‘Janek!’
At first he couldn’t make out where the voice was coming from, but then he saw Stefan waving at him from a doorway on the other side of the room.
He greeted him briskly and Janek took his altered manner to mean that this was the meeting he had been waiting for, so he followed the other man without question.
Stefan led him down a dim musty stairwell into the basement, the voices and laughter fading as the narrow corridor took them much further than the length of the rooms of the club upstairs. The odour of stale nicotine and beer was overtaken by an intense briny smell, and as they passed the kitchen he caught a glint of silver scales as a chef plunged a fish into a pot of boiling water.
They passed open storerooms on the left and closed doors on their right, until the air seemed to vanish altogether and they were at the end of the corridor.
Stefan opened the door ahead of him and motioned for Janek to enter.
It was some kind of storeroom, with racks of shelving and upturned crates. He could see Filip and Fryderyk sitting together with another man he didn’t recognise; there was no sign of Bartek.
Stefan addressed the stranger.
‘Franciszek, you have not yet met Janek . . .’
The storeroom was claustrophobic with low ceilings, and Janek had to bend down to shake Franciszek’s hand, dispensing with their usual formal greeting. The low lighting made grim caricatures of his comrades; unshaven, dark circles beneath their eyes and mouths set firm. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t want to trust any of them, but he knew better now; he knew that these were brave men.
There were only upturned crates to serve as table and chairs, so Janek lowered himself onto one of them and waited for Stefan to speak.
‘You had some trouble getting in?’
‘They took my papers. They said they would return them on the way out.’
‘That is good. It will be for your identification—all you need now are photographs.’
He didn’t know what Stefan was referring to, but had learned that it was best not to ask too many questions; the last time they had met, after the message Janek had received while at church, he had become frustrated, told them that they were running out of time. But Stefan had warned him that he would be replaced if he wasn’t patient.
‘We have a delivery coming,’ Stefan said now, without preamble, ‘and we need you to meet it.’
‘What is it?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘The delivery needs to be stored for a few days. At the restaurant.’
‘What?’ Janek hadn’t known what to expect but it certainly wasn’t this. ‘I’m not sure that is such a good idea.’
‘Why? You and this woman are lovers, are you not?’
‘No, we are friends—but that’s not it. She would want to know what it was . . . I would have to lie.’
‘What are you saying, Janek? Are you not willing to help? Is this woman more important to you than your countrymen now, more important than Dimitri?’ Stefan’s eyes had become cold.
‘Of course not. It’s the authorities that are the problem. There are constant inspections and visits from the local government—it’s too risky.’
Stefan stood up and paced for a few moments; this clearly wasn’t the response he had anticipated.
‘You are sure?’ he asked.
Janek nodded.
He’d barely had time to consider his response, and it surprised even him; despite his denial, he was putting Maggie first—but it couldn’t be any other way.
Stefan was looking at him now, his eyes calculating.
Janek held the other man’s stare; he was committed to the Union for Armed Struggle and all that the Polish resistance stood for, but he had let the people he loved down once before and would never let it happen again. After tonight, he was certain that Maggie shared his feelings; he would not put at risk all that she had worked for.
Stefan finally looked back at the other men.
‘The Germans have captured Kerch and the Panzers are advancing on Moscow; it could be only a matter of days before it is under German control.’
Stefan had been talking to all of them but now he focused his attention on Janek and spoke very slowly.
‘Nobody really knows how the new Polish army will fare in the Soviet Union . . . I think you would agree that our army deserves our support.’
‘We can use the railyard,’ Janek replied. ‘The access there is easier, the road wider and more discreet.’
‘Yes, we considered this, but there are some places that are more easily observed than others. You must find a way to make the restaurant work. We are all depending on you, Janek. Especially your brother.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
GOOD FOOD LEADS TO GOOD HEALTH:
It is very important that we should under-
stand the part that food plays in our lives
and so be able to choose an adequate diet
from the foods that are available.
Ministry of Food, Foods for Fitness
She lay awake most of the night, watching the moonlight dance across the wall and ceiling, and listening to the footsteps of the ARP warden on his rounds. She replayed the evening in her mind, thoughts quickly returning to the naturalness of it and the ease of their conversation. The effect of his physical presence had surprised her; sitting close to him for hours as they had never done before, legs occasionally brushing, their bodies only inches apart; it had been exhilarating but she had also been excited when he suggested things that they could do together in the future, places they could go. Now she felt quite certain that his feelings were as strong as hers.
Eventually, she threw back the eiderdown and dressed, so early that even Matilda wasn’t awake when she left, the coop uncharacteristically quiet and free of the familiar scratching noise.
It was still dark as she crossed Essex Road and the wind thrashed branches against neighbouring buildings, sending dead twigs and leaves spiralling to the ground.
She had to force the restaurant door closed against the wind and only then realised how weak her arms felt and how little energy she had left. It had been her habit to get to the restaurant at five in the morning and leave at eight at night, but now, with only two weeks of her notice left, she couldn’t leave anything to chance. The paperwork needed to be up to date, the inventories complete, accounts all filed and the kitchen hygiene faultless. Then there were also the mobile canteens that she had to staff and supply, and while she had adhered to every condition of the notice so far, she wanted to make sure there was nothing that Mr Boyle could catch her out on.
Even though the kitchen was empty, the smell of roasted meats and syrupy puddings lingered and the bare worktops gleamed as if they knew how prized they were. She could still hear the cook assistants’ voices, the unguarded laughter and the shouting when the pressure was on, and she could picture Eliza standing against the worktop she so coveted, the one right near the end with a view directly through to the restaurant so that she didn’t miss a thing.
Maggie was walking towards her office, her mind on the paperwork that awaited her, when a noise made her stop.
It was a scratching sound, coming from the other side of the wall, like a dog trying to find a bone.
She waited but there was no further sound so she carried on to her office and settled at her desk.
‘Three hundred and twenty-four . . .’
It had always helped her calculations to count out loud, but there was the scratching noise again; another quick burst and then nothing.
Goosebumps pricked her skin as she thought of the rats they waged a constant battle against that had proved too large for poor Rafferty.
The noise seemed to be coming from the storage cupboard, so she tiptoed slowly towards the doorway, then stopped to listen, hoping that it wouldn’t come again. But there it was, louder than before; too loud to be a rat.
A sliver o
f dawn light crept through the window, reflecting off the blades in the knife rack. She reached for the long carving knife and stepped softly back across the floor.
She took a deep breath; she was probably being silly. At worst it would be a large trapped rat; more likely it would be one of Tom’s practical jokes. She leaned forward and wrenched open the door.
Slumped on the floor, partly hidden by a dark oversized coat, lay a small, distorted shape. Light from the doorway fell across a barely recognisable face, features contorted and covered in tiny beads of sweat, eyes rolled upwards in the grip of fever. His breathing became more rapid as he pulled his feet up towards his stomach, gripping his knees and groaning.
‘Robbie?’ she gasped.
She dropped down beside him, pushing damp hair from his eyes, moving the coat away to reveal the sodden clothes beneath. Not just his shirt and jumper but the blanket that he was lying on were wet.
‘What is it, Robbie? What’s wrong?’
His answer came quickly as he vomited in several violent heaves.
Maggie stroked his back until eventually he slumped exhausted to the floor.
She needed wet towels to wipe his face and rags to clean the floor where he lay. More than that, he needed a doctor. But when she moved to leave, he reached for her.
‘Please. Don’t go.’
‘I need to get help, Robbie. You’re very ill.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered.
‘Alright, I won’t go anywhere.’ So she stayed kneeling beside him, stroking his head, until he closed his eyes and all she could hear were small whimpering sounds. ‘Is there anything you need?’ she said after a short time.
‘Can you fetch Ma?’ he whispered.
‘What do you mean?’
His eyelids flickered, half-opening.
‘I’m sorry, Maggie—I lied to you . . .’
‘But you’re sick, Robbie. You’re not making any sense.’
He twisted round to look at her, his eyes finding her in the dim light. ‘I have a ma, and two sisters—they’re staying near Bristol. I just lied because I wanted to be here for Dad, and for you, Maggie. It was good being here—feeling part of things.’
‘But, Robbie, how could you? How could you not have told me about your mother—does she even know where you are?’
‘Yes,’ his voice was weaker now and he laid his head down across her lap. ‘I write to her most weeks . . . visit each month . . .’
Typical Robbie, trying to justify his behaviour, but this was unforgivable and hurtful. How could he have kept this from her—didn’t he care about the worry he had caused? But then she remembered their conversation in the garden after his birthday—hadn’t he been trying to tell her something about his family then?
‘She thinks I’m still at our old house, that the neighbours are looking out for me . . .’
Poor Robbie, and she felt partly to blame. How terribly wrong she had been to turn a blind eye, to let him remain on the streets, to help him evade the authorities and the police. She should have insisted they find him a home, forbid him from helping at the restaurant, and she never should have let him stay here.
‘I’m sorry, Robbie,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry . . .’
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Ministry of Food dried egg is pure fresh
egg with no additions and nothing but moisture
taken away. It is pure egg, spray dried. Eggs
are a highly concentrated form of food. They
contain first-class body building material. They
also help us to resist colds and other infection
because of their high protective properties.
Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 11
As Eliza slid another batch of gingerbread from the oven, the mixed spice mingled with treacle and ginger, producing a fleeting memory of Christmas. The comforting smell had always reminded Maggie of her mother’s recipe, and she hadn’t made it for years because of it. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind, she went in search of Maeve.
After the morning’s downpour the dining hall was still empty, and with a gale forecast for the afternoon, it would be an ideal opportunity to continue her training. The transformation in Maeve had been quite unexpected; from being quite hopeless in the kitchen when Maggie had first met her at the radio factory, she was now working faster and more proficiently than any of them, and these days Maggie relied on her to help bring all the new kitchen hands up to speed and train them for the mobile canteens. In their quest to keep the cupboards stocked, Maggie had shown Maeve how to preserve—bottling fruits and vegetables, making sauces and ketchups, pickles and chutneys. There was no waste and hardly anything made it into the pig bin anymore thanks to Maeve’s exacting eye. It was the other reason Maggie had put her forward for the training scheme; while she had been reluctant to lose Maeve for a week, she couldn’t ignore the fact that the notice period was nearly up. If he wasn’t satisfied with what he found, Mr Boyle wouldn’t be giving her a second chance. At least with Maeve trained and ready, he wouldn’t need to look far for a replacement. It had not been without problems though; she had left the gas on overnight and Maggie had to go to great lengths to show her the safety routines—a gas explosion would be devastating.
Not that Maeve was perfect, of course; she had been responsible for the food-poisoning incident, since she had been the one to cook and store the rabbit curry that had felled Robbie—luckily it hadn’t been served to any customers. Poor Robbie, though, had been hospitalised before being sent home to his mother and sisters who were alive and well and living near Bristol.
She had felt so hurt and vulnerable that it was then that she decided to tell Eliza about Mr Boyle and the notice period. In the end it had proved to be a relief; Eliza was extraordinarily helpful, making sure she did everything to the letter and keeping the others in order without giving anything away. Maggie was still feeling terribly upset and a little angry with Robbie, despite remembering his trying to tell her that he didn’t need a new family, when her aunt arrived, unannounced and dripping wet.
‘It’s bitter out there, really bitter.’ She patted her coat down, sending droplets flying.
‘Aunt Mary, this is a surprise.’
‘Hope you don’t mind me just dropping in like this, but it couldn’t wait.’
‘Of course not. Here . . . sit down.’
‘Well, I’m just going to come straight out with it, if you don’t mind—no point beating around the bush. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful after all you have done for Rose, but I don’t think she should work here anymore.’
‘What? Why ever not?’
‘Don’t you know, really?’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘Come on, Maggie, you know what I’m talking about. Poor Rose is heartsick over this fella, and I hear you’ve been out with him yourself—to The Savoy no less.’
‘Do you mean Janek? Yes, I did go to dinner with him, but it was a professional outing; we’d had an invitation from the chef there.’
‘Still, couldn’t you have let Rose go? You’ll have no trouble getting another fellow, Maggie, and Rose has really fallen for this one.’
Maggie didn’t know what to say. And to make matters worse, she hadn’t seen or heard from Janek since that evening. She was beginning to think she had imagined the whole thing!
‘That may be true, Aunt Mary, but there’s nothing I can do—not if he doesn’t feel the same way about Rose.’
‘It’s not just that, though, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, first you lure Rose away from a perfectly good job, a job that suited her well and with reasonable money, and you promised to teach her to cook. Then, after keeping her as a waitress and kitchen hand—a skivvy, for all intents and purposes—she then gets passed over for training in favour of someone else.’ Her aunt reached for her handkerchief and began dabbing at her eyes. ‘Are you not looking out for your
cousin at all?’
Maggie couldn’t look at her aunt; she had nothing to be guilty about, she had done nothing wrong, yet she felt ashamed.
‘What do you want me to do, Aunt Mary?’
‘If you care anything for Rose—and for me—you’ll give up any designs you have on this fella and leave him for Rose.’
Once her aunt had gone, Maggie went in search of Rose. She found her flicking through Picturegoer Weekly in the staffroom and she didn’t raise her head when Maggie entered.
‘Rose, I’m sorry you missed out on the training scheme this time,’ Maggie said, ‘but they will be offering it again. I’ll try my hardest to make sure your skills are up to scratch by then.’
Rose ignored her and continued leafing through the magazine.
‘You know what a valuable job you do here, don’t you?’ Maggie asked.
Finally Rose looked up at her. ‘I think I was better off at the shoe shop! I know you can’t treat me differently because I’m family, but you are harder on me than anyone else.’
‘That’s not true,’ Maggie cried.
‘It is, Maggie. And I never thought it before, but I do now: you are cruel. You know that you could have anyone, so why Janek? Why him?’ Her lower lip was trembling, just as it had when she was a child.
Maggie she sat down in the seat opposite and reached for her cousin’s hands.
Rose pulled away.
Maggie sighed. ‘I don’t want to upset you, Rose, but I don’t know what you want me to do.’
Rose pouted. ‘Do you always have to be the one to spend time with him? Isn’t there something he and I could work on together?’
Maggie thought of how naturally her days overlapped with Janek’s, of the interests they shared, the instinct for all things natural and a passion to succeed in what they were doing; she saw it in him and she knew he recognised the same qualities in her. She couldn’t imagine Rose being an equal to Janek in the same way, but she would never have the heart to say so.
Maggie’s Kitchen Page 26
