Granny’s at Brinkhill – Chapter Five
Walks and singing were all very well for us young ones, but the tyranny of catering was ever-present and soon it was time to prepare for tea. Granny would bring out a spirit stove and plonk it on the kitchen table. Once again, I was banished to the far reaches of the kitchen while Granny pumped the thing up. I understood that if it were not primed correctly the stove might explode. Fortunately, Granny knew exactly what she was doing. The stove made a special sound when it was ready to cook and at that point Granny would put on a large pan of potatoes to fry. I have never, ever tasted fried potatoes like hers. I have tried my best to produce that texture and flavour in my own cooking but I have never quite managed it. I suspect that part of the secret lay in the dripping and another part in the fact that she fried them very slowly, keeping an eye on them and turning them frequently. It was once suggested that the reek of the paraffin that fuelled the stove might have added an elusive element to the taste!
Whatever the secret was, the potatoes were agonisingly moreish, especially when eaten with Daddies Sauce, another thing that my mother disapproved of and I never had at home. There was always some sort of cold meat to go with the potatoes but it’s the potatoes I remember. We also had bread and butter, a choice of jams and cake. Granny no longer did much baking, but a baker called every week and she would buy what she needed from him. I think that the baker’s name was Mr Boyden. Granny used to make him a cup of tea and they would chat while he drank it. Granny probably enjoyed his visits as the family said that she hadn’t left the house for many years and didn’t see many people apart from those who lived with her.
Mr Boyden had a very loud voice and he always started to bellow his greetings as he got out of his van. This gave Granny time to hurry Beryl and me out of the kitchen and into the hallway. We were told to sit on the stairs as Mr Boyden used naughty words that I mustn’t hear. My curiosity went into overdrive. I desperately wanted to know what these naughty words were, but Beryl wouldn’t tell me. She just giggled as we sat on the drugget carpet which ran up the middle of the staircase and was held in place by shining brass stair rods. The staircase was interesting to me as it had a strange, resonating echo when it was walked on. As a rule, I liked to stamp to hear it ring, but not when Mr Boyden came. When he was in the kitchen talking to Granny I wanted to sit still and quiet so that I could hear his naughty words. Poor Beryl tried to drown out their conversation but I kept shushing her and straining to hear Mr Boyden, hoping to find out what the naughty words were. My efforts were wasted, however, and I was very disappointed not to learn any words which were unfamiliar and sounded as though I shouldn’t be using them. Mr Boyden let me down there. I liked his jam tarts though.
