Desperately Seeking - By Evelyn Cosgrave Page 0,25

sipping a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream.

‘Hello, love,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell your father I’m drinking this. He thinks it’s awful rubbish.’

I knew it was her favourite. Her parents used to drink it by the bucketful when they could afford it.

‘Of course I won’t. You OK, Mum?’

‘Oh, I’m a little tired. It’s a lot of work, after all.’

‘I know, and I really appreciate it. It’s been a great party. Everybody’s having a brilliant time.’

‘They are, aren’t they?’

‘All your sisters are very impressed. And the house looks great.’

‘Yes, we were right not to go meddling with the sitting room. It’s perfect the way it is.’

‘Why don’t we join them there now? Everyone’s looking for you, and Daddy’s about to cut the cake.’

‘All right, dear. You know, that dress or blouse or whatever it is you’ve on you is really quite nice.’

‘Thanks, Mum. It’s Lucy’s.’

I don’t think we’ve been that close in years.

After the cake-cutting, the speech-making (Keith acquitted himself very well) and the photograph Auntie Joan insisted on, everybody disappeared again. Even Keith. I had just located Mike sitting on his own by the window in the dining room and was making my way through the crowd to join him, when I heard Lucy’s laughter coming from the study.

‘Here you all are!’ I said, almost accusingly, on finding Jean, Marion and Lucy in a huddle on the floor round a bottle of champagne. ‘It’s my party, you know.’

‘That’s why we didn’t want to be stealing your thunder,’ said Lucy. ‘Oh, come on so,’ she added, ‘I’ll pour you a glass. Where’s Keith?’

‘I don’t know. Everybody’s acting weird tonight.’

‘No, honey,’ said Marion. ‘It’s just you.’

‘We were saying,’ said Jean, ‘that this is quite a good party. You have to hand it to Mum. She knows how to put on a spread.’

‘Yeah,’ added Marion, ‘but do you remember how she used to be, when we were kids, before the cookery classes? A dinner for every day?’

‘Oh, God, yes!’ shrieked Jean. ‘A dinner for every day! Let me get this right now. Monday was bacon and cabbage, because it could be bought the week before and wouldn’t go off.’

‘Yes,’ said Marion, ‘and even though she hated it and never ate any of it, she cooked it every week because Dad loved it.’

‘I remember,’ said Lucy. ‘She thought it was common and only for poor country people. It killed her to have to cook it. The smell of it stayed in the kitchen for ages. That’s why she cooked it on Monday – to get it out of the way for the week.’

‘It killed her more that Dad liked it so much,’ continued Marion. ‘He didn’t insist on much, but bacon and cabbage was sacred with him.’

‘Do they have it any more?’ I asked, not remembering the days of the set menu.

‘Sometimes,’ answered Marion, ‘I can still smell it there the odd time, but Dad’s watching his cholesterol now and he’s less insistent than he used to be. To be honest, I think Mum’s grown to like it and cooks it for herself.’

‘So,’ went on Lucy, ‘what was Tuesday?’

‘Right,’ said Jean, getting back into her stride. ‘Tuesday was steak, to make up for the poverty of the day before.’

‘Yes,’ said Marion, ‘and she always went to town on a Tuesday.’

‘Always, and stocked up at the butcher. But she wouldn’t buy meat for too many days for fear of it going off.’

‘Oh, yes! People were always getting food poisoning in those days. And Mum didn’t believe in freezing meat. She said it ruined the texture.’

‘Now, Wednesday was always chicken, roast or fried, and Thursday was lamb-chop night.’

‘I remember the lamb chops,’ said Lucy. ‘They were lovely if she baked them but horrible if she grilled them. I don’t know why she ever grilled them.’

‘She grilled them,’ said Marion, ‘when she didn’t have time to bake them. She was often out and about on a Thursday afternoon, visiting her friends or one of her sisters. Remember? She often got Doreen O’Doherty in from next door to mind us.’

‘Ah, I remember – Dopey Doreen.’

‘She wasn’t Dopey,’ said Marion, mock-crossly. ‘She was just a little too innocent for this world.’

‘Whatever you say. I remember that she used to get really upset at Wanderly Wagon. I don’t know if it was the lost princess or Sneaky Snake, but something about Wanderly Wagon had her in tears every evening.’

‘Poor Mrs O’Doherty,’ said Jean, then fell over herself laughing.

‘Wait now,’ Lucy broke in, between the tears of laughter, ‘you haven’t finished the