Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Well, it was pleasure to meet you, Malgorzata.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Is that Polish for Maggie?’

  ‘For Margaret,’ he explained.

  ‘No one has called me that since I was a child.’

  ‘It suits you.’ He smiled.

  ‘I prefer Maggie.’

  Robbie was nearly at the door but turned just in time to see Janek bend to kiss Maggie’s hand and click his heels, and this time Maggie turned nearly as red as the borscht.

  Chapter Nine

  ENEMIES OF VITAMINS:

  AIR, WATER, HEAT. Too much of any of

  these will destroy the vitamin C. Therefore,

  have your vegetables as fresh as possible.

  Best of all, grow them yourself.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 14

  Robbie had stirred something in Janek, reminding him of his young nephew; he was quick-witted and assured, not afraid to take on authority, although that wouldn’t have served Roman well under the German regime. All the more reason that he had to work faster, make contact as quickly as he could. There were cells of the Union for Armed Struggle all over the country; it was just a matter of time before he could join a network that would help him find his brother.

  The train was late and he felt conspicuous standing astride the frayed sack on a platform full of strangers. Everyone was suspicious, and even with his identity card and papers in order he still felt out of place among their formal clothes and newspapers.

  He cupped his hands together, blowing into the hollow and watching as the condensation escaped the other side, the image of Maggie vanishing and re-forming with it, just as it had ever since Robbie had brought her to the yard a few days before. She seemed different to the girls back home and he knew she was strong but she held back, choosing her words carefully, not necessarily saying what she meant. He hoped she would be more open the next time they met.

  When the train arrived he waited for the other passengers to disembark and the rest of the commuters to board—not that anyone thanked him for the courtesy. Inside, the compartment was strong with the sour smell of brilliantine and tobacco, and the majority of the seats were taken by soldiers travelling out to camps and barracks in the Essex countryside. Bags and gas masks took up most of the space on the baggage rails so he stashed the sack under a seat and propped himself against the doorway. The train jolted from side to side, grinding slowly out of the station, only gathering speed once the larger buildings and warehouses were left behind. As they bore deeper into the countryside, he looked around at the soldiers; they had barely left boyhood, and he shuddered at the thought of what lay ahead of them.

  He was relieved it was only a short journey; he alighted after a few stops and followed Josef’s directions along a lane and down a secluded farm track. It felt good to be back in the countryside, taking great gulps of air so cold that they stung the back of his throat, but it was also disturbingly quiet. At home the grunt and bray of the animals sang them to sleep at night and saw them rise in the morning, but here all the livestock had made way for crops to feed more mouths.

  The turf was slippery underfoot, not yet fully thawed from the night freeze, and around him trees and hedges had been taken hostage by a light frost so that the wind moved noiselessly through the branches. A few yards ahead, next to a rusted silo, he spotted a barn, a greying wooden structure with more planks missing than still intact. He stepped around the bicycles leaning next to the half-open door and slipped inside, setting the sack down.

  The barn was eerily empty, a vast hollow space with wide-open pens where closed ones should have been, the ground scattered with dried mud and brown hay, and moss and lichen camouflaging the walls. At the back of the barn three figures huddled around a metal drum, warming their hands over a fire that flickered discreetly inside.

  They watched silently as he approached.

  The sun made a skeleton of the roof with its missing rafters and in the naked light he could see the wind-burnt faces of the men. Their clothes were a combination of working gear and old uniforms, not worn for necessity but as a measure of pride. One wore dungarees and an old sheepskin flying jacket, the other a blue jacket of the Polish air force and dark trousers, while the one closest to him had well-worn farming clothes.

  The man in the flying jacket hurried towards him. ‘Janek?’

  ‘Tak—yes.’

  ‘Welcome. I am Stefan.’

  ‘Tyr.’

  Stefan shook Janek’s hand then embraced him and slapped his back, the customary welcome.

  ‘This is Fryderyk and Filip . . .’

  Janek greeted them both in the same way, feeling the rub of their calloused hands between his. Then, remembering the sack, he dragged it over. ‘A gift for you.’

  They ushered him towards a small table and upturned crates where a wooden chess set and shot glasses stood.

  Stefan gave him a broad smile, revealing black and uneven teeth. ‘We drink, then we talk.’ He poured vodka into each of their glasses and raised his own.

  ‘What should we drink to?’ Janek asked.

  Stefan nodded at him, his mouth twisting as if to suggest it was his choice.

  ‘To Poland then . . . and to freedom!’

  ‘To Poland!’

  ‘Na zdrowie!’ they toasted.

  The clink of glasses echoed loudly in the chill of the empty barn and as they sat down, Janek felt the weight of their expectation. He had recognised them instantly as his countrymen; broad noses that dominated their faces, ears so low down that even the Poles had a joke about themselves, but it was when he looked into their eyes that he saw the proof he needed. They had shared the same sorrows and loss. Now he needed to find out how far they would go to take back their freedom and their country.

  ‘I’m from Pultusk, Mazovia,’ he said, remembering his instructions. He rubbed his cold hands together and looked at Fryderyk. ‘And you?’

  ‘The north-east, Bialystok.’

  ‘Near Lublin,’ offered Filip.

  Stefan moved his stool closer. ‘I’m from Warsaw, but your contact would have told you that . . .’

  Janek nodded and then made a careful assessment before asking something that had been bothering him since he had arrived. ‘I thought there were supposed to be five?’

  Stefan spoke in a hushed tone. ‘You will meet Franciszek soon. Your contact would also have told you what we do here . . . and why you should not put your trust in these ugly men.’

  Janek eyed him for a moment, wondering if this was some sort of trap.

  Then Stefan laughed and the others did too.

  ‘They are both bad chess players,’ he continued, ‘not to mention lazy farmers!’

  The conversation continued light-heartedly, avoiding any talk of why they were there; instead they shared their dislike of English cooking and agreed that the British were terrible singers, and then they talked of politics. Janek was eager for any news from home and listened patiently as they described how the Russians had taken over Polish schools and universities, how they had introduced the Cyrillic script and were still confiscating farms and livestock belonging to the peasants. He heard how the Soviets were leading propaganda marches in the streets, setting up loudspeakers and mobile film projectors and chanting slogans to the Poles.

  ‘We are expected to use roubles and pray in private,’ Fryderyk spat.

  ‘And if you disagree or refuse Soviet citizenship you are sent to Siberia!’ Filip added.

  Janek twisted his hands together, not for warmth but out of frustration. He hadn’t wanted to talk of his own family but paid attention as the others spoke of how their families were taken hostage. Finally they turned to him: it was his turn to speak. He knew if he didn’t it would only make them suspicious, so he talked of his own escape through Romania and the journey on through Syria and into France—no different to some of theirs—and he watched as their rings of smoke stained the air. When he had finished Stefan filled their glasses again a
nd then stood as he prepared to toast, so they did the same.

  ‘We give our lives to Poland knowing that she will give us back ours!’

  ‘But how?’ Janek had been patient but now he wanted to know how to get back to France and find the brother he had left behind.

  ‘There is nothing for the time being, except . . . the contacts you have made working at the railyard and the markets—you are in a good position. You must pass on any information you think important.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We will come to that.’ Stefan waved his hands to silence Janek. ‘I know you are eager but our priority is intelligence. Any access to the resistance overseas will only come after you have proved yourself or under specific order. Is that understood?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The Madonna,’ Stefan announced.

  ‘The Madonna,’ they chorused.

  As they drained their glasses, Janek recognised something new in Stefan’s eyes; it was a familiar resolve, the same one he saw when he looked into the mirror. He had found the compatriots he had hoped for, not just to sing old folk songs with and reminisce, but to find a way back home.

  Chapter Ten

  Dig for your dinner

  When salvage is all that remains of the joint

  And there isn’t a tin and you haven’t a ‘point’

  Instead of creating a dance and a ballad

  Just raid the allotment and dig up a salad!

  Marguerite Patten OBE,

  Victory Cookbook: Nostalgic Food and Facts from 1940–1954

  Maggie stopped running and tried to catch her breath; it was another few hundred yards to her aunt’s house and she was already late. At least she could see the short distance uphill to the lamppost that stood directly outside, its iron branches curling around where the light globe should have been, but still a beacon for her now.

  It had been a relief that the number 137 came when it did, and that she had been able to climb on board and find a seat where she could huddle close to the heat of the engine. The street warden warned her against coming to Clapham, told her that the roads had been closed for days after Tuesday’s raid. She had seen the damage; half-carcasses of entire apartment blocks, gaping holes where walls should have been, glass blasted from windows, rooms uninhabitable except for the curtains still hanging, fluttering in the breeze. As they had passed along Queenstown Road she saw how fire had engulfed the homes, and thought of Bill Drummond’s brother, who lived in the area, and of the whole families he knew who had been killed. She shivered; they had been lucky so far, none of them losing their home, and even though her aunt’s moods were unpredictable, Maggie knew how fortunate she was to have some family left with whom to celebrate important occasions. And perhaps Rose’s surprise meal would finally earn her some praise from her mother. Maggie set off again, buoyed by the thought.

  ‘What on earth are all those for?’ Rose had asked when they had sneaked into the factory kitchen a few days earlier.

  Her cousin was bewildered by the row of tarnished metal spoons on the worktop, larger ones at one end tapering down to one barely any bigger than a fingernail at the other.

  ‘Serving spoon, tablespoon, soup spoon, dessertspoon, teaspoon, measuring spoon,’ Maggie replied as she pointed at each one. ‘But you don’t need to worry about that yet. We’re doing savoury first.’

  There had never been occasion for Rose to learn to cook; until recently she had still lived at home, where her mother looked after her far better than she could ever look after herself. And when Maggie had been in the kitchen with Rose for family get-togethers—birthdays and Christmases and the like—everyone just took it for granted that Maggie would be the one to cook. But as she tried to find another clear surface to move the ingredients and mixing bowls onto, she felt a deep pang of regret for not having taught Rose any of the basics sooner. It didn’t seem to be coming naturally to her cousin; she made soup without too much trouble, but stewing fruit ready for the dessert and making the stock had been a long slow process with a lot of waste and no small measure of first aid required. At least the canteen kitchen was still empty, and with no one due for another hour, she should be able to get on to the main dish.

  ‘This is your mum’s favourite casserole so remember it well. It’s also the kind of dish where you can double or triple the quantities and it still tastes good.’

  ‘What, you mean you can’t do that for all recipes?’

  ‘Of course not. Different food groups require certain active ingredients to do their job properly.’

  She had taught more difficult pupils than Rose in the past, so if she could just summon a little more patience, and Rose could concentrate a little harder, surely they’d get there.

  Rose tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth and looked even more perplexed.

  ‘Introducing larger quantities sometimes means they react differently. It changes cooking time, not to mention the colour and even the texture of the food. You don’t want some ingredients staying hard while others are too soft, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s domestic science. You don’t really need to know all that; it’s just useful. Here, follow what I’m doing.’

  Maggie took hold of a sharp knife and with quick, precise movements, she halved a leek, then ran the blade through the white bulb, dicing it in seconds. She pushed the small pieces forward with the front of the knife so they fell into the nearby pan. Next she topped and tailed the carrots and cut them lengthwise before running the knife along them horizontally, sectioning them into semicircles. The potatoes had already been peeled, along with part of Rose’s index finger, and now they were halved and quartered in one swift move, the blade barely leaving the wooden board.

  Maggie was on autopilot now, moving from one ingredient to the next, explaining how she was cutting them into appropriate sizes so that they would cook to the right texture with the other ingredients, become the correct consistency for the dish: the vegetables not too soft, the meat tender enough to eat. Not that most of the meat she cooked these days was ever that tender; they were poor cuts of mutton or beef that needed cooking for hours before they were the least bit palatable. She could still taste her last piece of sirloin, over a year ago now; it had been for Peter’s birthday, which they celebrated in the Green Man. The meat was succulent, the new potatoes crowned with a sprinkling of fresh mint and a robe of melting butter, and then there was the chocolate tart they had shared afterwards, with thick whipped cream that oozed down the sides.

  ‘You make it look so easy,’ Rose complained.

  ‘It won’t take you long to get the hang of it, it’s just practice.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d enjoy it as much as you do . . .’

  She was enjoying herself, sharing the craft that enabled her to create dishes from nothing, tips and tricks that she hoped she would be able to pass on. It didn’t come naturally to everyone; recognising the right combination of tastes, producing a blend of colours and textures, being able to step up a gear in the kitchen while everyone around you panicked.

  ‘There are a lot of things you need to know, but the most important is getting the timing right.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘When everything you have been doing comes together at the same time, that’s the best feeling. It means you’ve got it right.’

  She pushed Mrs Peel’s Victory Cookbook across the counter towards her cousin.

  ‘You had better hurry, we haven’t got long. Find something you want to make for pudding.’

  Rose flicked through the pages, scanning recipes with a furrowed brow as if trying to decipher a foreign language. She banged the book shut and pushed it away.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ Maggie said. ‘It’s only us as guinea pigs—it’s not as if you’re going to be cooking for strangers.’

  ‘Yes, but can you imagine what Mum is going to be like?’

  ‘So,’ she said, pushing the cookery book towards Rose
again. ‘Just choose something. Anything you make will be special—it is her birthday.’

  Rose opened the book again and the pages fell open at the honey and walnut pudding. ‘Oh, she’ll love this. Can I have a go?’

  ‘Of course. Can you get the ingredients ready?’

  ‘Yes, are they in the store?’

  Maggie skimmed the ingredient list, trying to ignore the nagging question of what she would say to Mr Ferguson when he arrived, which was likely to happen at any moment.

  ‘Should be . . .’

  Rose returned quickly, carrying only flour and sugar. ‘I think the honey and walnuts could be a problem,’ she said. ‘Shall I choose something else?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I know someone who can help.’

  ‘Not black market is it?’

  ‘Of course not! It’s someone Robbie introduced me to.’

  ‘You’ve been seeing a lot of young Robbie lately.’

  ‘I know. We’ve been trying to get a response from the navy—he wants to contact his dad. It’s a bit tricky, though, without Robbie having a proper address to send information to.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he hasn’t been billeted or isn’t staying with a proper foster family.’

  ‘Of course he should be, but he doesn’t want to. It’s no use forcing him, he won’t listen.’

  ‘Sounds like someone else I know . . .’

  Arriving at her aunt’s house, Maggie knocked on the door and turned to admire the view over the common, noticing how quiet the street was; there were hardly any cars on the road and even the usually busy common was devoid of its Sunday walkers and picnicking families. She couldn’t even hear the customary quacking of ducks as the children chased them around the pond.

  The door creaked and she swivelled around to see her aunt’s overly made-up face break into a smile.

  ‘Maggie, at last. We’ve been waiting for you, pet.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Aunt Mary. These are for you.’ Maggie held out the small pink-and-white posy she’d been clutching.