Caroline Beecham grew up at the English seaside and relocated to Australia to continue her career as a writer and producer in film and television. She has worked on a documentary about Princess Diana lookalikes, a series about journeys to the ends of the earth, as well as a feature film about finding the end of the rainbow. Caroline decided on a new way of storytelling and studied the craft of novel writing at the Faber Academy in 2012. She has an MA in Film & Television and a MA in Creative Writing and lives with her husband and two sons by Sydney harbour. Maggie’s Kitchen is her first published novel.
You can find out more information about Maggie’s Kitchen and the events that inspired the novel at www.maggieskitchennovel.com
This a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2016
Copyright © Caroline Beecham 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
The quotes on pages vii, 22, 42, 51, 60, 82, 103, 117, 139, 145, 153, 167, 174, 191, 201, 213, 219, 225, 238, 247, 256, 264, 285, 291, 305, 310, 315, 322, 328, 334, 343 and 350 contain public sector information licensed under the Open Government Licence v3.0 (http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/doc/open-government-licence/version/3/).
Page 35: © News UK & Ireland Limited, 23/4/1941
Page 241: © News UK & Ireland Limited, 26/8/1941
Page 259: © News UK & Ireland Limited, 10/9/1941
Page 361: © News UK & Ireland Limited, 13/1/1942
Page 362: © News UK & Ireland Limited, 22/8/1942
Pages 1, 91, 123 and 273 reproduced from Victory Cookbook: Nostalgic Food and Facts from 1940–1954 by Marguerite Patten OBE with kind permission from Octopus Publishing Group.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 9781760293048
eISBN 9781952534546
Typeset by Bookhouse, Sydney
Cover design: Christabella Designs
Cover photographs: Matt Gibson / Shutterstock.com and
© Elisabeth Ansley / Trevillion Images
For John—and for Sam and James,
whose love of reading inspires me every day . . .
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Afterword
Maggie’s recipes
Acknowledgements
On 5 November 1940 the British Minister of Food wrote to his civic heads addressing the problem of food supply:
I believe that many of these problems and dangers can be met by the establishment of community kitchens and feeding centres in every part of the kingdom. If every man, woman and child could be sure of obtaining at least one hot nourishing meal a day, at a price all could afford, we should be sure of the nation’s health and strength during the war . . .
By the end of 1940 a Director of Communal Feeding had been appointed and by midsummer 1941 there were just over two hundred centres operating under the ministry’s scheme and another one hundred and twenty operated by voluntary associations and local authorities.
On 21 March 1941 Mr Churchill wrote to Lord Woolton, Minister of Food, in relation to the establishment of communal feeding centres:
I hope the term ‘Communal Feeding Centres’ is not going to be adopted. It is an odious expression, suggestive of Communism and the workhouse. I suggest you call them ‘British Restaurants’. Everybody associates the word ‘restaurant’ with a good meal, and they may as well have the name if they cannot get anything else.
Chapter One
I saw three ships a-sailing
But not with food for me
For I am eating home-grown food
To beat the enemy
And ships are filled with guns instead
To bring us victory
Marguerite Patten OBE,
Victory Cookbook: Nostalgic Food and Facts from 1940–1954
LONDON, 17 APRIL 1941
They had been inside the shelter for hours, the familiar warming of atmosphere despite the coolness of the ground, their collective breath forming a moving fog: the sweet sharp notes of mint humbugs; the faint aroma of Gillian’s fragrance, no doubt a gift from John; the sour smell of last night’s ale; the bitterness of stale cigarettes, woven into their clothes as tightly as the garments’ own fabric.
Maggie was conscious of every movement and each and every sound. There was the rustle of clothing, the fragile stillness of her neighbour’s breath waiting to be exhaled, the muffled gasps as another bomber roared overhead. And the growl of anti-aircraft fire that followed. Lord knew how many hours she had sat upright with nothing to lean against, the tiny pitch-dark shelter separating them all as surely as it bound them together.
Then the ground shuddered again, but it was only the weight of vehicles on the roads escalating the ferocity of sound, drowning out Henry’s coughing fit and her neighbour’s cries. She imagined the next blast and the weight of the debris and soil as it pressed down on them, weighing down their flesh and levelling the backyard as they all disappeared beneath . . . Mrs Armstrong from number fifty-two, soft belly protruding from the earth . . . Henry and Julia from number forty-three, arms still locked around each other . . . Gillian and her three girls from along the road . . . her own body, arms and legs sticking out at awkward angles like sticks from a game of jacks. Discarded clothes and prized possessions, brought to the shelter for safekeeping, lonely artefacts in their communal tomb.
She shook her head to dispel the image. I’m not going to die, I’m not going to die, she repeated to herself. If Peter were here he would have found a way to distract her.
Her breathing intensified and she struggled to think of something else, to grasp hold of a thread of someth
ing normal. She willed the thudding of blood and muscle to cease, to force her heart back to its normal size and her breathing to slow enough to stop overtaking her thoughts.
She could smell the fear in her own perspiration and sense it in the unease that had overtaken their shared space. Her legs were numb now, and her back locked rigid, muscles set in permanent contraction. The earth was so cold, and pressed against her so tightly, that the pain began to spread through her like the fire that surely engulfed the shattered homes above.
And then it grew quiet again, and they waited for the shelter doors to open so that they could reluctantly reinhabit the streets outside, though they would not be allowed home until the wardens had checked the damage, until the fire brigade made safe or demolished any precarious buildings and any unexploded bombs were defused. She knew the drill by now: knew that there would be those who went straight back home, counting themselves lucky to be alive, while others, like Mr and Mrs Fox, would not take to their beds until they were sure that the local streets were clear and that their neighbours were all accounted for.
To pass the time between now and then she pictured Peter, handsome and authoritative in his uniform, only his dark brown hair unruly.
‘You can’t change what happens to you, only how you deal with it,’ he was saying to her.
It was what he always said.
So she would deal with it by focusing on what she needed to do for her next shift—if the radio factory was still standing, of course. There were new recipes from the ministry to master, food inventories to be done, the butcher’s order, two hundred factory workers to cook for . . .
As thoughts of store cupboards and frugal dishes replaced the darker images, she started rubbing the sodden dirt between her fingertips, feeling the same cold coarse texture as if she were simply making breadcrumbs for shortbread or the topping for a fresh fruit crumble. But the sensation that was so completely natural and reassuring evaporated as she remembered that, only a few miles away, people were likely being blown to bits.
Nearby, Mrs Brooks exhaled, providing the first movement of air since they had been down here. The poor old woman had been whimpering from the moment they were ushered into the shelter by the shrieking sirens and the brief gathering beam of light. It had taken them five minutes to get Mrs Brooks out of her house and securely stowed in the underground shelter; she was not very mobile at the best of times, hampered by her arthritis and considerable bulk. They had half lifted, half walked her along the cracked concrete path, across the uneven grass and down the seven steep steps to the shelter.
There was a loud explosion and a ringing in her ears as something whistled too slowly through the air a few hundred yards away. Screams shredded the space around her and the ground vibrated, setting her teeth chattering, and for a few moments it seemed as if they were caught at the epicentre of the blast.
Then she smelled the smoke and the acrid burn of rubber and Maggie knew that she was still alive.
From outside came the pandemonium of sirens and explosions. And as it subsided, the three girls began to cry: first Alex, the youngest, then her sisters Molly and Beatrice. There was the sound of boots scraping across the dirt as Gillian pulled them closer to her and began to sing.
Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.
Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow,
and everywhere that Mary went . . .
But their mother’s verse wasn’t working and Molly became more and more agitated.
‘Come on, love,’ Gillian whispered. ‘What happened to my brave, brave girl? You’ve done this before . . .’
Then she heard a faint whooshing noise and a familiar grassy smell, as the thin warm stream found its way through a groove in the earth.
‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I’m sorry,’ Molly cried.
‘It’s alright, pet.’
She could feel Gillian’s body as it became closer and then more distant as she rocked back and forth in front of her, the humming loud and then softer as she cradled Molly and the cries gradually began to subside into low sobs.
After a few moments of waiting for the tears to quell, Maggie spoke. ‘Hey, Molly, do you know what I’m thinking about?’
There was no reply.
‘A delicious creamy Welsh rarebit that I’m going to make for you as soon as we get home . . .’
The crying stopped and Molly’s body twisted, her face turning up so that Maggie could feel her warm breath as she spoke.
‘Really, Maggie?’
‘Yes, really. I may even have some carrot cake left from Sunday, too.’
‘Are you sure you’ll have enough for us?’
‘Is there enough Welsh rarebit for me?’ Beatrice pleaded.
‘Oh yes. And I have been trying out a new version with just the right amount of Colman’s to turn the mixture a golden yellow, as bright as sunflowers. And there’s just enough milk to make the bread moist and keep the topping crunchy.’
Then she lowered her voice even further. ‘I was thinking of calling it Churchill’s rarebit . . . what do you think?’
She could hear the girls giggling in the dark.
‘I think that your generous invitation has been accepted,’ Gillian replied. ‘Girls, what do you say to Maggie?’
‘Oh yes, please,’ they chorused.
The noise outside had faded and Maggie was no longer thinking about the carnage and charred wood; her thoughts were on the bubbling cheese and the smiles on the girls’ dirt-smudged faces as they sat around the kitchen table.
As the door opened, a patch of moonlight flooded the shelter’s entrance, transforming the anonymous dark soil into a ghostly carpet of white.
Her neighbours’ silhouettes moved through the doorway, expelling the warmed air, the shelter’s condensation mixing with the ribbons of smoke outside to create a low groundcover. Her shaking legs steadied enough so that she could climb the stairs as her eyes grew slowly accustomed to the light and her nose and throat to the sickening fumes.
The whine of the sirens was receding, the earth had at last given up its tremor and only muted whistles echoed in the remote emptying streets.
The bombs hadn’t been close enough to hit them; the danger was now a distant grumble. They were safe.
This time.
They had been lucky, but it was still unnerving to be making their way through the deserted streets, shepherding Mrs Brooks safely home, her neighbours drifting away with mumbled goodbyes, and Mr and Mrs Fox finally gone. Only moments now to see if the Victorian terrace was still standing and her landlady, Mrs Foster, unharmed. Then she would check on her cousin Rose, who lived not far away; Maggie hoped she had made it to the Tube in time.
The moon-touched streets emerged into view: first garden walls materialised, then hedges and porches, arbours of roses, low-pitched roofs and smokeless chimneys. Further on down the road, the Air Raid Precautions vehicles were parked outside St John’s church, a short comforting convoy of dark green.
Ever since the paint factory in Silvertown had gone up last week, the radio factory where she worked had been on standby, expecting to be evacuated at a moment’s notice. Their working hours were shortened so they could be home by nightfall, and the stone grey uniforms of the Home Guard were now a constant presence outside the gates.
She followed the progress of the ARP as they unloaded wooden crates from the backs of the trucks, passing the precious cargo from person to person. Maggie thought longingly of all the crates stowed safely deep inside the church, where there would be enough food and water for those lucky few who were sheltering there. For the rest of them it was a neighbour’s Anderson shelter, where she had been, or risking the short distance to the Angel underground before the bombs started and the wardens padlocked the station gates.
Another crate was retrieved from the truck and she caught sight of the dark lettering on its side: WILSON & CO. She had been relieved by whispers that the first American lend-lease food aid shipments had arrived;
there were supposed to be Canadian hams and bacons, orange juice and eggs, and other produce that had been difficult to get hold of.
Shivering, she pressed her hands deeper into her coat pockets and her fingers brushed against the pocket watch. She curled them around its smooth brass case, reassured by the solid cool of the metal and relieved that it was still there. Peter had given it to her on their engagement; he had said some time beforehand that he wasn’t sentimental but then presented it to her, proudly declaring that it was a family heirloom and that he wanted to spend all his time with her, and the rest of his life. She was so intrigued by the old watch that she hadn’t realised at first that Peter had proposed, until he started to apologise for the fact that it wasn’t a ring, promising that he would buy her one as soon as he could afford to. She had known that would be years away—after the war ended, after their lives returned to normal—but she had been elated anyway; he wanted her to be his wife.
Head still bent in thought, she carried on across the road.
‘Maggie . . . watch out!’
A hand reached out and pulled her onto the pavement as an ARP truck roared past.
It took a moment for her to catch her breath before she recognised the figure in front of her, covered as it was in dust, dark metal helmet pulled tightly down.
‘Bill?’
‘You alright, love?’
Bill Drummond, the warden, was barely recognisable. It was hard to believe he was only in his early thirties, his face was so worn looking. Now it was covered with dirt, too—except for his eyes, large and white like a barn owl’s where he had been wearing a mask. Maggie’s fingers unconsciously traced around her own eyes, then flicked through her chestnut hair, loosening the dust that had settled there.
‘Thank you, Bill,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You were a million miles away,’ he observed.
‘Wish I was,’ she said, watching as another truck accelerated by.
‘It’s been devastating, worst night by far—incendiaries and parachute mines. Lost a mum and her daughters on Highbury Station Road, two more houses over Liverpool Road too. Wiped out instantly, never stood a chance. But your street’s fine. No damage.’
Maggie’s Kitchen Page 1
