The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [238]
“We don’t need to go up to London,” said his mother, setting the table. “You always cook for us whenever you come home, and we read of your successes in the papers. In any case, your father isn’t so good on his legs nowadays.”
“What do you call this, son?” his father asked a few minutes later as noisette of lamb surrounded by baby carrots was placed in front of him.
“Nouvelle cuisine.”
“And people pay good money for it?”
Mark laughed, and the following day prepared his father’s favorite Lancashire hotpot.
“Now that’s a real meal,” said Arthur after his third helping. “And I’ll tell you something for nothing, lad. You cook it almost as well as your mother.”
A year later Michelin announced the restaurants throughout the world that had been awarded a coveted third star. The Times let its readers know on its front page that Chez Jacques was the first English restaurant ever to be so honored.
To celebrate the award, Mark’s parents finally agreed to make the journey down to London, though not until Mark had sent a telegram saying he was reconsidering that job at Triumph. He sent a car to fetch his parents and had them installed in a suite at the Savoy. That evening he reserved the best table at Chez Jacques in their name.
Vegetable soup followed by steak-and-kidney pie with a plate of bread-and-butter pudding to end on were not the table d’hôte that night, but they were served for the special guests at table 17.
Under the influence of the finest wine, Arthur was soon chatting happily to anyone who would listen and couldn’t resist reminding the headwaiter that it was his son who owned the restaurant.
“Don’t be silly, Arthur,” said his wife. “He already knows that.”
“Nice couple, your parents,” the headwaiter confided to his boss after he had served them their coffee and supplied Arthur with a cigar. “What did your old man do before he retired? Banker? Lawyer? Schoolmaster?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said Mark quietly. “He spent the whole of his working life putting wheels on cars.”
“But why would he waste his time doing that?” asked the waiter incredulously.
“Because he wasn’t lucky enough to have a father like mine,” Mark replied.
THE CHINESE STATUE
The little Chinese statue was the next item to come under the auctioneer’s hammer. Lot 103 caused those quiet murmurings that always precede the sale of a masterpiece. The auctioneer’s assistant held up the delicate piece of ivory for the packed audience to admire while the auctioneer glanced around the room to be sure he knew where the serious bidders were seated. I studied my catalog and read the detailed description of the piece, and what was known of its history.
The statue had been purchased in Ha Li Chuan in 1871 and was referred to as what Sotheby’s quaintly described as “the property of a gentleman,” usually meaning that some member of the aristocracy did not wish to admit that he was having to sell off one of the family heirlooms. I wondered if that was the case on this occasion and decided to do some research to discover what had caused the little Chinese statue to find its way into the auction rooms on that Thursday morning over one hundred years later. “Lot Number 103,” declared the auctioneer. “What am I bid for this magnificent example of …”
Sir Alexander Heathcote, as well as being a gentleman, was an exact man. He was exactly six feet three and a quarter inches tall, rose at seven o’clock every morning, joined his wife at breakfast to eat one boiled egg cooked for precisely four minutes, two pieces of toast with one spoonful of Cooper’s marmalade, and drink one cup of China tea. He would then take a hackney carriage from his home in Cadogan Gardens at exactly 8:20 and arrive at the Foreign Office at promptly 8:59, returning home again on the stroke of six o’clock.
Sir Alexander had been exact from an