Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘How come Janek doesn’t come here anymore?’

  ‘He doesn’t need to. There’s nothing for him to do now.’

  ‘I don’t mean outside; I thought he helped in here?’

  ‘He used to, but I’ve got Eliza and Maeve, so we don’t really need him.’

  ‘Is everything alright?’

  He could tell it wasn’t; she wouldn’t even look at him.

  ‘Why ever would you ask that? Of course it is!’

  ‘I might be a kid, but I’m not stupid.’

  She exhaled and then looked up at the ceiling before she turned to him.

  ‘I know you’re not, Robbie, but I don’t know what to say. Things just get a bit more complicated when you’re older.’

  ‘So you would like to see him?’

  She looked as if she wanted to say something but was thinking about it really carefully.

  ‘Yes, I would like to—very much, in fact. But I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just can’t.’

  He didn’t understand; he wanted to see his dad but he couldn’t because he didn’t know where he was. Maggie knew exactly where to find Janek.

  ‘I know he’s not coming back, you know.’

  Maggie looked confused at first, but then her expression changed. ‘Your dad?’

  ‘I’m pretending for Ma’s sake. I still go down to the docks, see his old friends, but I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Robbie; the war’s been hard on all of us.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be though—you still have a choice.’

  ‘No, Robbie, I don’t. Just like you know about your dad, I know I can’t see Janek.’

  He shifted along the bench so he was close and she couldn’t avoid looking at him anymore.

  ‘Why, though? I don’t understand. If you want to see Janek, you can just go over to the railyard.’

  ‘I know, Robbie.’

  ‘You say you can’t see him, but how would you really feel if you could never, ever, ever see him again? If he went away and never came back?’

  He worried that he’d gone too far because she was just staring at him, not blinking, like her mind was a million miles away. And then she leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Thank you, Robbie. You might be only a kid, but you really are much smarter than me.’

  ‘Am I forgiven then—for lying to you about Ma?’

  ‘Yes, Robbie, you’re forgiven.’

  ‘In that case, can I get some more bread and dripping . . . please?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked towards the window where the howling winds swirled snow like confetti and he shivered.

  ‘And can I stay here tonight—one last time?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck . . .’

  At first he thought the answer would be no, until she took the pocket watch out of her apron pocket and handed it to him.

  ‘Just make sure you’re not late for school. And don’t touch anything!’

  He smiled, pleased with himself.

  ‘And Robbie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This really is the last time . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-four

  IF AN AIR RAID SIGNAL TAKES

  YOU FROM THE KITCHEN:

  First thing to do is to stop the heat,

  turn off the gas or electric and close the

  dampers of the kitchen range. If you

  do this, the food cannot get burnt.

  Ministry of Food, Food Facts

  Mrs Bevan said they predicted snow so Maggie wasn’t surprised by the small flurry of snowflakes. It was still light, melting as soon as it hit the ground, but it could change in a short space of time and Robbie could be caught in the thick of it, a long cold walk alone in the dark. One last time sleeping here wouldn’t hurt; Maggie had managed to get word to his mother, and Mr Boyle and the others wouldn’t be arriving until midday, by which time he would be long gone.

  The assistants had left already and the dining hall was empty except for piles of gleaming white plates and cups that looked like giant meringues. In her mind’s eye, though, Maggie could still see Maeve and Gillian spooning out the day’s specials and chatting with the customers, Tom at the register taking money, and Rose doing her level best to clear the tables in time for the next influx. She could also picture Mary Bevan in her usual spot with her morning cuppa and the market workers piling through the door and hurrying to finish their meals so they could get back before their short break was over. Even the girls from the depots and factories nearby had a favourite place they liked to sit—and God help anyone who tried to sit there in their stead. Her staff had become like family over these past months but so too had the customers she had got to know.

  As she turned to leave, the Tower of London mural caught her eye and the tiny detail of the stone turrets; it too had once been someone’s grand vision and had stood for centuries despite the fires and wars. Maggie’s Kitchen may not be an imposing monument, but it was just as important to its customers now and she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away. Why had it taken so long for her to realise? Mr Boyle was threatened by her. She thought back over all the conversations they’d had and the way he was always trying to make himself look smarter than her, smarter than everyone else. Well, she wasn’t going to let him stand in her way. If he wouldn’t let her carry on, she would appeal. If she lost the appeal, then she would go directly to the ministry. And Robbie was right: she did have a choice; he couldn’t see his father but she could see Janek.

  She pulled out the picture of the Black Madonna and turned it over; she had read the Mazovian poem dozens of times and knew it by heart: True love requires courage and triumphs in the friendship it brings.

  She wondered where he was on this cold and friendless night; probably sitting alone in his tiny wooden hut. Nothing was ever going to happen between him and Rose, so why should she be responsible for Rose’s happiness? Wasn’t she entitled to some of her own? She and Janek had a chance, unlike Gillian and so many others—but she would need to hurry, and hope to God that she wasn’t already too late.

  He stacked his belongings against the wall of the hut: two bags of clothes and bedding that he would send for when the time was right. For now, he was leaving with all that he’d had when he arrived—barely enough to fill a small knapsack. Stefan hadn’t made it clear what they had planned for him next, but he preferred it this way; he wouldn’t be able to share anything if he was caught. He had fulfilled his task without a hitch, but they hadn’t been pleased when they had to change the delivery location at the last minute, nor with the fact that he hadn’t followed their instructions. At least once he was gone there would be no distractions, no Malgorzata to consider; his only concern would be getting the job done.

  Janek took a final glance around; the seedling trays lay empty on the workbench, the metal equipment and tools lined up alongside. He was tired and his bones ached from cold since he had been up most of the night mending broken equipment and ensuring that the seeds were labelled and correctly stored. There would be someone coming to take over as soon as a replacement could be found, he had made sure of that, and that the railway company knew what in the gardens and allotments needed looking after. He had laid the old transmitter and headphones out with a note for Robbie in case the boy came looking for him. Robbie had always been so intrigued by the machine, and not just for the spare parts; he really seemed to want to understand how it worked. Janek was convinced Robbie would be an engineer one day and would follow in his father’s footsteps. He walked over to the small metal wall cabinet and picked up a miniature motorcycle fashioned from scrap metal. Robbie had sat cross-legged on the floor listening to Janek’s stories of motorcycle adventures with his brothers, his fingers nimbly working the small pliers to manipulate the springs and wires into shape. Janek was about to put it back when he hesitated. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around the model then slid it back into his pocket.

  When he’d arrived here he
had felt lost and broken, but now he was restored and felt as strong a pull to stay as a reason to go. He wasn’t ready to leave, but he must prepare himself for whatever lay ahead.

  He picked up his knapsack and crossed to the open doorway, the snow thickening into flurries that hopefully would not prevent his train from leaving. Poland could not be his home for the time being but he had to hold on to the thought that one day it would, and there was one last stop to make before he left. Even though Maggie had told him she didn’t want to see him, he had to tell her how he felt; he needed do that before he left.

  The worst thing about staying at Maggie’s was listening to the rats scratching around under the floorboards and scrapping inside the walls’ cavities. Robbie imagined them finding a hole nearby and squeezing through, and him waking in the morning to find his fingers missing. He pulled the blankets further up around him and tried to distract himself by thinking about food. The best thing about staying here was the possibility of a midnight feast, but he had been banished from the kitchen. Extra prep was laid out for the special lunch the next day and he had been ordered not to tamper with any of it. Maggie had looked so tired that he hadn’t even bothered to cross his fingers behind his back as he promised not to; this time he really wouldn’t leave the office. The pocket watch she had given him was uncomfortable in his pocket so he pulled it out and propped it against the pillow. There was no way he could miss it there and he would be up and out as promised and no one would even know he had been here.

  The Morrison shelter had been furnished with a second-hand mattress, an eiderdown and assorted knitted blankets that Rose had brought from home and which at that exact moment he was extremely grateful for. He put the last of his sweets in his mouth, licked his fingers and tucked them back beneath the covers where the rats couldn’t get them.

  Still, sleep didn’t come quickly. The usual night-time noises seemed louder than usual; the strong wind dragging debris along the street, branches scratching against the window, clawing to get in, and there was a low hissing noise coming from somewhere inside the kitchen. His neck bent crooked as he strained to hear the source but it kept coming and going, intermittently drowned out by other sounds.

  His lids were too heavy, his yawns more frequent. He had promised not to enter the kitchen, so whatever it was it could wait until the morning now; he would ask Maggie about it then.

  Her fingers skimmed across the brickwork, nails catching on the rough edges, slowing down as the solid wall disappeared with the pathway to a house.

  The walk from the restaurant to the railyard only took ten minutes by daylight, but tonight it was taking much longer, guided as she was only by her memory and the touch of the walls. She had run as much of the way as she could but now she walked, eager as she was to get there without being careless on the fresh, squeaky snow.

  When she reached the junction to the main road she knew it was only a few hundred feet south to the bridge and the stairway down. No cars had passed her the whole way but now she waited, shivering, as a small fleet of late commuters travelled past on the New North Road, their dimmed headlights creating freckles of light in the snow.

  Her footsteps were unnaturally loud on the stone steps, her heart beating faster as she imagined Janek’s reaction when she told him how she felt, his expression changing from surprise to relief when he realised her feelings mirrored his own.

  But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the place looked deserted. There were no plants climbing trellises or flowering beds; the gardens were bare and Janek was nowhere to be seen.

  There was a rustling ahead and she rushed forward, hopeful, but it was only a cat chasing another animal through the dirt.

  She walked the rest of the way to the signal hut and stood with her ear against the flimsy wooden door, listening for the sound of him moving about inside. It was pitch black and all she could hear was the creak and groan of the old building shifting in the wind.

  There was no point in knocking; she knew that he had gone.

  Janek felt the tremor as he walked towards Essex Road and minutes later heard sirens before the two fire engines roared past. It wasn’t until he was closer that he noticed the strange orange glow up ahead, as though the sun had chosen to set again.

  He was breathless from running by the time he reached the restaurant, despite the slight limp that usually slowed him down. The emergency crews had just arrived and the onlookers were penned behind cordons, spooky silhouettes against the amber sky. Beyond them, the front of Maggie’s Kitchen appeared to be still standing, but at the back only part of the kitchen still stood, the rest of the building tilting down into a shallow crater. As he drew closer, Janek saw the dining hall begin to collapse, a piece of the wall mural teetering precariously, Big Ben about to be engulfed in flame.

  Smoke stung his eyes and the rage of the fire was deafening, but all he could think was that Maggie could be somewhere inside.

  Weaving through the crowd, he ducked beneath the cordon, raised his arms up in front of him and walked towards the building’s collapsing shell.

  Flames stung his skin and smoke scorched his lungs as the long feathers of fire flickered out from its centre. The firemen shouted for him to stay back, but what if she was still in there?

  He had deserted those he cared about once before. He would never do that again.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  During the past few years we have discovered how

  good a daily green salad can be. People who tell

  you that they feel much better now that they eat

  salads are not just food faddists. They are stating

  a fact that has been proved over and over again.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 12

  Maggie often thought about Ernest but never as strongly as her memory of him now; he was in crumpled clothes, his light brown hair ruffled as if he had just got out of bed. He was towing his billycart in one hand and holding a slab of bread in the other, chewing as he walked away, ignoring her pleas for him to wait for her. Just another minute and she would be able to go with him—look after him as she had promised her mother she would. She could see him clearly now as she wandered through the emergency workers at the depot at Islington Green, and he felt like part of the dream that she was having. It was as if she was watching herself searching among the tents at the depot and pulling back the tarpaulins to see if Robbie was inside.

  She had sensed that something was wrong as she left Janek’s, feeling a growing unease, and then the smoke had come into view: thick choking clouds of it, the stench reaching her before she even crossed the road. Essex Road was cordoned off and it was difficult to see through to the fire trucks parked outside, so she pushed past the barriers, following the trail of the hose to where the firemen stood struggling under its weight as they directed it into the flames.

  The fire had roared uncontrollably, flames dancing across the rooftop, in and out the windows, leaping up and down the restaurant walls.

  ‘Miss, you can’t go in there!’

  ‘But what about Robbie?’

  She felt someone holding her back and she struggled to break free.

  ‘There’s no one in there,’ the fireman said. ‘No one at all.’

  She wanted to believe him. There had been no air raids tonight, no incendiaries or explosions; no clue as to what could have caused this.

  Slowly more people had arrived, locals with their kind faces and soothing voices. Her landlady, Mrs Foster, had appeared, then Mr and Mrs Fox appeared, and Mrs Armstrong. Next came Henry and Julia, arm in arm, and they stood with her in silence and watched the timbers burn. After a while she felt Rose beside her and heard her cousin’s quiet sobbing as she reassured Maggie that she would always be there for her, no matter what.

  With the embers still smouldering she moved closer until she could see across to where the dining hall once stood; only a few chairs remained, the rest of them reduced to charred fragments on the floor with fla
ttened tables or submerged beneath the collapsed ceiling beams.

  One of the firemen shouted at her, warning her to move back.

  ‘It’s my restaurant,’ she said urgently. ‘I need to see if there’s anyone there.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re King George, you’re not allowed in!’

  ‘Have you seen the warden? Have you seen Bill Drummond?’

  ‘He went with the boy.’

  ‘A boy? You found a boy?’

  ‘One lucky lad,’ the fireman confirmed.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘Got to him just in time,’ added the second fireman.

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘They took him to the depot.’

  Now, she glanced down to the end of the row where the last tent stood; he had to be there. It was then that she saw her—the woman from the restaurant, the one who always left before Maggie had the chance to talk to her or to get a proper look.

  The woman made no attempt to move this time, and as she drew closer, Maggie, who’d had her suspicions before, knew without a doubt; the resemblance was uncanny. The face was so familiar but the eyes were paler than she remembered, her lips thinner and the once-taut skin now sagging in soft folds.

  ‘Maggie, you’re safe!’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie said simply.

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘It is you then?’ Was she hallucinating or was it really her mother?

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry about your restaurant. It was such a wonderful place.’

  So she had been right all along; her mother had been into the restaurant.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Not long, but I’ve always known how you are.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mary. I got in touch with her a few years ago. I always knew you would be alright, Maggie—but I want to give you something. I think you might need it now.’