Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Yes. What’s your favourite?’

  His face lit up. ‘Apple crumble and shepherd’s pie . . . no, hotpot . . . no, wait, toad-in-the-hole.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Maggie said, turning to leave.

  ‘But I like my pudding first—before the meal, that is.’

  She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Yes, I bet you do. And your ma always serves your dinner like that, I suppose?’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘Of course.’

  So he did have a mother then . . .

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I’m Maggie.’

  ‘I know. I saw your mail.’

  She was about to tell him off but changed her mind; it was more important to find out who he was, and why he was here on his own.

  ‘Okay, but I can hardly have an anonymous dinner guest, can I?’

  He relented. ‘Robbie. My name is Robbie.’

  She examined him again; yes, he looked like a Robbie.

  ‘All right, Robbie, half past six then.’ She walked to the door.

  ‘Wait . . .’

  Maggie turned.

  ‘Can I bring Spoke?’

  ‘Who is Spoke?’

  He leaned towards a pile of hessian sacks that lay close to the shelves and lifted one of them. Underneath was the dark brown fur of a mongrel, little more than a pup, its sides extending and contracting like a pair of heavily drawn bellows as it slept soundly.

  ‘Unusual name . . . I don’t suppose he talks?’

  ‘That would be something.’ Robbie grinned. ‘No, he got run over, ended up caught in my bicycle wheel. Had to pull the spoke out of him myself. It’s in that tank up there,’ he said pointing at one of the larger, more complex models.

  ‘Right. Well, in that case, Spoke is also welcome.’

  ‘Great,’ Robbie said, jumping up and brushing the crumbs from his jacket, catching a few of the larger ones and putting them into his mouth.

  ‘We’ll set off early then. He’s got a bit of a limp.’

  ‘Fine.’ She smiled. ‘Until tonight.’

  ‘And Maggie?’

  She sighed; she really was going to be terribly late.

  ‘Yes, Robbie?’

  ‘You’re a lot prettier close up.’

  Chapter Two

  There is no vegetable more useful than the

  homely potato. It is a valuable yet cheap source

  of energy, and one of the foods that help protect

  us from ill health. It contains vitamin C as do

  oranges and 1-lb of potatoes daily will give

  half the amount of this vitamin to prevent

  against fatigue and help fight infection.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 27

  Mr Drummond’s report of the local losses and the incident with Robbie had unsettled Maggie; it had left her with a queer feeling—relieved that it wasn’t her but also guilty for thinking as much—and all wobbly too, like the jelly she’d be scrapping off the dripping when she got to work. Perhaps it was because she was also breathless from running, frustrated that she hadn’t had time to cook for Gillian and the girls like she’d promised.

  She slowed to a brisk walk across the gangway and could see her supervisor, Mr Ferguson, watching from behind the glass window above the factory floor. Then an immense cloud of smoke rose from one of the machines, obscuring him from view.

  ‘Morning, Maggie . . .’

  She turned towards the muffled voice to see two men in heavy metal masks struggling to push a trolley towards the far end of the workshop where three covered lorries were parked.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ she called, recognising the eyes just visible behind his protective visor. ‘Roast joint today. You want me to save you some?’

  Tom Washington had gone to school with her brothers and remained close right until they joined up, their friendship strengthened rather than weakened when he was found not medically fit to fight. She liked the fact that he was here now; seeing him regularly made her feel closer to them all somehow. And it reminded her of happier times, when they had all been together, when her father was still alive and before their mother left. When Tom could often be found at their kitchen table; she was feeding him even back then.

  He took his hand off the side of the bucket to give her the thumbs up and it wavered precariously, looking as if it might tip. Tom quickly grabbed hold of the handle to steady it and he and his partner continued on towards the trucks, passing dozens of other workers in overalls and protective masks checking gauges on the growling machines, pulling levers and watching fixedly under the dull spluttering light of bare bulbs. Behind them, the factory’s huge double doors stood fully open to let in much-needed light; the narrow strip of windows at the top of the building’s brick walls were blackened from the dust of destruction outside and the stain of creation within.

  She glanced up again to see Mr Ferguson’s figure retreating. Then a thunderous crash below made her jump, followed by another eruption of sound and an explosion of sparks a few yards away as a large piston bore down, forcing a piece of sheet metal into the radio casing mould before releasing it, the conveyer belt carrying it away. It had a hypnotic effect on her and she never tired of watching as the piston slammed down again and again. At the end of the row, a lever arm shifted upwards, tipping the conveyer belt and nudging the newly formed metal casings along, so that they clattered into a tray beneath. She had forgotten how noisy it was down here, and why the supervisors encouraged the canteen staff to take the other entrance and exit; she usually did when she wasn’t late. Mounting the metal stairs as fast as she could, she was soon on the wide landing of the mezzanine, leaving the mechanical hum and the overpowering smell of oil and molten metal below.

  She hesitated for a moment and then pulled back the double doors leading into a vast kitchen where geysers of steam sprang from the two banks of stoves that ran down the centre of the room. Amid the clinking and whirring of the machinery here, a dozen women in white aprons and matching headscarves were equally industrious, moving between benchtops and stoves, retrieving pots from cookers, whisking mixtures in bowls, washing vegetables and chopping food. As Maggie slipped past them, she wondered how different it might be in one of the British Restaurants she had read about a few weeks ago. The scheme sounded like such a good idea that it had played on her mind ever since.

  She took off her overcoat, rolling it up and squashing it into one of the open shelves next to the door before smoothing down her crumpled white apron. No one seemed to notice her except Eliza, who appeared tired, grey eyes ringed with red; Maggie expected they would all be unnerved today, the raids having lasted so long.

  ‘Sorry, I got caught up. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  ‘I told him you were in the ladies,’ said Eliza. ‘You’re lucky he’s not been back since.’

  She could forgo the lecture for now; she knew he wouldn’t be pleased, particularly since making her assistant supervisor while Janet was away after she’d petitioned so hard for it.

  ‘Thank you. I owe you.’

  Maggie and Eliza had been close since school and they always looked out for each other at work.

  ‘You do look a bit ragged,’ Eliza remarked. ‘The veg is ready but you should probably go and do something about your hair . . .’

  Maggie’s fingers darted upwards; her hair always seemed to escape and she tucked away the stray wisps inside her snood. Eliza smiled at her and she finally relaxed for the first time since entering the shelter the previous night.

  Then, thinking about Mr Ferguson and all that she had to do now she was running late, she grabbed a pair of thick oven gloves and bent low to retrieve a large metal tray from the oven. She groaned involuntarily as she placed the heavy load down onto a trolley already laden with several other trays of equal or larger size. Each held food for the early shift’s lunch; a tray of pale creamy mashed potato, a pile of steaming s
hredded greens, thin slices of brown meat layered with rivers of gravy that trickled from the highest point to form a translucent grey lake at the base.

  ‘Number three ready to go, Liza,’ she shouted.

  Eliza, her round youthful face pink from steam, banged the potato peeler down.

  ‘Right you are, Maggie.’

  Eliza grasped hold of the trolley and manoeuvred it towards the closest set of double doors, butting them open to reveal the vast dining hall beyond.

  There were ten long tables in the huge open space, men and women sitting side by side in oil-smeared overalls, the low clink of cutlery and hum of chatter echoing around them. Maggie saw Rafferty, the canteen cat, crouched under one of the tables waiting for scraps, occasionally stroked by a friendly hand. It made her think of Robbie and his gentle mongrel, and Robbie’s poor mother—wherever she was—who was no doubt missing him.

  Then the doors swung shut, and the momentary glimpse of the relative quiet of the dining hall was replaced by the noise and heat of the kitchen.

  ‘Maggie?’

  Maggie looked around to see Maeve, stirring wildly at a pot on the stove.

  ‘Maggie, come here . . .’

  She could smell the bittersweet aroma of burnt custard before she even reached the saucepan. Taking the spoon from the girl’s hand she slid it through the yellow-brown liquid, feeling the resistance from the lumps as she did.

  ‘Honestly, Maeve,’ she said with a sigh. ‘You’ve used too much powder again, and too high a heat.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maggie.’

  ‘It’s okay, but I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve shown you. We just can’t afford the waste—it’s a shilling each time you get through a packet of powder.’

  The spoon scraped against the bottom of the pot, bringing up burnt and caramelised blobs of custard stuck as hard as barnacles to a ship.

  ‘You start on a low flame, sieve the powder with a little water and then gradually stir in the rest.’ Maggie carried on trying to mix out the lumps.

  Maeve shook her head, eyes filling with tears. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t seem to get the hang of it . . .’

  ‘It’s no good, I can’t salvage it,’ Maggie exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what we’ll give them with the steamed pudding now.’

  Then, seeing how upset the girl was, she turned off the flame, shunting the heavy pot to the back of the stove. Speaking more gently now, she said, ‘Perhaps we should move you on to prep. Would that suit you better?’

  Maeve nodded, pressing her lips together as she tried not to cry.

  Maggie took her by the arm and led her through the maze of benches, noticing another girl on the other side of the room waving frantically at her.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Annie,’ she called, relieved that the other cooks all seemed to be coping with their own areas.

  She had shown them how to be organised in the same way she had learned as a trainee at Battersea College, when cooking had been her life; before she and Peter had shared plans to open a restaurant of their own. Now all she wanted was for the war to be over so she could do something else, no longer be reminded daily of their lost dream.

  ‘Okay, Maeve, you swap with Helen,’ Maggie said when they reached two women in a quieter corner of the kitchen.

  Here the smooth white ceramic tiles replaced the cold grey steel of the industrial cookers and created a brighter, calmer space. She watched as Maeve took in the long trough sink that ran under the window from one end of the room to the other, where it was separated in four places by drainers, and where upturned cutlery and cooking utensils released tributaries of water that flowed back into the sinks and the branches of pipework below. Directly behind them, the parallel benchtop had been divided into separate stations with chopping boards and double bins underneath.

  ‘That’s your pig bin, the other is for general waste,’ Maggie explained, picking up the peeler.

  She began peeling a carrot, moving the blade away from her in long rhythmic strokes and then, taking a knife, she swiftly transformed carrots into miniature orange batons and the glistening courgettes into symmetrical discs.

  ‘Come on, you have a go . . .’

  Maeve picked out the correct vegetable knife and carefully sliced through a carrot creating unequal-sized sticks.

  ‘That’s a good start, but they need to be the same size so they cook evenly.’

  Maeve’s eyes were still wet with tears so Maggie decided to let her practise for a few minutes before telling her that she was going to need to really speed up too.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get quicker,’ she said, ‘and we’re waiting on new peeling machines.’

  Maeve summoned a smile but remained quiet, focusing all her attention on the carrot she held between her finger and thumb, gripping it so hard that her flesh began to turn white.

  Maggie continued cutting on the board alongside her and with the regular, meditative beat of her knife against the solid wood of the board, her thoughts easily turned to Peter and their last drive into the country. They had fallen in love with a small country pub that had been advertised in The Times classified section. When they telephoned ahead first, the quavery old voice at the other end of the line left them in no doubt as to why the pub was up for sale. She felt guilty when they met the owner, though; his wife had passed away two years earlier and the burden of running the place on his own had left him as withered and gnarly as the old wisteria that clutched at the outside walls. She remembered her certainty that it was ‘the one’ the moment she put the phone down, and their excitement as they drove up to Hertfordshire. On their way through Barnet they had designed the pub’s interior and by the time they were winding their way through the small villages they had planned the menus as well. It felt as if the borrowed Ford was gliding on air as it motored up the gentle inclines and she closed her eyes and imagined what the pub would look like as the hedges rose up either side of them. That day, everything lay ahead of them.

  Their excitement was short-lived though; as the signs took them off the main road and they pulled into the unevenly paved car park in front of the pub, they were shocked by what they saw. Dozens of slates were missing from the roof, the once pale green window frames were faded and flaking, and the windows themselves were so dirty she could barely see through them into the dark interior. There were no roses climbing the black beams and peeling whitewashed render of the facade, no holidaymakers or travellers sitting on the garden’s wooden benches, enjoying the summer sunshine and pub fare. Once inside, it had been no different; the tastes of a distant generation, the laziness of a more recent one . . .

  ‘Maggie?’

  She turned to Maeve.

  ‘Ferguson.’

  Maeve’s eyes darted towards the dark-suited figure on the other side of the counter deep in conversation with the factory foreman.

  ‘Lovely vegetables, Mags.’ Eliza grinned as she walked past, oblivious to the presence of their boss on the other side of the support column.

  ‘Yes, we’re making vegetable pie,’ Maggie said, remembering she was meant to be demonstrating for Maeve. ‘Dice the vegetables and put them in a frying pan with dripping,’ she said, looking back at Maeve to make sure she was paying attention. ‘If you are going to use this mixture as a pie, you add oatmeal once the vegetables are cooked and wait for the liquid to be absorbed.’

  ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘What is it, Maeve?’

  ‘Well, it’s just, oatmeal doesn’t really have any flavour.’

  ‘Exactly, that’s the point. The fact that it hasn’t a distinctive flavour means it will take on the flavours of the other ingredients, while also making the dish go further.’

  ‘I see, you mean like a sort of host?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. And of course, it’s very good for—’

  ‘Lots of iron and vitamins,’ Maeve finished.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So is that why you divide the mixture in two?’

  �
��That’s right, you make a vegetable soup and a vegetable pie at the same time.’

  She glanced up to see that Mr Ferguson was still there.

  If Mr Ferguson were a dish, he would be a large tray of bland rubbery Yorkshire pudding, all flab and no flavour. She sneaked another glance; his triple chins spilled over his collar so that even though his shirt was clean and ironed, there was something unsavoury about him. She shuddered.

  Bringing her chopping board up level with the deep-sided pot, she tipped it up and nudged the contents into the pan with her knife.

  ‘Grab a wooden spoon and give it a stir, Maeve,’ she said, wiping her hands on a cloth at the same time as moving after Mr Ferguson’s retreating figure.

  ‘Excuse me . . . Mr Ferguson . . .’ She had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the sounds of grinding and sizzling. ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘I would have done if you had been here on time. Now you will have to wait until the end of your shift, Miss Johnson.’

  ‘But, sir, I really need to get away today. This won’t take long.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, chin wobbling with each syllable. ‘Come with me.’

  She followed him out of the kitchen and down a bleak corridor to the door of his office. Once inside the large carpeted room, he gestured for her to sit and moved around to the other side of an antique wooden desk, where he lowered himself into the chair, wedging in his ample frame. He then began going through the documents on the desk in front of him, his pencil scrawling across paper the only sound in the room.

  Maggie had been to his office a number of times before so was no longer overwhelmed by the double-height windows that provided a panorama of the street or impressed by the ornate carved bookshelves that were home to a vast collection of books. Her eyes skipped back to his desk and across the folders—INVENTORY, EMPLOYMENT RECORDS and SAFETY PROCEDURES—and came to rest back on his large round face and its overhanging chin. It was hard to believe that she could have been sitting in her own office now if Peter were still alive, going through their accounts and correspondence, making their own plans. Even though they had initially been disappointed with the pub they had recognised its potential. She could still see the flash of Peter’s dark eyes as they looked around the bedrooms, realising that with a little work they could be comfortably let. With growing excitement they had moved from room to room, ducking beneath cobwebbed beams as Peter described how he would paint each one of them, her interrupting to explain what kind of curtains she could make, but then they had both stopped and looked at the bare wooden floorboards and knew they wouldn’t have enough money to spend on carpets. He had smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Mags, save that for tomorrow. We’ll think of something.’ And she had, straight away; there was an article in Woman’s Own where they had painted the floorboards and arranged rugs across the floor. ‘It’s a very fashionable look, you know,’ she had declared as she walked around the dusty old room.