Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘No, Miss Johnson, read the letter. It means you are on formal probation. You have six weeks to turn things around and abide by the terms of your agreement or you will be replaced. And, if a suitable replacement cannot be found, the restaurant will be closed.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  MAKING THE MOST OF THE SUGAR:

  The best way of stretching the sugar ration is

  by making full use of other sweetenings such as

  saccharin, honey, syrup or treacle, jam, marmalade,

  sweetened condensed milk and dried fruit.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 21

  Robbie was starving as he followed his nose to the kitchen, guessing at the origins of the rich syrupy aroma that had magically transported him from the pavement outside. It could be gingerbread or treacle pudding, neither of which he would refuse, but as he got closer, he heard his name. His ma always said that no good would come of listening in on other people’s conversations, but he couldn’t help himself; he wanted to know what they were saying. Besides, it would be rude to walk in now and interrupt. He peered through the gap in the doorframe. He had just the right angle to afford him a narrow view of the bench where Maggie stood and where small shreds of carrot scattered from her steel grater, contributing to a growing pile on the chopping board.

  ‘We don’t have much longer, he’s going to be here at four,’ she was saying loudly.

  ‘You’d think we were expecting the bloomin’ King and Queen for tea, not a thirteen-year-old boy. Honestly, Mags!’ Eliza was holding a bowl, whisking its contents so fast that her whole body jiggled as it joined in.

  ‘You only turn thirteen once,’ Maggie insisted.

  ‘Imagine if Mr Boyle turns up again. He’ll want to know where this lot has come from.’

  ‘And I’ll tell him the truth: that it’s come from the allotments and my own rations.’

  ‘I know, but don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit? It was only a few weeks ago we couldn’t even get enough carrots for stews and now you’re making carrot cookies!’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s on a stick or in a bowl, Doctor Carrot won’t mind,’ Maggie sang spontaneously.

  ‘Good Lord, those radio advertisements are really getting to you!’

  ‘It’s not that, Liza, he’s a teenager. Don’t you remember turning thirteen?’

  Robbie couldn’t help but smile; she looked as excited as his sisters Emily and Beth would have been if they were here.

  ‘Yes, well, I think I got sixpence to keep out of the way on my birthday,’ Eliza grumbled.

  ‘Even more reason you should make sure someone else enjoys theirs then.’

  ‘So are you going to let me take you to the Palais again next month?’

  ‘Next month . . . why?’

  ‘For your birthday, of course.’

  ‘Mmm, well, that’s different. It doesn’t count once you get to twenty-five.’ She swiped her finger across the side of the bowl and licked it.

  It was almost more than Robbie could bear; the smells were far too tempting. He craned his neck to peer further into the room . . . and couldn’t believe what he saw. The kitchen was decorated with paper garlands, and red, white and blue bunting was strewn from each corner, crossing over in the middle where a large handmade sign was suspended. Cut out cardboard letters were wound with different-coloured wools, each letter a contrast to the next, spelling HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROBBIE.

  ‘Robbie!’

  Maeve had appeared out of nowhere and stood right behind him with her arms crossed.

  ‘I suppose you had better come with me . . .’

  Robbie’s mouth gaped when he saw what lay on the table beneath the decorations: a handful of presents wrapped in newspaper and tied with kitchen string, and a feast the likes of which he had never seen—a large metal tray sizzled with toad-in-the-hole, and next to it a plate of crisp-coated Scotch eggs sat in a nest of chopped green leaves, alongside two lots of sandwiches cut into the neatest triangles. In the centre of the table was a trifle, the multi-coloured layers promising sponge, fruit, custard and jam. Last but not least, a large porcelain platter was arranged with mouth-watering biscuits and smiling jammy faces arranged around a chocolate birthday cake, glossy dark icing still dribbling down the sides.

  When he finally looked up they were all staring at him: Maggie and Rose and Eliza, and even the kitchen hands had stopped work and come to watch. His mind whirled at the thought of what to eat first.

  ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .’

  Maggie started and the others joined in, the chorus building.

  ‘Happy birthday, dear Robbie, happy birthday to you!’

  And then they were all crowding around him and Gillian was wishing him a happy birthday and Tom was shaking his hand and making him feel fifteen already instead of thirteen. He kept looking out for Maggie but it was Rose who reached over and hugged him and just when it seemed as though Maggie would never get through, at last her face appeared beside him.

  ‘How does it feel?’ she asked.

  ‘Same as yesterday, and the day before that.’

  ‘Come on, you must feel a bit different. I can remember being your age.’

  He couldn’t imagine her being thirteen.

  ‘Why, it’s not like I can do anything different, is it? I can’t leave school yet or drive a car or have a drink at the pub.’

  ‘You’re on your way to being a young man though. And you’ve lived more than a whole decade.’ She said this as if it was something he should be proud of.

  ‘Where’s Janek?’ Robbie asked, looking around. He had hoped Janek might finally give him the old transmitter he had been dropping hints about for weeks.

  She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he couldn’t get away. Anyway, he told us the Polish celebrate their name day not their birthday, remember.’ She handed him a present. ‘Here you are. Happy birthday, Robbie.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and find out.’

  He ripped through the newspaper to reveal a biscuit tin decorated with pictures of a family and fairground rides, just like the fair that used to come to Highbury Fields before the war. She nodded for him to carry on, so he lifted the cold metal lid to find a set of miniature tools: a pair of pliers, a file, a screwdriver and tiny tweezers.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Robbie exclaimed. ‘They’re exactly what I need. Where did you find them?’

  Maggie winked at Tom. ‘Friends in high places . . .’

  ‘And this,’ he said, lifting his gaze to stare at the food. ‘It’s really grand . . .’

  Maggie hadn’t liked making excuses for Janek but she knew that Robbie would be disappointed if he didn’t come. When the party was nearly over and he still hadn’t arrived, she led Robbie through to the backyard where Spoke waited, eager to see them. She sat Robbie on the wall of a garden bed and produced a large orange as theatrically as if she were a conjurer performing a magic trick.

  ‘One catch—you have to share it with me.’

  Her nails pierced the skin, releasing a strong citrus tang.

  ‘It’s okay, you have it,’ Robbie said.

  ‘No, it’s for you.’

  ‘I’ll just have a couple of segments,’ he said earnestly. ‘You have the rest.’

  ‘I was only joking. You have as much as you want.’

  They huddled together on the wall, sucking at the sweet, sharp juice as the wind picked up, bringing cool gusts that lifted the leaves and swirled them around in the chill night air.

  It had been good to have the distraction of the party, and even though it had been a struggle to keep it a secret, it was worth it for the look on Robbie’s face. It was a tonic for everyone after the difficulty of the past few weeks. She had been fully intending to tell the staff about Mr Boyle’s visit and the notice period since it was halfway through with only another three weeks left, but then there was more news overnight of big casualties and somehow the fate of one little restaurant didn�
��t seem to matter so much anymore. Their enemy’s progress into the East was not the news they had expected; it was another victory for Hitler. She didn’t follow every twist and turn of events—she hadn’t the time— but she knew that it would be difficult for the Allies to recover from this latest setback. It also meant that there was less chance of Eddie’s planned visit home. Even so, she had to put on a brave face; after all, they had to protect the children. It was also why she was going to tell Robbie about the temporary arrangements she had made; it really would be for the best.

  ‘Robbie . . .’ she began.

  ‘You know, it was nearly a perfect birthday,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Really? What would have made it perfect?’

  ‘If Dad was here. He loves birthdays more than any of us. Always makes a real big day of it. An outing or a picnic . . .’

  ‘That sounds like fun. Your dad sounds like fun.’

  ‘He is. You wouldn’t want to be near him when he’s angry, though; he’s mad as a wild pig when he gets cross. Even Ma’s scared of him then.’

  ‘Robbie, you remember when I went to Sussex, to the farm? You would have really enjoyed it.’

  Robbie didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Maggie,’ he said, ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Wait, let me finish. There’s so much to do there . . . and there’s room for you to go and help if you want to. The Taylors are a really kind couple and they’ve had children of their own.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There would be school, of course, and helping out on the farm, but there’s plenty of Land Army girls for company and some rather cute piglets.’

  ‘But I can’t go to Sussex!’

  ‘You have to, Robbie. You can’t stay here anymore—it’s not safe. It would just be temporary, until they find you a real foster home.’

  ‘But I have a home, Maggie, and a family.’

  ‘Yes, Robbie, I know, and we’ll miss you too, but it really is for the best. When I think about what you could be doing . . . and your dad will find you whether you are here or in Sussex.’

  ‘You don’t understand—I don’t need a foster home.’

  Maggie hadn’t expected him to agree straight away, but she felt a growing sense of urgency about his situation. London was just too dangerous. But it seemed a shame to ruin his birthday with talk of his going away.

  ‘Well, let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘No, Maggie . . .’

  ‘Come on, Robbie,’ she insisted. ‘Today we’re celebrating.’

  ‘Alright—thank you, Maggie. I’ve had the best day.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’ She elbowed him playfully. ‘I bet you’re glad you had some of that orange. Delicious, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bit ripe,’ he said. ‘Eliza should have made marmalade out of it.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, I miss marmalade.’ He sat up straight on the wall. ‘You know what you should do? You should start a competition, with prizes and everything, just like the ones you had at the village fetes.’

  Maggie had told him about the annual church fetes they attended as children, when they would collapse into piles, exhausted and giggling after competing in games, and when her grandfather would unfailingly win the horticultural prize. And her grandmother’s proud smile as he shook hands with the judges—the long evenings spent at the allotment weeding and watering seemed worth it in that one afternoon.

  ‘Do you think enough people would enter?’ Maggie said doubtfully.

  ‘Anyone who has a garden is growing something.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘We could make a poster—you know, like the Dig for Victory ones. It could be Dig for Prizes.’

  ‘And what would the prizes be?’

  ‘Meal for two at Maggie’s Kitchen for the first prize and then smaller prizes for second and third.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. Who would we have as the judges?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe Mr Boyle for one, seeing as you’re always trying to get him to come here. And then Eliza, I suppose.’

  ‘Only two? There are usually three judges on a panel.’

  ‘What about Janek?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘He would be the ideal judge.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ Robbie said, jumping up and wiping his sticky hands down the front of his trousers. ‘I’ll go to the railyard and tell him.’

  ‘But don’t you think we should wait?’

  ‘What for?’

  She had got caught up in the idea and hadn’t really thought about the work it would involve, but it was too late to stop Robbie now. She had missed Janek’s company and had tried her best to avoid him, but it was just making her think of him even more.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. You should ask him.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Are you going to ask Mr Boyle?’

  For a short while Robbie’s birthday had been a distraction; she had been able to put thoughts of Mr Boyle and the notice out of her mind, but now she knew that she couldn’t put it off any longer.

  ‘Yes, Robbie. You leave Mr Boyle to me.’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  BEDTIME STORY:

  Once upon a time there were five housewives.

  Their names were Lady Peel-potatoes, the

  Hon. Mrs Waste-fuel, Miss Pour-the-vegetable-

  water-down-the-sink, Mrs Don’t-like-uncooked

  vegetables, and Mrs Won’t-eat-carrots. Don’t

  let one of them put a nose in your kitchen.

  Marguerite Patten OBE, Victory Cookbook:

  Nostalgic Food and Facts from 1940–1954

  A noisy hiss of brakes announced the arrival of a large vehicle in the back lane and Maggie rushed out to greet it, calling for Rose to accompany her. She rubbed her arms with her hands, trying to keep warm as she waited impatiently for the driver to open the heavy metal doors. Inside were the promised rabbit carcasses, and she could tell instantly from their smell that the box of blackberries Terrance had also sent were overripe; perhaps because the delivery was three weeks late.

  ‘So, are you taking them or not?’ the driver said. ‘I’ve got four more drops to do before I head back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘We’ll definitely be taking them.’

  Rose was looking less certain. ‘How do you pick them up?’

  ‘Like this . . .’ Maggie took two rabbits by their hind legs, grasping one in each hand, eyes averted.

  As they ferried the thirty small carcasses into the shed, she wished that Janek had been there to help as he’d said he would. She dreaded the thought of having to skin and debone all the rabbits by herself, and keeping Rafferty out of the way while she did.

  Once they’d finished unloading, she was surprised to find two men in the kitchen talking to Gillian.

  ‘Oh, Maggie. Thank goodness you’re here.’ Gillian was looking flustered.

  Maggie’s heartbeat quickened. Were they here about the rabbits? How could they have found out so quickly? She hastily tried to work out how she would explain the barter system she had used to pay for them; they weren’t black market but it would take someone with an open mind to see that.

  ‘I’m Mr Chambers and this is my colleague Mr Davies,’ said one of the officers. ‘I believe you know Robert Saunders?’

  ‘Robbie? Yes. Why? Is he alright?’

  ‘We hope so, but we do need to find him before the police do.’

  ‘You mean you’re not from the police?’

  ‘No, we’re from the Board of Education—but the police are looking for him in connection with a theft. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him today.’

  This wasn’t strictly true since he had slept in the Morrison shelter under her desk overnight and left early in the morning to find Janek.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  She caught sigh
t of the remnants of the birthday banners and bunting out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Well, yes. He came by at teatime, had something to eat and then left. Can I ask what sort of theft?’

  ‘The taking-things-that-don’t-belong-to-you sort,’ Mr Davies said.

  His colleague scowled at him.

  ‘What I meant is, where did he steal from?’

  ‘Why, has he done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘No, not at all, it’s just—oh, never mind . . .’ She didn’t want to get him into any more trouble.

  ‘The theft was from a hotel, if you must know,’ Mr Chambers said, looking around. ‘Are you sure he’s not here? It’s a big place, plenty of room for a little fella to hide.’

  While Mr Chambers continued talking to Maggie, his colleague walked around poking his nose into cupboards and storerooms.

  ‘Sorry, where did you say you were from?’ she asked.

  ‘Local council. We received a report that a boy is sleeping here. You have heard of Operation Pied Piper, haven’t you, Miss Johnson? You do know that our children are safer out of the city?’

  She was relieved they hadn’t come about the rabbits but her heart was still pounding and it was because she knew he was right.

  Once they realised that Robbie wasn’t there, they left with a request that she contact them as soon as he turned up.

  ‘Phew! What was all that about?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Someone has reported Robbie and now they want to send him away.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Eliza mumbled, turning her attention back to a custard that was refusing to thicken. ‘Isn’t it for the best, though, Mags? They’ll help him find somewhere to go. Really, it’s probably better if it’s official, don’t you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. That’s not what worries me, though. It’s the fact that the police are looking for him. I think he’ll be with Janek; Robbie said this morning he was going to look for him at the railyard. One of us should go and find him . . .’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Rose offered quickly.

  Maggie knew what Eliza would be thinking and willed her not to say anything, not to start trouble now, when Robbie’s safety was at stake.