Hidden Talents

An evening class is full of secrets in this observant short story by Alison Wassell.

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HEY’RE running Intermediate Bricklaying this term! I was hoping to build on my skills, pardon the pun.”

My friend Maureen and I are evening class veterans.

Both recently widowed, we met at Dog Grooming For Beginners several years ago and haven’t looked back.

We take at least one course every term, sometimes together, sometimes separately, but we always meet up afterwards for a chat.

As we talked on the phone, I scrolled through the new course guide on my laptop.

Bricklaying wasn’t the only thing that was missing.

“It must be all these cuts,” I said sadly.

We had already done all the interesting things: Artisan Bread Baking, Successful Sauces, Photography For The Fearful, Throw Your Own Pot.

Maureen had even done a course in welding while I had built my own computer. This term we would struggle to find anything to occupy us.

“Cooking For One? You’ve been doing that for ages now. You could teach the class yourself.”

I think of Elspeth as my

Wednesday friend.

Retirement, according to Elspeth, is for visiting every café within a 20-mile radius, sampling the cakes and pastries and writing an online review.

I meet up with her once a week to assist her in her mission.

She was right about Cooking For One, which was advertised as a basic course requiring no prior experience, but it was the best of a bad bunch.

“I’m hoping to pick up a few new tips and ideas,” I said.

Elspeth smiled indulgently.

She has no truck with adult education or selfimprovement and is content to put her feet up every night in front of the TV.

But I’m afraid my brain will seize up if I stop using it, like a car that sits in the garage for months on end.

The course was held at my old secondary school, which used to be the girls’ grammar.

It had changed a bit since my day, and the domestic science room had been renamed the food technology suite.

But that unmistakeable school smell was still there, and I felt a bit nervous walking down the corridor, half expecting my old headmistress to step out of her office and reprimand me for wearing my skirt too short.

Maureen and I paired up at a workstation.

We exchanged friendly nods with a couple of other veterans.

The course tutor, a young slip of a thing called Sharon, looked terrified.

Her voice quavered as she asked us to introduce ourselves and say what we hoped to get out of the class.

Maureen rolled her eyes. “Not this again,” she muttered.

Sharon must quickly have been wishing she hadn’t asked. Two people said bluntly that, due to all the cuts, there hadn’t been much to choose from.

There were grunts of agreement.

Maureen didn’t help by saying that she had only come to escape the sound of her neighbours arguing through the wall for a few hours. She was joking, but Sharon looked as though she might burst into tears. I tried to help.

“I live alone, and I’m tired of having to divide recipes by four or eat the same thing every night for a week. I’m hoping you can help me with that.”

Sharon perked up a bit, nodding until I worried her head might fall off.

Things went a bit better after that.

There was a young student who had been sent by his mum to learn how to fend for himself and a recently divorced man who said he was tired of heating up “ping meals” in the microwave.

At the last workstation, Keith, a grey-haired man with a face that looked as though it was used to laughing a lot but had fallen out of the habit, introduced himself as a widower who could burn salad.

Then, finally, there was Geraldine. Probably in her late forties, she was what a certain kind of newspaper

This cookery course had certainly dished up more than just food . . .

would describe as a “glamorous redhead”, fashionably and expensively dressed with immaculate make-up. Maureen nudged me. “I know her from Level One Italian. Remind me to tell you about her afterwards.”

Geraldine blew hard into a tissue before she spoke.

“I found myself unexpectedly alone last year. I’m struggling to feed myself, and I thought it was time to do something about that.”

She dabbed at her eyes, and Keith placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.

Maureen, beside me, made a tutting nose that, thankfully, nobody else seemed to hear.

As if we hadn’t wasted enough time, Sharon rambled on about the advantages of batch cooking and freezing individual portions, which was what I had come to learn how to avoid.

She held up a selection of small plastic containers as though they were a new invention.

We got fidgety, apart from Keith, who was hanging on her every word and scribbling in a notebook as though his life depended on it.

Our first attempt at actual cooking was to be macaroni cheese, which I thought was a bit unadventurous.

Sharon, though, displayed the enthusiasm of a children’s television presenter.

“You needn’t limit yourself to traditional macaroni. Pasta comes in many interesting shapes, so don’t be afraid to take a risk.”

“I don’t think I can contain my excitement,” Maureen muttered.

For someone who claimed to struggle in the kitchen, Geraldine donned her apron in a very professional manner.

Keith’s was still in its plastic packaging. Giggling like a schoolgirl, Geraldine helped him unwrap it and tied the strings for him.

“It’s like being eleven years old again, isn’t it?” Maureen hadn’t realised that Sharon was standing behind us.

“There’s plenty that can go wrong with a cheese sauce, if you don’t know what you’re doing,” she said defensively.

She had a point, and to be fair, the course had been advertised as basic.

But Maureen and I could make a decent sauce with our eyes closed.

So, it seemed, could Geraldine. I had rarely seen anyone so adept with a balloon whisk.

Keith’s effort was, predictably, beset by lumps.

He stood back gratefully as she stepped in to help.

Her cheeks were flushed, and I didn’t think it was just due to the heat in the classroom.

“Carrot and coriander soup next week!” Sharon said as we departed, clutching our containers of macaroni cheese.

Maureen’s car was off the road, so I was giving her a lift.

As we walked across the car park Geraldine was reversing out of her parking space in a rather distinctive yellow car.

I was sure I had seen it before but couldn’t remember where.

She waved cheerily.

“Tell me all you know,” I said, as Maureen and I fastened our seatbelts.

“There’s something about her that doesn’t add up. She turned up last term at Beginners’ Italian, all dressed up like a fashion model and claiming not to speak a word of the language.

“She told the same story about having suddenly been left on her own.”

Maureen, who likes to squeeze drama out of every situation, was doing her best to make this sound intriguing, but it wasn’t working. I said as much.

“Give me a chance. She was always gazing at the tutor, and he was smitten with her, always giving her extra attention and sitting with her at break times.

“Then, one day after class, I had to go back for my umbrella, and I heard them chatting away in Italian.

“She was as fluent as he was. Don’t tell me that’s not suspicious!”

I had to admit that it was a bit strange, but I don’t read as many crime novels as Maureen does. There was probably a perfectly simple explanation.

“Mark my words, she’s up to something. That Keith chap is quite taken with her. I’ve half a mind to warn him she’s not all she seems.”

I persuaded her to mind her own business.

The weeks passed. Students began to drop out, and I suspected it was because of Sharon’s habit of addressing us as though we were a group of fiveyear-olds.

And comments about grandmothers and sucking eggs cropped up on a regular basis.

Sharon lost a little bit more of her “Blue Peter” sparkle every time she walked in to see the group had shrunk yet again.

I felt sorry for her, which was the main reason I stayed. Of course, there was also the ongoing saga of Keith and Geraldine.

Keith stumbled along, needing tuition on how to use a vegetable peeler, over-seasoning his soup, mixing up his teaspoons and tablespoons and committing every other culinary error in the book.

Every time, Geraldine was on hand to help him.

“There’ll be a wedding on the cards before we get to week ten, then he’ll probably end up buried under the patio while she runs off with all his money,” Maureen said.

I asked how she knew Keith had money. She brushed my question off.

“Just you wait and see,” she said.

Meanwhile, Elspeth and I were continuing with our

Wednesday cake sampling trips.

“I know it’s a bit out of the way, but it’s had some brilliant reviews.”

I grumbled about it being a long way to go just for a bit of cake, but the place she was suggesting did look tempting.

The Belgian buns, to which I am partial, were particularly popular.

The journey, in my car, was a bit fraught.

Driving is not my strongest suit and I need to give it my full attention.

“Mark my words, she’s up to something”

Elspeth, as usual, insisted on gossiping about people I had never met.

“Mrs Jones in the post office’s friend Beryl reckoned she got a good price for it,” she was saying, as we finally pulled into the car park after several wrong turns that had left even satnav lady sounding exasperated.

I had no idea what my friend was talking about, having long since lost track of the tale.

It looked as though the journey had been worthwhile. The place had a lovely vintage feel without being gimmicky.

Each table was adorned with a spotless white cloth and a tiny vase of flowers.

A smiling waitress in a black dress and white apron came to take our order.

“Two Belgian buns and two cappuccinos, please,” I said, without waiting for Elspeth to peruse the menu.

I am not normally so rude, but I was starving after the drive.

“I quite fancied the lemon meringue pie,” Elspeth said reproachfully when the waitress had gone.

I said we could share a piece later, if the buns didn’t fill us up.

The buns were exceptional, and enormous.

“Everything is baked on the premises,” Elspeth enthused as she picked up stray

pastry flakes on her finger.

We agreed to save the lemon meringue pie for our next visit.

“Compliments to the chef!” Elspeth always says this. It makes me cringe a bit, but the waitress looked pleased.

“I’ll pass them on. It will give him a boost.” She lowered her voice.

“This place is all that’s keeping him going since his wife passed away.”

As we were leaving a man emerged from the kitchen, brushing flour from his apron.

I had taken off my glasses to give them a quick clean before the drive home and couldn’t see him clearly.

There was no mistaking his voice, though.

“Do come again, ladies,” Keith boomed, before clearly recognising me and scuttling back into the kitchen.

“It’s hardly the crime of the century, is it, pretending not to be able to cook?” Elspeth was unimpressed.

She was right, of course, but I was still curious.

“But why would he do that? Why not take Introduction To Watercolours or Macramé For The Muddled?”

Elspeth didn’t reply.

Good food always sends her to sleep.

I drove home with only satnav lady to talk to and in no time we were pulling into Elspeth’s cul de sac.

I spotted a familiar yellow car parked on the drive of the house next door but one. So that was where I had seen it before.

“Oh, that’s Geraldine’s,” Elspeth said when I had shaken her awake.

“That’s who I was telling you about. The one who’s just sold her restaurant.”

I tried in vain to recall the details of the story. Elspeth was more than happy to supply them again.

“It’s really sad. She and her husband used to own Giovanni’s, that lovely Italian on the high street.

“He died very suddenly last year, and according to

Mrs Jones’s friend Beryl she couldn’t face running it without him.

“They’d been together since they were teenagers. Such a lovely couple.”

The plot was thickening faster than a lumpy cheese sauce. Now there were not one but two professional cooks posing as novices.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do,” Maureen declared, when I phoned to fill her in.

I pleaded with her not to say anything to upset Geraldine, who was clearly still grieving.

“All the more reason to warn her about Keith. He’s obviously got designs on her.”

Not being the confrontational type, I dreaded the next class.

I wondered if Keith would even turn up, after our unexpected encounter.

“Good evening, ladies!” He strode in as though nothing had happened and took his place next to Geraldine.

She greeted him with a warm smile.

That week we were supposed to be making a simple risotto.

Sharon’s face fell when she saw that only six students had turned up. It was an all-time low. To much eye-rolling she began with a lecture on different types of rice, complete with a poster she had made.

“You won’t get a satisfactory risotto with anything other than Arborio,” she warned.

“That’s not strictly true,” Maureen muttered. I glared at her.

One of the other veterans, with whom I had studied the rudiments of silversmithing, raised her hand.

“Do you think it’s wise to have us cooking a rice dish that will need reheating when we get home? I’m sure none of us wants food poisoning.”

Maureen grunted and nodded in agreement.

I glared at her again. It was too much for Sharon. She fled from the room in tears, closely followed by a concerned-looking Keith.

An awkward silence ensued. Then Geraldine sprang into action, marching up to the front of the class and telling the rest of us to gather round.

For the next half hour she held us spellbound as she expertly whipped up her version of a risotto.

Who would have guessed watching someone stirring a pan of rice could be so interesting?

She talked all the while, giving tips and sharing anecdotes about her time running a restaurant.

As we all sampled the dish, Maureen could contain herself no longer.

“Why did you pretend you couldn’t cook?”

Geraldine was silent for a while, as though deciding whether to confide in the group. She took a deep breath.

“I didn’t actually say I couldn’t cook. I said I was struggling to feed myself. It’s not the same thing.

“Being in the kitchen reminded me so much of Giovanni.

“It was too hard. I’ve not been eating properly, and eventually I realised I had to do something about it.

“I came here hoping I might find other people in the same boat.”

“You have,” Keith said. We all turned round. Nobody had noticed that he and Sharon had returned.

Sharon was red-eyed and looked embarrassed.

“Sorry, folks,” she said, before bursting into tears again, burying her face in Keith’s shoulder.

He patted her back in a fatherly way.

This, as it turned out, wasn’t that odd, because he was actually her dad.

It was a day for revelations.

“I forced poor Dad to come along with me for moral support.

“I think he’s been enjoying putting his amateur dramatic skills to use. He’s a brilliant cook.

“This is my first job with adults. I’m used to teaching children – I thought this would be easier!”

Keith took over, explaining how Sharon had given up her teaching job to help him care for his wife during the final months of her illness.

Now she was ready to get back to work, but not for the stresses of a full-time teaching job.

“Things haven’t gone quite to plan, but I’m proud of my girl for trying,” he said, kissing her cheek.

Everyone murmured sympathetically, and I suspect I wasn’t the only one feeling guilty for failing to help a young woman who had been struggling.

I felt equally bad for not spotting a grieving widow in the place I had been myself only a few years ago, when I had tried hard to fill every available moment with activity rather than have time to think about my Donald.

I glanced at Maureen, and sensed she was feeling the same.

We never did get around to making our own risottos, adjourning instead to the pub across the road.

Over an excellent meal of fish and chips we talked and talked.

Sharon left with an offer from Geraldine to give her some tips on teaching cooking to adults.

Geraldine left with an invitation to join Elspeth and me on our next expedition, and another from Maureen to join her crime book club.

Keith left with a smile on his face, delighted to see his daughter’s sparkle slowly returning.

“There’s just one more thing,” Maureen said as we stood up to leave. She looked at Geraldine.

“Why did you pretend you couldn’t speak Italian?” Geraldine blushed.

“I just missed hearing the language being spoken.

“And the course tutor is my brother-in-law. You must think I’m a bit odd.”

Maureen laughed and linked arms with her as we walked back to our cars.

“More than a bit! But don’t worry. I like my friends a little strange. It makes life interesting.”

The End.