Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Okay, this is us,’ Mike said, slowing the car and turning off the road.

  Maggie gripped the side of her seat as they bumped up a long rutted track, farm buildings coming into view and a small gathering of cows congregated around a water trough. The farmhouse was half hidden by orchards that rose with the land to low hills in the east and fields that dipped to a valley on the left.

  As they jolted to a stop she could see the uneven roofs, broken windows and exposed walls, a sign of the disrepair that meant they would offer little shelter to any cattle or stored feed. There was an assemblage of battered machinery off to one side and her heart sank at the thought of a wasted journey.

  ‘Who did you say the place belongs to?’

  ‘The Taylors—it’s been in the family four generations.’

  ‘That’s right, I remember now. How do you know them?’

  ‘We use the fields at the back of those hills for training. One of the Land Army gals said the locals had a strong rabbit club here, so I asked around.’

  ‘Well, let’s go then,’ she said, fixing a smile on her face as she stepped out of the car.

  A ruddy-faced man in his fifties in dirty overalls and a woollen hat appeared at the barn doors.

  ‘You folks here to see where the real work is done, eh?’ he said, coming to greet them.

  ‘On the contrary. Terrance, this is Maggie, the young lady I was telling you about.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss . . .?’ He rubbed his hand on his trousers before extending it towards her.

  ‘It’s Johnson, but call me Maggie.’

  ‘I certainly will, Maggie. Any friend of Mike’s is a friend of ours.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Certainly is. Don’t know what we’d do without these boys.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’ She glanced at Mike. ‘Mike says you have a rabbit club here?’

  ‘I suppose you’re wanting to see some, but there’s not too much to show you right now—rabbits are caught at night mostly. We put the traps out last thing and normally catch a good amount. We’ve kept some for you in the back of the barn.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’ Mike asked.

  The barn was a vast warehouse of splintered boards and sodden hay, but towards the back, underneath a section of roofing that still looked intact, a pen of roughly ten yards long was home to a dozen rabbits, snuggled together, ears flicking, noses twitching.

  ‘We’ve got sties out the back. Is it pigs you’re interested in too?’

  ‘I don’t think we’d have the cold storage for them,’ she said, thinking quickly; a few rabbits was one thing but whopping great pigs to butcher and cook was something else. Mr Boyle would have a conniption.

  But she didn’t want to appear ungrateful either so she followed him through the farmyard and out behind the farmhouse.

  An enormous female pig lay on her side, pink bristled belly exposed where six small piglets lay suckling. At the rear of the pen a lone piglet lay motionless.

  ‘Don’t fancy his chances, poor little runt,’ Mike said, following her gaze.

  Terrance opened the gate and walked to the back of the sty. ‘Best get him out of here before the others have him . . .’

  He bent down and scooped the little body up, laying it across his opened hand. ‘’Ere, he’s still warm.’ He rubbed the piglet’s stomach with his hand, gently at first and then more vigorously. Its body jerked and then the piglet opened its eyes. ‘Lazy little blighter was just having a nap,’ Terrance laughed. ‘There you go, you get stuck in there.’ He lowered him onto the hay next to his siblings and it looked as if it was about to go back to sleep, so Terrance gave it a prod with his boot and the piglet latched on and began to suckle.

  They stepped back outside. The leaves on the trees were a golden brown and they snapped underfoot as Maggie strolled around, breathing in the smell of ripe apples and blackberries, of fields ready for harvest. Not even the beautiful murals that the students had painted could conjure the smells and sights of the fruit that hung on the branches right in front of her. These would be mid-season apples and all the more juicy and flavoursome for it.

  She reached out and pulled one from its branch, turning it around in her hand.

  ‘Best for cider those ones,’ Terrance remarked, grasping one for himself and biting into it with a loud crunch.

  Maggie smiled and bit into hers.

  ‘I should get my wife to give you the recipe for her cobbler. She makes the best cobbler in the whole of Sussex!’

  After exploring the orchard and fields and meeting some of the Land Army girls, Maggie realised it wasn’t that the farm was not well kept, but that all the Taylors’ time and money was being reinvested; like the rest of the country, every waking hour was devoted to producing more, growing more and wasting less, so there was little time to spend on maintenance and repairs. That’s why the farmer was so obliged to Mike and his fellow soldiers for the help they gave.

  With her apprehension about the day gone, and her worries about Mike too, she felt ashamed that she had allowed herself to be influenced by first impressions. Whatever small morsels of concern Mike had fed Eliza about Janek, he hadn’t repeated them to her and she suspected that Eliza might have misunderstood. By the time they got back in the car after Terrance had insisted they stay for lunch, she could feel the tingle of her sun-warmed skin and the familiar pull of tiredness only associated with spending a long day outdoors. She had become so focused on the restaurant and the problems of those around her that she had forgotten there was life outside of N1. What was more, Terrance turned out to be a riotous storyteller and had them in fits of laughter with accounts of the predicaments that they had found themselves in over the years: sheep stuck in fences, cows in neighbours’ houses. By the time they began the journey home, she had the promise of a delivery of rabbits in the next few weeks, some new recipes from Mrs Taylor, and a good idea of what to do about Robbie.

  Now all she had to do was broach the subject of the rabbits with Mr Boyle . . .

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Honey and syrup can be used to replace up to

  half the sugar used in jam and marmalade.

  For example, if the recipe needs 3lb. sugar you

  could use instead 1½lb. sugar and 1½lb. honey or

  syrup. Make sure the fruit is thoroughly cooked

  before the sugar and honey or syrup are added.

  This is important as if long boiling takes place

  afterwards sugar crystals may separate out.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 21

  Rose slumped onto the kitchen stool and kicked off her shoes, pulling her right foot up across her left knee and rubbing the sole with both thumbs.

  ‘That Mrs Devereux’s a right haughty one! Anyone would think the old bag was the Duchess of Kent the way she swans about the place, making all sorts of special requests.’

  ‘Like what?’ Maggie asked, amused.

  ‘Like: Could I have cold milk on the side? Can I have my scones toasted? Would it be possible to have fadge instead of mash? Where does she think she is, the Ritz?’

  ‘She probably has dined there,’ Maggie said. ‘She certainly has the wardrobe for it.’

  Mrs Devereux’s suits, though well worn, looked expensive, as did the rather mottled and moth-eaten fox stole around her shoulders.

  ‘You don’t mean that old thing she wears come rain or shine? I’m convinced it’s still alive—it’s just found a comfortable resting place!’

  ‘Listen to you two, you’re just like Gert and Daisy off Workers’ Playtime—you’ll have your own radio show before you know it!’ Eliza said with a sniff.

  ‘Not bloomin’ likely,’ Maggie replied as she lifted a box onto the counter. ‘Goodness, that’s heavy!’

  Eliza glanced at her. ‘Got any more eggs?’

  ‘No delivery yet, and Mrs Foster’s Matilda didn’t lay anything this morning. She was so terrified last night I was tempted to give her
an aspirin when Mrs Foster took one.’

  Rose looked shocked. ‘Is it okay to give them to animals?’

  ‘Must be. Mrs Foster used to give them to her dog. Poor thing was a nervous wreck otherwise.’

  ‘Who, the dog or Mrs Foster?’

  ‘Both!’

  As their laughter subsided, Maggie heard a soft meowing coming from near the cookers. ‘That’s strange. It sounds like . . .’ She bent to look. Underneath the stove, black and white paws were tucked beneath a familiar whiskered face. ‘Rafferty!’

  Maggie looked at Rose, who shrugged, so she turned her attention to Eliza. ‘Liza?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ Liza said, though a crimson flush was spreading across her face. ‘Well, okay then, but he is the best mouse-catcher, you have to admit.’

  Maggie bent down and tickled his ears, listening to the deep purring as she stroked along the length of his back, then grabbed him up and headed for the back door.

  ‘He does need to stay outside, though—at least during the day, when there’s a chance Mr Boyle or someone from the ministry might come. We’ll let him in at night.’

  When she returned, Maggie swapped her coat for an apron and moved over to the small wall mirror near the doorway to the dining room. She knotted her headscarf, tucking in stray pieces of hair and looking past her own reflection to Rose, already dressed head to toe in white and moving around the kitchen. It was such a relief that her cousin and Eliza seemed to have forgotten their argument about Janek.

  She moved over to the bench and took the lid off the box, then sifted through the contents. The fruit and vegetables were from their own garden, and there were some herbs that she’d picked from the communal gardens on her way to work. The carrots were small and the potatoes knobbly but it didn’t matter; she had it in mind to make a beef broth and barley soup, so the size and shape of the vegetables wouldn’t be noticed, only the rich flavour.

  ‘Mr Boyle hasn’t been able to get any more supplies then?’ Rose asked, looking at the meagre provisions.

  ‘Funny, I was just thinking about him.’

  ‘Oh, really, should I be worried?’

  ‘Of course not—but honestly . . .’ Maggie pursed her lips. ‘I don’t think he’s trying very hard.’

  ‘Here, you lot, listen to this,’ Eliza said, folding back the newspaper so Maggie could see the headline: MRS CHURCHILL’S TOUR OF MEALS CENTRES.

  She read aloud, adopting a clipped upper-crust accent. ‘Mrs Winston Churchill, accompanied by Mr Charles Latham, leader of the LCC, made a tour of British Restaurants in London yesterday—’ she glanced up to make sure they were still listening ‘—and at one of them in Fulham had a meal consisting of cold pressed beef and potato salad, syrup pudding, and a coffee at a cost of elevenpence.’

  ‘So, do you think she’ll come here?’ Rose asked excitedly.

  Maggie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But why are they charging tuppence more for their meals than we’re allowed to?’

  ‘Different borough, isn’t it?’ Eliza replied. ‘Everything costs more in Fulham.’

  Just then Maeve’s head appeared in the doorway. ‘Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, Maeve?’

  ‘Mr Boyle is here. And he seems in quite a fluster.’

  ‘Better show him through to my office then. I’ll be there in a tick.’

  Eliza raised her eyebrows. ‘Talk of the devil!’

  ‘What do you suppose he wants?’ Rose asked anxiously.

  ‘Be charming but firm,’ Eliza said. ‘Don’t stand any nonsense.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go and see him for me . . .’ Maggie suggested, only half joking.

  ‘Maybe, but I wouldn’t be as nice as you. You want to risk it?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Thought as much,’ Eliza said, smiling. ‘Remember, you’re the boss here, not him.’

  Maggie was barely inside the office before Mr Boyle leaped to his feet and thrust the Highbury & Islington Gazette at her.

  ‘Do you have any idea of the problems you have caused?’ he demanded.

  Maggie stared at him in surprise. ‘What? How?’

  ‘I don’t know what you were thinking, Miss Johnson. We have had the police involved, the National Caterers Federation, the Wartime Meals Division—even the Hotels and Restaurants Association have damned well had their say!’

  ‘But what have I done?’ Maggie asked, bewildered.

  ‘Do you mean apart from serving meals of your own choosing and securing ingredients from questionable sources? Oh, wait, have I left anything out? Oh yes, employing illegal immigrants and underage workers!’

  Since he put it like that, Maggie could see how he might be a little angry, but he was still overreacting. After all, they had read about other British Restaurants producing their own vegetables, and they’d thought it would be good publicity to write about what Maggie’s Kitchen was serving. The regulars clearly liked it; the queues were longer than ever and the article had attracted new customers keen to try out some of the more unusual fare. As for Janek, there was nothing illegal about him, and she had spoken to the Taylors about Robbie and they were more than happy to have a spare pair of hands to help out on the farm. So now, with a safe place to stay, Mr Boyle could hardly accuse him of being in the way.

  ‘You told me to be resourceful.’ She crossed her arms defiantly.

  ‘I did not give you carte blanche to beg, borrow and steal what you needed!’

  ‘Well, where else did you expect me to find the extra food we needed?’

  ‘I admit that there may have been one or two problems with supply, but really, Miss Johnson—engaging in criminal activity!’

  ‘I have done no such thing, Mr Boyle. Nor have any of my staff, I can vouch for all of them. And I take great offence at any suggestion otherwise.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, Miss Johnson, that a few members of your staff have been key in securing these foodstuffs.’

  ‘Yes, through reputable sources.’

  ‘And you have receipts to support this?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘I had hoped we might sort this out calmly and reasonably, but it appears not.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Johnson, but you’ve left me no choice.’

  Her fingers were trembling as she tore open the flap and pulled out the pages.

  MINISTRY OF FOOD

  NEVILLE HOUSE, PAGE STREET, LONDON S.W.1

  NOTICE

  Dear Miss Johnson,

  I am authorised by the Minister of Food to serve notice to you on this, 7th November 1941, that unless you adhere by the conditions set out in the agreement signed under the Establishment of Communal Kitchens, and operate your centre in keeping with the terms therein, that the Ministry shall have no option but to close the premise or replace you with a new operator in 6 weeks. This is in direct relation to failure to comply with item 9. Of those terms wherein you have given to abide by providing:

  These monthly accounts, certified by a competent official, together with such statistical information as is required should be sent to the Secretary, Ministry of Food, Neville House, London S.W.1., marked ‘Communal Feeding’ as soon as possible, and in any case within 28 days, after the end of the month to which they relate.

  Her mouth had gone completely dry and the letters were blurring into each other.

  The notice went on for three pages and she skimmed its contents. She knew that her accounts were fine, but as they couldn’t come out and accuse her of stealing, she supposed this was their way of finding a reasonable excuse to put her on notice.

  ‘But you can see for yourself,’ she protested. ‘Go out to the yard! You’ve seen the gardens, you know we’ve been growing our own vegetables—not just here, but at the railyard and at the allotment too. We haven’t taken anything that we weren’t entitled to.’

  ‘Even if that were the case, Miss Johnson, what were you thinking serving what you bloody well pleased? Borscht and Polish sausage—what sort of messa
ge is that sending? We need to be serving traditional British food, not food that’s closer to German cuisine than our own. Surely you can see that, Miss Johnson?’

  Maggie glared at him. ‘My main concern has been providing enough food for our customers, and if that involves cooking dishes we aren’t used to, then so be it. Better experiment than starve!’

  ‘That may be your position, Miss Johnson, but it’s not one the ministry shares; so unless you realign your thinking, I am afraid Maggie’s Kitchen may soon become someone else’s kitchen.’

  He gathered his coat and hat.

  ‘Wait,’ Maggie said. ‘Does this mean that we will be getting our full allocation of foodstuffs from now on?’