Smoked salmon is in my blood. A cousin on my dad’s side smokes it near Cobh, County Cork, Ireland. I don’t know the post code. We had called in on him when we holidayed over there when the children were small. It was the year that Sonia O’ Sullivan was beating everybody and ‘Good on ye Sonia’ T-shirts were all the rage. Roy Keane was only practising his. We introduced ourselves and he showed us the works. We coughed in all the right places. He gave us some salmon. We called in on his mum who lived in Cobh. She was my dad’s first cousin. Sadly she’s since died. She filled us up with a slap up meal and filled us in with family news. It was manic but lovely. The children said all the right things in the right places, except for the youngest who asked for his own packet of cheese and onion crisps even though there were bowls of them on the table. She had a great view over the Holy Ground and the harbour. As kids my brother and I used to ‘come home’ each August. We stayed with relatives who lived right on the water’s edge. It’s where I got my first taste of long summer holidays, something that I knew then I could take to as well as being taken on.
Cobh has been at the water’s edge before. It was the last port of call for the Titanic, and bodies from the Lusitania were brought ashore there. A rainbow could be seen through the window; its far end could just be made out disappearing into the smokery we’d just come from. He’s become a good mate of Rick Stein the TV chef from Padstein in Cornwall and has appeared in at least two of his TV programmes. Both have waxed lyrical about the English Market. Don’t be misled. They do know what they are talking about. Like the French market that has come to Gravesend a few times, this English Market is in Ireland. In Cork City to be precise. It needs to be seen to be believed. The fish were as fresh as the scad and the two eels that I had caught that morning amongst the seaweeds of Knockadoon Head that the missus cooked for breakfast and painted to submit for The Society of Botanical Artists’ annual exhibition respectively. We bought some olives and a big block of olive green soap. We drove off to Kinsale where the Lusitania had perished, promising to return to the Irish English market.
We had to wait until our Silver Wedding Anniversary before we returned together. My youngest’s school was on their second cricket tour to Ireland. This particular year it was to Cork City then to the fair City of Dublin. I of course intended to accompany him again to ensure that he ate something besides cheese and onion crisps. If only I were a bigot and hated Manchester United which I’m not and I don’t, I could have said ‘Like the Cantona incident at Selhurst Park the shit hit the fan’ when the missus came out with those immortal words ‘You must be the only man who arranges to be in a different country to their wife for their silver wedding anniversary.’ We were going by minibus on the ferry from Pembroke Docks to Rosslare. In my day it used to be train to Fishguard then across to Rosslare and train again. Going into Cork itself was special. We did it with the children from Swansea, but you don’t go all the way up the River Lea to Cork City anymore as the Innisfallen used to do. I secretly arranged for the missus to join us. I squared it with the teacher in charge, and the Youth Hostel romantically promised us a double room. I asked if the toaster was still functioning. Romantically they said that it was.
There was a difficulty. The missus had to fly. She’d never flown before. I had to arrange for someone to fly with her. I asked one of the dads if he wanted his missus to join him. He looked at me incredulously but relented when I explained the circumstances. I paid for the flights. In school the PE teacher saw me about going on a course. He showed me the details. I was impressed. It was during the summer half term. ‘No it isn’t; it’s the week before.’ He said, gazumping the previous word championship record uttered by the missus. I checked the diary. He was right. His course and our Silver Wedding Anniversary were the week before we were due to go on the cricket tour. It was my turn to be incredulous.
You could see where she was coming from. We had got married on the first weekend of the summer half term. We’d just bought a house. We didn’t have any money left. We didn’t go on honeymoon. It has taken twenty five years but she’s finally got her own back as she vowed she would, although unlike the wedding I’d made all the arrangements. The question was how I could turn all this to my advantage. There was some talk about the school going on tour to the Caribbean the following year. That could have been my honeymoon or swansong depending on whether I would need to pawn my wedding ring or my cygnet ring to pay for it. One problem was that it would have been year 12 for the boys. In our day that would have been made sod all difference as you could sod about all year in the lower sixth and then pull out the stops to pass your A levels in the upper sixth. The sods have put a stop to all that now by introducing AS levels so they’ve got sodding exams towards the end of that year which have an influence on what eventual grade they get for A level. It would have been Sod’s law for the team to have made the grade away on tour but not to get the grades at home. I don’t like league cricket and I don’t like league tables. There must have been a number of the team studying Business Studies A level as that’s what the teacher in charge teaches, so he’d know all about market forces. That’s buggered that one. Shame! I bet they have some super markets over there. I did hear that it poured with rain in Port of Spain during the week we would have been there so it would have been another sodden tour like Ireland. Guess what we bring home from each ground that we play on as a memento. Well done. You’ve guessed it. A sod. Not from the wicket! We’re not that innocent.
I decided to set out my stall. I’d use two tables to fit everybody in. I invited the PE teacher and his missus together with the other dad and his missus around for a meal. I included my Shrimpers mate who is a teacher at my son’s school with his missus for the sympathy vote as she had arranged a holiday during the half term preventing him from going on the cricket tour. I thought about asking the teacher in charge but rejected the idea on the grounds that he hadn’t by then worked out the extra I’d have to pay for the use of the double room. Besides, the missus got on a bit too well with his gross domestic product. She’d probably have given the game away too early during the evening and I wanted to lay a smokescreen, leaving the missus to stew. Then I would butter her up a bit and gradually grind her down. I’m not vindictive however; I didn’t want her to choke on the main course. I’d primed the guests well in advance by ratting on the missus. The meal would consist of smoked salmon, Irish stew, bread and butter pudding with Irish coffee made with some Jameson Irish whiskey. My dad would have preferred crubeens but I wanted it to be more tongue in cheek than foot and mouth. The missus smelt a rat but I told her that it was my new aftershave. As I’d just had my beard shaved off for charity after thirty years, she accepted the explanation and being the sort she is she gave me a quid. Being the sort I am I put it towards the cost of the whiskey. I have never used aftershave. I like to smell my natural self.
The smoked salmon went down well with horseradish sauce even though it wasn’t my cousin’s. The horseradish came from the garden. I’d almost blinded the missus once when we were drying out some horseradish root in the oven. I opened the door and she checked how it was doing. The fumes were so strong they almost did for her. I felt awful. We were both in tears. I changed the recipe for our horseradish sauce to have freshly cut horseradish root rather than dried. I just changed the label to ‘Organic’ so people would accept the hard bits. The ex-secret ingredient is swede. Perhaps not ‘secret’ more ‘confidential’. We used to call swede turnip in Cornwall to add to the mystery. We used to call cauliflower broccoli as well but unlike the turnip or swede it didn’t do the horsecarrot any flavours. The Irish stew I made using beef rather than mutton as that’s what my mum used. Before you jump to any conclusions, she never used to use anchovies for her Scotch eggs and didn’t put paprika in her Welsh rarebit. Now you can jump to them. The stout I put out was Murphy rather than Guinness as that was what my dad drank and watched during the evening, and there was a good deal at the corner shop. The bread and butter pudding didn’t have any double cream in it as I wanted some semblance of healthy eating and I needed it for the Irish coffee.
I kept my hands by my sides as my feet tapped to the Riverdance CD that I’d put on. I didn’t have a shillelagh under my arm and I didn’t utter a single ‘Tu-re-lu-re-ly’ but as with Riverdance she picked up the theme. She was upstairs for only five minutes but she came down wearing the shiny black tights that she keeps under her pillow. ‘I know what this is all about’, she said.’ You have finally realised what a rat you are and you have arranged for me to come with you to Ireland.’ ‘Correct!’ I replied, handing her the air ticket in confirmation, relieved that she hadn’t called me a snake as that would have caused Visa difficulties. ‘And what about this one?’ I asked as I put another identical ticket next to it. ‘You thought you’d catch me out there.’ She snapped. ‘That ticket is for Mavis here who is coming to keep me company as I’ve never flown before.’ She asserted.’ That’s two out of two and I haven’t used any life lines yet.’ ‘I have to tell you that you may need all three to progress’ I told her.
‘Why is Peter here tonight? ‘Is it A because he’s going on a course? B because he’s going to Ireland? C because he likes my cooking? Or D because he’s giving up teaching to become a painter and decorator and he’s going to do our front room on Tuesday?’ ‘I’d like to phone a friend.’ she said entering into the spirit of it all. ‘Who would you like to phone?’ ‘Peter.’ she said. ‘It’s A.’ Peter told her. ‘But I will give you a cut price for your front room.’ I put my hand in my pocket and took out some change. There was £2.78p. I offered it to the missus, but snatched it back out of her reach. ‘We don’t want to give you that. For four pounds sorry five pounds forty um!’ I put the small change back in my pocket. ‘For five pounds! Is our silver wedding anniversary A before half term? B during half term? C after half term? Or D completely fucked up like my cricket tour?’ Like with the meal I had made I was making a meal out of this. I’d written out this question with green highlighter pen on the little TV in the breakfast room that we use to watch if there is a test match on as I insist on the family sitting down together at meal times. The TV has had a fair amount of use as with the missus not ever having taken to making cricket teas she hasn’t always been able to co-ordinate the times properly.
I switched on the telly to a preset untuned channel if that’s not a contradiction in half terms. I pumped down the volume with the remote control and all went quiet. You could hear a pin drop but people were more interested in listening for the grenade to explode. You could see the four choices clearly. You could smell the Irish coffee on her breath. You could taste the horseradish sauce on your tongue refusing to dissolve in the coffee. You could touch the missus on her knee, but that wouldn’t have made sense as it would have destroyed her concentration. ‘I’d like to go fifty fifty like your age’, she said exhibiting a noticeable lack of confidence. Attack was always better than sitting on de fence as far as the missus was concerned. ‘Computer take away two of the wrong answers.’ Peter’s missus got up from the table and in true TV tradition wiggled her way to the telly and wiped off answers B and C with a paper napkin. As if following a script the missus sat down and looked at the two options. ‘I’ve only got one option.’ She announced looking decidedly sheepish unlike the Irish stew. ‘I’ll ask the audience.’
‘I looked around the table. ‘Can you press your buttons now.’ There’s no question mark as it’s an Irish question, something that has punctuated British Governments over the centuries. The missus herself had come to a full stop, while she waited for the votes of the Swedish jury. Members of the turnip one didn’t turnup which was parsnip for the course. Three ‘A’s and Three ‘D’s were held up. The missus was rooted to the spot. ‘Two wrong answers don’t make a right so it must be A as your cricket tour will only be enhanced by our presence, don’t you think darling? Remember our promise to each other in the English market. I haven’t forgotten even if you have.’ I went red as a beetroot. I’d set the tables but she’d turned them. I’d run out of the root vegetables that I’d bought that morning from the market to use as visual aids to support my teach her a lesson plans. I went out into the garden for a leek onto the gooseberry and the raspberry bushes. She came out to join me. ‘I feel a gooseberry fool’, I said, fondling her bottom. ‘I’d blow you a raspberry but I might get my words mixed up.’ She said and she did. I knew where she was heading. She’s finally gone downmarket. I kept tight lipped as she paid lip service in full to the one member of the jury who was upstanding in court.
By the time we got back in, the dishwasher was in action and the room was in darkness lit up only by a cake with candles with ‘Happy Silver Wedding Anniversary’ written on it. ‘It’s an ill wind.’ said the missus letting one rip as the root vegetables caught up on her. ‘Happy Anniversary!’ shouted everybody as they rushed in from their hiding places. It was the missus’ turn to go red as a beetroot, but nobody could see as there hadn’t been enough carrots in the Irish stew.
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