Just a short one this time. Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Seven: Eat, Drink, and Be Wary
1.
Gerry and Brian are mired in traffic on the Surrey side of the Thames. As they creep along Gerry sighs heavily. Having to interview an inmate at Wandsworth is a necessary evil; being snarled in an endless traffic jam at 3:00 on a Thursday afternoon is bollocks.
"This," Brian comments helpfully, insufferably superior, "is why I choose not to drive."
"The next time it's pissing down, you can walk home," the other man retorts.
Meanwhile Sandra peers anxiously up at the sky as she and Jack cross Edgeware Road. "Do you think it looks like rain?"
He doesn't bother looking skyward, but shoots her a dubious glance. "We live in England, Sandra. When does it not look like rain?"
"I think it might be clearing. There, see?"
He doesn't. "Why the sudden interest in the weather? You planning on a nature hike after work?"
"Right, that's just my style: a nice little ten-mile stroll through the forest." She chuckles. "I'll take Gerry and make it a real party."
It's reasonably warm for late February, and so far, at least, the bone-chilling dampness has held off. Sandra has high hopes. She is planning a little stroll, but not through the forest, and she is planning to take Gerry along. In fact, the sooner she and Jack talk to Jerome Spruell, the sooner she can make a start. Unconsciously she increases both her pace and the length of her stride, and then looks back impatiently at her colleague.
"What are you waiting for, Jack – spring? Come on."
It's gone half four when Gerry and Brian finally make it back to the office, and Detective Superintendent Pullman is chafing with exasperation and driving Jack crazy.
"Someone needs to check Robinson's diplomatic status," she says, and Jack leaps to his feet with the alacrity of a man half his age.
"We might be able to make it over to the American Embassy if we step on it," says Jack, who, of course, knows any such thing is sheer madness, but who's sick of being cooped up with Sandra. She keeps looking out the window and pacing a four-foot rectangle in front of her desk. "Come on, Brian." Sorry, Gerry, but you're more resilient.
Sandra instantly spins on her boot heel. "Right. With me, Gerry."
"Aw, c'mon, gov, it's nearly gone five," he protests, even though they're already headed briskly for the main exit. "Can't we skive off a few minutes early? It's Thursday," he sing-songs, and she glares at him, but he can see that she's not the least bit angry.
It occurs to him to wonder just where they're going as she hits the pavement, moving as if the hounds of hell are in hot pursuit. "Er, don't we need some form of transport?"
"We have one. We're taking the tube." Ignoring Gerry's dumbstruck expression, she actually claps her hands twice, like a prim head teacher. "Come on. You should be able to move faster now you've lost some weight."
Once they're underground she calms, and she seems perfectly content on the crowded train, even though she and Gerry are squashed together like a couple of tinned sardines. Well actually, he thinks as she shifts her weight with the motion of the train and her back presses against him, that aspect of the situation is rather an advantage. But still –
"Sandra, whatever it is we're doing, does it have to be done on Thursday night?" he asks impatiently.
"Yes." She twists her upper body so he can see her face as she grins. "In fact, it's the only night we can do this."
Realization dawns. "We're not on the clock."
"I don't think you can put in for overtime, no, unless you fancy explaining to Strickland exactly how this falls into the category of 'extraordinary duty.'"
"I could do that." Gerry smiles smugly as the train lurches slightly, and he drops his hand to Sandra's waist to help her balance atop her high-heeled boots. "In great detail."
She grins, which takes a good bit of the power from her reproving look. "You're talking a load of bullshit, Gerald. You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, wouldn't I?"
They're speaking very softly to keep from being overheard, and his warm breath tickles her ear as he teases her, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. "No," she replies with certainty, strategically pressing backward a bit more firmly, "not if you know what's good for you."
Eventually they emerge, and Sandra grabs Gerry's hand, leading him through what seems like a warren of extremely crowded streets. Geographically they're not all that far from the area where he grew up, but culturally they're light years away.
"Where are we going?" he questions, squeezing her hand just because he can. Her bright red glove looks even redder enfolded in his black one.
"Dinner," she replies simply, glancing over to flash him that delighted, devious smile he can't resist. "What did you have for lunch?"
"Warm duck breast salad with gorgonzola, apple, and sesame seeds. You?"
"Half a cheese sandwiches, packet of crisps from the vending machine, and an under-ripe banana."
"You just don't eat properly when I'm not around, do you?"
"Right, Gerry, it's all down to you. It's astonishing that I've survived this long."
"I want to cook for you." They're still walking along, and he uses their joined hands to tug Sandra closer.
"You've cooked for me heaps of times."
"For you only. Something special."
She hesitates. "We'll see. Come on, we're almost there."
They've already passed restaurants representing virtually every country and region on the map of Asia, and Gerry admits to himself that he's eager to see where Sandra is taking him. He'd once told Sandra she didn't know anything about food, and she'd retorted that she didn't know anything about his kind of food. They've both learned a lot from each other between that day and this, in more ways than one.
As if reading his mind, she squeezes his fingers, and they share a smile.
"Here we are," she says cheerfully, stopping abruptly on the corner.
Gerry blinks and considers her Sphinx-like expression. She's taking the piss. "All right, funny, gov."
She slips her arm through his. "The lamb's nice," she confides, "and the beef is brilliant."
Maybe they haven't learned so much from each other after all, because he has a sinking feeling that his companion is quite serious. He stares at the small stand in front of them for a full minute, and when he finally speaks, his tone is incredulous.
"Sandra, you've dragged me halfway across the city to eat street meat?"
2.
"I know it's just here somewhere," Marjorie says confidently to her friend as the two older women wend their way steadily eastward. "They have the most fantastic orange pekoe, and the little pistachio biscuits!" She throws both hands open, indicating something like rapture, in the religious sense. "And in the same block there's a wonderful spice shop. I can't imagine what you're meant to do with some of the things they sell."
The retired teacher chatters on, but Esther Lane's attention has been caught by someone up ahead of her, someone with shining blonde hair beneath a black tam-like wool hat that matches her black military-style jacket set off by a vividly blue scarf. Is that Sandra?
Whoever the blonde woman is, she's not alone. Her arm is linked through that of a man in a long grey coat. They're close to the same height; she's a bit taller in her chunky black boots. Sandra, certainly. Sandra and… Gerry?
Gerry Standing?
Esther gives herself a mental shake. Why in the world shouldn't her husband's friends be standing there together, apparently debating the virtues of lamb versus beef doner kebaps? They all ate plenty of meals together, Esther knew that well enough, and they were all very close friends, even if those friendships were sometimes a bit… unusual.
It must be the way they're standing that strikes her as so arresting, the way their arms are cozily linked.
If that were Jack and Sandra, you wouldn't think twice. Brian and Sandra, ditto.
Well, that's true enough. But it isn't Jack or Brian; it's Gerry.
Before Esther can make up her mind, she and Marjorie have reached their destination, and Esther's friend is dragging her bodily into the small tea shop.
3.
"This is the first course," Sandra explains as if it's the most logical, self-evident information in the world. "So do you want your own, or do you want to share?"
Gerry spreads his hands and steps back. "This is your rodeo."
"Have it your way." She rattles off an order for one beef doner kebap with lettuce, tomato, and about three different types of sauces. "Extra spicy," she enthuses, unthinkingly rising up on her toes to watch the young Middle Eastern man prepare the wrap.
Gerry would eat pickled cow udders and donkey intestines if it would put that look on her face, that smiling, wide-eyed expression of little-girl enthusiasm. She has such force, such energy. Perhaps not many people are allowed in close enough to see this, but Sandra Pullman, workaholic extraordinaire, has an enormous appetite for life. Gerry has seen glimmers of it for years, in that occasional radiant smile and in the great joy she takes in small things: a lovely breakfast, a nice glass of wine, a really good joke at his expense. But that doesn't compare to seeing her like this. He realizes he's smiling hugely, because she's so happy, because he's happy; and as she turns back to face him, carefully holding the prize kebap, Gerry feels like a sappy, sentimental old fool, because he wishes he could capture this moment and keep it.
She is staring at him, he realizes, impatient but amused, holding out the foil-wrapped concoction. "It's food, Gerry," she says smartly, "not an art project. It's meant to be eaten."
He merely raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, play along, you tosser. At the worst how bad can it be? I've seen you eat things that have literally made you go green. To a man of your wrecked constitution this should be mother's milk."
"Wrecked, is it?"
The spice creeps up slowly, initially masked by the moist, succulent meat, the crisp salad, and the cool yoghurt-based sauce. After a few bites, though, Gerry is actually sweating.
"Too hot for poor old Gerry?" Sandra taunts.
"Nothing you've got is too hot for me," he returns, and she rolls her eyes and groans.
"Christ, Gerry, you're a relic." She steals the sandwich and takes a large bite. "Hmm," she sighs.
"Sandra," he asks suddenly, watching the blissful expression on her face, "what did you eat growing up?"
She wrinkles her nose, but chews and swallows before answering. "The same things the rest of the country was eating in the sixties and seventies, I suppose. There was a great deal of boiling and mashing involved."
"Was your mum a good cook? Or your dad?" he adds hastily.
Taking another bite, she shakes her head. "My mother taught me everything I know, if you take my point. She hated the idea even more than I do – because she had to do it, of course." She takes one more bite for good measure and passes over the kebap as if she's handing over the Olympic torch. "My father once burned condensed soup. So there you have them, my culinary role models."
He nods sagely. "It makes sense now."
"What does?" He looks dubiously at the dripping, soupy mess still cradled in the aluminium foil, and she forestalls his response. "If you toss that in the rubbish bin, you're a dead old copper. That's the best part, and I've saved it for you."
Gerry dutifully peels the wrapper back and ingests the last two bites as quickly as possible. Sandra's right to say that this is the "best" part if by best she means the most tastebud-scorching, sopping as it is in the hot sauce. The fact that rivulets of greasy liquid are running down his gloved fingers somewhat dampens Gerry's enthusiasm. Sandra hands him a napkin and repeats, "What makes sense?"
"Your aversion to our national cuisine."
She sniffs. "I happen to love curry."
Sandra leads on, intent on providing him with a real street food experience, one that involves neither jellied eels nor candy floss. She has begun fairly traditionally with the kebap, but for the next forty-five minutes they wind through a collection of stalls purveying delicately spiced roti rolls, miniature banh mi, tacos made with Korean barbecue and tangy kim chi, and light, airy fried dumplings stuffed with duck, winter squash, and some sort of exotic peppercorns that make Gerry's tongue go numb for a full ten minutes.
"Sandra, you couldn't have waited for warmer weather for this little excursion?" Gerry stamps his feet and watches his breath create streams of white steam.
"Quit whinging, you overgrown jessie. Didn't you have to walk uphill eight miles through the snow to get to school when you were a mere lad, or somefing?" she taunts. "During the Great War?"
"All right, all right. Vicious, Sandra."
She's unfazed by his complaining. "You've behaved reasonably well, I suppose. Be a big, brave boy a few minutes longer and we'll get you warmed up."
"I'm counting on it."
She rolls her eyes. "Come on."
They walk briskly not back to the underground but to a narrow, two-storeyed tea shop tucked behind a nondescript grey metal door. The elderly Chinese woman at the till greets Sandra by name, and Sandra orders orange pekoe for herself and Gerry and an array of tiny, spicy biscuits rich with the flavours of cinnamon, almond, pistachio, even saffron and basil.
"You must at least like these," she says, nudging one of the miniature biscuits toward Gerry once the two of them are installed at a rickety table by the window. "Even if you didn't like anything else."
"It wasn't all completely horrible." He sips cautiously at the scalding liquid as feeling gradually returns to his stiff fingers, and reaches out to lay his thawing digits on her forearm where it's covered by the soft, delicate cashmere of her vivid turquoise jumper.
"Oh, fabulous. It's been a raging success, then," she grumbles, looking unimpressed as she hunches over her own steaming cup. "Your spirit of adventure, Gerry: that's what I find so refreshing about you."
"Don't make me say it. It's too humiliating."
Her even white teeth meet in one of the leaf-shaped sweets. "What's that?"
"I'll eat whatever you want," he admits grumpily.
She smirks. "Don't expect me to return the sentiment. I tried tripe once for you; I seldom make the same mistake twice. Well, except this one I keep making on a weekly basis with you." As she speaks, though, she covers his hand where it rests on her arm and strokes lightly over his knuckles. They share a smile.
And that's exactly the expression Esther glimpses on Sandra's face as she and Marjorie walk by, both laden with bags of newly purchased spices. Marjorie is thinking out loud, dreaming up some dish that will feature sumac, and Esther's distracted glance lands on Brian's governor and freeze-frames her like a still photo.
Esther and her friend have moved on and are waiting at the zebra crossing before Esther has time to process what she's seen, or at least what she thinks she's seen.
Well. How very interesting.
You don't have to be a detective to know what that smile meant, Esther muses. You just have to be able to see.
How very, very interesting indeed.