Kitchen Discipline

Marion was busy helping Carlos, the sous chef, and Dorcus in the Bumbridge kitchen. She was preparing onions for the soup, chopping them, a metal spoon held between her lips, humming “Jerusalem” and wearing Carlos’s swimming goggles, her squinty eye still watering.

Dorcus was bustling about with pots and pans, her ample backside disturbing mixing bowls and plates on the wooden table. Carlos was getting agitated. He had asked Dorcus on several occasions to be more careful, but to no avail, the girl seemed unconscious of the fact that her huge posterior had been the cause of several breakages and accidents. She walked past a shelf and several cookery books fell with a slap onto the tiled kitchen floor. Dorcus continued on to the sinks in total oblivion. Carlos threw his meat tenderiser across the room and shouted “Fucking hell, you stupid big woman! I’m not going to tell you again, lose that arse or get the fuck out of my kitchen!”

Dorcus, bobbed up and down in mock curtsy and then gave a Nazi salute and proceeded to wash up some pans. Marion smiled, she liked Dorcus. She respected Dorcus's independent spirit and anarchical streak. Marion admired that in people and wasn't into kowtowing herself. Why she tolerated grumpy Carlos and life as a domestic was beyond her. But she had been part of the Pantiles Market scene for so long now. She began to feel maudlin but got on with the job at hand.