Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  steamed puddings and dishes baked in the oven.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet

  Mr Dummond had given them the bare facts: the bomb had been a six-pounder and the dairy would have been wiped out instantly. In fact, it was a miracle that only seven were killed. ‘A hole the size of St Paul’s,’ had been the warden’s parting words. It hadn’t helped and everyone was walking around looking pale and shocked. Maggie was trying to put on a brave face and stay strong for the others, but at the sight of Gillian’s red and blotchy complexion and swollen eyes, Maggie felt her own face crumple.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she said, feeling the full weight of Gillian’s body press against hers.

  ‘And what about those poor animals? No one spares a thought for them . . .’

  ‘Of course they do, but we’ve got to think about the rest of the workers,’ Maggie said briskly, wiping away her tears. ‘They’ll need a good deal of sympathy with their tea, not tears. And the rescue crews are going to need to eat.’

  She would miss Mrs Evans; the woman could talk like no one else Maggie had ever known, and while she never waited to be invited into the kitchen, she strode through it with the charm of her lyrical monologues gathering force behind her until no one could help but take notice.

  Maggie shook her head; with the dairy and the pub next to it now gone, that brought to seven the number of neighbouring buildings and businesses destroyed: the pub on Pleasant Row, the Home & Colonial Store on Essex Road, St Stephen’s church on Canonbury Road, Daniel Gregg’s bakery, The Prince of Brunswick on Barnsbury Road, and not forgetting the Carlton Cinema late last year, its beautiful Art Deco facade reduced to crumbled pillars and fractured mosaics.

  Meanwhile, for the rest of them it was business as usual; Essex Road Station still had its customary throng of commuters, the Northern District Post Office its stubborn queue of customers, and she and her staff needed to carry on cooking, making sure they could sustain the customers for as long as possible—or until Jerry gave them another nasty surprise.

  ‘It could have been us . . .’ Gillian’s voice sounded hollow.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t, and you’re not even here at night so that’s enough of that.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I never used to expect the worst . . . you do know that, don’t you?’

  Maggie couldn’t ignore the desperation in her voice. ‘I do, and you mustn’t expect it now, either. Come on, go and clean up and let the customers see that beautiful smile.’

  When Maggie reached the kitchen Rose was greasing baking tins while Eliza kneaded pastry, thick arms pressing up and down like an athlete doing push-ups. She was surrounded by tins in which the dough was already beginning to rise and blind-baked pastry cases waiting to be filled, but the fine film of dust on the surfaces could not be mistaken for flour.

  ‘Liza! What did I tell you about keeping the windows closed?’

  Maggie rushed over to close the latch on the first window.

  ‘Well, what do you expect me to do? The fans still aren’t working properly. If we close the windows it steams up and we can’t see a bloomin’ thing. And the cakes and sponges get spoiled!’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Eliza sighed. ‘I suppose we’re all a bit on edge. You been round to see old Evans yet?’

  ‘No, I am going but I need to make a call first.’

  ‘It’s dreadful, can’t believe it,’ Rose said in a hushed tone, shaking her head. ‘Maisy and George . . .’

  ‘I know, both of them,’ Maggie replied.

  Maggie scanned the kitchen. ‘You haven’t seen Robbie, have you?’

  He hadn’t been around for a few days and having a bomb drop so close to home had made her realise how vulnerable he was, living on the streets alone. It made up her mind; as soon as she had spoken to Mr Boyle, she would call the education officer. She didn’t know where they would send him, but London was just too dangerous.

  Eliza had paused in her kneading and was looking at her closely.

  ‘Here, you’re not looking that special this morning, Mags. You alright?’

  ‘I’m fine. Well, no, actually . . .’ She took a newspaper clipping out of her pocket. ‘Did either of you see this?’

  ‘Haven’t got time to read papers. Honestly, next you’ll be suggesting we take a day off!’ Eliza scoffed. ‘What do you say Rose, fancy a day trip to Eastbourne?’

  ‘What does it say?’ Rose asked, ignoring her.

  ‘I’ll tell you what it says—that we’ve been driving ourselves mad for nothing. Listen to this.’ She read the headline aloud: ‘Food reserves in London bigger than during the past twelve months . . .’ She paused to look at them.

  ‘Go on then,’ Eliza urged. ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Mr. W. G. Boyle, London Divisional Food Officer, speaking at the opening of a British Restaurant at Edmonton yesterday, said: “I can assure you most definitely and sincerely that the stocks of food in London are larger today than they have been during the past 12 months.”’

  Eliza’s mouth fell open. ‘What a wretch!’

  ‘Wait, there’s more,’ Maggie said. ‘“In addition to the usual stocks, I have under my control six of the most important commodities that will provide rations, and in some cases double rations, for one hundred per cent of the population for two weeks in any emergency.”’

  Maggie folded the article and looked at them both for their reaction.

  ‘So what do you think he’s playing at then?’ asked Rose.

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. If I can’t get him on the phone I’m going to go down there.’

  ‘Do you want me to go instead?’ Rose said, her cheeks flushing unusually red.

  Maggie was surprised by the offer, but she needed to sort this out herself; the luncheon had seemed to go so well, yet there had been no improvement in their supply of foodstuffs. It was time to have it out with Mr Boyle.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she told Rose. ‘I think it’s best that I go on my own.’

  She was about to leave but hesitated.

  ‘Oh, and Rose? If Janek turns up, could you ask him to come and find me?’

  ‘I’d like to, but I’m not sure that Eliza would approve!’ Rose replied.

  ‘Why, what is it?’ Maggie asked. Turning to her cousin, she saw Rose’s eyes were fixed on Eliza.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Rose said.

  ‘Come on, Rose. What’s going on?’

  ‘Well, Eliza’s got some stupid idea about Janek.’

  ‘It’s not stupid,’ Eliza said, narrowing her eyes. ‘I don’t think it’s right and I’m not just going to stand by and say nothing.’

  ‘Say nothing about what?’

  ‘You’re ridiculous!’ Rose said. ‘Just because he’s foreign,’ she explained to Maggie, ‘she thinks he’s some kind of spy!’

  ‘What?’ Maggie exclaimed.

  ‘And you would know that he’s not how, exactly?’ Eliza jabbed her right hand at Rose, the pastry cutter she still held stabbing the air. ‘Just because you’ve fallen for him don’t let it cloud your judgment!’

  Rose blushed bright scarlet and she put her head down, turning her attention back to washing the vegetables, albeit much more vigorously than before.

  Eliza fell silent and went back to pumping the dough, also with a little more force than was really necessary.

  ‘Would one of you mind telling me what is going on?’ Maggie asked after a few moments of silence.

  Eliza and Rose looked at each other.

  Maggie crossed her arms in front of her. ‘Rose?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Rose took a deep breath. ‘Eliza has some rather strange ideas about Janek that she is considering sharing with the Home Guard. I told her that if she has any suspicions about him she should just come right out and ask him herself.’

  The room was steaming up, the stockpots simmering noisily.

  ‘What kind of suspicions?’

  ‘Go on then, Eliza,
tell her.’ Rose nodded at Maggie. ‘Tell her how you’ve been spying on him.’

  ‘I haven’t been spying on him. It’s just a coincidence that I sometimes pass near the railyard on my way home.’

  Maggie had thought at first that this was some petty squabble between Eliza and Rose, but now she realised it was something much more serious.

  ‘And what have you seen?’ she asked.

  Eliza avoided eye contact, looking down as she picked at the rapidly drying pastry that stuck to her hands and fell away in thick claggy flakes.

  ‘But I’m going to ruin my pastry,’ she muttered.

  ‘Liza!’

  ‘Alright, alright. There’s a group of them that meet under the railway track. At the allotment there.’

  ‘There’s nothing suspicious about that,’ Maggie interrupted. ‘That’s where he works and sleeps. They’re probably just helping out.’

  ‘Well, no. That’s what I thought at first, but they don’t stay outside, they go in the hut and, well, they talk.’

  ‘That’s hardly illegal! They must be friends of his.’

  ‘Have you ever heard him talk about friends before? No . . .’

  Eliza moved closer to Maggie, glancing at the girls on the other side of the kitchen, voice lowering to a whisper as if someone were spying on her right now.

  ‘I saw them last night. Heard them talking but couldn’t make out what they were saying because it was all . . . foreign.’

  Maggie was exasperated. ‘You mean you followed him and you spied on him?’

  Eliza nodded slowly.

  ‘But that’s so rude—and foolish.’ She glanced at Rose, who was nodding her head in agreement. ‘Not to mention possibly dangerous!’

  ‘So you agree he’s up to no good, then?’ Eliza replied.

  ‘No! No, I don’t think that at all. I was referring to you wandering around in the dark at night, on your own.’

  ‘See? I told you she was being ridiculous,’ Rose said.

  ‘You’ve really no right, Liza. Janek is our friend.’

  ‘She’s been listening to Mike,’ Rose said. ‘He’s filling her head with all sorts of rubbish.’

  ‘That’s not fair. You don’t even know Mike—anyway he knows more about what’s going on with this war than you do!’

  Maggie had never seen them so at odds with one another. Rose looked furious and Eliza’s cheeks were even pinker than usual.

  ‘Come on, you two, this is so unnecessary. Especially on top of everything else today . . .’

  ‘She started it!’ Rose muttered.

  ‘Please, if you want to continue this conversation—although I strongly suggest you don’t—can you do so after work?’

  Maggie looked over at the other side of the kitchen where their heated conversation was arousing the interest of the rest of the staff.

  ‘Now, are you two alright?’

  They both nodded, although Eliza a little more slowly than Rose.

  ‘I don’t want a hostile atmosphere in my kitchen, so whatever differences you have, when you’re here you put them aside.’

  The morning flew by as emergency workers came and went, and everyone wanted to stop and talk about the dairy. By the time Maggie returned to the kitchen the flans were cooked, several sponges had been steamed, and the conversation about Janek had been shelved, at least for the time being.

  She escaped into the yard and leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath as she watched a blackbird drill its beak into the soil searching for worms. She hadn’t known a morning like it; all the problems with Mr Boyle and the orders, Eliza’s ridiculous suspicions about Janek, and now Rose and Eliza were at each other. What on earth had made her think that she could run a restaurant without Peter? She clearly wasn’t making a very good job of it. And it was really niggling her that she hadn’t noticed what had been going on with Rose—although come to think of it, she had been behaving oddly. She was spending much more time in the garden, offering to water or weed rather than refilling the salt and pepper pots or doing one of the dozens of other jobs waiting indoors. It was obvious; Rose was attracted to Janek. Her shy young cousin, who was always going on about being left on the shelf, was smitten.

  As the bird tugged its victim from the ground and flew onto a nearby branch, the glimmer of warmth she felt at Rose’s joy rapidly faded as Maggie realised what it would mean for her; that she would have to set aside her own feelings and try to avoid Janek whenever he visited. It would be hard—his visits had grown into a daily occurrence and she had come to rely on him—but she also knew that she could not stand in the way of Rose’s happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  ENERGY FOODS:

  We need energy to live and work. The human

  body, like any engine, needs fuel. Appetite is

  a good guide to our needs of these energy

  foods and, if we take more than we require,

  we generally store the surplus as fat.

  Ministry of Food, Foods for Fitness

  It promised to be a fine October day without the usual autumnal clouds scudding across the sky, threatening to sabotage their trip. Maggie was secretly disappointed as she had mixed feelings about going; on the one hand she was anxious about leaving the restaurant, but on the other she was relieved not to be there when Janek came by. She didn’t want to see him until she had figured out what she was going to say and here she had the perfect excuse to get away. It had been her idea to go to the country to see if she could deal directly with the rabbit clubs that Mike had told her about. Although it did mean spending a whole morning with Eliza’s beau; while he had grown on her a little, she feared it wasn’t as much as Eliza had hoped for. She didn’t really understand what Eliza saw in him. She wanted to ask him what he’d told Eliza about Janek to make her so suspicious, but decided it would be prudent to wait and approach the topic discreetly.

  As they slowed at the traffic lights he glanced across at her and smiled. ‘Comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, very. Thank you.’

  He had boasted that the car he had borrowed was a splendid new model and would get them to the farm in no time. He’d also insisted on wrapping woollen blankets around her legs to block out the draughts.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be fine without you,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

  She had gone into the restaurant early to make sure everything was ready before he picked her up and it had felt strange leaving. It was the first time she had left her staff alone for any length of time and she wasn’t certain how they would manage. Maeve had volunteered to run things while she was away and Maggie was pleased to give her the chance; while she had shown she could get by in the kitchen, it was at the organisation that she excelled and it was good to have another supervisor to help.

  ‘Makes you want to climb up and ride them right out of here, don’t it?’ Mike said as they passed Clapham Junction and the barrage balloons that guided them south.

  ‘Not especially,’ she replied, peering at the great amorphous shapes that dominated the skyline. ‘They give me the creeps, actually.’

  It wasn’t long before they were on the A23 and the drab grey buildings gave way to the undulating green of meadows and woods. The outskirts of the city hadn’t altered much, the only noticeable changes being the barbed wire running along the side of the railway tracks and the impromptu sculptures created by irregular sandbags.

  Thin spears of rain began to slice the windshield, temporarily obscuring the road from view. Mike flicked on the wipers, which screeched noisily across the glass, making a stippled fan pattern from the dirt.

  ‘Which road are you taking?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘We turn off at the A272 towards Cowfold, then onto Henfield—the 281. Do you know it?’ He glanced over.

  ‘Yes, I do, actually. We used to go there as children.’

  ‘Smoke?’ he said, slipping a packet from his breast pocket and tipping it towards her.

  ‘No, thank you.’


  ‘You mind if I do?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  She watched as he fumbled with the packet and the lighter while keeping his eyes on the road ahead, which disappeared around a narrow bend.

  ‘Say, I don’t suppose you could light it for me?’

  He handed her the packet and she took a cigarette, resting it between her lips and inhaling as she flicked the lighter.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied, his smile showing off perfect teeth.

  It was because of his good looks that she hadn’t taken to him initially, his thatch of dark hair and the kind of grin she could tell had snared a dozen girls before Eliza.

  ‘Eliza says you were engaged once,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes. He died.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Must have been one hell of a—’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ She didn’t want to talk about Peter, especially with someone she barely knew. ‘What about you, is there anyone special back home?’

  He took a long sideways glance at her. ‘You don’t think much of me, do you?’

  She was embarrassed; all this time she thought she had hidden her true feelings and she clearly hadn’t.

  ‘It’s not that,’ she said awkwardly.

  ‘It’s okay, I get it. Eliza’s your friend and I’m some jerk who’s going to break her heart. Well, if you must know, there was someone back home, but she married someone else.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been hard.’

  ‘Not really.’ He smiled. ‘If she hadn’t, I would never have met Eliza’.

  Maggie quickly changed the subject—perhaps she had judged him too quickly—and they spent the rest of the journey talking about the places he had visited, from the Rocky Mountains to various states in America that sounded so wild and interesting she decided against sharing stories of her family holidays to Brighton, which didn’t seem quite so adventurous anymore.

  It was nearly an hour later that the white-painted sign for Henfield flashed past, reminding her of their annual trips, the countryside itself so familiar, changing from its calming patchwork of green to the great bluffs of the South Downs, showing no clue to the grey-pebbled beaches that lay beyond. As children she and her brothers had spent their days swimming, shrimping and exploring the pier with its carousel and amusement arcades. They took it in turns but she always chose to sit in the great iridescent nautilus shell or astride a galloping sea horse, stroking its long, colourful mane. They wouldn’t go back to their bed and breakfast until late, choosing instead to eat fish and chips out of newspaper, the sour vinegar and steam warming their faces. Or if the wind had started roaring off the Channel as it often did, they would sit below the canopy of one of the many restaurants under the stone arches. Typically, the music and the rattle-and-ching of money from the nearby amusement arcades would summon them inside and they would stand for ages watching their father shoving change into the machines. When he was lucky enough to have a win he would divide it between them and they would reach up and feed their tightly gripped coins into the slots, watching as the small symbols spun round, clasping their hands together and hoping for the bulging sacks of gold. The noise and chaos of the arcades, which had scared her at first, soon became part of their holiday ritual. Eventually, covered in her own salty brine with disobedient hair set into crisp strands, she would wearily lead them along the promenade towards Kemp Town, where the cheaper holiday flats and boarding houses stood in the town’s dilapidated terraces and Regency crescents. Once her mother left they stopped going, and none of them had mentioned Brighton again, as though it was part of a life they needed to leave behind.