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“And this is the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to anything while you get settled in. I don’t know if you’d prefer to split the groceries or buy your own..?”
Lockwood trailed off as he turned to George, noticing that the other boy’s attention was fixed across the room.
“You have an AGA cooker?” George asked, approaching the intimidatingly large oven against the wall with something like awe.
“Oh. Um, yes?” Lockwood answered. He could tell from the question that there was more significance to the appliance than he realized. To be honest, despite its huge footprint in the kitchen, he mostly ignored it. What little cooking he did, he used the conventional oven right beside it. He often forgot it was anything other than another surface to rest his mug on.
George’s eyes lit up as he raised the cover on the cooktop. “You don’t use it?” He asked.
Lockwood had vague, early memories of his mother pouring tea from a kettle that seemed to live on that cooktop, his father pulling a roast chicken out of the small oven door. The flashes came to him, soft and warm, and he swallowed them down, where they burrowed into that gnawing pit in his stomach labeled ‘family’.
To George, he shook his head. “My uncle bought the other oven ages ago. Think he was intimidated by this one,” he joked with a half-smile, worried that George might judge him for being dismissive of what was clearly a special piece of equipment.
George only nodded in understanding. “It’s a bit of a learning curve, if you’ve never used one. Or so I’ve heard,” he shrugged. “See, with a conventional stove you adjust the heat up or down with the burners, right? Obviously. But this operates with a single, constant heat source, so you move the food closer or further away from the heat as needed.” Lockwood wasn’t sure he was following, but he hadn’t seen George so animated since he’d brought up his theories on the origins of The Problem when they first met in The Archives.
To be honest, though Lockwood was more than certain that his agency would be stronger with one George Karim as its Head of Research, he had been starting to worry that offering George the second bedroom had been a mistake. It had seemed like a perfect idea at the time. The house had plenty of space, they’d have more time for work if George didn’t have to commute, and, though he struggled to admit it to himself, Lockwood had never gotten used to living alone. As much as he prided himself on his independence, there were times when the quiet stillness of the big empty house felt suffocating. He was eager to have someone else to share the space with again. The only problem that he’d run into, one he didn’t really see coming, was that George didn’t seem to like him.
Not to sound arrogant, but Lockwood wasn’t used to people not liking him. With the exception of a few stubbornly by-the-book authority figures, he was usually quite adept at winning people over. But ever since George had agreed to be Lockwood & Co’s first and only employee, Lockwood had struggled to get the other boy to warm up to him. He’d done his best, turned his charm up to eleven, but he was only ever met with blankly inscrutable looks and minimal, laconic conversation.
So seeing George examine his old, disused stove with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning was a very welcome sight.
“The heat source would be behind this door here. So that means this cooktop is for boiling, this one for simmering. The top oven would be for roasting, the bottom for warming…” George said.
Lockwood grinned, “sounds like it wouldn’t be much of a learning curve for you.”
George shrugged. “I’ve just read about them. Some of the best chefs in London swear by these stoves. They’re really expensive,” he noted, and then jerked his head up and blinked at Lockwood before quickly looking away, as though he just remembered that money wasn’t something people were supposed to talk about.
Lockwood didn’t mind, he actually found his candor refreshing. “Then it’s a shame for it to sit here not being used.”
George met his eyes again, this time with a small smile. “Well, we’ll have to get the fire lit again.”
“Is that difficult?” Lockwood asked.
“It’s certainly not as easy as turning a knob. I’d prefer to consult a manual so I can be sure that I won’t blow up your kitchen.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I would prefer you didn’t. Well, there is an old junk drawer full of those sorts of papers down in the basement. Which happens to be the next stop on our tour,” Lockwood walked across the room and held the door open for George.
George let his hand linger on the cooktop’s shiny metal cover for just a moment before following Lockwood down the stairs.
…
“You found the manual?” Lockwood asked as he entered the kitchen the next day to see George’s nose buried in a small booklet.
“It was in an old box in the library,” George informed him, “along with the one for your answering machine, if you ever need it.”
Lockwood smiled and came to stand behind George as he examined the oven.
“How’s it looking?” He asked.
“Good,” George answered. “Gas valve is off, electricity on,” he pointed to the two indicators in front of them. “Now I just need to…”
Lockwood watched as George pushed and turned a valve counter-clockwise before clicking another button several times. A small fire lit through the viewing window.
“Well, that was-”
“Shhh,” George said, “I need to wait 30 seconds.”
George sat watching the small flame while continuing to hold the valve. Lockwood waited in silence, worried about interrupting again. After some time passed, George slowly eased the pressure on the knob while turning it to a slightly higher position.
“There. Now we just have to wait half an hour before turning it up. Should be ready in a few hours.”
“You have to do this every time you cook?” Lockwood asked. It seemed like a pain.
“No, that’s the beauty of it. It just stays on.”
“What? All the time?” Lockwood asked.
George nodded. “Yep. No preheating or knob turning necessary. Keep the kettle filled and you’ll have tea in no time.”
Lockwood raised his eyebrows, “Now you’re talking. Why didn’t I do this ages ago?”
George smiled as he looked back at the oven with anticipation.
“Suppose you’ll need more than tea and toast to try it out. What can I get from the shops?” Lockwood asked. He grabbed a well-used notepad from the side table by the window and flipped it to a blank page, gesturing for George to take the pen and write a list for him.
George scribbled down some ingredients and handed the page to Lockwood, eyeing the rest of his notes with interest.
“I do some of my best thinking over a late night cuppa,” Lockwood explained. “Best to keep a notebook close by.”
“I’m the same,” George said, “we might need a stack of those.”
“I’ll add it to the list. Be back soon!” he called as he made his way to the front door.
…
Lockwood had spent longer than he meant to running errands. Satchell’s was having a sale and Lockwood realized that with double the manpower (and hopefully double the workload to follow), they’d be going through supplies more quickly, so it was best to stock up. Perhaps he was being a bit optimistic, but at 40% off, he could afford to be, for once.
By the time he finally got home, arms full of supplies and groceries, a light drizzle in the dwindling sunlight had dampened his greatcoat and set a deep chill into his bones.
He shuffled into the kitchen, eager to unload the bags he was carrying, and found George pulling a couple of mugs out of the cupboard.
“Ah!” Lockwood said, spotting the steaming kettle on the AGA’s cooktop as he started to unpack the groceries. “Looks like I have excellent timing.”
George poured two mugs of tea. “Were you able to get everything on the list?” He asked.
Lockwood nodded as he made his way over to the now-functional oven. “Everything except fresh fenugreek. I got dried, hope that’s ok.” As he got closer he felt a gentle heat emanating from the appliance. He held his hands out, as though warming them by a fire. “Warm,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily. He huffed a small laugh. He’d always thought his memories of the magically warm kitchen when his parents were alive had been the rose-colored remembrances of a child. Apparently, he hadn’t given reality enough credit.
George walked over, standing just behind Lockwood. “Yeah, it does that,” he said. “Here,” he reached up and around for the lapels of Lockwood’s coat, still damp with rain. Lockwood allowed him to remove it, somewhat taken aback. Until now, George had seemed to have a fairly strict personal bubble in place that Lockwood had learned not to invade. He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment as George took the coat and laid it over a chair just next to the stove.
“There,” he said, “should be dry in no time.”
“Clever,” Lockwood smiled.
“I should’ve asked before I sent you shopping, but do you like lamb?” George asked.
“Oh. Um, sure,” Lockwood said, reaching for his tea. He hadn’t wanted to assume that, if George cooked, he would want to share.
“Great. I’m making ghormeh sabzi. Ever had it?”
Lockwood shook his head. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“How are your knife skills?” George asked.
“I’m excellent with a rapier.”
“Well, if we ever need to stab the food, that will be useful,” George joked. “How about you wash the produce?”
Lockwood saluted with his tea as he made his way back over to the table. George handed him a bundle of herbs and Lockwood watched as he made his way around the kitchen, pulling out pans and cutting boards with a familiarity that betrayed just how much time he must've spent examining the kitchen while Lockwood was out.
The stove continued to fill the space with warmth as Lockwood turned to the sink. He started to wash the greens and listened as George bustled about behind him. He tried to remember the last time the room hadn’t felt silent and sterile, little more than a way station for necessary sustenance.
George doled out more tasks for him, and Lockwood took up his role as sous chef with gusto, at least until George declared his chopping skills ‘abysmal’ and insisted that he didn’t need Lockwood’s assistance to finish preparing the meal. Lockwood sat at the table with a fresh cup of tea and watched George at the range, delectable scents wafting from the pan in front of him.
Portland Row had been Lockwood’s home ever since he was born, but it hadn’t felt so much like one in a very, very long time.