well, I only hope they were worth the pain. Come on, let’s have a look at you.’
She pulled his hand out from under the tap and squinted at it.
‘You were lucky,’ she said. ‘Not a burn
, just a scald. We’d better get some sort of dressing on it, though. The rest of you,’ she added, turning to the class, ‘get on with what you were doing. I’ll be back presently.’
As she hustled Spike towards the door, he glanced back at Al and gave a single nod that meant nothing and said everything, and Al understood.
‘He covered for us,’ Keren said blankly when they were gone. ‘He covered for us!’
‘You wouldn’t know how much,’ Al said bitterly. ‘He’s like that, and he deserves better than idiots like us around him.’
She murmured something vague and went back to her table, pausing only to pick up her bowl of softening egg noodles on the way. Then the others were gathering round him, each wanting to ask the same question. But one glance from their leader said it all: they had come this far, they should see it through. Their friend had, after all, intimated as much.
FOURTEEN