With a final glance to make sure that the coast was clear, he ducked inside the delivery bay.
A steep descent led down to the wide mouth of a concrete entrance guarded by industrial-sized bins and double doors that led through to the hotel’s kitchens and stores. Beyond the doorway there was a security guard smoking with the van driver as the vehicle’s engine idled.
Robbie looked admiringly at the Bedford, its dark green lines and the larger recently remodelled grille gleaming, its chrome headlights glinting as if they were winking at him. He had only built the Chevrolet Bolt 6 and hadn’t yet managed to finish this new three-tonne van. He knew there were two types of wheelbase and guessed that this was the shorter one, at nine foot and three inches. He stared hard, trying to memorise the shape of the new cab and of the detailed indentation on the doors. He had tried to make this model a dozen times but could never get the axle and wheel space quite right. The deliverymen were deep in conversation, so he took his pencil and crumpled notebook out of his pocket and made a quick sketch. Drawing it now, he could see where he was going wrong; he had curved the wire too early and the width at the front of the truck was slightly less than the back, all things he could change now that he knew. His dad would have been able to show him; he was the best engineer that the navy had. That was the reason he couldn’t come home for visits like the other sailors did, his mum had explained. But when he did come back, Robbie would show him all the models he had made and his dad would be proud of him.
Pushing the notebook and pencil back into his pocket, he checked once again that he wasn’t being watched and then followed the delicious smells coming from deep inside the building. Crossing behind the van, he slipped silently past the bins and tiptoed through the open double doors into the great underbelly below.
He tried to identify the mouth-watering clash of sweet and sour smells, making out sugary sponge puddings, the familiar aroma of roast beef, the salty freshness of the sea, the floral fragrance of newly harvested honey. He knew that there were armies on the battlefields and on the farms here at home, but in the kitchen of The Savoy was an army of an altogether different kind; there were dozens of women in white uniforms ranging from one end of the huge underground kitchen to the other. And the noise was overwhelming too; only the roar of Jerry’s planes overhead had ever seemed louder than the banging and clattering in here. It was a miracle that any of them could hear the head chef’s orders, or the calls and requests from the waiters. He couldn’t imagine this sort of racket at home; his mum just wouldn’t stand for it from him and his two sisters!
Keeping close to the wall, he weaved in and out of the stacks of tables and piled-up chairs, watching those closest to him as they worked dizzyingly fast. He had only been inside here twice before, but from memory, the storerooms were on the left in between the four kitchens and the banquet room. It would be hard to find a way of sneaking through without being observed, even with his dad’s lucky football cards in his pocket, but after watching for a while he noticed that a bank of stoves on the right-hand side was unattended. Ducking down low so that no one could see his head above the top of the cookers, he slowly inched his way past, at last finding the storeroom door and disappearing inside.
The storeroom was even bigger than their house had been before the Luftwaffe had damaged it. There was also more food than he had ever seen before in his life; shelf after shelf held boxes and cartons of ingredients and the floor was lined with storage bins. There was not a bare wall in sight, every inch taken up with racks of wooden shelving. Only rather than looking like a giant pantry, it resembled his school library, with signs and arrows marking avenues of Dry Goods and Dairy, Tinned Foods and Oils. There was also another door at the far end of the room, and before he was able to pull the top off a storage bin and peer inside, the handle turned and the door swung open. He quickly looked around for somewhere to hide, at last squeezing beneath the shelving unit and pulling a storage bin in front of him, the lid clattering to the floor.
He tried to slow his breathing as footsteps approached but he could hear his own faint asthma wheeze, the air whistling in and out, and the next thing he knew a pair of chubby legs appeared.
‘Bloody vermin!’ the figure grumbled as it bent down and replaced the lid and then just as quickly marched away.
After a few minutes of banging and scraping the door opened and closed, and then there was silence.
Robbie let out a deep breath, and hastily pulled a thin hessian sack from his pocket. As always, he had come prepared. He knew which foods he should take—those that would last him the longest and be the easiest to store—but he did have an achingly sweet tooth. Spotting a sign for the Puddings section, he followed the arrow, hoping to find the sugar and dried fruit.
Once in the correct aisle, he couldn’t believe his eyes; there were containers of dried figs as big as golf balls and jars of glacé cherries the size of king marbles. Imagine Maggie’s face when he arrived at her place for supper with some of these!
He carried on filling up the sack with packets of tapioca and sugar before he came across the mixed peel he knew his ma used for making cakes; it would be the second Saturday of the month next week, the day he would make his monthly visit to the country near Bristol and the farm where his ma helped out while his younger sisters went to the local school. He knew his ma would have preferred it if he stayed with them, but then who would tell his dad where they were when he came home? Thank goodness she hadn’t found out that their house had been boarded up and that he was camping out at the school, or else she would definitely be back to fetch him. Lucky for him that the post box hadn’t been damaged and he still got her letters.
The sack was already heavy, but he took a second tin of Bird’s Custard Powder because it was his favourite, then he struggled towards the door.
He was startled to hear voices on the other side, and he had to wait an age till they faded and he was able to ease open the door and slip through.
He had only made it a few yards along the kitchen galley when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with the young bait-layer.
‘What you doing here, lad?’
‘Delivery . . .’
His voice came out small and squeaky, not at all the confident tone he had rehearsed earlier when considering which disguise or excuse he could use without drawing attention. He was small and wiry like his dad, so he knew he looked too young for anyone to believe he was a kitchen hand or a trainee porter; the only thing he could possibly pass as was a delivery boy.
‘So aren’t you going in the wrong direction?’
Close up, the man looked much younger than Robbie had first thought, only about six or seven years older than him and with a face full of large crimson spots to prove it.
The young man nodded at Robbie’s sack. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Stuff was no good, chef said to replace it.’
‘Oh,’ the young man said, eyes narrowing. ‘Better get on with it then.’
Robbie waited until his spotty face was well out of sight and swallowed hard as he carried on towards the entrance, a light breeze from outside already signalling his freedom. Just another few hundred yards . . .
Walking quickly with his head down, he avoided looking at any of the worktops he passed, ignoring the inviting smells and the dance of the utensils. Almost there . . . almost . . .
Just before he reached the open doorway, a giant silhouette appeared, obscuring the light from the corridor beyond.
Robbie’s eyes travelled across the dark grey clothing; not smart enough to be a uniform and definitely not police, so he must be hotel security. Robbie needed to act quickly and he only had two choices; he could run or he could summon up the courage to pretend he had every right to be there.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, attempting to step around the lofty figure.
‘Not so fast—I know you. I’ve seen you here before.’
‘Hey, let go of me,’ Robbie yelped as the man g
rabbed hold of his upper arm.
He tried to squirm free, but it just made the man tighten his grip as he dragged Robbie towards the exit and out into the open air.
One of the head chefs was standing talking to another even larger man in civilian clothes with a crop of wild blond hair. Their accents were strange, Robbie noticed; they sounded like the Polish men down at the docks where his father had worked.
They stopped talking as Robbie and his captor drew near.
‘Hey, Bartek, you want to know why things keep disappearing? You can stop blaming the apprentices now.’
‘What him?’ The chef laughed. ‘He doesn’t look strong enough to lift a lid let alone carry anything out of here!’
The man’s hand was like a tourniquet around Robbie’s arm and he could feel the blood pulsing either side of it. He considered bolting, just taking off and running as fast as his legs would carry him.
‘You might want to look in here then,’ the security guard suggested, holding up the bag that Robbie had filled.
Bartek came forward and took the sack, but Robbie didn’t see his reaction as he peered inside; he was too busy watching the big man with the wild blond hair. His upper arms were nearly the size of Robbie’s torso, and his chest looked strong enough to pull a plough. He didn’t look like a chef, but Robbie was certain of one thing: his dad would have bet on him in the boxing ring. Then again, he didn’t look like a boxer either; he wore a shirt but no tie and his jacket was slung over his left shoulder, while his hands were tucked deep inside the pockets of his dark trousers. At his feet was a large canvas bag, distorted by irregular bulging shapes, and Robbie leaned forward to see what was inside. He only caught a glimpse of wood and a flash of metal before the security guard tugged him away, but he had already imagined the worst; tools of torture and illegal weapons—perhaps these men weren’t Polish after all, but German spies!
‘There’s only one thing to do with little thieves like you,’ Bartek snarled at him. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘There is another way,’ the blond man said.
‘No, Janek,’ Bartek replied. ‘He has been here before. This has to stop now.’
‘You do not need to involve the police,’ the blond man insisted. ‘I know how to keep him from coming back’
Robbie looked at Janek, at the size of his arms compared to the other man’s, at the fierceness of his expression, and suddenly the tightness of the grip on Robbie’s arm and the gnawing hunger pangs in his belly seemed like the least of his problems.
Chapter Four
No country in the world grows vegetables better
than we do, and probably no country in the world
cooks them worse. For generations we have wasted
our root vegetables by excessive peeling and over-
cooking, and boiled most of the goodness out of our
green vegetables—only to pour it down the sink.
Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 1
He could see the boy was terrified, so as soon as they turned the corner and were out of sight of Bartek and the security guard, Janek loosened his grip.
‘Where are you taking me?’ the boy asked, pulling his arm free.
‘You will see,’ Janek replied, setting down the canvas bag and squatting down next to Spoke.
He scratched behind the dog’s ears, burying his fingers into the wiry fur, and the dog responded by pushing himself up against Janek’s legs.
‘He likes you.’
‘Well, that is good, because I do not think his owner is so sure,’ Janek replied, looking up at the boy. ‘What is his name?’
‘Spoke.’
‘Spoke,’ Janek repeated. ‘And Spoke’s owner—does he also have a name?’
‘Robbie,’ the boy said reluctantly, though Janek could tell that he was trying not to smile. Janek felt a rush of relief; it made him feel more comfortable knowing that the boy might trust him more now that his dog did.
‘How do you manage to hide Spoke?’
Since he had first seen Spoke at the hotel, Janek had been wondering how the boy managed to keep the dog. Even though the English loved their pets, he knew that any animal that couldn’t produce food or be eaten had to be put down.
‘We don’t get in anyone’s way,’ Robbie stated matter-of-factly. ‘We don’t mind them, they don’t mind us.’
‘What about this evening? That was not exactly minding your own business, was it?’
‘That’s different. We’ve all got to eat. I’ve got a right to take food wherever I can get it.’
‘Is that what you really think?’
Robbie’s gaze lingered on the ground a few moments too long.
‘No, I didn’t think so.’
‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ Robbie said, crossing his arms indignantly.
Janek shrugged. ‘It’s nothing to me, but I would not like to see you in trouble. Who would look after your dog then?’
He could see that he had given Robbie something to think about as the boy went quiet, head bent over as he kicked his right foot back and forth across the pavement, as if toying with an imaginary football.
‘I can swear in Polish,’ Robbie said, looking up at him.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. There’s loads of Polish men at the docks where my dad worked. They taught me how to say lots of things.’
‘How do you say, “Hello, my name is Robbie”?’
‘Aw, come on, they didn’t teach me that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘I know how to say the “b” word.’
‘If you were my son, I would not allow it.’
‘Well, my father don’t allow it either.’
‘So how about I teach you the days of the week instead, or how to count?’ Janek suggested. ‘Something useful.’
‘No, it’s okay.’
As he carried on stroking Spoke, Janek’s face drew level with Robbie’s and he could see the goosebumps on the boy’s pale skin and the blue veins of his neck as they disappeared into the thin grey fabric of his shirt.
‘Come on, we can walk and talk,’ he said, picking up the bag and checking both ways before stepping off the kerb, Spoke following close behind.
Janek led him across the Strand, up Wellington Street and along a deserted lane towards Covent Garden. The ground was still glistening from an earlier shower and Robbie deliberately splashed through the puddles that Janek tried to avoid.
‘You still haven’t said where we’re going,’ Robbie said, sidestepping a deep puddle that would have filled his boots.
‘I thought children were supposed to like surprises.’
‘Well, I don’t, and my dad told me to never go with strangers.’
Janek stopped walking and turned to him.
‘Your tata is right, but I am no longer a stranger—we have known each other for at least twenty minutes. And I think that you do not have a choice; it is me or the police.’
‘This isn’t right, it’s blackmail . . . and anyway, I’m supposed to be somewhere.’ Robbie thought of Maggie and the steaming hot meal waiting for him. She would be annoyed when he didn’t show up.
‘Well, I am afraid you are going to be late.’
‘I’ll come with you this time,’ Robbie replied huffily, ‘but it’s only because Spoke wants to. Otherwise I most certainly would not.’
‘That is fine with me. It is good enough reason.’
‘How do you know your way around so well, anyway?’ Robbie eyed him suspiciously. ‘And your English is real good . . . you some sort of spy?’
‘These streets are not so difficult to learn when you have walked them many times.’
It had taken Janek only months to learn his way around the city, walking from the cobweb of historic monuments and buildings at its heart, through to the urban sprawl of mansion blocks and terraces that interrupted the skyline in every direction. He had been restless, unable to sit alone in the small hut that had become his home; a place where thoughts of his family con
stantly intruded, like the draughts that found their way through the cracks in the structure’s irregular wooden boards. He tried to block out thoughts of them, think only of his brother and what he could do for him now, but helplessness gnawed at him. So he had walked for days, through the West End and the city, first tracing his way along the river and then into the outlying suburbs, exploring anywhere that wasn’t closed off, avoiding streets with bombed-out sites and roads that were too difficult to navigate. Sometimes he followed maps or directions, other times he just went where his instinct took him; along commercial streets and residential avenues, recognising the well-known landmarks and features of the city but getting excited by none. After six months he had grown to know London as well as any Londoner and could find his way in the dark now as well as he could through any furrowed hill or dyke on his farm, but he thought no more of the city because of it. Attractions that tourists travelled across the Atlantic to see were of no interest to him; Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park were grand monoliths of little consequence. And while he felt saddened for the city’s population at the sight of their scarred homes and palaces, he would happily trade all the royal parks and gardens for half an hour standing in a windswept field of Mazovia.
‘Are we nearly there?’ Robbie asked.
‘No, we have about ten minutes to walk from here.’
He heard Robbie sigh impatiently.
They crossed the red-brick footpaths of Covent Garden and passed the neoclassical columns and glazed roofs of the piazza, which were now in full view, the tall Victorian buildings along the square’s perimeter momentarily dwarfing them as he led Robbie through. He could see the appeal in their imposing design and the achievements of the architects and craftsmen of the day, just as he could with their stately Georgian houses and Regency crescents, but these buildings had not enchanted him the way they had generations of artists and writers—though he did admire Westminster Abbey, which reminded him of the gothic church in his hometown of Pultusk. He knew he should be grateful to be safe, to have found refuge here in London, but the truth was that he found the city claustrophobic. He felt suffocated by the immense buildings and the constant noise; he yearned for empty spaces, for nothing but birdsong and the feeling of standing apart from everything, only the wind running freely across him, the uncomplicated rub of nature.
Maggie’s Kitchen Page 5
