Moral support and cooking lessons - 1. Chapter 1

Cooking Lessons

The doorbell rang. I cursed (I was in the middle of writing an article), wandered to the front door and prepared to dismiss another charity beggar or some such. The figure standing there seemed to fill the doorway. OK, I exaggerate, only he was tall and broad, whilst I am short and skinny.

“Hi. I’m Garry. Bumped you at the Co-op the other day.” The words were friendly enough, but the tone had a truculence to it that made me mentally duck.

I knew him by sight, and to say hello to. When struggling to reach a tin off the top shelf at the Co-op the other day, I had felt I could ask him for help in reaching up but that was it.

Derwent Close, where I live, had originally been a group of workers’ cottages, artisans’ dwellings in modern estate agent speak and just on the OK side of cutesy. But the war had wrought changes, the end of the close had been damaged by a bomb intended for the nearby docks. Whilst most houses were reconstructed, the end group were rebuilt by the council as modern flats. Either totally out of keeping or entirely sensible, depending on your point of view. Which meant that there were three flats at the end of the close, former council housing and now community housing association alongside the privately owned ones.

It suited me. I had been brought up in a small seaside town way to the West and done my degree in London (politics, economics and history, if you must know). Living in Bristol was a nice compromise, metropolitan enough but not too big, and Derwent Close was convenient for the railway station too. The house was small and compact, rather like my life. I spent a lot of time at home, writing and teaching, with visits further afield to catch up with friends. At home, I rather kept myself to myself.

With one exception, I was on little more than nodding terms with all my neighbours. I am not the most sociable of beasts; when going about my business at home, I am content to nod, smile and move on. The exception was my immediate neighbour, Maudie. A 75-year-old, chain-smoking live-wire and inveterate gossip. It was from her that I learned what I knew about Garry. If I could trust her, as Maudie was prone to invent if she did not know. But she was fun, and a good gossip with her over the fence was a big tonic.

According to Maudie, Garry was divorced, had an ex-wife (‘a right bitch’) and a daughter, had been in prison for beating up his wife (‘she probably deserved it’). Since coming out, he had turned himself round (‘nice, quiet bloke’) and worked for a prisoners’ rehabilitation charity in town. In person he was quiet but impressive, you worried about the power underneath and there was a sense of watchfulness. Or perhaps it was just the effect of Maudie’s story. His hair was cut alarming close to a pudding basin, longer on top with a crisp edge and far shorter around the sides. Blue-grey eyes, watchful, some five-o’clock shadow, or fashionable stubble, though he did not look the fashionable sort. He was in decent shape, just a bit of belly, a loose black t-shirt with a logo for a band that I had barely heard of, long shorts and flip flops.

“Hello?”

“Umm. At the Co-op. Other day. Got you down summat. Tin of black chick-peas.” He spoke the name as if it was something exotic.

I smiled, “Well remembered, the Co-op will go putting the interesting things on the top shelf. I’m Edward, by the way. Usually go by Ned.”

“Umm, yes, hello. Figured you know what to do with them.”

“The black chick-peas?” This wasn’t about sharing black chick-pea recipes, surely not.

“Figure you can cook.”

I tried to smile, “I like to think I can.”

“Umm. Can you teach me? To cook. Proper like?”

Fuck. “That’s quite a big ask, and I’ve never taught anyone. In fact, I’m probably a crap teacher.”

“Umm, OK” and he turned to go.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Look, Garry. Why do you want to learn to cook? Properly.”

He didn’t quite turn back, but he looked at me, his torso half-turned. He was, truth to tell, a bit scary, perhaps only a function of his size and his nerves, or perhaps not.

“My Lizzie’s gonna be 13. Do something proper for her birthday. Kid’s mad on Italian food. I wanted to cook her spag bol. Myself. Properly”, he stared at me, “Not from a box, or a jar of sauce.”

Whilst he was talking about Lizzie (presumably his daughter), his manner changed, he became approachable.

“OK. Look, I’m willing to give it a go. How about you come in for a drink and we discuss it?”

“Umm. OK.”

I took him through to the kitchen, though he’d get glimpses of my downstairs room, part living room, part study and part chaos.

He looked around, “Nice. You got some of our stuff.”

I realised he meant the mugs; I had bought them at an open day at the rehab charity, the Biddesdon Foundation.

“Tea, coffee, red wine, or fizzy water. I’m afraid I’m not really set up for visitors.”

“Umm. What. Oh, you drinking?”

“Well, I’m up for a glass of wine if you are.”

“Umm, OK”

“Sorry, no beer.”

And he actually smiled. The guy might be scary, but he was nervous, I thought. I dug out wine and glasses and headed outside.

“Blimey, quite a garden.”

The table and chairs were quite humble, and all the plants were rescue specimens, picked up for a song at garden centres or given by friends. The result was lush, full of greenery and entirely haphazard.

“Thanks. I am an entirely self-taught gardener, so everything is a bit random. If it works, it’s in; if it dies, then chuck it.”

“Not been in one of these before.”

“The houses in the close?”

“Aye.”

I was a bit shocked. “They’re quite compact. Small but perfectly formed.”

“Bigger’n my place.”

“But it’s all yours.” He gave me an odd look. “I lived for years in shared houses and so I was relieved when I could manage to live here, alone.”

“Aye.”

Shut up, getting too personal and way too close to being locked up inside.

“So, cooking. Have you ever cooked?”

He sort of bridled, then you felt him deliberately lower the bristles, “With me Mum. Years back. Not since.”

I tried to imagine what he lived on but decided it might be too much to ask him.

“Well, I can try teaching you, but we’ll need to start with the basics, and you’ll need to practice. I suggest you come over in the evening, practice a meal with me and then we’ll eat it, together.”

He stared at me, “You jokin’?”

“No. If we’re cooking then we eat it. Whatever happens.” I grinned; he gave a thin smile.

“It’s just. Didn’t think…”

“Look, the test of a good cook is that people enjoy eating the food. That’s part of the fun.”

“You’re not having me on?” He paused and stared at me. I wondered if he was going to turn tail. “I’ll come over regular like, and we’ll eat stuff?”

“That’s right, and we get to do the washing up afterwards, too.”

He nodded, then hesitated. “You know about me, right. The stuff I’ve done, doin’ time”, the truculent manner was back. So, that’s what the problem was; it had never occurred to me that the simple act of eating together would be so fraught.

“I’ve heard stories, yes.”

“Aye, I bet.”

“I’ve also heard you’ve been turning things round.”

“Aye, but…”

“Look, we’re talking about cooking lessons. We’re not going on a date!”

“Fucking hell.”

Oops. “I’m gay, so you’d better get used to it.”

“It’s just, I’ve never…”

I tried to give a wry smile, “And I’ve never taught an ex-con to cook. Accept that we both have a lot to learn.”

“Aye. OK.” He didn’t sound convinced, but I topped up his wine. I wanted to say that I couldn’t be the first gay man he’d met, though perhaps I was the first who was open about it and moderately well adjusted. I wondered what had gone on inside, but that was veering towards the stuff of fantasies.

“Right. Some rules. I’m the teacher, so I’m right. I can only teach my way of cooking. Once you’ve learned, you can then do it your way. Second, we learn the recipe properly. You can change it later.”

“Learned about following rules.”

“To be a cook, you need to be attentive, things can happen quickly; patient, things take the time they take and can’t be rushed. And timely, it’s no good chopping your onions perfectly if you take too long. OK?”

He nodded.

“Good. You can come over on Thursday, and we’ll make a start on pasta with tomato sauce. Around 6pm.”

“OK.”

“And one more thing. A good cook knows how to keep time.”

So, he went off and I sat down and wondered what I’d let myself in for.

I tried to go back to work but Garry had managed to disturb my equilibrium, and it was difficult to concentrate on a review of a book about the history of British economic policy between the wars. I reflected that my life could probably do with a bit of disruption. I had moved into Derwent Close with the idea of concentrating on my writing, I even had plans to turn my PhD thesis into a more readable book, but I ended up bogged down by the small things—writing reviews and little articles and the grind of teaching and marking. I just wasn’t certain the Garry was the sort of disruption that I needed.

***

>You’ve what?

“Agreed to teach a hunky ex-con to cook so he can make Spaghetti Bolognese for his daughter’s birthday.”

>And is he really hunky?

“In a straight-boy sort of way.”

>Oh, Ned. Not again.

“No, not again. He’s a bit scary too.”

>Well, thank God for that.

“And he shied like a nervous horse when he learned I was gay.”

>You be careful.

I had a history of falling for straight or bi-curious guys, usually with terrible results. Derry, a friend since uni, had been around to pick up the pieces on more than one occasion. He still lived in London, so our catch ups were usually by phone. We are as different as chalk and cheese, he studied English and has a strong social conscience, so he makes sure that his work in advertising is in line with the ‘cause’. My politics, by contrast, are wishy-washy yet my study of history and politics at uni has given me a good grasp. Probably we remain friends because we clicked, but also we can have terrific arguments/discussions that we both enjoy yet never come out of bruised and battered.

>So, can you?

“Teach him cooking?”

>Yes?

“Pass. We’ll try on Thursday and see. It’s just…”

>What?

“He sort of hinted, he’d learned to follow the rules, because…”

>Because that’s what you’ve got to do to make life inside work. And life outside?

“He works for that rehabilitation charity in town.”

>The Biddesdon Foundation?

“That’s it. Seems to be a good example.”

>You hope.

“Oh, Derry.”

 

Garry

The bell rang and I nearly shat myself, I was so nervous. Garry stood there, as before, filling the door and glaring at me. He was in the same outfit, just a different logo on the t-shirt.

You can tell a lot about people from how they cook, and for that first session I learned that Garry was neat and fastidious. To the point of obsession? I’ve no idea, I’m not an expert. But he was slow, a perfectionist. His first attempt at chopping an onion was a thing of beauty, but I could probably have got the sauce on, and half cooked in the time it took. Still, we got there. We both prepared the veg, and he assembled things under my supervision. He was constantly worried about getting it wrong, and my refrain throughout the session was, ‘it’ll do’.

There were incidents, burned onions, a sauce that stuck, but nothing major, we recovered. And it was fairly edible and recognisably what it was supposed to be.

We ate in the kitchen, at my little fold-up table, and I put on some music. I figured it was better than having awkward silence; just something soothing, neo-classical ambient. Garry’s table manners were poor, and his way of eating pasta was hopeless; I added to my mental list—how to eat, how to shop, what utensils you’d need.

He talked with his mouth full, “Old Maudie saw me arrive. Gabbing to Jack across the road, she was.”

“Yeah, she spends a lot of time doing that and keeping an eye on folk.”

“Aye. Reckon it’ll be all over.”

“What?”

He looked at me oddly, “Me coming here.”

“Is that a problem?” I had ludicrous visions of him scaling the back wall and coming in through the garden.

“It’ll be all over; folk talking and such-like.”

“You cooking? Only if she knows what we’re doing.”

“She’ll ask. Bound to. ‘Sides, if I don’t tell her, she’ll invent summat.”

“Well, we could always invent a story, tell her I’m paying you for services provided as you’ve branched out into sex work.”

“Sex w…” The change was alarming; he rose, seemed to expand and glared, “What the fuck?” Then he seemed to recollect himself and deflate. “Shit, sorry.” He took a few breaths and sat down. “Rosie, me mentor at the Foundation says I need to think first. Joke, right?”

“Well. It’s up to you. What’s worse, sex work or cooking?”

“Umm. Thing is…” He looked genuinely puzzled as if both were somehow shameful. And, despite the scary temper, I felt sorry for him. “Old Maude’s thick with an old crow who’s mates with me ex’s Mam.”

The penny dropped, “Ah, so whatever Maudie knows or invents, gets back to your ex.”

“Aye”, he looked glum.

“How about reading?”

“Yer what?”

“How is your reading? What was the last book you read?”

“I. Umm. Well…”

“You can’t remember, it was so long ago?”

A nod, “I can read. Just a bit slow. Lose interest, like.” It was said roughly and reluctantly, and I wondered how many school exclusions and other problems were behind that statement. “Did do some stuff, inside; a girl tried to get us reading more.”

“Was she successful?”

He frowned and shrugged, “Been meaning to get back to it, now.”

“Right. Stay there.”

I got up and went into the study. I pick up charity shop books to read when travelling, including schlock thrillers. I chose a short one, nothing too literary and wondered what its reading age was.

“Try that. Carry it prominently when you go out. And read some of it. Tell me about it when you come back on Thursday.”

“Umm. OK.” He looked at the book, read the summary on the back and seemed relieved. I got him to read the first page to me. He was OK; yes, a bit on the slow side, but he just needed to get into the habit. We did the washing up and then he left. He was as slow and methodical with the washing up as he was with cooking; it was something I was going to have to work with or work around.

***

Part of me expected Garry to give up. To wake up next morning and think, fuck, so much to learn, so much to put up with. And I’ll be frank, he didn’t seem that interested in cooking, per se, it wasn’t an end in itself, it was to do something for his daughter. But I was wrong. He duly appeared the following week, early too. I apologised, saying I was trying to finish an article, under a deadline. He stared at me.

“Work?”

“Yes, a book review.”

“OK then.”

That was it. He patiently waited in the study, out of my sightlines, apparently reading the book titles. It’s a funny old mix, history, politics, economics, stuff from uni that I had to buy for research, and stuff I’ve been sent to review. And the rest, the fun stuff.

“You read all this?”

“At some time or other. Some of it is reference material for work. I might never re-read the biography of, say, Marx but it’s useful for fact checking.”

“What you do, then?” He stared intently at me.

“People pay me to write things.”

“Newspapers?”

I shrugged, “Magazines, journals, on-line stuff. I also teach at the Open University.”

He nodded, “Some of the guys inside doing that.”

“You ever think of it?”

He wrinkled his nose, “Nah, ‘sides it took me all me time to get through a Len Deighton”, he grinned, “Padre fitted me up with a nice bird, fierce she was, got me reading properly.” He gave me the thriller I’d lent him. “So, I read that book.”

“Fancy another?”

“Aye.”

I sent him into the kitchen to make a start, whilst I went to fetch another thriller.

Progress was slow, but he concentrated. Teaching cooking was vastly different from marking history essays, but I’d had worse pupils. By the third lesson, we’d got into a routine, and I’d found a few things we could chat about. Reading had become part of it all, he was steadily ploughing through all my old thrillers, and we’d talk about the book he was on at the moment, and about TV and some news. When he discovered that I ‘knew about politics’ he quizzed me about political events, though I was a bit careful; you could easily get into arguments that way.

He never quite relaxed, there was a wariness to him, but we got onto a friendlier footing, and he didn’t bridle when I made odd jokes. It was after, I think the fourth lesson that he announced that he’d made himself dinner the other night. I had been talking to him about the other things he needed to know, shopping, utensils, and such, but was still surprised.

“And?”

“Were OK. Not a patch on yours.” He gave an embarrassed sort of grin, “Made a list like you said. Went to Lidl, got the stuff and”, he looked truculent, “stank the bloody flat out.”

I smiled, “Well, you can’t learn if you don’t make mistakes.” It turned almost into a conversation, about cooking and food! Then he shocked me.

“Would you help me buy a shirt?”

“A shirt?”

“Aye, on Saturday. It’s just. My Lizzie is singing at a thing; her school choir’s singing at a do at the town hall.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.” He even looked bashful, “There’s other choirs. But she has a solo. Thing is, there’ll be nobs there. I want to look tidy for her.”

“You’re going?”

“Lizzie’s Mum has the hospital. She’s cancelled before. Does it again and she’s at back of the queue.”

“So, you get to go?”

“Yeah. An I want to look tidy, like”, and he looked fierce, as if daring me to comment, “for Lizzie”

I blinked at him. Was this a scheme to get me involved in something? What though? To get back at me? But how? Or did he genuinely lack confidence in his ability to choose the most ordinary of clothes. He was in decent shape, given a reasonable shirt he’d certainly look presentable.

“Lizzie’s Mum always chose me clothes. Said me taste were crap. Since then, I’ve worn this. Reckon Lizzie deserves more.”

“OK, but I’ll need to see what else you plan to wear.”

“Yer what?”, he looked horrified.

“Trousers, shoes, and such. It’s no good my picking a shirt if it looks crap with your jeans or whatever.”

“Suppose.” He glared.

“Can I just pop round?” That elicited almost a growl from him; so his flat was off territory. “Or, you could bring them round here?” He didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “And one more thing, you’ll need to let me know how much you can spend.”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t want to make a fool of myself, suggesting things out your price range. So, we need to set a budget.”

When he left, Garry didn’t look happy. Whilst he’d started it, I still felt guilty; it was just outside my experience.

***

Friday, I got home early to find someone lurking by the front door. She was tall and slim, in a well-cut trouser suit, with hair loosely pulled back into a pony-tail.

“Mr Shepherd?”

I nodded.

“I think we need to talk.”

I stared at her; the words ‘arrogant bitch’ went through my mind. She looked friendly enough, but that comment smacked of entitlement.

“About?”

“Garry Morton.”

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing.

“I understand you are supposedly teaching him to cook?”

It was the ‘supposedly’ that did it, said nice as pie.

“You are?”

“Janine Ferguson”, said as if it was perfectly obvious.

“And?”

“I work for the Biddesdon Foundation.”

I knew them, of course. They were the organisation helping ex-prisoners like Garry. They provided his flat and his current job. But why me?

“Yeah, I know who the Foundation is, I’ve even got some of your mugs. But I fail to see what that has to do with Garry coming over to my place to make pasta. You know why he’s doing it don’t you? And I’d have thought you’d have been pleased that he is developing wider interests.”

She stared at me, “It’s just”, then she sighed. “I’m sorry. Can we start again. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, even though we’re on the same side.”

I relented and invited her in. We sat in the garden.

“Garry’s cooking rather came out of the blue. He never asked about learning to cook at the Centre, and we like to be careful”, she looked at me sideways. “Not everyone is altruistic, and we’ve had plenty of clients being taken advantage of through quite innocuous sounding projects.”

“If anyone is being taken advantage of, it’s me. I tell you; Garry is pretty scary. He was worried about the neighbours finding out and word getting back to his daughter or his ex-wife, so I suggested he pretend I’d hired him as a sex worker. I think he nearly clonked me one. But didn’t.”

I’m not sure why I told that particular story, but it certainly broke the ice; her expression struggled between shock and laughter.

“You’re gay! And Garry is comfortable with it?”

I shrugged, “He’s still cooking, he even tried doing some at home. But comfortable? I’m not sure. Still, I’ve learned not to make off-colour jokes.”

“I imagine. You teach cooking?”

My turn to laugh, “Not a bit. We’re on nodding terms as neighbours and we once met at the local Co-op, when I asked him to reach up and grab a tin of something. Black chickpeas, I think; something poncey he called it. Still, it gave him the idea that I knew about cooking, and he appeared at the door.” She was about to say something, but I hurried on, “I have to say, he’s fantastic. He’s not a natural cook and he’s asked a bloke to teach him who not only has nothing in common with him, but whose ‘lifestyle’ is outside his ken. As his is mine. Yet he’s gone on with dogged persistence, and his satisfaction when he did pasta in tomato sauce at home, without my help, made me realise why people go to into teaching. But I can safely say, once he’s cooked his Ragu Bolognese for Lizzie, I will say never again.”

“Thank you. Garry has not had a good time of it. He’s not our most complex client by all means, but his ex-wife is”, she paused, “problematic and the two still have issues. Have you had any contact with her?”

“With Lizzie’s mother? Hell, no. And from what I’ve heard, I don’t want to.”

“Good. But I warn you, you might not have a choice”, I stared at her. “She is still conflicted when it comes to Garry, she certainly doesn’t want him back but when he develops outside interests, she gets jealous.”

Oh joy, what had I let myself in for? Still, the chat to Janine had proved positive in the long run. She left me her card, and I promised to stay in touch. I’m pretty sure she had come expecting to find some creep who planned to set Garry up for something. For what?

 

Shopping & Lizzie

Saturday morning was usually my day for getting things done. At the moment I had no urgent work, no deadlines and no pile of exam papers to be marked. I dug out some of my own writing with the intention of making progress; I tried to concentrate but that fact that Garry was coming over later and that we were going shopping together rather preyed on my mind. I gave up any attempt at working and did some mindless jobs around the house whilst I worried about what I had got into with Garry.

He appeared almost prompt at mid-day with a carrier bag. He gave it to me rather grudgingly. In it was a couple of pairs of trousers, well a pair of chinos and a pair of black trackie bottoms. Both had seen better days but looked respectable. The chinos just needed a bit of TLC.

“What you doing?”

“Tidying them up. We’ll give them a quick press and fix that button, then Bob’s your uncle.”

He didn’t say anything but watched as if he was looking at a zoo specimen, quiet but wary. “You use that a lot?”, nodding at the iron.

I laughed, “Not as much as my mother would have done, but if you want to look tidy you can’t beat a pair of nicely pressed trousers. Right, that’s them. Now, let’s see you in them” He stared at me. “Bathroom’s in the hall.”

“OK.”

He came back looking surly, shopping with him must be a real joy. But the chinos fitted OK and would be quite respectable.

***

Garry’s budget for the shirt was tiny, and I wondered whether I could finesse things and pay a bit myself. The problem was, he didn’t seem a guy to get enthused by clothes, so I couldn’t see him jumping at the offer. He’d more likely feel I was patronising him, and maybe I was. He was silent as we walked to the shops, and I plotted out the most efficient course through the various charity shops. I’d done a recce and reckoned I had an idea.

“Look, I know you don’t like shopping, but I have a proposal.”

“Mmm?”

“You lose an hour of your life, trailing round shops and trying on clothes then I’ll treat us.”

“Treat us to summat? What?”

“Well, that’s up to you. You choose. It’d be pointless me treating you to something I liked!” This got a dry laugh, “So, coffee and cake, lunch, a pie and a pint, whatever you fancy to eat. We’re probably not dressed for The Swan”, that was the town’s posh hotel”, but I reckon I could manage most elsewhere.”

“Where’d you go? For your dinner?”

“Well, when I had someone to take, we’d treat ourselves to fish and chips at Leon’s after a hard morning’s shopping”, I grinned.

“Leon’s.”

“Yeah. They do the best fish and chips and it’s a friendly place.”

“Leon’s is pricey, like, but it ain’t posh.”

“Good food needn’t be. I’d rather have clean ordinary surroundings and good food, than fancy surroundings and poncey, badly cooked food.”

“OK”, he eyed me up. Perhaps, trying to work out if I was taking the mickey. But Leon’s had always been a treat. It was classier than some of the other fish and chip places, but still ordinary. Yet, friendly with fresh cooked food, and they changed their oil regularly.

“Used to take me ex to Leon’s, way back. As a treat. The beer’s crap though.”

“So? Are you interested in the beer?” He eyed me again, but gave a straight answer, “No. Leastwise, trying not to be.”

“Good reason to go, then. Less temptation.”

This got a proper guffaw. “Ok, you’re on. And. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Now, to work.”

Garry really didn’t like shopping. He was sullen and unresponsive. But he set to and did it; he followed the rules doggedly, and it was dispiriting work. As Garry morosely commented, “Got better at home.”

He had a curious habit when changing of unfastening his jeans and dropping them to adjust the shirt tucking-in process. Given the rather basic changing facilities, this kept giving me glimpses of his tightly clad bum, as well of course, as his naked back. I started to move away, so as not tempted to look. He noticed.

“Why d’you go over to the women’s stuff?”

I stared at him, “Truthfully?”

He glared at me, offended, “Yeah!”

“Don’t get mad. I kept getting glimpses of your bum when you were changing.”

“And?”

“It’s in good shape. I didn’t want you to catch me looking and then hit me.”

He rumbled, perhaps humour, perhaps not, “Had worse. Folk inside. You get used to being looked at. I can cope with folk doing that, looking”, he glared at me, “and you’re OK. I know you wouldn’t try owt.”

Wow. That was quite something. In the next place I stayed put. His bum was enviably taut and... Oh. Don’t go there! Then I spotted it. A jacket, striking, black with white check-like pattern. It was pricey, but…

“Try this.”

He looked puzzled, “What?”

“Go on.”

“Ok”, reluctantly but he did. It fitted well enough and looked good.

“You have decent black or white t-shirts?”

“Yeah.”

“Then how about this? It looks good on you. Dress up the jeans and t-shirt. And if there are other occasions with Lizzie?”

He looked at the price, “Mmm”.

“Look, think if it this way. I’m saving on all that crap beer you aren’t drinking. So, I’ll pay the difference.”

Eventually, he nodded.

The weakness of my bright idea was that once in Leon’s, our order placed, we had to talk. The restaurant was bright and buzzy. It wasn’t fancy, still practical plastic covered tables, but it was all nicely done, clean and friendly.

What the fuck to say?

I asked him how he was enjoying the reading. And he was reading and seemingly enjoying it. He’d even got Lizzie to get him some books from the library. Now that throw away comment required unpacking. Why didn’t he go himself, what on earth did she choose for him and seemingly he saw her regularly in a way that did not involve her mother.

Talking about the books he was reading, Garry didn’t talk about them as books—as fictional constructions so to speak. He talked about the characters as if they were mates, asking me whether I’d have done that and such. But he was clearly involved, and I was pleased. And luckily when he actually ate, Garry gave his full attention to the food.

Afterwards, as we walked home, he came to a halt and turned to me.

“Thanks. It weren’t so bad, the shopping. Mind, I’d not do it regular. And Leon’s was a real treat.”

***

>What the hell, Ned? Shopping!

“He needed a decent shirt for his daughter’s concert.”

Derry’s sigh was explosive.

>And that required your attention?

“He asked.”

>Haven’t you got better things to be doing than mooning over a hunky ex-con?

“I’m not mooning. He just needs a bit of help. My good neighbour act.”

>Ned. You are the king of displacement activity. Your book’s never going to get written if you fritter away time.

“I am writing. And helping Garry.”

>Really? And in ten years’ time will you still be working on your magnum opus.

“There is positive news too.”

I told him about a new project I had been offered, which went a long way towards satisfying his ambitions for me. But part of me knew that Derry was right. I was involving myself in Garry’s life as a way of avoiding concentrating on my own. That had to stop.

***

I had had a meeting in town about the new project; this was me writing a whole series rather than just a single article, and one that felt as if, for once, I was going to be putting my degree into good use. This meant that when I approached the house, my mind was full of the intersection between history, politics and economics and the way it shaped our modern world. I know, not everyone’s cup of tea but for me it was nice and meaty, the trick was to make it approachable to everyday readers. This meant that I didn’t notice a young girl sitting on one of the stones outside the house. When I appeared, key in hand, she sprang up.

“Mr Shepherd?”

I nodded.

“These are for you”, then remembering her manners she added, “I’m Lizzie.”

She handed me a rather nice little posy of flowers. I thanked her and smiled. This was presumably Garry’s Lizzie but before I could ask any questions, she rushed on, “We made them at school, I figured Mum wouldn’t want it”, why ever not I wondered, “and Dad would forget to water it. ‘Sides, he says he prefers flowers natural like, in the ground. So, I brought it for you, for all the things you’re doing for Dad.”

I was rather touched. Lizzie was big for a thirteen-year-old. Her dark blonde hair hung in complex braids, and she was all in pink, a glittery logo on the t-shirt, matching trousers. Was this her school outfit?

I asked if she fancied some cake (luckily, I had some in) and she looked torn. I kicked myself; she was probably dubious of going into strange houses. Anyway, I quickly recovered, suggesting we could have some out here in the sun and she immediately brightened.

I brought out a couple of folding chairs and by the time I returned with cake, juice, and water, she’d neatly set them up. She was a striking, homely looking girl with too much of her father in her looks to be conventionally pretty, but with a manner that was constantly engaging. She had her father’s devotion to concentrating whilst eating. When the cake was finished and she’d thanked me, she looked sideways at me.

“Are you really teaching Dad to cook?”

“Yes. Though it’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Oh, that’s OK. I’ll pretend”, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. “Mum knows and isn’t best pleased. I heard her moaning to one of her mates.” She looked at me, assessing, “I wasn’t listening in, Mum gets real loud sometimes.”

“OK, and yes, I am teaching him.”

“Is he any good?”

“He’s learning. What he makes is perfectly edible, but he wants to be better than that. For you.”

“I know”. The way she said it, simply and seriously, made me aware of quite how much she had to deal with. And only a kid.

She brightened, “I’m singing at the town hall with the school.”

“I know. Your Dad told me, he’s real proud. We went shopping for a new shirt for him.”

Her eyes widened, “You took Dad shopping. Wow. He hates it.”

I smiled, “Well, he didn’t much enjoy it. But we got him something new. So, you’ll have to be impressed.”

“Will he… He’ll be OK, won’t he?”

“At the concert?” She dipped her head in a nod. “He’ll be very proud. And very nervous. You know that.”

“Yeah. Miss Jenkins at school said. She’s nice, Miss Jenkins, we talk about Dad. Normal like, not like he’s some sort of monster. He’s not a monster”, this latter said very fiercely.

“No, he isn’t. It’s just. Well, dealing with things is difficult.”

“Mmm. Yeah. ‘N Mum doesn’t help.”

Then another change in mood and she thanked me and skipped off. So, that was Lizzie. Give her another few years and no doubt she’d be managing her Dad full time.

***

“So, how was Lizzie’s concert?”

Garry was chopping onions; we were having a go at proper Ragu Bolognese today. It was a bit of a risk; the last session had been more than a little rocky. There had been dodgy ones before, where Garry was like a bear with a sore head, but this time he’d really got pissed off, put down the knife (thankfully), glared at me and stopped. I had tried to channel my mother, who had been a wonderfully calm person in any type of crisis and told him that you had to be in the right mood for cooking and if he wasn’t, then we’d stop and start again later. I wasn’t putting up with any of this. I shooed him outside to get some air and waited. He did come back, quiet and sullen but tractable enough to continue. I wondered what was going on in his life, that caused these outbursts.

Today, however, he was on a much more even keel. When I mentioned the concert, he stopped chopping and smiled, “She was great. Everyone said so. And looked so confident.” He paused, and I wondered whether I was going to get any more. “But it was fucking scary too. All those knobs. Even a magistrate there I’d appeared in front of. Oh, years back. But it’s still scary. My jacket helped.”

I stared at him.

“Looked good. Better’n some folk. Lizzie was real pleased. Introduced me to one o’ the teachers, woman by the name of Jenkins. Nice woman. Talked to me normal like.” He stared at me, “Doesn’t always happen.” He returned to his chopping, but continued, “Lizzie wants me to come to the next school concert. Her Mum often dips out and I reckon I could cope, and I’d like to hear Lizzie again. You should hear her.”

And the ragu wasn’t too bad, either.

 

Patti

It was one of those magic times, when I managed to make time for writing, actually felt like doing it and found that my creative juices were flowing. My PhD thesis had been on the economic history of the British Raj for the century from 1814 to 1914, i.e. from the date the East India Company lost its trade monopoly with India to the outbreak of World War I (sorry, nerdy detail over). A couple of my colleagues at the LSE, as well as my friend Derry who had gamely read the whole thesis, had insisted that if I trimmed and rewrote, it could be a popular history book; popular as in aimed at the average reader rather than top selling. I had tried, over the years but never managed to stick to it. Now, I was determined.

The banging on the front door was intense. It took me a moment to realise what was going on, I was so involved in the act of turning dry economic history into lively narrative. I went towards the front door, my mind still half in 19th century India; as I got closer, I could make out a high-pitched voice.

“You fuckin’ faggot. Hands off my man”, or something like that. There was more, but you can use your imagination. Now the sensible thing would have been to keep the door closed and even phone the police. Instead, I opened the door.

The woman was about my height, her dark hair in a stylish bob, but her clothes (just t-shirt and jeans) looked worse for wear. She glared at me and repeated the comment about me and her man. Her man? Who?

There was plenty more, but certainly her language lacked imagination; if you are going to be crude and insulting, then at least be colourful and creative. There was a short pause in the torrent, so I leaped in.

“Who the fuck are you?”

She glared at me, outraged, “Patti.” Then she leaned closer, “And Garry’s mine, you hear.”

Of course, Garry’s ex, Lizzie’s Mum, who it seems now knew that I was teaching Garry.

“You’re divorced.”

“I still look out for him. And no fuckin’ fairy is going to get him.”

“There’s not much chance of that.”

She glared again.

“Look I don’t…” I didn’t get any further. She let loose a huge gobbet of spit, which thankfully missed and landed on my shirt.

She brought her face scarily close to mine, so I could see her gums and dodgy dental work, “That’s what I think of you trash.”

I am not sure how long it went on. I was paralysed. Suddenly figures loomed. Someone had called the police. Thank the Lord.

Of course, there was formality to go through. I didn’t feel like getting cosy, so we stayed outside as the young constable interviewed me. Did I know the lady? No, I’d never met her, but I knew who she was. There followed my explanation, which seemed a bit mad. But the whole thing was mad.

I wouldn’t be pressing charges and not that much had happened, when it came down to it. I was hoping that I could simply forget about the whole thing. There was also the nagging feeling that Garry would not want to have me involved in the complexities of his personal life.

Later that evening my phone pinged. I didn’t recognise the email address, but the subject line was ‘Film of the events this afternoon’. The sender turned out to be the nephew of the lady opposite. He’d been visiting his aunt and was alerted by the noise. The film didn’t begin at the start, but it captured enough: the spitting and some of the homophobic language. It also caught my bizarre, rabbit in headlights stare. That the film might be of use became apparent when my next visitor popped up.

I was working from home the next day, none the worse for my ordeal and with my spit-covered shirt currently getting a good soaking. The doorbell went; a middle-aged woman, smartly dressed but rather harassed-looking. She introduced herself as Emily Bond, she was from the council’s Child Services Department, or something. Of course.

The police might not be that interested in Garry’s ex’s activities, but the council would certainly be keeping an eye on what Lizzie’s Mum got up to. I wondered whether all this might help Garry with his problems with access to Lizzie, or whether it would simply make his life more complicated.

I sighed and invited her in; this was going to run and run, I imagined. Weren’t there secret child protection courts or something, would it involve this? Bloody woman. I made coffee and we sat down in the chaos of my study.

“What is your connection to Mrs Patricia Morton?”

“I am teaching her ex-husband to cook.”

She stared at me, googly eyed, “To cook?”

“He evidently conceived the notion of making an Italian meal for his daughter’s birthday.”

“Lizzie.”

“She loves Italian food and so he wants to treat her to a proper Ragu Bolognese made at home, by him.”

“And you teach cooking?”

I laughed, “Not at all. But Garry seems to have decided that I am poncey and approachable enough to ask.”

“He just asked?”

“Rang the doorbell. Brave of him really because we come from two different worlds.”

“As epitomised by the houses.”

“Precisely. There’s hardly any interaction between us and them.” She gave a dry laugh. “And he got over another hurdle too. I’m gay.”

“He didn’t know?”

“Probably never thought about it. I was the posh writer bloke. Poncey, likely to know how to cook. I knew Garry by sight, and we bumped into each other at the Co-op, and I asked him to reach something for me. A tin of black lentils, I think. Gave him the idea that I knew about cooking; posh bloke using strange fancy stuff for cooking.” I shrugged, “We get on well enough. He’s mentioned his ex-wife, and there seems to be no love lost. But I’m wary of jumping into marital problems and I’d never met her till yesterday. But I did meet Lizzie.”

“Lizzie?” She suddenly became alert.

“Garry was trying to keep the lessons secret, so it would be a surprise for the girl. But people know each other, I forget the connection but one of my neighbours is a crony of someone Lizzie’s mum knows, I think. It seems word got out. So, Lizzie came to thank me. They’d made posies at school, and she brought me one.”

“How was she?”

“Charming, self-possessed and very concerned for her father.”

“Did she mention her mother?”

“Not much. I think there was something about her mother not being best pleased,” I shrugged.

“And Mrs Morton, what was she concerned about yesterday?”

“She’d evidently found out that I’m gay and so clearly I have designs on her ex-husband.”

“And do you?”

“Good Lord, no. I’m rather fond of my face as it is and don’t want it rearranged.”

“Oh.”

“Garry deals with me being gay, after a fashion. But I would never dare approach him in that way, his first response is almost certain to be physical.”

“I see. Have you said any of this to him?”

“Good Lord, no. We communicate rather roughly. Trying to find common points in different world views. My neighbour Maudie knows I’m gay, and come to think of it, she knows one of Lizzie’s mum’s neighbours. Lizzie’s mum seems to have jumped to conclusions. I got the impression that the woman was determined that I not get my hands on her ex. Almost a case of if she can’t have him, no-one else can.”

“But…” She sighed. “What to say. And she was violent and homophobic.”

“Plenty of phrases like ‘Fucking Faggot’ repeated, ad nauseam. She also spat on me. It’s in the video.”

“Video?”

“Yes, a neighbour took it” I showed it to her, then emailed a copy. She thanked me and I apologised for waffling, but she said that it was important background. Just before she left, she stopped.

“One more thing, you’ve been buying him clothes.”

I wondered how that had made its way through the grapevine.

“Not quite. He was invited to the event at the Town Hall when Lizzie was singing.”

“The Schools Choral Celebration?”

“Yes. He wanted to look tidy, and smart, asked me to go shopping with him.

“You agreed?”

“I didn’t fancy it, but I appreciated the significant effort it took him. We went round the charity shops; I found a jacket. We’d agreed a budget, what he could afford, and it was too expensive, so I paid the balance, and he agreed. Reluctantly, I think, but I bribed him with lunch.”

“I see. And the jacket?”

“Was a success, I gather. It wasn’t much—money that is. But I didn’t to want to patronise him by throwing money at him, so he paid what he could afford, and I chipped in the rest.”

“Thank you, that is most illuminating.”

 

Final Run Through

Interesting conversations were often to Garry’s back. He’d set to, preparing vegetables, meat or whatever and only then tell start talking. Usually, it was something along the lines of ‘Read that book’. Today however it was Lizzie.

“Lizzie has another concert.”

“With the school choir?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good isn’t it.”

“Yeah, solo ‘n all.”

“Not at the Town Hall, again, I assume?”

“Nah. At school.”

“She enjoy it?”

“Yeah. Don’t know where she gets it from.”

“Don’t knock it. Plenty you can do with singing as a hobby.”

“Mmm” A silence. “She wants me to go.”

“That’s good? What about her Mum?”

“Lizzie’s a bit off with her”, he paused, “On account of the stuff with you.”

“Aah”, what to say.

“See, Lizzie likes you ‘n all. So, she told her Mum not to come.”

“Wow. How did that go down?”

“Big ding dong. Alike those two.”

Not too alike, I hoped. “Are you going?”

“Reckon so. Planning me outfit.”

He turned and gave me a sly grin. A rare one of pure joy.

I wanted to ask about Lizzie’s mother but hadn’t dared so far even though I was curious about what the repercussions of the incident were. If any. But he’d mentioned her. “You know what’s happening with Lizzie’s mother?”

He pulled a face, “Bound over, I reckon”. Then a sigh, “If I could get a flat then Lizzie could stay with me proper.”

His flat was evidently a studio at best and as I understood, he’d have to leave eventually. It was intended as a temporary help until he got himself sorted out. Which meant a job that paid more than peanuts. But Garry was nothing if not determined and I’d provided a reference for him already.

For all the help he was getting, it was still a precarious life, and the cracks seemed large, plenty of space to fall between them. Yet, there was little I could do that was concrete. Just moral support and cooking lessons.

I had, frankly, no idea whether Garry was going to succeed. Oh, undoubtedly, he would make dinner for Lizzie, more than once probably, and it would be creditable, and she would enjoy it. Truthfully, I suspect she would enjoy it however it tasted, because her dad had made it. I knew, however, that thanks to sheer determination, Garry was capable of making something more than creditable. The way he was focusing on his cooking, and the sense that he felt this could be a way forward, to properly turn things around, was more than admirable. I was somewhat awestruck.

I had never really had that degree of focus and application. Not in my work, and I felt rather guilty, that despite all the support from my parents, the various grants and student loans, the end result of my long education process was a pair of degrees that I hardly used and work that really only tickled the surface. I hadn’t expected my helping Garry to have a reciprocal effect.

I could never mention it to him, he would think I was mad. After all, I had what he probably regarded as a cushy job and would never go without. It was a job I enjoyed—sort of—and was good at, up to a point. ‘Stop being an arse and get on with it’ would probably be his view.

Instead, I got down my Economic History of India, 1814-1914 and my notes and put them prominently on my desk.

***

“You know about garlic bread.”

I stared at Garry; was that statement or a question? He was getting things ready to start cooking. It was our last session. Lizzie’s birthday was at the weekend, and Garry would be cooking for her. He had had dummy runs at home and swore to me that things had gone OK. Well, his actual expression had been that the food ‘hadn’t been shit’! I’d treated him to a decent pan to make the ragu in; not too expensive but good enough to cook in. He’d been a bit reluctant to take it, but I’d said that with any of my other friends, I would give them a present to wish them well in an enterprise. This was just a practical one. He’d looked at me oddly when I’d suggested that we were friends but had let it go.

This final run through was probably our last. After all, there was no particular reason to continue. Yet for all his scariness, part of me was going to miss these sessions.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, despite what I’d said, he wasn’t really a friend, even though Derry sarcastically referred to him as ‘your friend Garry’. He could still erupt, the gay thing was one area I tried to keep relatively quiet about, and politics. Anything that might unnerve him. Basically, we talked about cooking, and books. And Lizzie.

So… Garlic bread.

“It’s easy enough, though it’s not real Italian cuisine.” I considered, “More a modern invention.” He gave a grunt, but before he could object, I hurried on, “But we can do some. I have the ingredients.”

“Now?” He turned to me and glared, but continued, “Reckon Lizzie will expect it.”

“Fair enough.” I laughed and he gave me another stare, thinking I was making fun of him. “Sorry, I tend to get a bit prissy about food, only cooking stuff that I think of as right. But garlic bread is fun, easy and bound to be a hit.”

So, we added garlic bread to the menu.

For our session, he had appeared clutching a typed sheet, showing it to me with a bluntness that I suspected masked nerves. It was, in fact, rather sweet.

“Girl in the office at work typed it for me.”

“It’s great and has everything.”

“Better than recipe and scribbles.”

“You follow it OK?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Had to tell ‘em like.”

“About Lizzie’s birthday treat?”

“Yeah”, he looked away. “Last year Frankie in the office helped with her present.”

“Nice of her.”

“Yeah. I chose it but, well you know.”

Garry could get quite fierce about Lizzie. He was embarrassed at the idea of going to the make-up counter at Boots yet was determined to do right by her.

“So, this year you had to explain what the present was?”

“Yeah. Frankie got Nina to do this.”

“It’s great.”

And it was. Nina, or whoever, had laid the recipe out well. Basic instructions were left justified; my extra injunctions and reminders were right justified. And it began with ‘Don’t drink until the meal is served’, to the right. I hid a smile.

We set off; he started preparing. He still wasn’t quick, but he was methodical and orderly, laying everything out neatly. Once the ragu was bubbling away, I got him squashing the garlic with a knife.

“Fucking hell. Know a guy that reckoned to do this to a bloke’s knackers if…” He came to a halt; aware he’d strayed into territory we never talked about.

I gave a dry laugh, “I don’t think I want you to complete that sentence.”

“Nah. You’re not angry?”

I looked puzzled. It wouldn’t be fair to get angry. He probably did know a bloke in prison who threatened people by squashing their balls. It was just not the sort of thing folk normally talked about. It was scary, true, but making me angry? Hardly, his fault.

“No. Why?”

“Folk do. Talking ‘bout inside.”

“Not me. No reason to, is there?” I kept up the cool and calm image.

A dip of his head, “Thanks.”

 

Saying Thank-You

“Well, I think you’re all set, and if Saturday’s anything like today, then Lizzie is in for a treat.”

“Ta.”

Once we’d finished washing up and drying, instead of leaving, he fished around in his pocket then handed me a bit of paper. It was a job advert. For a cook, entry level. For a canteen for a community resource centre being run by the Foundation. I’d read about it, aiming to provide rehabilitation and employment for former prisoners in the context of a larger community resource. The Worker’s Canteen. All very laudable, but the sort of enterprise that you worried might be too up itself for its own good.

I handed the advert back to him, “You don’t need my thoughts on whether the Worker’s Canteen is a good idea.”

He snorted, “Bunch of doo-gooders.”

“But a good idea, if it works.”

“Yeah.”

“And a good entry level position. Is this what you want?”

A dip of the head, “Reckon so. Enjoy this stuff.”

“It’ll be hard work and repetitive. Chopping onions for all the food to be served. That sort of thing. You won’t get near proper cooking. At least, not at first.”

“Most jobs are dead end.”

I got what he was saying. As an ex-con, little was open to him.

“Fair enough. Better than shovelling shit.” He gave a bitter laugh in response. “You’re a bit older, I’d imagine. Says you have to make a personal statement.”

“About all this, and the lessons.”

I considered, “I can help.”

“Ta.”

“But” I stared at him. “It has to be you writing. Not me. Has to sound like you.”

“So, you won’t.”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll help, but you’ll do the work. Look.” I reached for the pad I now kept in the kitchen, to write reminders and lists for Garry to take away after a lesson. “Bring this back on Saturday with a list. Just words or phrases, why you want the job, why cooking, that sort of thing. Think you can do that?”

Sucking of teeth. A grunt. “What time?”

“11 o’clock. I’ll put on the coffee.” A roll of his eyes, “Then you can get back and start preparations.”

“Ta.”

***

It was far harder than it looked. My every instinct was to tidy and correct, to suggest the right questions to answer and better ways to express things. But here?

Garry’s first list was a bit bald, but touching in the importance placed on Lizzie, not just the birthday meal, but doing right for her. With some prompting from me, he added to the list. And yes, some words were mine, but plenty were his. It worked better if I did the writing, and he simply said things.

I then organised the list into a sort of narrative and told him he needed to write it out. I think he approached it like the creative writing class he’d done inside, taken by ‘a bird’. It was lunchtime before he finished. I had anticipated that Garry would go away and work on it, but no, he simply plonked himself at the counter in the kitchen and set to. So, I’d poured us more coffee and gone off to try and work, though his brooding presence in the next room rather loomed large, creating an atmosphere.

I had to restrain myself and not over-correct the result, and I was aware of Garry almost vibrating next to me. And I couldn’t help but admire his strength of purpose. That he’d do anything for Lizzie, to make things right for her, including dealing with the queer bloke next-door and getting help from him. I looked at the essay, because that’s what it was, and tried to recall some of Garry’s phrases—'I want to do right by my Lizzie’, ‘Give her a stable environment’, ‘She don’t have one at the moment’.

‘Stable environment’ was an OK phrase to use, all the council folk talked like that.

“Just add that.”

“It’s a bit, you know … Lizzie’s mum.”

“No. It’s a statement of intent”, I looked at him. “They’ll have read all about Lizzie’s mum, don’t you worry. But it’s important, it’s why you’re doing it.”

An embarrassed nod.

I figured that as we’d started, we might as well finish things off, so when he left, he had an envelope to post (there was no question of him doing an on-line application, he had no online presence, no email address). And I gave him my present for Lizzie. That I’d bought her one seemed to knock him for six.

Anyone else, I would probably have given a hug to as I wished them good luck, but though we’d reached a modus vivendi, I didn’t think we’d got that far. But seeing him, holding the parcel as if it was something precious was a priceless image.

It was Derry of all people who had reminded me of the present. Not deliberately, but I’d made a comment about the cookery course coming to an end because of Lizzie’s birthday and he’d given me one of his sly smiles, ‘What was I getting her?’ Knowing full well the thought would not have occurred to me.

I’d had no idea what to get. I just felt that it had to be pink. And glittery. Not me at all. But then I had popped into the local DIY store (rather than trekking to the B&Q in the retail park) only to find it had turned itself into a lifestyle store, whatever that was. There was a display of room fragrance things, including those you put scented oil into. And one was pink. With some glittery wrapping paper, that was perfect. I hoped.

***

Garry had rung the bell at 11 on Sunday morning, catching me in t-shirt and cotton pants, my busy-working-on-Sunday outfit. With me just in bare feet, he seemed even larger than usual.

“Sorry, mate. It’s Lizzie.”

“Shit. She OK? After yesterday?”

He broke into a smile, “Ace. Just. She wants to come and say ta.”

“To me?”

“Yeah.”

Lizzie was wearing a sweatshirt that said ‘Birthday Girl’ on it, not quite in glitter but damn close. And Garry was in his decent t-shirt and chinos. Clearly saying thank-you was a big thing, or he was making an effort for Lizzie’s sake.

I had rustled up some banana bread, always a good standby and it was still warm. Lizzie, of course, was curious about the house and as we walked through to the garden, there were comments about everything. In a remarkably short space of time, Garry became quiet and growly but Lizzie seemed to simply ignore it and when we sat down, she gave her father a beaming smile. Coffee, cake, and juice served, I had to duly admire her photos, and there were lots on her phone, of Garry looking embarrassed, of the meal, of the two of them, and ones of Lizzie taken by Garry, the lot. She pronounced it the best birthday ever and thanked me for helping her father.

“She bought me a cookbook.” Garry managed the remarkable feat of looking proud, furious and embarrassed.

“What is it?”

“Book for idiots”, he gave a gruff smile.

Lizzie showed me a picture of the cover on her phone.

“‘Cooking for Dummies’”, I worked hard at not smiling.

“I saw it in the charity shop. It has lots of basic recipes for Dad to try.”

Garry’s response was to humph, but he gave her a friendly punch that she seemed to take in the light-hearted way it was offered.

“Might have to ask you about some.”

“The recipes? Sure. I’ll try to help.”

Lizzie beamed, “See, Dad, you’ll be well set up when you get your new place.”

This last comment brought a grunt from Garry, “Hold your horses.” Lizzie just grinned and asked if she could look at the garden. Once she’d gone, he sighed, “Looking for a place. Big enough for her to stay.”

“Can’t she stay with you in your current place?”

“No bigger than a rat’s arse. Girl needs her own room.”

“I see. So, a new flat?”

“Pricey business. Foundation folk are helping”, a shrug, “supposedly.”

That seemed to be it, and I didn’t want to press. His budget must be tiny, to non-existent, and I hesitated to consider the sort of place he might be able to afford.

Garry looked over at Lizzie, making sure she was still absorbed in checking out the garden, then he wrestled an envelope from his chinos and handed it to me. “Never agreed on your fee. Did some reckoning up. Now we’re straight.”

Shit. Bugger. Fuck.

I’d never imagined that Garry would consider the need to pay me; as far as I was concerned, it was a favour. But that wouldn’t wash, Garry would be the sort for whom a debt was a debt. Refusing payment would no doubt offend him, yet accepting seemed unacceptable to me, the money must have been a big chunk of Garry’s budget. I hesitated and he looked anxious.

“Reckoned up the hours and used a mates’ rate. OK?”

I looked at the envelope, there in his untidy handwriting was a note of the dates and hours, plus an hourly rate that was either derisory or over-inflated. I smiled, and went for a sort of truth, “I’d never thought about the fee, it’s not the sort of thing I usually do.”

“You charge folk when you do stuff for ‘em?”

I laughed, “That’s different, the college sets the rate. I have no choice, fixed fees.” I tapped the envelope. “This is great, thank you very much. But going forward, if you have any questions or need help, then regard it as help from a friend, OK?”

He stared at me but nodded.

 

Life Changes

“Dad made me lasagne on Saturday, with garlic bread and I did a salad.”

Lizzie looked at me, clearly pleased at Garry’s continuing cookery adventures.

“And how was it?”

She pulled a face, “It didn’t look much like the pictures”, she gave me a look, “but it tasted great. He’s going to have another go.”

“That’s good isn’t it. And salad?”

“Dad’s not much on salad, but I said we had to have some.”

“Did he eat it?”

She grinned, “Yeah. And I helped him sort the rest of the lasagne out so’s he can zap it for his tea.”

“Good.”

Lizzie had just appeared, late one afternoon after school. She was wearing a flowery top and summer-weight skirt, far less idiosyncratic than previously, and rather mature in style for her. She had not indicated why she had come; so, we sat down outside with drinks and biscuits, I didn’t have any cake in.

I’d joked that she’d need to warn me she was coming if she wanted cake. This had made her freeze, I was suddenly aware that she was, after all, only what? 13? I reassured her she could drop in most afternoons but that it was nice to have an excuse to bake, so if she let me know she was coming there would be fresh cake, and that seemed to get us back on track.

But I’d made a rod for my own back, Lizzie was going to drop in regularly, especially if there was cake on offer. Wait till Derry heard that I’d somehow become friends with Garry’s daughter, he’d hoot. I’d never, so far, been one for children.

Then she simply started on about her Dad’s cooking. Topic seemingly exhausted, there was a pause then she stared at me again, perhaps checking I was still friendly.

“Mum was going to come round, again.”

“Here?”

Fuck, that set alarm bells ringing. I’d naively assumed that the fuss surrounding her last visit would have been sufficient deterrent. Seemed not.

“I told her not to”, Lizzie sounded remarkably fierce, “that you’d been teaching Dad to cook and that I liked it.” She glared, “Besides, you are my friend.”

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so serious, and I remembered Garry commenting about Lizzie and her mother’s ding dong battles.

“And how was that?”

“She weren’t happy, ‘specially when I told her that the council lady wouldn’t be happy either.” She smiled at me, “When Dad gets his new flat, the council lady says it’ll be good for me to stay with him.”

“That’s good.”

“I can have my own room and help him in the house. He likes it tidy.”

I could imagine. I thought of Garry’s methodical approach to cooking. I wondered how he and an enthusiastic teenager would do living together, but that wasn’t my problem.

***

I soon learned that Garry disliked asking for help. I bumped into him in the Co-op, and he said that he was getting on OK, and Lizzie was also doing more singing. For Garry, he was positively chatty, yet I wondered if that was it as far as our interaction went. I could hardly knock on his door and demand, what? To be friends? Hardly. Yet…

It was the cheese sauce that did it. Something relatively common, yet easy enough for it to go wrong if you don’t pay attention to what you are doing. He was making cauliflower cheese for Lizzie one Saturday, figuring to make it early and pop it into the oven to brown when she arrived. He’d also realised that cheese sauce wasn’t too different from things he’d done with me. But it went wrong.

I was pottering in the garden when the doorbell went. And there was Garry with a pan, an old one that had seen better days. He was hugging it to himself, despite the heat, in what seemed to be an attempt to keep it from prying eyes.

I didn’t laugh; after all, sauce going lumpy or burning was something that could happen to anyone. I invited him in, and using one of my pans, we started again. This time it worked. I gave him a few tips for recovering if things did get lumpy, and for spicing up the sauce with mustard, mushrooms, spring onions, and that sort of thing.

We never had a repeat of the cheese sauce problem, but Garry figured out that I was there to be asked. He discovered what every enthusiastic amateur cook learns; that there is a community of cooks. I’d swear he must lay in wait so that he could bump into me and just happen to ask a question. That way, it was less like asking for help; there would be questions about ingredients, techniques, the best way to do things.

I learned that Garry’s view of food was very traditional, meat was meat, though he seemed to be happy to push boundaries for Lizzie. I had found copies of a couple of classics, Frugal Food and Cooking for One, and would give him copies of recipes, but something like lentils and sausages would provoke a reaction, ‘What the fuck are lentils?’

We might have pottered on like that except life changed. He got the job and the flat.

Let me say now, that Garry was one of the lucky ones. That’s not a comment on his intelligence or his capacity for hard work. I’d come to learn, mainly from reading stories in newspapers, that it was easy to fall through the cracks and the cracks in the social system were getting wider and wider. I’d seen how challenging it was for Garry to plough a straight furrow. If he’d slipped through the cracks, there is little that I could have done. Friendly support and cooking lessons only go so far, and I’ll have to admit that there was only so far that I’d be prepared to go, that I’d dare to go.,

First came his new job, cooking for The Worker’s Canteen. So, I got into the habit of popping into the Centre for lunch; that way, I was supportive of the enterprise and could keep my eye on Garry, who would be working behind the scenes. We never said hi, well I could hardly disturb him, could I? But I would see him through the window into the kitchen, busy chopping onions or whatever.

Then he brought Lizzie round one Saturday to tell me he was moving the following week. The new flat was still tiny, but it had a separate room for Lizzie. I hardly felt in a position to quiz him about how he was affording it, all I could do was offer my congratulations and tell Lizzie that she needed to help her dad with the cooking. That drew a laugh!

***

Life goes on, but I have made a determined effort to not simply sink into my comfortable little rut. New projects, including the series of articles, have stretched me and I am making more time for my own writing. I’m feeling hopeful about The British Raj: an economic history, I have made great strides, and Derry had been very positive about the chapters I have let him read. I still need a catchy title, the existing one is more of a subtitle, but Derry assures me that when it is ready for him to read, he will come up with something witty and pithy. I have no doubt that he will, Derry studied English at uni and when he writes he is still quite the stylist.

I still see Garry about. We’ll stop to say hello, and I’ll ask how the cooking is going, but we’ve never developed an easy interaction. I still find him, frankly, a bit unnerving and remain somewhat wary whilst I don’t fit into any easy category for him. We have a shared history but take the cooking away and the books and not much is left. Standing on a street corner in town, we find that there is little to say to each other.

The cooking queries have stopped. I don’t think Garry has suddenly become an expert. but he has a job in the business now. He might only be a lowly minion in a community enterprise, but he is working with other professionals and no doubt has found others to share recipes with, receive advice and useful tips.

If I see him, I usually remember to ask about Lizzie and her singing, which continues, and occasionally I bump into Lizzie. She is growing and is increasingly self-possessed so that I find I chat to her almost more than her father.

I saw posters around town for the Schools Choral Celebration and realised that, shit, it was a year since Lizzie had sung in the previous one. Then she appeared on my doorstep, large as life with a leaflet, a broad smile and an invitation for me to come. Her dad would be there, and he’d be so pleased if I could come too. I hardly imagined that the Garry I knew would have phrased it quite like that, but I said yes.

The Victorian assembly room in the Town Hall was full, with an audience mainly consisting of parents, siblings, aunts, grandmothers and what not. The performances were, well, OK. There were bright spots and Lizzie’s school choir was one. Her solo was lovely, and I could feel Garry positively beaming next to me. You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but he radiated pleasure in Lizzie’s achievements. The drawback was that there were awkward pauses between the sections as one school went off and another came on. Which meant we needed to talk. Garry and me.

I needed to provoke him by asking questions and try for ones where yes or no or OK would not suffice. We worked through Lizzie and school, what he was reading and the books he had enjoyed, his job, what he was cooking. I thought we did quite well, really and by the end of the concert I was feeling that Garry was managing to keep his head above water. Just about.

But as he hung around, waiting for Lizzie, I felt I couldn’t simply walk off without saying goodbye to her. Garry was looking preoccupied.

“Know I’m doing more in the kitchen?” He’d explained that he’d got a more responsible role at the Workers Canteen, which was promising.

“Yes, which is all to the good.”

“Young kid started, doing the crap I’d been doing.”

“Fair enough.”

So far, the conversation had been done side by side, Garry not looking at me, but then he turned to face me. “Turns out, new kid is queer.” Now, Garry’s use of the word queer was in the old, pejorative sense, but I tried not to bridle.

“Was that a problem?”

“Big ‘un. Some of the others gave him gyp.”

“Serious?”

“Nah. Just verbal. Not nice though.”

“It can still hurt.”

He looked at me curiously, perhaps for the first time considering what my being gay might have meant. “Yeah. So, I told them.”

“What?”

“Fuckin’ back off. Kid’s all right.”

“Did they?”

“Not at first, but I told ‘em. Guy that taught me to cook was queer, and he’d got my back.”

Derry always says that politics is personal, and here it was in action. Moral support and cooking lessons had paid off and created that little chink in Garry’s armour. When Lizzie appeared, I gave her an extra-special greeting.