Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? School’s not out yet . . . and you know I can’t allow him in here,’ she said, glaring at Spoke.

  ‘I know.’

  He ushered the dog outside and closed the door quickly before Spoke could push his snout back through.

  ‘Good surprise first or bad?’ he offered.

  ‘Well, it’s usual to have the bad first . . .’

  ‘Okay, let’s go with the good this time then.’

  ‘I thought it was my choice?’

  ‘I’ve got something that’s going to put a big smile on that long face of yours.’

  ‘Robbie!’

  ‘So, do you want to know what it is or not?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  She walked over to the blackboard and began checking through the day’s schedule.

  He tried to contain himself, knowing she didn’t mean it. He counted silently in his head. One, two, three, four, five . . .

  ‘Oh, alright then,’ she said, relenting.

  He rushed over and thrust out the bag. ‘Here you are!’

  ‘Gosh, it smells awful. What is it?’

  ‘Open it and see.’

  She tipped it onto the benchtop and a small dark object rolled out, its irregular-shaped sides bringing it to a stop. He could smell it from where he stood; a strong earthy smell and vaguely familiar, like damp mushrooms that were on the turn.

  ‘Gordon Bennett, that’s ugly!’ Eliza said, coming over to see what all the fuss was about. ‘What is it, animal or vegetable?’

  Rose, never one to be left out, made her way over too.

  ‘Looks like one of your ex-boyfriends, Liza.’

  ‘Thanks, Rose!’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘It looks like a mushroom with warts. Honestly, Robbie, what on earth is it?’

  ‘Worth more than gold, that is,’ he announced proudly.

  Maggie looked from him to the object and back again. ‘I find that hard to believe!’

  ‘It’s a truffle . . . the chef said it comes from this place in France and it’s really rare. And now it’s even more difficult to get hold of because of the war.’

  Eliza prodded it with her index finger. ‘But what do you do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I forgot to ask.’

  ‘What do you mean you forgot to ask? Where did you get it?’

  ‘The chef at The Savoy gave it to me.’

  ‘Really? So he just gave it to you, this “more valuable than gold” truffle?’ Maggie asked.

  Robbie nodded then dropped his gaze.

  ‘What, you were just wandering past The Savoy and thought, I know, I’ll just pop in and have a cuppa and grab myself some truffle while I’m here?’ she said using a mock hoity-toity voice.

  ‘Alright, no need to be like that. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I’ll be pleased when you tell me how you got it.’

  ‘I remember now,’ Robbie said, hoping to distract her. ‘You put it in omelettes, or in scrambled eggs . . . somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Ask Janek,’ Eliza suggested. ‘You seem to go to him for most things these days.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Maggie agreed, ignoring her friend’s sarcasm. ‘He’s coming here after work. Stop by after school, Robbie, and you can be the one to ask him.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Robbie said, trying to grab the truffle and missing.

  ‘Go on—scarper,’ Maggie said, pushing the truffle back into the bag. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

  Robbie hung around the doorway; it looked as if their conversation about his mother would have to wait. He was half excited at the prospect of showing Janek the prized truffle, but also dreading what Janek would say when he found out Robbie had been back to The Savoy.

  When Janek finally appeared late that afternoon, he seemed to be in a good mood.

  ‘I’ll bet he’ll know what to do with it,’ Robbie whispered to Maggie. ‘Anyway, if you don’t want it I can go and sell it somewhere else for a lot of money.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Janek,’ Maggie said. ‘You can help solve a little mystery for us.’ She prodded Robbie. ‘Go on then, show him.’

  When Robbie opened his palm to reveal the truffle, Janek’s eyes narrowed and his brows met in an angry scowl.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘I told Maggie—a friend gave it to me.’

  ‘Well, you need to give it back.’

  ‘Why?’ Robbie protested, pouting.

  ‘Men are dying because of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They risk their lives going into regions where they grow, areas that are dangerous, because of the ridiculous price people will pay.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Janek, I—I didn’t know,’ Robbie stammered. He tried to stop his voice from shaking but he had never seen Janek so angry before.

  ‘It’s okay, Robbie, you weren’t to know,’ Maggie said, placing an arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Yes, but he does now.’ Janek, clearly furious, pulled on his cap and was gone before Robbie or Maggie had a chance to react.

  For a brief moment all they could do was look at each other, then Maggie said, ‘Why don’t you take it back? Or, better still, let’s just throw it away. If what Janek says is true, I wouldn’t be happy making anything with it and I don’t imagine any of our customers would be happy eating it.’

  ‘They wouldn’t even know,’ Robbie objected.

  ‘Robbie!’

  ‘I know, you’re right—I just thought you’d be pleased,’ he said, disappointed all over again.

  ‘I am pleased . . . well, sort of. Look, I’m grateful to you but I’ve told you before, I don’t want you getting into any trouble. You know I also don’t want anything in my kitchen that has not been acquired by honest means, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but you said that the menus were dull; I thought that something like this, like the hotels up the West End have . . .’

  ‘We’re not up the West End though, Robbie; we’re serving simple meals to hungry people. I know what you thought, but perhaps you could stick to helping us in the vegetable garden—that would mean a lot more to me.’

  ‘Alright, if you say so . . .’ He edged towards the door and then stopped. ‘You could just try one of those omelettes, though. It’d be a shame to waste it.’

  ‘Goodbye, Robbie!’

  He scurried out, closing the door behind him.

  When Robbie had gone, Rose nudged Maggie. ‘Don’t be angry with him, he’s only trying to please you.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘I know, but I can’t encourage dishonesty though.’ She quickly walked over to the blackboard and began checking through the order forms.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eliza said. ‘It’s not as if the rich can’t afford to lose a truffle or two. Remember that protest?’

  On an outing to the Strand earlier in the year, the three of them had run into a protest at The Savoy; angry women with empty shopping baskets were waving banners reading: FEED THE WORKERS, RATION THE RICH. They had also handed out flyers accusing the government of providing ‘one ration for the Rich and another for the Poor’. The protestors’ chants demanded increased rations and complained that there were no eggs for their children but omelettes at The Savoy.

  Rose nodded in agreement, then reminded Maggie, ‘And it’s not as if Robbie’s mum and dad are around to guide him.’

  ‘Forget about Robbie,’ Eliza interrupted. ‘What about Janek? What on earth got into him?’

  ‘He’s got good reason to be upset,’ Rose replied. ‘We’ve not had to leave our homes or country.’

  ‘Not yet, but we’ve lost loved ones too, he’s not the only one. You know that better than anyone!’

  Rose glared at Eliza, but she wasn’t stopping.

  ‘If you ask me, he’s getting a bit too big for his boots, making himself right at home around here too.’

  But Maggie’
s thoughts weren’t on Janek; she was still thinking about Robbie. Maybe she had been a little hard on him. But she didn’t want him to get into trouble again; they had already had two visits from a constable over reports of stolen vegetables from a nearby allotment. She hadn’t asked Robbie directly but he had arrived last week with leafy gifts that he couldn’t account for.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maggie sighed. ‘Maybe we do need to be a little more patient with each other.’

  Rose was right; Robbie was just a boy trying to help in the only way he knew how and it made Maggie feel quite anxious thinking about him on his own, spending the rest of the afternoon feeling bad about what had happened. And Janek had surprised them all becoming so angry. Was it to do with his brother? Or perhaps he just hated to be reminded of the destructiveness of the war and his frustration at not being able to do anything about it. She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong but nevertheless she felt complicit, as though she was somehow responsible.

  Placing the papers back on the hook, she went out to the backyard, but there was no one to be seen, and no sound of Robbie’s incessant chatter, or Janek’s Polish folk songs.

  Weaving between the raised beds, she checked for any sign of them but the only murmur came from the foliage as the wind rustled through. She made her way to the back gate and out into the laneway. There was a small figure retreating down the street, leaping from one doorstep to the next, jumping up and energetically spinning around in mid-air before landing back down and launching off again, Spoke keeping pace alongside. Maggie smiled to herself. She didn’t need to worry about having upset Robbie, at least.

  The spire was just ahead, only a few hundred yards away, and hopefully he would find Stefan and the others inside. If not, at least he would be in a familiar place, somewhere to pull himself together and focus his mind. He had to stop thinking about Maggie and the boy and get on with finding his comrades.

  He wasn’t a regular at mass, but he knew that the other Poles worshipped here. And he was just in time; he had sensed the wind change on his way here, bringing strong gusts from the east and with it large spots of rain. Now he wouldn’t feel bad that he hadn’t watered Maggie’s plants as he’d promised he would. He knew he shouldn’t have stormed off like that, but the incident with Robbie had shaken him. It had taken him back to a place he had worked hard to move on from; even now the growl of traffic was as loud and invasive as the artillery had been, and he could taste the choking fumes. It wasn’t the physical discomfort, though, he could cope with that; it was the wrenching pain and helplessness of losing his family and leaving his brother behind.

  He reached for his collar, quickly unbuttoning his shirt as he hurried up the portico steps.

  Inside the cool nave, he immediately felt calmer as he inhaled the comforting smell of frankincense and candle wax. He crossed the stone floor, transformed a deep ruby, blue and gold by the weak light through stained glass, and he scanned the pews for anyone he recognised. There were only a few well-wrapped figures scattered in the middle rows; an elderly couple kneeling in the second row and a soldier who rose to light a candle close to the altar where the priest prayed aloud. Churches here were never very full like the ones back home, but St Paul’s was one of the oldest in Islington, and easily as old as the gothic church and basilica at home where he had attended all the important family occasions: his brother had married Lila there, Roman and Krystina were baptised there, and their grandparents were buried in the graveyard alongside their ancestors. It was one of the things that angered him the most, not to be able to bury the rest of his family in their rightful resting place.

  He kneeled behind the elderly couple and removed his prayer book, opening it at the place marked by his prayer card, the dark skin of the Black Madonna appearing even darker in the shadows. The priest’s words were rhythmic, like a soothing chant, but still he couldn’t concentrate. He had to find his comrades; he needed to know much longer he would have to wait. Trying to gain intelligence in his local area had reaped nothing; there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to report. He was certain of it, despite the distraction and all thoughts returning to Maggie. He closed his eyes and bent his head to pray, but each small sound was an intrusion; the closing of a car door outside, the creak of the church’s door opening and the soft padding of footsteps that grew closer until they were alongside him, accompanied by a strong floral scent.

  He crossed himself and looked up as a woman passed with a large bouquet. It could have been his mother or Lila; they used to take flowers from their gardens for the church every week, even more often in summer when Roman and Krystina collected the petals that had fallen for his mother’s rose petal jam. The recipe was a family favourite; he had told Maggie about it and she was eager to try it when they were able to grow flowers again.

  The woman placed the bouquet on the altar and rearranged it, her dark hair falling around her shoulders in soft curls, just like Maggie’s did. He was spending too much time at the restaurant, thoughts of her increasingly distracting him. He had let his guard down and it was a mistake; that same night she had asked about his past and he had said too much. She had a way of making him talk when he didn’t intend to. They had been waiting in the backyard for the sausages to smoke, and although he was unable to see her clearly in the dark, he could feel her close beside him.

  ‘I had an uncle who visited Poland before the war,’ she said. ‘He told me you have as many stately houses as here.’

  ‘Yes, every duke built himself a castle.’

  ‘You must feel at home here then?’

  He didn’t want to offend her by telling her how her country could never compare to Poland, so he chose his words carefully. ‘There is much to like here, and much here like home.’

  ‘What do you miss the most?’

  ‘My family.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  How could he tell her the truth? That they had hidden his parents under the farmhouse with his older brother and his brother’s wife and children. Of how he and his younger brother had fled to the fields when there was no more room. Of what happened next . . .

  Instead he simply told her that they had been killed.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  They were simple words, spoken with genuine emotion, but they took him by surprise, moved him in a way he hadn’t expected. But the truth was that no one could ever be as sorry as him. If only he had gone down first, if only he had made them squeeze in further, if only he hadn’t left them behind. They had examined the hiding place a dozen times, agreeing it was safer to hide there than in any of the lofts and spaces of the vast farmhouse’s stables and barns. They practised the drill, always improving their speed. He could picture the children now, just as they had looked the last time he saw them, before he had pulled the boards over their heads to conceal them; pink and white dressing gown flapping around Lilla’s skinny legs and Roman crouching down in his oversized uniform, all ready for school.

  ‘I imagine Peter is still with me sometimes,’ Maggie said softly.

  It was the first time she had spoken of her fiancé and it had weakened him so that he had been unable to stop and told her the whole story of his escape; how he and his brother had fled, staying clear of the river and train lines, hiding only in the hedges and undergrowth that they had explored as boys. How when they reached Pultusk the market square was covered with bodies, its cobbled streets running red with blood.

  By the time he had finished talking he felt numb; deadened by the thought of never seeing his parents again, the brothers he had grown up with, and the niece and nephew who were like his own.

  Then he felt the warmth of her touch as Maggie placed her hand on his, her voice a gentle whisper.

  ‘You must miss them terribly . . .’

  A silence fell between them and she didn’t try to make conversation, which he was grateful for.

  ‘Do you think Robbie’s father is a prisoner?’ she said at last.

  ‘I think if he is, h
e will wish he were dead.’ He moved his hand away. ‘My younger brother, Dimitri, he was captured in France. He is a prisoner now.’

  ‘I expect it means everything to him that you are free.’

  It might seem that way to her, yet he felt trapped, helpless; knowing that his brother was a prisoner and not being able to do anything about it.

  ‘I may be here, Maggie, but I am not free.’

  ‘At least you are helping people. You couldn’t have done that if you had been captured.’

  He dropped his head, rubbing each wrist as if trying to prise off imaginary handcuffs. ‘I am sorry . . . I should not be talking like this . . .’

  ‘It’s fine; I mean, I want you to.’

  He turned to look at her then, large eyes glistening against her pale smooth skin, and he had wanted to reach out and touch her.

  ‘You shouldn’t be blaming yourself. For anything.’

  ‘I know you are trying to make me feel better, but there’s no need. I know what I have to do.’

  The priest stopped talking and Janek watched as he lit another candle. He had nothing to confess today, nothing that the priest hadn’t heard before. In any event, the priest’s words didn’t help.

  Since the others hadn’t shown he would go to the allotment and get on with his work; it was best to keep busy.

  As he rose to leave, the priest noticed and came towards his pew.

  ‘Hello, Father.’

  ‘Janek, I’m glad you are here. Your two friends have been looking for you.’

  ‘Who was it? Do you know?’

  ‘Stefan and Filip. They said that it was important.’

  ‘And did they say where I could find them?’

  The priest patted his shoulder. ‘They said they would find you.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MAKING THE MOST OF FAT RATION:

  Always scrape the butter, margarine and cooking

  fat papers with a knife so as not to waste a

  scrap. Save the paper to use for greasing cake

  tins and pudding basins and for covers for