From early on Rose had understood what was meant by the clap and roll of thunder, and as she sheltered under an awning, smoking, she contemplated making a dash for it, hoping that she wouldn’t get hit as the sky flashed and thunder bowled around her. As a child she knew a boy who was hit by lightning; the whole of her primary school attended his funeral and she had seldom ventured out in a storm since if she could avoid it.
There was another flash and, moments later, an angry burst, as loud as any day in the kitchen with Eliza banging around, and the echo carried for miles. It felt as if the city was trapped again, only captive to the weather instead of enemy fire, and she worried that people would be hurrying home; only she had to catch Mr Boyle before he left. She had spent most of the night awake, guilty about what was to become of Maggie and the restaurant, and determined that she should try and put things right. She hadn’t known about the notice period until Eliza had exploded at her yesterday, or how much worse she may have made things by insulting Mr Boyle after the luncheon. So, with the council offices only a few hundred yards further on, she trod on her cigarette, pulled her mackintosh hood over her head and ran across Canonbury Lane, striding along Upper Street until she was at Compton Terrace Gardens.
A noisy group, banners aloft, was crowded onto the steps, shuffling to get out of the rain. She crossed the road and followed them inside, where the foyer too was clogged with men and women bearing placards. They were filing into a hall where a sign read: HOTEL & CATERERS ASSOCIATION AGM.
She shook off the raindrops and pushed her way through the throng and into a hall with a small wooden stage on which sat four speakers: two women and a man whom Rose didn’t recognise, and Mr Boyle. One of the women was trying to respond to a question from a seated member of the audience, but heckling from the sides of the hall and the balcony above became increasingly loud, making it difficult for her to be heard. She paused for a moment, waiting for the barracking to subside.
‘I will say it once again. The policy is quite clear on this and the minister has stated it a number of times: if the local catering trade can demonstrate that there are enough catering establishments, and that they are adequate in capacity and price, then the government will see no need to set up a British Restaurant.’
The audience erupted in disagreement.
‘Well, why have they set up four new ones in the past six months then?’ a young woman shouted.
Rose was aware there had been a lot written in the press about the catering industry’s objections to British Restaurants, of the growing resentment because their access to supplies gave them an unfair advantage, but she’d had no idea that tensions were running so high.
Before the speaker had a chance to respond, Mr Boyle spoke up.
‘If you refer back to Circular CMF49, you will see that if there is any contention we are happy for an inspector to investigate. That has also been made very clear from the beginning.’
He had barely finished speaking when the same woman responded: ‘So even more money to be spent by council and taken away from private caterers!’
Mr Boyle didn’t look in the least agitated but Rose certainly was; all this anti-British Restaurant sentiment didn’t bode at all well for Maggie, or the decision Mr Boyle was due to make.
‘Yes, inquiries are expensive and as such will only be undertaken with consent from both parties, the ministry and the local authority, if the local catering association apply for one. But we will not be changing our policy at this stage as we have already had an extensive consultation period with the Hotel and Caterers Association.’
It was unlikely there was going to be a chance to talk to him now, and the crowd was so agitated that she wanted to leave, but Rose knew she had to try. She thought about Maggie and Eliza finishing off back at the restaurant and at her own feeble attempts to bake the daily special—of her embarrassment at the Frankenstein date and walnut pudding she had created. To make things worse she had used the primus oil cooker and got muddled with the temperature and overcooked it, which only added to its diabolical look and flavour. It would make all the difference if she apologised to Mr Boyle, but it didn’t look as if it would be easy. Her only opportunity might be to catch him on the way out, so she walked around the side of the room to get closer to the stage, hoping to catch his eye.
‘The talk in the press of a trade crisis between private caterers and British Restaurants is a needless distraction,’ Mr Boyle carried on. ‘The truth is that the public needs both. There is a need for meals outside the home and private caterers are already supplying more than fifty thousand meals a week to workers, but in some areas this is not enough. We must finish now, so I want to say thank you to our guests: Mrs Wight from the Association of Purveyors of Light Refreshments, Mr Hale from the National Caterers Association, Miss . . .’
As he continued to thank the panel Rose couldn’t help but think how sincere his presentation had been and how she believed what he said; she wasn’t sure that Maggie and Eliza’s idea that he had disrupted their supplies to save face with the private caterers could really be true.
Then the speakers were leaving the stage and the rowdy gathering began to disperse. Rose squeezed past, trying to keep Mr Boyle in sight, but she was like a swimmer swept away by an outflowing tide, unable to reach the shore. Then she spotted him, shaking hands with the other panel members, a brief exchange before striding away.
She pushed harder, elbows meeting flesh, until she reached the edge of the crowd and hurried after him.
‘Mr Boyle? Mr Boyle!’
He carried on walking and she fell into step beside him.
‘Mr Boyle, I didn’t mean to be rude or imply anything when we last met, I was just sticking up for Maggie.’
‘Just as you should, Miss Barnard, just as you should.’
He seemed quite calm as he walked, unflustered by the rabble or by seeing her again.
‘I’ve come to apologise, Mr Boyle,’ Rose continued, struggling to match his pace. ‘I should never have said those things and they certainly shouldn’t reflect on Maggie. I hope you will consider that when you make your decision.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Please, Mr Boyle,’ Rose begged. ‘Will you accept my apology?’
At last he stopped and turned to face her.
‘Emily was a very talented cook too. She also trained at Westminster Training College. She would have done exactly what Maggie has. Don’t worry, Rose, Maggie will be fine.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’ Puzzled, she searched his face for a clue.
‘The family that isn’t going to be there for me at the end of the war, the one that I can’t make plans for . . .’
Her blundering interference gradually dawned on her and she gasped. ‘Oh, Mr Boyle, I am so sorry.’
‘Not another casualty of war—Emily died during childbirth. Our child died too. That is why we aren’t all waiting and hoping for the end of the war, Rose; some of us would prefer to hold on to the past.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Boyle. I really am. Please, can you forgive me for everything I said?’
Nothing, and then the glimmer of a smile; a sunrise on a grey horizon.
‘Remember, Rose,’ he said. ‘Sometimes the past is what’s most important, but it’s the future that you have control over.’
He was looking straight at her and it suddenly struck her that she understood exactly what he meant. She appreciated her past too, so perhaps she should go back to what she had enjoyed. She had so wanted to help Maggie with the restaurant, but it wasn’t working, and Rose knew that she had been a good sales assistant. Janek would never be interested in her, so that was it; Rose had made up her mind—it would be best for everyone if she just left.
Chapter Thirty-three
BRAISING:
Braising can be used for large or small joints, as
well as for chops or pieces of steak. Meat cooked in
this way is always tender and has a lovely flavour
fro
m the vegetables which are cooked with it.
Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 16
Eliza emerged from the storeroom red-faced and empty-handed. She had been up and down on the ladder trying to find ingredients but there was hardly anything left.
‘It’s all gone, even the powdered egg.’
‘But there were two tins of Made In A Tick sitting right next to the Miller’s yesterday!’ Maggie shook her head. She was sure she’d seen them; she remembered thinking how they would have to make do with an egg custard if there weren’t enough ingredients for the thrifty Christmas pudding.
‘Well, they’re not there now. One of the other cooks must have used them.’
Eliza had a point; since compulsory conscription had been introduced at the end of November, most of the trained cooks had left and they hadn’t had time to show the new ones where everything was and they were making all sorts of silly mistakes.
‘Surely not . . .’
‘It’s going to be alright, Mags—you do know that, don’t you?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Maggie said, ‘but thank you.’
She wasn’t at all sure that anything was going to be alright, ever again. She hadn’t seen Janek since the night she’d asked him to leave, and Mr Boyle and the other divisional food officers were due the next day; it was the end of her notice period and they would be making their decision. She had finally told the rest of the staff and she wished she hadn’t; Tom and Maeve had been treating her as if she had some kind of illness and it felt as though they were all walking on eggshells—if only they had been lucky enough to get any! In response, she was trying even harder to make it look as if she wasn’t worried, and the strain was beginning to show. Thank goodness for Eliza, who was so distracted with booking the registry office and choosing her outfit that she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to everything else.
Maggie decided to have a look for herself, but once inside the storeroom she could see that it was hopeless, and the grey stone floor was so cold that she stood shivering, feeling as desolate as the empty shelves in front of her. It took the equivalent of two dozen eggs to make the quantity of mixture required for the puddings tomorrow. It wasn’t just the eggs, either; there was only one sack of sugar, a few tins of National Household skimmed milk and a single remaining packet of Bournville cocoa. With Christmas only weeks away, there was an unspoken agreement that they skimp on ingredients now in order to conserve a few pounds of sugar here and a few ounces of butter there to add to the festive table, but now they would have to forgo even that.
Not that Maggie was feeling particularly festive this year anyway. The only family she had left to celebrate Christmas with were Aunt Mary and Rose, and relations between them were somewhat strained at the moment. They’d had their usual Sunday afternoon tea on the weekend, and Maggie had finally tired of seeing her aunt putting Rose down; it was just too hypocritical after her visit to the restaurant, after what she had asked of Maggie.
‘See, Rose,’ Aunt Mary had said, talking through a mouthful of semolina pudding. ‘It warms the cockles of your heart this food does. You really should spend more time learning to cook.’
‘Why do you always do that?’ Maggie had said.
‘Do what?’
‘Criticise Rose by way of paying me a compliment.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ her aunt protested.
‘Yes you do. What happened? I don’t remember you being like this when we were growing up.’
Mary abruptly let go of the spoon and it clattered into the empty bowl. She sat back.
‘Something happened when your mother left, Maggie—not just to you kids and your poor old dad, but to all of us . . .’ She wasn’t looking at Maggie; she was staring into space as if she had conjured the image of her sister there.
‘We blamed ourselves, of course. If we’d been more help, more support to her after Ernest died, then she might never have gone. Me with only Rose and Joe to look after, I could have done more.’
‘So is that what this is all about—your guilty conscience?’
‘No, Maggie. Of course not . . .’
‘What then?’
‘Rose is so like your mother when she was young—I suppose I just don’t want her making the same mistakes.’
‘What mistakes? What are you talking about?’
‘Some things aren’t in our control, Maggie. There are things that happen to us by other people’s hand, not by our own doing.’
‘I’ve never heard you talk like this before,’ Maggie said, shaking her head in exasperation. ‘What’s it got to do with Rose?’
Rose stood up. ‘Don’t, Maggie, please . . .’
But Maggie went on. ‘Surely Mum leaving should have made you appreciate each other—not punish Rose because you didn’t do enough to help your sister when you had the chance.’
When Mary turned towards her, the colour had drained from her face. ‘In God’s name, Maggie, I haven’t meant to—I’m not that cruel. Please don’t say that . . .’
Maggie had been angry; she wanted to leave her aunt sitting there alone in the chair feeling every bit as hopeless as she made Rose feel, but in the end she couldn’t. Mary was family, and all that she had. In the end she had apologised and told her that she didn’t believe her to be cruel, just thoughtless and a little unkind.
Maggie had only been standing in the storeroom for a few minutes recollecting, but the damp from the floor had made its way into her shoes and her toes were beginning to feel numb. Eliza was right, the powdered egg and flour had gone and so she retreated, also empty-handed. She sighed heavily as she slammed the storeroom door shut; it seemed that as soon as she dealt with a problem in one area, another sprang up somewhere else. It wasn’t just the notice period and tomorrow’s lunch she had to worry about; now she had to work out how she was going to get her regulars the Christmas meal they deserved.
Robbie was relieved his guts felt back to normal after all the pain and embarrassing stuff that had been going on. And he couldn’t believe his ma had agreed to come back to the city; now they would all be there when his dad came back and he would be really proud when he found out how hard Robbie had worked and all he had done for Maggie. He was going to surprise her now, skipping school to follow the instructions Janek had left him for keeping pests out of the sacks of potato and seed.
He thought Maggie would be pleased to see him, but she didn’t even say hello when he entered the kitchen. It seemed to be taking longer than he had hoped for her to forgive him for keeping the secret about his ma and sisters.
‘So you get free time on Wednesdays and Fridays now?’ she said without looking up from the cookbook she was reading.
‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘They call it community service. We’re supposed to . . . to do an old lady’s shopping or something, so I come and help you.’
‘Cheeky monkey! Although since you put it like that, I can see the benefit to the community.’
‘Good, that’s what Ma said too.’
‘How are your mother and sisters?’
‘They’re fine. Ma keeps asking after you though. I think she’s waiting for an invitation.’
Maggie looked surprised. ‘She doesn’t need an invitation. She can come in any time.’
‘Thanks, I’ll tell her. What you doing anyway?’
Something smelled good and although he hadn’t felt much like it after the food poisoning, it was his duty to try out all her recipes again now, especially the new ones.
‘We’ve got a special lunch tomorrow so I’m braising some brisket.’
‘If you’re such a good cook, why does it take you so long to cook the meat?’
‘God bless him,’ Eliza said, running her hand over his shorn head. ‘Have you not picked up anything since you’ve been here?’
‘The reason is that some cuts need to be cooked long and low so they don’t toughen up,’ Maggie explained. ‘Braising releases the fat and the flavour, keeping the meat moist.’
> ‘So what’s the difference between slow-roasting and braising?’ he asked, moving to where Eliza stood, her thick tongs turning meat that sizzled in the bottom of a deep pan.
She pointed at the wire rack where a batch of freshly baked rolls cooled, indicating that he should take one. Who was he to turn her down?
Eliza said, ‘Slow-roasting doesn’t need liquid while you’re cooking but braising does. And you have to brown the meat first, to seal in the juices.’
‘Fatty meat makes a greasy dish, so we trim the fat off beforehand and render it to make dripping,’ Maggie added.
‘I’ve seen Ma do that. It’s bloomin’ lovely on toast.’
He remembered how his dad liked to eat it for Sunday tea with loads of pepper sprinkled on top.
Maggie picked up a soup ladle and skimmed a thin layer of fat from the oversized copper saucepan. ‘When it’s cooled down, I’ll strain it and you’ll be able to lift off the whole layer of dripping.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Couple of hours . . . you should have a go, see if you can lift it in one piece. It’s just like the ice on top of a frozen pond.’
‘If I can do it, will you let me have some?’
‘Yes.’
‘With hot toast?’
‘I don’t see why not.’ Maggie smiled.
It was about as interesting as watching paint dry but he could hardly wait for the two hours to be up and eventually lifted the top off without a single crack.
Maggie kept her promise and made him two rounds of thick toast, whopping great big doorsteps of crusty white bread, and he settled onto the end of a bench in the dining hall watching as leaves blew in and danced around him every time the door opened. He didn’t want to stop eating in order to move so he just stayed there, freezing, the cold reminding him of his long walk back to their new home on the other side of the Holloway Road.
Afterwards, he went to find Maggie to thank her, finally tracking her down to a quiet corner of the kitchen. Hoisting himself up onto the workbench next to her, he watched as her knife worked rapidly and he asked all sorts of questions about the locals and told her about the revolting mock fishcakes his ma had made, until he couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.
Maggie’s Kitchen Page 28
