The Silver Fountain

By Michael Legat

Ambitious and talented Jean-Paul Fontaine had one overwhelming desire – to run an exclusive restaurant in London. His path was beset with frustration and tragedy but in time he rose from the penniless young waiter he had been when he arrived in London to the proprietor of 'The Silver Fountain' – a delightful restaurant in a quiet street in Soho. The Silver Fountain was to prove only the beginning of a longstanding and intense relationship between the Fontaine family and the restaurant world. Moving through the generations from the 1870s to the 1930s, and from London to Paris and New York, this is a passionate tale of obsession, ambition and culinary creation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Stratus
• Release date: Jun 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9780755126736

Michael Legat

Michael Legat began writing at a very early age, but most of his career was devoted to publishing. However, having worked as an editorial director for some years, in 1978 he decided to leave the trade and take up writing full time. In 1980 his first novel, Mario’s Vineyard, was published and this was followed by a series of other very well received and successful works. He remained heavily involved in the publishing industry until his death in 2011, serving on various committees and was also president of two writers’ circles. He was also active in pasing on his writing skills to both indivduals and by selective teaching and, of course, through his various publications and guides.

Book preview

2

As he sat in the train the next afternoon on his way back from Tours, Jean-Paul wondered why he had bothered to go home. His father had been killed in a railway accident when Jean-Paul was a small boy, leaving his mother to run the small haberdashery shop which had provided their living. She had married again, but Lucien Darrieux, her second husband, was a drunkard, and most of the profits from the shop disappeared down his throat, and the anxieties of her life had turned her into a shrewish, bitter woman who seemed to have little time for either Jean-Paul or her two children by her second marriage, Claude and Gabrielle.

The visit home had not been a success. His mother, looking more careworn than ever, had greeted his news with some interest, but had soon returned to her habitual litany of self-pitying complaints. His step-father had arrived back in due course from the local bar in a state of inebriation, and had quickly fallen asleep, snoring raucously. The greatest pleasure that Jean-Paul had had was from the youngsters. He was astonished at how they had grown. Claude was thirteen, tall for his age, a somewhat sullen-looking boy, always reserved and quiet. Gabrielle was two years younger, scrawny and plain, with sharp features and dull mouse-coloured hair, though her large dark eyes gave her face a bright vitality.

They were both excited to see him and to hear of his good fortune, and there were many explanations to make and interruptions to his story, especially from Gabrielle.

‘England!’ she exclaimed at one point, her eyes wide in pretended fright. ‘They’re monsters, the English – they eat little children.’

‘Just as well you’re not coming with me then, a plump little morsel like you.’

She squealed delightedly. ‘Go on, Jean-Paul.’

‘There’s not much more to tell. What about you? What are you doing?’

‘There’s school,’ Gabrielle said, and groaned. ‘I hate school – except for arithmetic. And I help Maman in the shop. And Claude has a job with old Bouchon, the butcher.’

‘I deliver the orders,’ Claude said.

‘Well done. And what about your Papa?’

Both the youngsters’ faces clouded over. ‘He leaves us alone mostly,’ Gabrielle said. ‘But poor Maman has terrible times with him. We hear them shouting at each other when he comes home at night. And often he’s asleep in the armchair when we get up in the morning. I asked Maman why he slept there, and she said he was too drunk to get to bed.’

It was appalling to hear her saying this in matter-of-fact tones, as though she would have been surprised to learn that a father might behave differently. ‘Now listen,’ Jean-Paul said urgently. ‘You’ve got to get away from here, from this house.’ They looked at him without comprehension. ‘Oh, not yet – you’re not old enough. But as soon as you are, as soon as you can get a job and support yourself, you’ve got to leave. Meanwhile, promise you will send for me if things get really bad. Here, I’ll give you my address in London.’

The meal that they ate at midday was a dreary affair, and as soon as it was over, Jean-Paul decided to leave, catching an earlier train back to Paris than he had intended. In any case, it was time for his mother to go back to the shop. ‘I have to go now, Maman,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ she replied, and held up her face to be kissed. As he bent his head to hers, her arms went round him in a brief hug, but there was no emotion in her voice as she said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ll come here again for a long time. Take care.’

‘Can we go to the station with Jean-Paul?’ Gabrielle asked.

Madame Darrieux considered for a moment. ‘I suppose so. But come straight back, you understand?’

They went downstairs together.

‘Goodbye then, Jean-Paul,’ his mother said as she opened the door of the shop and let them out.

He kissed her again. As he and Gabrielle and Claude walked together along the narrow street, Jean-Paul turned. His mother was standing at the shop door watching them. He waved, and she raised her hand in acknowledgment before turning to go inside. The children chattered happily, but Jean-Paul hardly heard them, suddenly filled with remorse and love for his mother. She had seemed uncaring, and yet there had been that brief hug.

‘Listen,’ he said suddenly to Gabrielle. ‘You’re to tell Maman that I love her and that I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘Never mind. Just tell her.’

Arriving in London was one of the most terrifying experiences of Jean-Paul’s life. Having no English, he could only show the address that Monsieur Barrentin had given him and hope that he would be given the right directions. Finally, after some two hours of walking, he reached Lamb’s Conduit Street. No. 64A was a tall, narrow house, which might have looked forbidding in the faint gaslight of the lamp some distance away down the street had he not felt so relieved to reach his destination.

The door was opened by a tall, thin woman, dressed in close-fitting black. Her face was long and thin too, dominated by a large bony nose, and its narrowness emphasised by the way her hair was scraped up to form a mass of small curls on top of her head. The resemblance to a horse was quite remarkable, Jean-Paul thought.

‘Mrs ‘Oward?’

The woman smiled in acknowledgment, and suddenly looked much more pleasant. ‘Mussoo Fountain? Musso Barrentin me dit vous arrive. Entrez.’

The French was so tortured and the accent so thick that her speech was almost as incomprehensible to Jean-Paul as English would have been.

‘Je montre vous le chomber,’ she said. She lit a candle from the one she was holding and passed it to him, then led the way up a narrow staircase, and then up another flight and another. At last they reached the top of the house, and Mrs Howard opened the door of a small room which was clearly in the attic, for one wall followed the slope of the roof. A narrow bed stood against one wall; a chest of drawers and a table bearing a water jug and basin completed the furniture; there was no carpet, nor any curtains at the small, soot-covered window.

‘Half a crown a week,’ Mrs Howard said. ‘Vous comprenez? Deux shillings et sixpence le semaine.’

‘Bon, madame,’ said Jean-Paul. He burrowed in his pocket and pulled out some English coins which he had received when he changed his money at Dover. He held them out towards her.

She smiled broadly and took one of the coins. ‘Messi Mussoo, messi beaucoop. Vous voulez monger?’

‘Ah, oui, madame, s’il vous plaît.’

She hastily took another coin, a small silver one, from his hand. ‘Dix minutes,’ she said. ‘Now, what’s the French for downstairs?’ She puzzled for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the floor.

Jean-Paul was not exactly sure what she meant, but he nodded. Mrs Howard smiled again, and made her way out of the room. Jean-Paul went to the window. It was dark and he could see little, but roof-tops were dimly visible and here and there a light glowed in a window. ‘London,’ he thought, and for a moment felt a wave of nostalgia for Paris, for Tours, for France.

By the light of his candle he unpacked his few belongings. There was fresh water in the jug and he poured a little into the bowl and washed away some of the grime of the journey.

When he got downstairs, Mrs Howard met him and showed him into the dining-room. One place was laid at the large table. She disappeared again, and for some minutes he waited, looking round him at the heavy furniture, the knick-knacks on the mantelshelf, the long curtains at the windows.

The door opened, and a girl carrying a tray came in. She was of medium height and slim. Her face was entrancing – a little sharp of feature, perhaps, but the long nose, the high cheekbones were softened by the gentle curves of her lips. Her eyes were hazel, with little flecks of green in them; they were large, but narrowed slightly by the heavy lids, and they slanted upwards a little, giving her an almost exotic look. Her hair, piled on the top of her head, was a deep, rich chestnut. Jean-Paul looked at her, and thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

She placed a plate in front of him, but he could not stop himself from continuing to stare at her. Conscious of his steady gaze, she blushed and lowered her eyes, but not before she had decided that this new guest was nothing exceptional. It was a pleasant enough face, she thought, and the widely spaced brown eyes beneath the heavy brows looked honest and somehow…innocent, but he was no Adonis, though perhaps some women would have sighed a little over those eyes and the slightly wavy black hair and the wide mouth with the full lower lip, open a fraction now to reveal gleaming teeth.

She inclined her head briefly and left the room. The food was boiled mutton, cabbage and potatoes, all swimming in the liquid in which they had been cooked. It was not very appetising, but he wolfed it down. Sometime later the girl appeared again, removed his empty plate and replaced it with a slice of lukewarm suet pudding. Jean-Paul did not take his eyes off her, and as she turned to leave the room, he rose. ‘Votre nom, mademoiselle?’

She glanced over her shoulder, hesitated as if to go, and then said, ‘Je m’appelle Miss Howard, monsieur. Miss Madeline Howard.’ Her accent was much better than her mother’s. She gave him a brief, grave look, and went out.

When he awoke the following morning he felt ready for anything the day might bring. He got out of bed, washed and dressed. Just as he had finished, he thought he heard steps on the stairs coming up to his room. There was a gentle knock on his door. When he opened it, he found a tray bearing a plate with a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea. He looked down the stairs, and just caught a glimpse of a white blouse and black skirt turning the bend. He took the tray into his room, and noticed a piece of paper under the plate. It was a roughly drawn map, showing how to get from the house in Lamb’s Conduit Street to Tyndall’s Restaurant in Holborn. There was no message, but he guessed that Miss Howard had drawn it, and he folded it carefully and put it in his breast pocket, as his first memento of her.

He found Tyndall’s without difficulty – he could hardly have missed it, because the restaurant occupied a wide frontage of the street, and the name was prominently displayed over the door. It was an imposing building; columns of black marble framed each tall window, and the scrolls at their capitals had been picked out in gold; there was gold too on the heavy doors of the entrance, which, he discovered, were firmly locked. Looking again at this solid and somehow sober establishment, he searched for a side entrance or some way to get to the back of the building, but could not see one, so eventually knocked at the main doors. They were opened by a man whom he guessed to be a waiter.

‘Monsieur Barrentin is expecting me,’ he said, and saw to his relief that his French was understood.

‘You should have gone to the back entrance,’ the man said in the same language. ‘You go down the alley along there.’ He gestured vaguely to the right. ‘Still, since you’re here, you might as well come through.’

He led the way through the deserted restaurant. All the chairs were piled on the tables, and several men were sweeping the floor, polishing the wood panels which lined the walls and the abundant brass-work. It was a large room, capable of seating perhaps a hundred and fifty people; there were several huge pillars supporting the ceiling, and these, like the walls, were panelled in dark oak. The whole effect would have been rather sombre had it not been that everywhere the darkness was broken by the gleaming brass fittings and the crystal shades of the gas lamps; there were two great chandeliers too, and Jean-Paul imagined that when the restaurant was open it would be ablaze with light, and the thick red carpet would glow in the gaslight and give the whole place an atmosphere of warm luxury.

The man led him through a pair of doors discreetly marked ‘Service’ and then left him. He was in the kitchen. It was itself a huge room, almost as big as the restaurant. From where he was Jean-Paul could see a long line of cooking ranges against one wall, and work tables with sinks beside them, and the long service table under which the shelves held the clean crockery, and the steam tables and the bains-marie, and over in the far corner were partitions which he guessed would house the silver room and the glass pantry. He felt instantly at home, for everywhere was equipment of the kind he had been used to.

As he stood gazing at it all, Monsieur Barrentin emerged from a small cubicle. When he noticed Jean-Paul he beckoned to him and greeted him with flattering warmth, enquiring after his journey and whether Mrs Howard’s lodgings had proved satisfactory. ‘You can find yourself somewhere else after you’ve been here a little while. Her place is all right for a few nights, but you wouldn’t want to live there.’

‘No, monsieur. I’m going to stay there,’ Jean-Paul replied, thinking of Madeline. There was such determination in his voice that Monsieur Barrentin looked at him curiously, and he felt himself blushing, and added hastily, ‘They speak French, and I don’t know any English.’

‘Yes,’ said Barrentin. ‘Well, you’ll need to learn as quickly as you can. You’ll need it when you go to market – I expect my chefs de partie to do their own buying, you see. Still, to begin with you can take your commis chef with you. It’ll be good experience for him and he can help you with the language. His name’s William Brown. I’ll introduce you to him later.’

He went on to explain Jean-Paul’s duties: he would arrive at the restaurant each morning at seven-thirty, check that his department of the kitchen was in order, and then go to buy all the fresh ingredients that he would need that day – a note would be on his work table detailing all the variations from the standard dishes which would be on the luncheon and dinner menus; on his return he would begin preparations for the lunch-time business, supervising all the sauce-making and himself cooking the more complex recipes; when the serving of lunch was over, he would clean up, and then have some two or three hours free; back in the kitchens at six, he would stay on duty until the last meal had been served, usually by eleven o’clock, and would then clear up his work area and all the utensils he had used.

‘It’s a long day,’ Barrentin said, ‘but no doubt you’re used to it.’

He then took Jean-Paul out into the kitchen and introduced him to his colleagues, showed him his work-place and where the various foodstuffs, knives, forks, mortars and pestles, wooden spoons, sieves and strainers were kept, and which parts of the stoves would be available for his work. Finally, he introduced him to William Brown, a youth of nineteen, who grinned at him cheerily. He was short and stocky, with a mop of carroty hair above a round face, on which a somewhat wispy beard was struggling to grow. ‘This is an idle fellow,’ Barrentin said with a smile, ‘but he might make a passable chef – for an Englishman – one of these days. His French is rather limited, you’ll find, but at least he knows the words for all the things you’re likely to be buying. Besides which, he knows how much you ought to be paying and which of the people in Covent Garden to go to. Now, before you go, you’d better study our menu, check what we already have in store, and make out a list of your requirements.’

The menu was very extensive, and Jean-Paul could see that his whole repertoire of sauces would be needed. He made out his list – parsley, chervil, mint, tarragon, dill, borage, thyme, rosemary, basil, oregano, capers, marjoram, bay, chives, garlic, carrots, tomatoes, mushrooms, truffles, peppers. ‘Salt, pepper, mustard, vinegar, wines – they are all here?’

‘Yes, mussoo,’ replied William Brown. ‘And eggs and butter. But you have to tell Mussoo Barrentin each evening what you’ll need the next day.’

At that point Barrentin re-emerged from his cubicle and came over to check Jean-Paul’s progress.

‘How many meals do you expect to serve during a day, monsieur?’ Jean-Paul enquired.

‘About two hundred and fifty luncheons and three hundred or more dinners. You will find yourself making a great deal of Hollandaise, and also Sauce Bigarade – the English love Caneton a l’Orange. How do you make your Hollandaise?’

‘I like to start with a reduction of wine vinegar, monsieur.’

‘Why?’

‘Because to use nothing but butter, eggs and lemon juice – I know that’s the classic way – produces a sauce which I think is too bland.’

Monsieur Barrentin smiled. ‘Very good. Who taught you that?’

‘Monsieur Labiche.’

‘Ah. Well, he’s been well trained himself. I remember him when he was just the age you are. But it took him longer to become a chef de partie than it has you. You’re a lucky young man. I hope you realise that. Work hard, and you will be as good as he is.’

‘I want to be better than that, monsieur. One day I want to be a chef de cuisine.’

Barrentin laughed, ‘But not yet, my young friend. You have to prove yourself as a chef de partie first.’ His tone became more serious. ‘But I like to see ambition, and I make you a promise: if you want to learn, I will teach you. Good cooking has to be learnt. You need the love of it and the feel of it, but you have to have the technique too. There are some chefs who like to guard their secrets and take them to the grave, but I have never felt that way – we are the custodians of tradition, and it is our duty to pass that tradition on to the generations to come. You must promise me that you will do this too. A great chef is always a teacher, and when he finds the right pupil he will spare no pains to pass on all his knowledge.’ He patted him on the shoulder and went back to his cubicle.

Ten minutes later, Jean-Paul and William were on their way down Drury Lane to the great market in Covent Garden. William chattered as they walked along, but when he realised that Jean-Paul did not understand a word he was saying, took to pointing out and naming the various sights that they passed and then to trying to teach him a few words of his Cockney English.

When they reached the market, he led Jean-Paul around, pointing to the various stalls and shaking his head or shrugging his shoulders or nodding vigorously to indicate his opinion of the merchants and their goods. He indicated three stalls as being satisfactory, and it was at these, after comparing their herbs and vegetables, that Jean-Paul made his purchases.

When they were back in the kitchen, Jean-Paul began his duties. There was a great amount to do in organising himself and William, in preparing the basic stocks, and in cooking those sauces which could be left standing in a bain-marie to be available when required, and though at first everything seemed strange and he felt apprehensive about the responsibility he carried and his need to do well, his worries vanished as he became involved in the familiar processes.

When the restaurant began to serve luncheon, the pace became hectic, the waiters flying in with their orders and out with the dishes they were to serve. There was no time to chatter and as in all well-run restaurants, the only sound allowed in the kitchen was the voice of the annonceur, calling out the orders that the waiters brought to him so that the chefs knew what to prepare. Monsieur Barrentin made one exception to this rule, by allowing the annonceur to call out any compliments that might be sent through to the kitchens. Although they were usually addressed to him personally – ‘Compliments to the Chef’ or ‘Compliments to Monsieur Barrentin’ – they all knew that the praise belonged to the whole kitchen staff.

Jean-Paul was naturally delighted on that first day when one of the messages shouted out was, ‘Lord Lovell’s compliments to Monsieur Barrentin. The Fricassée de Volaille was excellent – the cream sauce was superb.’

Monsieur Barrentin happened to be standing near Jean-Paul. He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Fontaine. I can see you’re going to be an asset to us.’ Jean-Paul glowed with pleasure. ‘I doubt if any more orders will be coming through now, so you’d better clear up and go. But be back here not later than six.’

‘I’m not going, monsieur. I need to prepare the Sauce Financière.’

‘You can leave the kidneys and liver and so on to soak while you’re away. You’ll have plenty of time to cook it when you come back.’

‘But I have no reason to go now, monsieur.’

‘Have you arranged with Mrs Howard how you will get back into the house tonight?’

‘No, monsieur.’

Barrentin sighed. ‘All you young fellows are the same. Mrs Howard will be in bed and asleep by the time you get back tonight. You’ll need a key. You’d better go and see her now.’

When Jean-Paul arrived back in Lamb’s Conduit Street, the door was opened by Madeline. She stood aside to let him pass, expecting him to go up to his room, but he stopped to explain his need of a key.

‘Wait a minute,’ she said, and went away. When she came back she told him. ‘My mother says she will wait up for you each night this week. Then if you are intending to stay here and will pay a month’s rent in advance, she will have a spare key cut.’

‘Oh, I shall stay here,’ he told her. ‘But I don’t think I shall be able to pay a month’s rent in advance by the end of the week. I have no money saved.’

She looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. ‘No rent, no key,’ she said gravely. ‘But I expect we shall find some way to manage.’

‘I want to ask you something else,’ he said.

‘Yes? Breakfast, no doubt. We can provide you with something, but it will cost extra of course.’

‘That would be good. But it’s not what I was going to ask.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I wanted to ask if you would give me English lessons.’ Their conversation had been in French, in which she was quite fluent.

‘English lessons?’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘But I’m not a teacher, Monsieur Fontaine. You should go to a school.’

‘It is very difficult, because of the hours. I thought perhaps in the afternoons when I am free from the restaurant. An hour or so, every day.’

‘An hour every day!’ She laughed. ‘You’d better come and have a word with my mother. Keys, breakfast, English lessons – whatever next, Monsieur Fontaine?’

She did not wait for a reply, but led him into a back room of the house, where Mrs Howard was sitting by a small coal fire. The room was dark and seemed to be filled with furniture – a horsehair sofa, two heavy chairs, a profusion of little tables and whatnots, and ornaments everywhere, and a number of clocks, none of which appeared to be going.

Mrs Howard looked up in surprise. ‘Mussoo Fountain!’

Jean-Paul bowed a little awkwardly and stood by the sofa as Madeline launched into a conversation with her mother. They were speaking in English, and seemed to be arguing. After some time Madeline spoke particularly sharply, and her mother appeared to give ground, for, pursing her lips, she shrugged and nodded.

Madeline turned to Jean-Paul. ‘Very well, Monsieur Fontaine. A key next week, when you pay a further week’s rent. Breakfast, such as you had today – a further sixpence a week. And English lessons on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at three o’clock for one hour, at sixpence an hour. The key will cost sixpence too.’ The corners of her mouth twitched upwards slightly. ‘Everything costs sixpence, you see. It will be very easy for you to remember.’

Jean-Paul was delighted. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. Thank you very much.’

‘Don’t thank me – it was my mother’s decision.’

‘Are you sure, mademoiselle?’ he smiled. ‘It seemed to me–’

Her eyes were suddenly icy as she interrupted him. ‘I am indeed sure. I do not say what I do not mean, monsieur. And if you wish to change the arrangements, then you are at liberty to do so.’

Later he was to get used to her sudden changes of mood, but at this point he was appalled at what seemed to have been a terrible blunder on his part. ‘No, no. Of course I don’t want to change them. And I’m sorry, mademoiselle. I did not mean…’ He broke off and turned to Mrs Howard. ‘Je vous remercie, madame. Je suis très réconaissant.’

Mrs Howard said nothing, and with mother and daughter both staring at him, coldly it seemed, he gave a little bow and backed towards the door, tripping over a small table, which fell to the floor. Fortunately there was nothing on it and no harm was done. Picking it up, he apologised and fled. As he closed the door and began to climb the stairs to his room, he thought he heard Madeline laughing. He had been a fool, he thought. They were exploiting him, the pair of them, amused by his gaucheness and readiness to pay anything they asked. He would leave, after all. But he thought again of Madeline’s eyes and her hair and her figure, and knew that he would swallow the humiliation of this encounter.

In the back room downstairs, Mrs Howard looked at Madeline and laughed again. ‘He’s sweet on you,’ she said.

Madeline smiled. ‘I know.’

‘And you’re a bit sweet on him, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Then you are mistaken, Ma. He’s a nice enough young man, but he’s not the sort of fellow I’d have any feelings of that sort for. Besides, he’s got no money and he can’t even speak English.’

‘He will by the time you’ve finished with him.’

‘Well, I’m going to have a try. But it’s nothing to do with him personally. It’s just that I enjoy it, and I can do with the money.’

Madeline had always wanted to teach, and during her last two years at school had indeed been a pupil teacher, the first step on the road to the profession, still taking lessons herself, but spending part of her time in charge of the youngest pupils. But her hopes of continuing were dashed when her father died, and Mrs Howard needed her help desperately in running their business. The only teaching she had done since then was a little of the kind she was now about to embark on with Jean-Paul.

Mrs Howard’s lodging house had become well known in London restaurant circles as somewhere for their French staff to stay when they first came to London. Her husband had himself been a waiter until the lodging house became prosperous enough for him to join his wife in running it. Not only did he have connections in the restaurants, but he was half French and his mother had brought him up to speak her language as well as his father’s English. New arrivals from France were always glad to stay somewhere where French was understood and spoken, and after Mr Howard’s death, Madeline had taken his place as the linguist of the house.

‘You want to watch out, my girl,’ Mrs Howard said. ‘You’re twenty-three now. You’ll be left on the shelf if you’re not careful’.

‘Oh, Ma!’ Madeline said with exasperation. ‘I’ve told you before, I’m not going to get married. What would you do if I did? How would you be able to manage?’

‘I’d get along somehow. You could still live here.’

‘Oh, Ma!’ Madeline exclaimed again. ‘Stop making plans for me.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘And don’t start imagining that I’m going to fall for Monsieur Fontaine, ‘cause I’m not.’

‘All right. All right. Keep your hair on, madam. I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want.’ Sulkily Mrs Howard picked up her tatting and stabbed the bobbin through the loops. ‘He’s got nice eyes,’ she said after a while.

Madeline did not reply. Nice eyes were certainly not enough to capture her heart.

3

Jean-Paul soon felt as though he had been working at Tyndall’s all his life. Monsieur Barrentin was an autocrat, but a much more benevolent one than Monsieur Mouzillat had been, and his kitchens were a happy place to work. There seemed to be no personal jealousies, no bickering everyone appeared to be concerned only with producing the best possible food, and to that end each would help the other in any way he could. Monsieur Barrentin believed too in a less rigid organisation than had obtained at L’Imperial, and though all the staff were officially designated for one particular section of the kitchen, whenever possible Barrentin would put them to work in departments other than their own so that they could enlarge their experience. He seemed to have taken a liking to Jean-Paul, and often called him to explain some tricky method or simply to watch as he himself prepared a particularly elaborate dish.

At the end of his first week there Jean-Paul had been summoned, in turn with the others, to Barrentin’s office to be given his pay. It was his first encounter with Mr Tyndall, owner of the restaurant. He was rarely seen there, for he was a very old man, and somewhat feeble, but he insisted on coming every Friday, as had always been his habit, to dole out the wages in person.

When Monsieur Barrentin introduced Jean-Paul to him, he gazed at him searchingly, then turned to Barrentin. ‘Satisfactory?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ the chef de cuisine replied.

The old man looked again at Jean-Paul. ‘You need a clean apron,’ he said. ‘Perfection, young man – that’s what I want. Perfection. That’s what my restaurant’s reputation is founded on. Never send out a dish from the kitchen if you are not satisfied that it is as near to perfection as you can possibly make it. Dress cleanly and neatly – you will find it helps you.’

Barrentin translated rapidly, and Jean-Paul nodded his head in understanding. Mr Tyndall handed him his money. Jean-Paul left the cubicle feeling strangely impressed. The little homily had not been in any way unusual, but the old man had contrived somehow to put so much sincerity and force into what he said that it seemed almost like a totally new concept.

The fact that Mr Tyndall’s comments had had to be translated for him also gave him a new resolve – he must learn to speak English as quickly as possible. He had already had his first lesson from Madeline. It was delightful to be with her, and sometimes he found it difficult to concentrate on what she was trying to teach him because her presence came between him and the difficult words and pronunciations. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her. That might well have put an end to the lessons once and for all, but it was not too difficult in fact to control himself because of the presence of Mrs Howard, sitting primly in her chair, occasionally chuckling at his mistakes. He did not mind her laughing at him, but often looked to see if the same amusement was reflected in Madeline’s eyes. The memory of her laughter when he left the room after their first discussion about English lessons was still vivid in his mind, but there was no hint of derision in either her expression or her voice as she corrected his stumbling efforts.

At the beginning of the first lesson she had produced a tattered little school-book entitled ‘English for Beginners’. The author was French and the book had been published in Paris many years before. ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ she told him. ‘She brought it with her when she married my grandfather.’

After the second lesson, when, having received his wages, he was able to pay her fee, he asked Madeline whether he might borrow the little textbook. She looked at him for a moment as if trying to make up her mind whether he was worthy to be given such a privilege. Then she said, ‘Wait,’ and went out of the room. She returned with some brown paper, and began to cover the book with it. That was hurtful, as though she would not trust him to keep it clean, and when at last she handed it over he took it almost ungraciously. ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said. ‘I shall take good care of it.’

‘I know,’ she replied, smiling. ‘I didn’t put that cover on just for you. I’ve been meaning to do it for ages.’

He believed her instantly, and blushed at his uncharitable thoughts. Each evening before he blew out his candle he would study the book, trying to fix the grammatical rules in his mind. Because he was so determined, he made good progress, and Madeline began to feel, as the weeks went by, very proud of her pupil. But that was all she felt, while he was falling more and more in love with her.

Tyndall’s was closed on Sundays, and as his first weekend in England approached, Jean-Paul wondered how he would spend it, and what he would do about meals. At least he had money now and could buy himself something to eat. He had not met the other lodgers in Mrs Howard’s house, because he left later than they in the mornings – they were mostly clerks in various offices, and their working day began at seven o’clock and was later back in the evenings. But he now discovered that Mrs Howard provided regular evening meals for these other guests, including Sundays, and on that day a light luncheon of cold meats and pickle was also available, all of course at an additional surcharge.

When he reached home on the Saturday evening, Mrs Howard informed him that breakfast would not be served until half past eight the next morning. ‘Nous pouvong dormer un peu. Et puis l’eglise. Toot.’

He looked at her in some astonishment, wondering what the last explosive syllable meant, until he realised that she was trying to say that everyone would go to church. He was not a particularly religious person, but the thought that he might be able to accompany Madeline to church – perhaps even sit next to her – made him quite eager to go.

The next morning he dressed in his best clothes and came down to the dining-room when he heard a gong sound. The other lodgers were standing round the large table in the dining-room, and they all looked at him with curiosity. Mrs Howard was at the head of the table. She gestured towards an empty place and he took his stance there, realizing that in future he was meant to be there without having to be summoned by the gong. Mrs Howard took up a Bible and read a long extract, then gabbled her way through an equally lengthy prayer. Jean-Paul understood nothing of it, and spent the time looking at Madeline. Her head bent, her eyes shut, she stood with a grace and beauty which touched his heart once more. Prayers over, Mrs Howard bustled out of the room, while the rest of them sat at the table.

When they had all finished their meal and the dishes had been piled on the sideboard for the tweeny to collect and wash while they were out, Jean-Paul moved to Madeline’s side. ‘You are going to church, mademoiselle?’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘I don’t know where the church is. Perhaps I could walk with you.’

‘But we shall be going in opposite directions, monsieur. You, no doubt, are Catholic, whereas my mother and I are Church of England. You’ll be going to…well, I would suggest St Patrick’s in Soho Square, and we shall go to St George the Martyr – that’s in Queen Square – not the same way at all. I’ll tell you how to get to Soho Square.’

By himself he went to the church, stayed a few minutes only, and then wandered miserably through the London streets. He thought of going to St George the Martyr – if he could find it – to wait for Madeline and her mother to come out, but decided that his presence might not be welcome. When it was nearly time for lunch, he returned to the house in Lamb’s Conduit Street. Madeline did not appear at the meal, nor was she there in the early evening when dinner was served. He spent the afternoon and evening in his room, wretchedly studying his grammar and feeling more lonely than ever before in his life. The previous evening Mrs Howard, taking a further week’s rent from him, had somewhat unwillingly handed him a key to the house, and at about half past nine on the Sunday evening, late though it was, he decided to go for a walk before bed.

He wandered down Drury Lane to the Strand and then to the river, and stood gazing at the dark waters until he felt chilled and turned to go back. A woman spoke to him, an old drab touting for business. He pushed past her, thinking that if she had been young and pretty he might have gone with her – anything to have some human contact. He hurried back. As he opened the door of Mrs Howard’s house, a carriage drew up, and as he watched, standing on the doorstep, Madeline alighted. She stood by the carriage door for a moment, saying goodbye to whoever was inside it, then turned to the front door.

Seeing Jean-Paul standing there, an expression of anger crossed her face. ‘You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?’ she spat at him.

‘No.’ he said. ‘I was just coming back from – ‘

But she did not wait for him to finish his explanation. ‘I won’t have it!’ she stormed. ‘It’s enough that you spend so much time making sheep’s eyes at me. I won’t have you spying on me.’ She pushed past him and through the door.

He called after her softly, but she hurried down the corridor and into the back room. He closed the front door and went, even more miserably, to his bedroom. That was that, he thought – the end of the English lessons, the end of staying in Lamb’s Conduit Street.

But the following afternoon, when it was time for his next lesson, she greeted him in quite friendly a fashion, and their lesson was conducted as though the incident the previous evening had never taken place.

At the end of the lesson he said, ‘Mademoiselle, you must forgive me for last night. I had been for a walk and we happened to arrive home at the same time. I was not spying on you.’

‘Oh, it’s no concern of mine, monsieur,’ she said smoothly. ‘I’m sorry if I was cross with you. I wasn’t thinking.’

It did not really seem like an apology, but he was content that at least they were on amicable terms again. The next time that he arrived for a lesson, Madeline was not there, and Mrs Howard simply shrugged when he asked where she was. On the Friday, Madeline said, ‘I’m sorry about Wednesday. I just didn’t feel like it. You’ll get used to me after a while. I’m afraid I’m rather unpredictable. At least you saved sixpence.’ She laughed.

It was all very puzzling.

Time passed. He was happy at the restaurant, and Monsieur Barrentin seemed very satisfied with his work. And his English was rapidly improving. The thing that was not progressing was his relationship with Madeline. He could never be sure what her attitude would be; sometimes she would be warm and friendly, at others, cold and formal, and even when she was in a mood to make jokes and to laugh, he could never be certain that she was not laughing more at him than with him.

He tried once to express something of his feelings to her. Between lessons she occasionally gave him exercises to do – ‘homework,’ she called it – short sentences to translate into English, and the like. At the bottom of one of these exercises he added a sentence of his own: ‘The teacher is very beautifull.’ She blushed when she read it, then crumpled the paper angrily and threw it on the fire. ‘We’ll have no more of that, if you please, Monsieur Fontaine. In any case, there is only one l in beautiful.’ The rest of that lesson was unpleasant; she was short-tempered every time he made a mistake and her lips were compressed into a thin line. Although the incident seemed to be forgotten the next time he came to the back room for a lesson, he realised that he had better not make such overtures again.

He was still lonely on Sundays. Madeline was as remote as ever at the weekend, and if she did not go out to spend the afternoon and evening with friends would retreat to the Howards’ private rooms in the house, and he would not see her except at breakfast that day.

The situation improved when, after he had been in London for just over two months, a new waiter joined Tyndall’s. His name was Sacha Gautier, and like Jean-Paul he came from the Touraine and had worked in Paris before coming to London. His job at Tyndall’s was not his first in England, where he had already lived for nearly two years, having been employed in a small Soho restaurant. He was almost exactly the same age as Jean-Paul, and from the beginning the two young men took a liking to each other.

Before long they were spending their Sunday afternoons and evenings together, threading their way through the streets of London, visiting the parks, striding along the embankment, hurrying away from the noisome slums, stopping at each restaurant they passed to assess its menu and compare it, always unfavourably, to Tyndall’s, and discussing an endless variety of topics – religion, politics, their work, their fantasies for the future. ‘When you’re the chef de cuisine at Tyndall’s and I’m the head waiter,’ Sacha would say, as the prelude to some extravagant idea for their shared prosperity, and they would laugh and shout with sheer joie de vivre, and passers-by would stare at them and sometimes indicate their displeasure at such an unseemly display of high spirits on the Lord’s Day.

Sacha had lodgings in Gower Street, and he tried to persuade Jean-Paul to move there. ‘There’s a double room in the house that’s empty right now. We could save money by sharing.’

But Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stay where I am, thanks.’ He had grown quite fond of his little attic room with its view over the rooftops.

‘What’s the great attraction there?’ Sacha asked.

Jean-Paul tried to explain how he felt about his room, and how he had become used to Mrs Howard and her cooking. ‘And the other fellows there are a good crowd,’ he finished.

‘That can’t be all. You’d get the same things if you came with me. Come on, tell me the truth.’

‘I get English lessons,’ he replied.

Sacha looked at him with amused suspicion. ‘Who from?’

Jean-Paul felt strangely reluctant to reveal his feelings for Madeline, despite the fact that he knew Sacha’s interest was genuine and entirely friendly. ‘From Miss Howard,’ he said. ‘She’s my landlady’s daughter.’

‘Aha! Now we’re getting to it,’ Sacha laughed. ‘And is she very beautiful?’

Jean-Paul felt himself blushing. ‘Yes. Yes, she is.’

‘Tell me about her.’

With embarrassment at first, but then increasingly freely, Jean-Paul poured out his feelings, explaining his problem of arousing a response in someone who seemed so indifferent to