Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  Eliza’s expression changed and she became serious. ‘Okay, Maggie, just one more thing . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, looking up at her friend.

  ‘Imagine Mr Ferguson came in to your restaurant . . . you could ask him to leave!’ And Eliza started to giggle again.

  ‘Well, that would be something,’ Maggie agreed, her good humour returning. ‘How are you getting on with the lunches?’ She was conscious that he would be on the warpath again if the meals were late.

  ‘Fine. Gosh, that wind’s got up again,’ Eliza said, distracted by the branches battering the skylights.

  ‘Eliza!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Now, Eleanor is mincing the salt beef so you just need to let her know when the potatoes are cool.’

  ‘They won’t be long,’ Eliza replied. ‘I’ve got the others soaking in cold water in buckets over there.’

  ‘Good. I’ve asked Maeve to help prepare the vegetables for the soup. I think she should be able to cope with that alright.’

  An alarm began to scream and they looked at each other; the bell only rang in an emergency, when there was an accident or fire. Maggie undertook a quick safety check of the kitchen, making sure the gas was turned off, but as the ringing continued the atmosphere changed; she could feel it through her connection with the floor. The building had its own rhythm, she could usually feel the vibrations from the machinery below, or from the movement of the counters and cookers where they worked, but now there was no mechanical pulse. The machines were all turned off.

  A small crowd had gathered at the window overlooking the factory floor and she moved over to join them.

  She expected to see a commotion and hear shouting but it was calm below and the steam was dissipating, revealing workers waiting calmly in groups next to dormant machines, except for a small crowd around one of the metal presses. Through the crush of figures Maggie could just make out a body bent forward, legs dangling, its torso locked into the great jaws of the machine.

  Maggie shivered. She didn’t want to think about what would happen when they lifted the press; there had been another accident just a few weeks ago, a young man who had slipped and lost his hand.

  ‘Come on, back to work, everyone,’ Mr Ferguson shouted as he walked through the kitchen towards them.

  ‘Pray for the poor bugger, whoever it is,’ Maeve murmured as she brushed past Maggie.

  Whispers and a low mumbling grew as the women returned to their jobs, reluctantly turning back to the tasks they had left only moments earlier.

  Eliza was still at the window so Maggie inched forward, following her gaze down to where ambulance men had parted the crowd, to where they were lifting a limp body onto a stretcher, and she saw that it was Tom.

  Maggie was preoccupied as she walked home after her shift, her concern for Robbie and thoughts of Tom infiltrating as she tried to navigate the uneven roads in the dim light. Dust particles were suspended in the early evening damp, making it even more difficult to see and she stumbled on debris that crunched underfoot.

  ‘Watch your step, miss,’ one of the demolition gang shouted.

  ‘Thank you,’ she called back and began to cough; sore throats and coughs had been common since the bombings started and would probably only stop when the war was over and the air finally cleared.

  Thinking of the bombings reminded her that she really should order a Morrison shelter so she didn’t have to leave her home every time the air-raid sirens sounded. She also needed to pack a case of her precious things to put in her aunt’s cellar for safekeeping at the weekend. She would go and visit Tom then too; the accident had been bad and even though the ambulance arrived in good time there had been no news since. Poor Tom: he had been so devastated to be told he was not fit enough to fight but now he was injured anyway.

  Britannia Row was still sealed off so she took a shortcut down Packington Street. As she turned the corner she saw the warden, Bill Drummond, giving instructions to a family as they evacuated them from their home, the father piling furniture onto an already full handcart, carrying in his arms as much as he could manage. He disappeared back inside the brick facade, the only part of the home still standing, while the mother sat on the garden wall, comforting a small girl of four or five with a halo of golden curls. The woman watched Maggie’s progress as she drew closer, until she was level with her on the opposite side of the road. She gave the woman a sincere smile and the woman smiled back but her expression was weak and drawn and the daughter just stared as she stood perfectly still, cocooned in her mother’s arms.

  Crossing into St Peter’s Street, Maggie hurried towards home, grateful that she still had somewhere to go—but when she reached her gate there was a small dark shape slumped in the doorway.

  ‘Robbie?’

  The crumpled figure unfolded and stretched, still half asleep. ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, crouching down. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

  She felt a warm rush of relief. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since after school—it was light when I came.’ He yawned, extending his arms above his head.

  He looked tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He wore the same clothes as the previous day, but now they were even filthier.

  ‘Where’s Spoke?’

  Robbie lifted his jacket and the dog’s head bobbed up, his ears pricked as he heard his name.

  She set down her bag and reached out and stroked him, feeling his strong wiry fur and smelling the earthy scent of damp dog.

  ‘You know there’s no toad-in-the-hole, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s okay, a cup of Bovril will do.’

  ‘Come on, then, let’s see what we can find.’

  She stood up and offered her hand to help him up. His weight was surprisingly light as she pulled him to his feet, and he stumbled slightly as he bent to scoop Spoke off the tiles.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  He nodded and they went inside, the drilling and hammering of the boarding-up fading behind them.

  ‘It’s straight through there to the kitchen,’ she said, pointing ahead. ‘Oh, but you know that . . .’

  He cast her a wounded look, and she instantly felt sorry.

  ‘Why don’t you come in here?’ she suggested.

  She led him through to the small parlour at the front of the house, the weak light from outside hinting at the comfort of the armchairs and sofa that were mere silhouettes in the room.

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Here, I’ll turn on the light.’

  She ducked in front of him and flicked the switch, the dull bulb fizzing on, painting the room in a low wash of white.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, gazing around.

  ‘Almost a year,’ she said, drawing the blackout curtains shut.

  She had lived close by as a child, when her family owned a grocery store, so the neighbourhood wasn’t new to her even though the house was. The three years she had spent working as a cook in the West Country had folded into the seams of time much like the great granite rocks of the Devon moors where she had spent much of her time.

  He scanned the sofa and fireplace, eyes lingering on the half-finished puzzle on the coffee table, a panorama of London spread out before them; a half-constructed Buckingham Palace, sections of lions’ heads without their plinths and the partially built fountains of Trafalgar Square. He pushed around a few pieces in the upturned lid and then picked out a piece and slotted it in to the corner of the jigsaw.

  ‘And the lion gets his head . . .’

  ‘Do you like puzzles?’

  ‘Used to do them with my pa,’ he answered as he carried on searching in the box.

  ‘Hey, I’ve got something for you,’ she said, indicating to her bag.

  She led him down the dim hallway, Spoke obediently padding behind. When they reached the kitchen she turned on the light and offered him
the bag.

  He grinned as he heard the clink of metal, and when he looked, there were at least a dozen tins and bottle lids lying at the bottom.

  ‘You collected these for me?’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘“Thank you” is usually a good starting point.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got something for you too,’ he said, producing a tin of Bird’s Custard Powder from underneath his jumper.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded.

  ‘From a friend.’

  Maggie narrowed her eyes at him. It was extremely unlikely he had friends who gave away tins of custard powder, she knew.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come,’ he said, setting the tin down on the table.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ she told him.

  ‘I sort of bumped into someone,’ he said. ‘And then I went down to the docks; there was a big ship coming in.’

  ‘Are you building ships now then?’ She gestured for him to sit at the table as she filled the kettle.

  ‘Oh, no, just the planes and cars. Actually, I was looking for my dad.’

  He was already sorting through the cans, holding up first one and then another as if assessing them for size and shape.

  ‘Does he work there?’ Maggie probed.

  ‘No, he’s in the navy. I’ve written to him—written to him loads—but I’ve not heard back.’

  ‘I expect he’ll write when he can. Must be difficult for him.’

  ‘I know.’

  He had finished going through the sack and sat watching as she moved about the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s your ma?’

  He hesitated before answering. ‘She’s . . . gone.’

  She glanced at him but he was looking at the floor and wouldn’t meet her eye.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have any other family you can stay with? It’s not safe for you to be by yourself.’

  ‘No, it’s alright; Dad’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Hmm. How old are you, Robbie?’

  ‘I’ll be thirteen in December—you can bake me a cake if you like,’ he said, grinning again.

  ‘Do you want something to eat now?’

  ‘Depends what you got.’

  ‘Well, aren’t you a fussy little bugger . . . oops!’ She placed the flat of her palm over her mouth.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve heard worse.’

  ‘I bet you have.’

  ‘Made a few of my own up too.’

  ‘Yes, well you can keep them to yourself,’ she said, trying to hide a smile. ‘Soup okay?’

  ‘I’d prefer beef hash.’

  ‘So would I, but I haven’t got any.’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hotpot?’

  ‘No.’ She laughed. ‘I haven’t got any of that either. I’m afraid soup is the star of the show tonight.’

  Maggie lifted the pot of nettle soup onto the stove and then retrieved the bread from the larder, the cut-glass butter dish from the dresser, and set them on the table with bowls and glasses.

  ‘So, what did you do at the docks?’ she asked.

  He was eyeing the bread.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a piece and jammed it in his mouth. ‘There were a lot of hungry people there.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There’s no canteens or cafes down there. Plenty of people wanting some.’

  ‘The dockyard would have its own canteen though.’

  ‘Don’t think so . . . saw a couple of mobile ones but the roads were closed so I couldn’t get through.’

  The flame flickered as the gas burned noisily, its heat rousing the nettles from their cold stupor, releasing the sweet aroma. Maggie leaned over the pot, enjoying the hot steam on her face. After giving the soup a final stir, she ladled it into Robbie’s bowl, scooping from the bottom to get the large chunks of vegetables.

  Robbie didn’t waste time waiting for it to cool; he scraped up a large spoonful, eating greedily.

  ‘You should have your own restaurant,’ he declared after he’d slurped a few mouthfuls.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I mean it—this is really good.’

  ‘It’s a big thing opening your own place. More than just cooking meals.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, it’s not just about the food; you have to organise the setup, the staff, pay the bills . . .’

  Before she knew it she was telling him all about the British Restaurants scheme and what it would entail; she described how to run a kitchen and the front of house and how it might feel to be your own boss, exciting and terrifying at the same time.

  ‘See?’ Robbie said. ‘You know what you’re talking about. I reckon you could do it and I could get you some stuff—you know, from the fancy hotels. You’ve got no idea how much food they have . . .’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ Robbie replied. ‘The Dorchester has meat straight from the country delivered fresh every morning and they have their own gardens where they grow things. I snuck around the kitchens, heard the chefs talking . . .’

  The colour had returned to his cheeks now, and he reminded Maggie of Ernest more than ever; he had the same exuberance.

  ‘And what do the chefs say?’

  ‘They say how bloody greedy some of the toffs are!’

  ‘And what do they say when they see you?’

  ‘They don’t. I take some bread or whatever is nearest the door and make a run for it.’

  His eyes widened as soon as the words were out of his mouth, as if realising his mistake too late.

  ‘You shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to you, Robbie,’ Maggie scolded. ‘It’s stealing.’

  ‘Robin Hood did and nobody seemed to mind.’

  She tilted her spoon and sipped slowly. ‘That’s different—he was robbing the rich to give to the poor.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing,’ he pointed out.

  ‘And what about the food you stole from me?’ she ventured, but he looked away. ‘Anyway, Robin Hood is only a story, he wasn’t real.’

  ‘Yes he was, just like Henry VIII or William the Conqueror. Ma read me.’

  ‘And what happened to your ma, Robbie?’

  Robbie dropped his spoon and it jangled noisily in the empty dish. ‘It’ll be alright when Dad gets back,’ he said, avoiding her question. ‘And I’m going to make sure I’m still here for him when he does.’

  Not wanting to discourage him or dampen his hope, Maggie smiled and didn’t say any more.

  ‘So where’s your fella then?’ he asked.

  ‘He went away too.’

  ‘So you’re like me then? You’re waiting as well?’

  ‘Yes, Robbie, I’m waiting too.’

  The lock was stuck, the corroded metal sealing the suitcase firmly shut so that no matter how hard she pressed it, it still wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Damn!’

  She flung it across the bed and dragged the chair towards the wardrobe, reaching for a brown leather suitcase just visible over the carved mahogany edge.

  It had been a relief to find Robbie on the doorstep and know that he was safe, and even though she hadn’t managed to find out much about his family, once he started talking it had been difficult to get him to stop. She only managed to by promising to meet him after work the following week; he insisted there was somewhere he needed to show her and someone he wanted to her to meet. But once he left she found it difficult to settle and worried about him being alone again. As the night’s silence closed in around her there seemed to be so much to think about and she lay awake as her conversation with Mr Ferguson, the woman in the doorway and the advertisement for the restaurant cooks played in a loop in her head. It was so frustrating, knowing how much she could help others if only she had her own restaurant. Once the idea took hold, she visualised the ent
ire place; she equipped and decorated it, planned the meals, engaged the people that she would like to have work there and even the locals she knew as some of the customers they would serve. By then she was wide awake and decided she may as well pack her belongings to take to her aunt’s on Sunday. Now the effort of trying to get the case open had drained her of all energy and she felt the sweep of tiredness at last.

  She pulled the battered leather suitcase down and placed it in the middle of the bed. The locks glided easily but when the lid sprung open, she was taken aback by the musty smell and the state of the inside. The original sheen of the brown and cream silk lining had been replaced by the random flocked pattern of mildew. But it was the only working suitcase she had, so it would have to do.

  In a drawer of the oak dresser she found the wooden jewellery box that she hadn’t opened in a long time, cautiously lifting the lid as if unfamiliar with the contents. There was a thin silver necklace with a simple silver cross, unembellished except for a single line of floral engraving along one side. In the centre of the coiled chain lay two gold wedding bands, one larger and more solid than the other. She prodded the smaller ring with her wedding finger, gently nudging it on, twisting and turning it until it was nearly in place. Then she changed her mind, slipping it off quickly and placing it back in the box.

  She snapped the lid shut and put the box in the bottom of the suitcase.

  Returning to the wardrobe, she took hold of a hanger in a protective carrier, not noticing as the train of cream fabric trailed across the floor. She had promised that she wouldn’t look at the dress again, not until she knew for sure that she would never be able to wear it.

  On the bedside table two framed photographs caught her eye; a young couple on the steps of a church. The image wasn’t clear, but its black-and-white contrast showed off the scalloped silk of her mother’s wedding dress and the blunt cut of her short bobbed hair, her father’s happiness evident through his proud youthful smile as he gazed at his new wife. Happier days, long before Ernest’s death and her mother’s depression had broken their family apart. She had always hoped her parents shared some happiness before then, but with her mother still missing and her father now dead, she would never know.