Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Doesn’t sound too difficult,’ Rose said, glancing round at the others.

  ‘Well, it is,’ Maggie responded firmly. ‘A field kitchen is one of the toughest environments you can work in. There are all sorts of issues to deal with: safety, the weather, cracking plates from the direct heat, burns . . .’

  There were a lot of questions that she didn’t have answers for, but she had told them enough for now. It was best not to share too much detail yet or tell them how difficult it could be working in the field, soaking dried vegetables for hours before they could be used, or how they would need to serve everything extra hot because of the increased risk of food poisoning. And no point telling them about the painstakingly long time it took cutting small portions so that one serve was readily available for a child but could be doubled or trebled for an adult. Or even how hard it was to manage the crowds, telling them not to rush their meals but encouraging them to be quick enough so that they could serve more people. She would wait to tell them about the difficulties because, for now, she had more pressing problems to deal with: how she was going to get more supplies for her own kitchen, for example, and finding a home for Robbie.

  Chapter Seventeen

  . . . soups may be made nourishing and sustaining

  by adding body building food such as milk, cheese,

  eggs, fish and meat. Broth is a soup of this kind

  and is popular with the North Country housewife

  who prefers to cook some of her meat ration in

  this way and serve it in place of a meat dish.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 15

  The three students from the local art college arrived promptly at five o’clock as arranged; two girls and a boy, conspicuously young and happily chain-smoking as they carried their own paintbrushes and equipment through the emptying restaurant. Workers from the council had inconveniently left the ladders and scaffolding cluttering up the backyard much earlier in the day.

  ‘Don’t forget to leave the key under the brick,’ Maggie repeated again when six o’clock came and went and, reluctantly, she had to leave.

  Their blasé response hadn’t given her much confidence but she had promised Mr Boyle that she would help with some issues at a nearby mobile canteen. It had niggled at her for the last couple of hours; should she stay and keep an eye on the painters and risk upsetting him or just leave them to get on with it? She finally decided that currying favour with Mr Boyle was more important, especially since they had been forced to close their doors again the previous week when they had run out of food. Even though it had taken her weeks to arrange the painting, and days to decide what she would like them to paint, she had eventually left them to it.

  She entered the restaurant the next morning to find that the plain white walls were now decorated with a mural that took up the entire left side of the dining hall. It was a streetscape of London and its major attractions from before the war, when they had taken for granted the great spires and domes of their city. The two stone towers of Tower Bridge, the dome of St Paul’s, Nelson’s Column, the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace, spreading out from the banks of the river that now threaded across the wall. She had been to exhibitions and galleries before but had never seen anything that had made her feel quite like this. Goosebumps pricked her skin and a lump formed in her throat.

  ‘Makes you feel lucky to live here, doesn’t it?’

  Maggie glanced around at Tom and then back at the mural, noticing tiny details she hadn’t seen at first: the statues of lions on the columns, the fine spray of water from the fountains.

  ‘Certainly does.’

  ‘Did you tell them what to paint?’

  ‘Only on this wall.’ She indicated the wall behind her, where a panorama of the English countryside spread before them. ‘I thought it would be calming, since most of us don’t get out to the country anymore.’

  ‘They both look terrific.’

  ‘Yes, they do, don’t they? And you can choose what you want to look at depending on the mood you are in . . .’

  Tom looked amused. ‘I think I’ll go out of town this afternoon,’ he mused. ‘Maybe take a picnic. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘Well, yes, thank you,’ said Maggie, playing along. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

  ‘What’s in the picnic basket?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, well, now you’re talking . . . we’ve got some roast beef sandwiches—silverside, I believe. And some salmon quiches. Fresh oranges and, of course, your favourite chocolate mousse cake.’

  ‘I heard a rumour that there is a talented young cook here who makes a terrific game pie . . .’

  ‘She does, and she has access to an enviable pantry. All sorts of goodies.’

  She was a young girl again and they were back in one of Ernest and Tom’s games; Maggie slipped her arm through Tom’s as they carried on the pretence, laughing at their expanding haul as they encouraged each other to rampage greedily through an imaginary larder. For a while, their make-believe world was a delicious distraction and they even agreed on the perfect picnic spot: a small village in the Sussex countryside that they had both visited as children. There was a pond with ducks, a cricket green and a small teashop on the miniature high street, where—if they should, God forbid, run out of goodies—they would go for a cream tea. Afterwards, they would walk the cobbled streets, peering through the tiny windows of white Georgian terraces until they came to the antique shop whose small doorway they would bend to fit through. There they wouldn’t have to hurry; there wouldn’t be any meals to prepare or stock to order or schedules to write. They wouldn’t need ration books, they wouldn’t have to rub castor oil into their cracked and peeling hands. Yes, that was just the sort of afternoon Maggie would like to have—but it seemed to belong to a distant past. Who knew if it would ever be possible to recapture it?

  ‘I think it’s working,’ Tom said, disturbing her melancholy reflections.

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘We could spend hours here . . .’

  ‘I know; I hadn’t thought about that. I just thought it would be nice for the customers—but we don’t want them to stay too long. It is a bit of a distraction.’

  ‘A good distraction though.’

  She smiled at him; typical Tom, always looking on the bright side. How good it was to have him around again.

  She had turned down the posters that were offered under the ministry’s decoration policy. The works that were going to be supplied were of ships and planes; the air force and navy’s finest machines to invoke a collective national pride. Maggie thought the last thing people would want to look at over lunch were machines of destruction. So she got in touch with the British Institute for Adult Education and they supplied the local art students—now she couldn’t help but feel pleased that her resourcefulness had paid off.

  ‘You know, there are some restaurants in Westminster that have got pictures from the Royal Collection,’ she said, admiring the detail and colour of the birds’ feathers.

  ‘Do you expect the King will lend us one?’

  ‘Oh no, definitely not. The conditions need to be exceptional—no condensation, for a start. Imagine telling Eliza she isn’t allowed to make any steam!’

  ‘Impossible!’

  The early-morning sun spilled through the skylights bringing the rich tones of the mural to life, illuminating the undulating countryside. Maggie closed her eyes, imagining being outdoors with the warmth of the sun on her skin. She wondered what Janek would make of the mural; whether the images would be a welcome reminder of where he grew up, or whether it would be a disturbing memory of a home that he might never see again. He had finally talked about his home the night before, when he’d stayed to help with the liver and sausage hotpot that now had a permanent place on the lunchtime menu. The ministry wanted it baked or stewed and served with potatoes and cabbage or boiled rice. She hadn’t much experience making sausages, as they had always been delivered straight from
the butchers, but since they now had to use every last scrap and sinew, she had asked Janek to show her how to make them herself. He had begun by washing pigs’ intestines and rinsing them with salted water, arranging them in a long coil so that the lengths could be cut as needed. Then he had minced pork shoulder and combined them with herbs and sugar, adding plenty of salt and pepper. He had then forced the mixture through a nozzle to fill the intestine with sausage meat, his powerful hands and arms able to turn the grinder’s handles far quicker than she was able. In lieu of a smokehouse, they used one of the disused sheds at the back. Afterwards, she and Janek had sat under the night sky talking and eating his homemade Polish pancakes as they waited until the sausages were ready.

  ‘You alright, Maggie?’ Tom interrupted.

  Maggie returned to the present with a start. ‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

  ‘Been burning the candles at both ends?’

  ‘No, that’s Liza you’re thinking of.’ She managed a smile. It had been a good few weeks since their night out at the Palais and even though she tried to get enough sleep there was always something to do and she was constantly weary. It didn’t seem to stop Eliza, though, who had seen Mike several times since. Greg had appeared at the restaurant the day after her dizzy spell and asked her out again, Maggie had politely declined, and he hadn’t asked again. ‘What about you, Tom? Are you alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. No concerns here.’

  ‘You know, you’ve made quite an impression on Maeve . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, best not talk about that now.’

  ‘Tom Washington, I do believe you are blushing!’

  ‘Come on, Maggie, give it a rest.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. It was strange for Tom to be so sensitive, she thought; he was usually ready to shrug things off.

  ‘I’m enjoying myself here, Maggie. I really do appreciate you giving me a chance. It’s good to still be useful.’

  Just then the door opened and Maggie turned to greet their first customer only to see that it was Maeve.

  Maggie glanced at Tom.

  He didn’t return her look, but as he turned to leave Maggie noticed how he brought up his hand, self-consciously running his fingers through his blond wavy hair.

  It was well into the lunchtime rush and Robbie sat on a bench eyeing the line of men and women as they shuffled towards the servery; men with hats pulled down tightly over their heads, women wrapped in thick dark coats, the fabric of their uniforms or overalls poking out beneath. It amazed him that they could be so patient, stay in such an orderly queue, when they were so close to the source of those delicious smells!

  There had been a queue when he arrived nearly an hour ago and it wasn’t showing any sign of abating. No wonder Maggie was always so busy these days. He had no idea where she was now. He’d stuck his head into the kitchen when he first arrived, and she wasn’t there; nor was she here in the dining hall. But he really needed to find her; he had been to the country to see his ma again and he knew it was time to tell Maggie about her. The lying was becoming a bit of a strain; he was sure he would let something slip, and he was feeling really guilty about deceiving her now that he had got to know her well. She had been so good to him, giving him food, helping him look for his dad—and she had even got him interested in school again.

  He tore off his jacket and dropped it on the bench beside him; it was warm and busy here, quite unlike the quiet damp of the school storeroom where he returned when he wasn’t allowed to sleep at the restaurant. And there was food—lots of it! Maggie had told him he could have one meal a day but he had eaten it already and still had a gnawing in his belly. What was more, the corned beef with cabbage had reminded him of his ma’s; there were loads of spuds in it, just like hers. The only problem was the steamed jam pudding; there wasn’t nearly enough jam. He’d had to press the sponge against the roof of his mouth to extract every last tiny drop, and when he had sucked that out, the doughy sponge hadn’t melted on his tongue like it was supposed to but stayed there in a thick floury wedge.

  He dragged his finger across his empty plate for the umpteenth time until there wasn’t a single speck of gravy left on it. The line of waiting customers was growing, snaking right back to the door, and the noisy lunchtime conversations drowned out the clattering from the kitchen and the drone of traffic outside.

  Right, if that bald bloke in the brown coat can get to the counter by the time the clock reaches twelve forty-five, then I can go up for more.

  Robbie licked his lips and waited, watching intently and then sliding along the bench with each step that the man moved closer to the counter.

  When he had visited his mum and sisters at the weekend, they had spent the whole day out in the fields and orchards picking fruit before the real harvesters began, and when his sisters had gone to bed, he helped his mum with the peeling and slicing. They had made a gigantic pot of sweet sticky jam from the apples and plums into which he had dipped great springy doorsteps of bread smothered in local butter. A big blob of jam—that’s what Eliza’s pudding needed—so that when he pressed the pudding to the roof of his mouth, all the jam squished out the sides!

  The man was only a few feet away from the counter now; it looked as if it might be his lucky day. But then he caught sight of Tom looking in his direction. Robbie ducked down out of sight, shifting along the seat again until he could go no further.

  There were now only two people in front of his man and only three minutes to go on the clock so he swivelled his legs over the bench and headed towards the gap that had just opened up. Tom wasn’t looking anymore and two men he recognised from the dairy were turned to face each other, locked in conversation so they hadn’t noticed the advance of the queue.

  He slipped quietly in front of them.

  ‘I’d be fed up too, if I were you,’ one of them was saying. ‘You shouldn’t have to do it if the others don’t.’

  ‘That’s my point,’ the other replied. ‘What’s good for the goose should be good for the gander . . . that’s what my missus is always telling me. Different when the boot’s on the other foot, isn’t it!’

  The man in the brown coat stepped up to the counter. Hooray! Robbie cheered silently. Roast potatoes and treacle tart here I come!

  Luckily, Gillian had gone on a break and her replacement hadn’t seen him come around once already. He held out his plate while she piled on a large portion of roast meat and vegetables.

  ‘Bit extra for kiddies,’ she said, winking as she added another potato.

  He dodged around Tom and headed straight for the cutlery stand, already casting his eyes around for a place to sit. The dining hall was full except for a space where a group of market-sellers were leaving, so he squeezed in between two businessmen and a couple of old ladies.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that,’ the younger businessman observed as Robbie shovelled food into his mouth.

  ‘It’s good,’ he spluttered, swallowing in a hurry.

  ‘Can we take your photo?’

  The other man pointed towards a flashy-looking camera on the bench beside him.

  ‘Why?’

  They looked decent enough, both wearing trilby hats and posh-looking suits, but why on earth did they want his picture?

  ‘We’re from the Highbury & Islington Gazette,’ the first man explained, ‘and we’re doing a piece on the place. Seems like it’s a bit of a hit with the locals. You have to be a regular or very patient to get a seat here.’

  ‘Yeah, but people been coming from all over too,’ Robbie said, ‘even outside London. Maggie had to turn some of them away.’ He dragged a roast potato through the stream of gravy. ‘You serious about the picture?’

  ‘Of course we are—get your face alongside the mayor’s.’

  ‘I dunno . . .’

  He didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than he needed to, but then again, if he got his picture in the paper, his dad might see it.

  ‘Alright then.’ He grinned. ‘I’
ll do it.’

  ‘Good. Just wait right here, our photographer should be back any minute.’

  Robbie finished his last mouthful, pushed his plate away and asked the man, ‘Why can’t you take the picture?’

  ‘I’m a reporter—typewriter’s the tool of my trade.’

  ‘So you’ll write the piece then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll review the food and interview a few people before I leave so I can get some quotes.’

  ‘Will you interview Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but we’ve got to come back later for that.’

  The reporter had a really soothing voice, one that Robbie thought people wouldn’t mind answering questions to; that he might ask them anything and they couldn’t help but tell the truth.

  ‘What else do you write about?’ Robbie wanted to know.

  ‘Other stuff that goes on around here mostly, but sometimes we go up the West End.’

  ‘So what’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?’

  ‘Well, that depends,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Depends on what?’

  The reporter leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Depends on whether you are talking about murder or kidnapping.’

  Robbie sat back abruptly, deciding a change of subject was in order. ‘Will you print something I say, then?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll put the quote with your picture. What would you say about Maggie’s Kitchen?’

  Robbie grinned. ‘Best nosh in the whole of London!’

  When the photographer still hadn’t arrived a few minutes later, Robbie started to get restless. Excusing himself, he went to find Maggie; he needed to tell her about his ma before he lost his nerve. So when he couldn’t find her in the kitchen or the backyard, where he had tied Spoke, he headed through to the office.

  He could hear raised voices before he reached the door, and even though he knew he shouldn’t listen, he couldn’t help himself. He had never heard her so angry before.