Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  Maggie couldn’t focus on what her mother was saying; she was still trying to absorb the fact that her aunt had known her mother’s whereabouts all along. Was that what she meant when she’d spoken of things that were beyond her control? And what about her cousin? Had she betrayed her too?

  ‘Did Rose know?’ Maggie demanded.

  ‘No, only Mary. I don’t expect you to understand, Maggie; I just want you to read this.’ She held out an envelope.

  Maggie reached for it, not sure if the moment was real or imagined, if it was her shocked mind conjuring the mother she had always missed to take care of her now or if she was really there. But when her fingers brushed across her mother’s hand, she knew the woman before her now was flesh and blood.

  Her mother’s hand closed around Maggie’s, pressing the letter inside.

  Then the firemen and volunteers started arriving, bringing salvaged bricks and timber from the fire to transport to the council depot on Calvin Road, reminding her why she was there.

  ‘I have to find Robbie,’ she said.

  For years after her mother left, Maggie imagined seeing her again, of a time when they would be reunited, discovering it had all been some terrible mistake, that her mother had had a good reason for leaving. After a while, though, she had stopped torturing herself with the belief she would come back, realising that it was pointless; she would be happier if she could put her mother out of her mind. After a while the memories faded and she daydreamed less and less.

  Standing here now it didn’t feel remotely like any of the scenes she had envisaged; she had no overwhelming desire to fling her arms around her mother or to tell her how much she had missed her.

  Yes, they were her mother’s eyes, as grey as stone, and as sad as she remembered them, but expectant too.

  ‘What did we do?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Nothing, love. You didn’t do anything . . .’

  Those few simple words and the years of imagining, a whole lifetime of blame and questions, and the emotion of the night; Maggie wanted to sink down, dissolve into the earth.

  ‘Why now, why after all this time?’

  ‘I thought you might need me.’

  She didn’t know what to say; there were dozens of times when she had needed her mother—when she was growing up, when Peter had gone—but now she had learned to cope on her own.

  As if her mother somehow sensed Maggie’s doubt, she moved closer, hands outstretched, seeking her daughter’s touch.

  ‘I know that I must seem cruel, but I thought that after all you have been through, I may be able to offer you the support and help that I’ve not been able to in the past . . .’

  Maggie opened her mouth to say something but only a small whimpering sound came out.

  ‘I shall never ask for your forgiveness or try to be your mother again, but I hope we can be friends.’

  The snow had stopped falling and she could see her mother clearly now.

  ‘But where have you been?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now; I can tell you that later. Just read the letter . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the deeds for the shop,’ she said, glancing across the green to where the three-storey Victorian building stood. ‘When your father died it came to me, since we were still legally married. He always meant for you three to have it, but with your brothers away I thought it would be of more use to you. Especially now.’

  Maggie looked at the envelope.

  ‘Mary told me that you had considered it for the restaurant . . . I knew you would be successful; you always were a marvellous cook.’

  ‘What about Edward and John, do they know?’

  ‘No. I’d like you to make sure they’re taken care of with jobs and somewhere to live when this ghastly war is over. I know that you have always put them first, better than I ever could, and for that I am so grateful to you, Maggie.’

  Her mother was fading, tears filling Maggie’s eyes, obscuring her vision.

  ‘You have grown into a wonderful woman and Edward and John into fine young men, and it is my great sadness that I cannot take any of the credit for it.’

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘That’s up to you. I’d like to stay, but I know you’ve had your share of pain. I don’t want to make things worse.’ She took a step closer. ‘Still, it has been unbearable for me, knowing that I’ve had to stay away all these years because I couldn’t be the mother that you all needed me to be.’

  Finally, the tears fell, silently streaking down Maggie’s face.

  ‘My address is in there when you are ready . . .’

  When Maggie finally wiped away the tears and looked up, her mother had gone and a fireman and warden were carrying a ladder across the place where she had just stood.

  It hadn’t been a dream though, the letter was clasped tightly in her hand and she could still hear her mother’s voice: I’ve had to stay away all these years because I couldn’t be the mother that you all needed me to be. She knew things had changed after Ernest died and suspected it had something to do with her mother’s dark moods and the bitter arguments that accompanied them, but now she knew for sure.

  As she remembered to breathe again, her disbelief gave way to an unconscious surge of relief. She didn’t feel helpless anymore; she had a future after all. What Mr Boyle decided or even what the newspapers said didn’t matter; with these deeds she could open Maggie’s Kitchen again, give the locals what they wanted and cook whatever she pleased.

  And her mother had come back.

  It was then that she felt a gentle nudge against her leg and looked down to see Spoke.

  As soon as she reached the tent she tore through the canvas entrance, walking straight past nurses and medical trolleys, searching the line of occupied beds until she came to the last one.

  He sat up on the stretcher when he saw her, sending blankets cascading to the floor as he reached out.

  ‘Dear God, Robbie!’ She held back, afraid to touch him. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Just a few cuts . . .’

  His clothes were torn and bloodied but he was in one piece, and he wore a smile she thought she would never see again.

  ‘You’ve got more lives than Rafferty,’ she said, hugging him at last.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. One minute I was taking Spoke outside for a pee, then there was this huge explosion . . . I couldn’t see through the flames but I didn’t touch anything, Maggie, honestly. I didn’t even go in there—I never went into the kitchen. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s fine, Robbie, I believe you. No one is blaming you.’

  ‘I was scared, Maggie. All those times I said I was okay on my own but I wasn’t really. I’m chicken . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, but you’re not chicken, Robbie, never say that. You are one of the bravest people I have ever met.’

  ‘I suppose I’m gonna have to sleep at home from now on?’

  ‘I think that’s probably a good idea.’

  He handed her the pocket watch.

  ‘It still works; I checked.’

  She looked at it for a moment and then slid it into her coat pocket.

  ‘It’s such a relief that no one else was hurt.’

  ‘Except for Janek . . .’

  ‘Janek?’

  ‘Yes—he rescued me.’

  She hadn’t noticed anyone else until now but then she followed Robbie’s gaze to the corner of the tent, where the sides strained against the strong winds and a figure leaned forward out of the shadows.

  ‘It was lucky I came to say goodbye.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘But where are you going?’

  ‘To France first . . .’

  He moved unsteadily towards her, his singed clothing now visible, forearms thickly bandaged.

  ‘Janek rescued me from the fire.’

  Robbie sounde
d proud but her attention was still on Janek. She had thought she would never see him again but here he was, and every bit the hero he had never thought himself to be.

  ‘Are your injuries bad?’

  ‘They are not too serious.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to go now, surely. How would you even get there?’

  ‘The same way I came.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Across to Kresy.’

  ‘You’ll be killed!’

  It was a conversation they had had before, but how could she let him go now, when he was injured—and before she had told him how she felt?

  ‘I thought you understood; I must try to find my brother. There’s nothing I can do here.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do there either. You’ll be just one more casualty, and what for? Wouldn’t he prefer it if you stayed alive?’

  Surely he couldn’t really think he should still go, but his expression hardened; it was like talking to the stranger she’d first met.

  ‘When people are desperate they don’t always think about what is right.’

  There was a flicker of the old Janek again as he came closer.

  ‘Would you rather chase chances or certainties?’ she asked.

  She waited for him to answer, able to see him clearly now, those glacial eyes that made him look as if he were bound to nature and everything in it.

  ‘We all prefer certainties, but there aren’t any.’

  ‘There is one,’ she said.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘That I love you.’

  He said nothing in reply but she didn’t regret saying it; it had freed her and she wanted to tell him again, only louder.

  ‘I love you.’

  A smile, and then confusion clouded his face. ‘But you told me to go . . .’

  ‘Of course I did; Rose has feelings for you. I didn’t want her to get hurt.’

  ‘Does that change things? Would you still rather I left?’

  ‘No. Unless you need to go . . .’

  ‘She is your family; you want to do what is best for her too.’

  Perhaps she had misjudged him or was being selfish thinking that his loyalty to his family was less important than his feelings for her. She wanted to protect him, nourish him in the same way he had helped her. She remembered the Black Madonna and the prayer card: True love requires courage and triumphs in the friendship it brings. He had helped her emotionally with his support and friendship, and now she was ready to love again, unconditionally—and if that meant waiting for him to come back, she would.

  ‘I’m sorry, of course you must do what’s right for your family,’ she told him.

  There was a distant grumble of anti-aircraft fire from the far side of the city and they both looked up. It might not be long before they were ushered into the underground, the wail of the siren banishing any chance they might have to say goodbye.

  ‘Maggie . . .’

  ‘You must also think of yourself, Janek.’

  ‘I know, I—’

  The gunfire was fainter now, but she still had to move closer to hear him.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said I love you, Maggie.’

  His body was only inches away, the smell of smoke on his clothing and the warmth of his breath on her face. And as the gunfire faded and the night clamped down, all thoughts of him leaving vanished like the dusk.

  Whatever the future held, she could face it, because for now, they were together.

  Afterword

  On Tuesday, 13 January 1942, The Times reported:

  Lord Woolton assured caterers yesterday that before any more British Restaurants opened the Ministry of Food will consult the trade. A deputation representing seven associations of the industry discussed with him for three hours the effect of British Restaurants on the livelihood of caterers. The Minister replied that British Restaurants had been brought into existence solely to meet a wartime need, and he saw no reason to anticipate their continued existence after the emergency.

  On Saturday, 22 August 1942, The Times editorialised:

  The British Restaurant is one of the most interesting social developments of the war. Community feeding has obvious advantages in wartime. It is economical of fuel, food, equipment, labour, and transport. It provides an auxiliary emergency service, which can put lull periods to use in training people for disciplined action under attack. And—perhaps its greatest long-range value—it lessens the part played by income in determining nutritional levels in the community . . . In their early days the establishment aroused suspicion among private caterers, who were apt to view these non-profit-making and often volunteer-staffed undertakings as unfair competitors. Yet the catering trade has been helped rather than injured by their development. It is the people who formerly ate at home, not those who sought other caterers, that communal feeding has won over by its service. By inducing more people to eat out and by encouraging them to sample unfamiliar dishes, much has been done to tap a new source of customer for the trade.

  Maggie’s recipes

  Hopefully you are suitably hungry now and eager to attempt one of Maggie’s dishes; the following are all original recipes from the Second World War contemporised for modern tastes. The wonderful thing about these recipes is that although they were once suitable for feeding a fighting nation, many of them are still popular and combine fresh unprocessed ingredients. They include seasonal fruits and vegetables that you can grow at home or source from your local farmers’ market or supermarket. This back-to-basics approach to cooking is also surprisingly practical; the recipes are both quick and economical as you only need a limited number of ingredients. By the end of the war there were only two hundred and fifty food products on supermarket shelves—now there are two hundred and fifty thousand! It makes you wonder how many of them we really need and what they all contain.

  So, whether you are part of a book club taking it in turns to make a dish, cooking for friends or family, or just having a go at how your grandmother used to cook, put your food processors away, roll up your sleeves and enjoy the simple art of cooking.

  CHURCHILL’S RAREBIT

  While toasted oatmeal or mashed potato were sometimes added to bulk out this traditional dish, the addition of mustard gives it an extra kick. The ultimate comfort food; a great lunch served with Maggie’s turnip top salad (see recipe from chapter eleven, below), a perfect afternoon tea on its own, or slice tomatoes or crispy bacon and arrange on top for a tasty brunch. It’s best with a good soft white bread or sourdough for the great plump texture.

  4 slices bread

  2 tsp butter, softened

  2 dstsp milk

  4 tbsp grated cheese

  ½ tsp Colman’s mustard powder

  Mix the butter, milk, cheese and mustard powder and coat the top of the bread, then place under the grill until bubbling hot and golden brown. Serves 2–4.

  NETTLE SOUP

  If there isn’t any decent woodland nearby to go foraging in, or it just hasn’t been a great nettle season, then pop down to the supermarket and substitute the nettles with spinach.

  2 tbsp olive oil

  200g/7oz young nettles/spinach

  A few sprigs chives or a small onion, finely chopped

  6 tbsp barley or oat flour

  2 litres/3½ pints vegetable stock

  Salt and pepper

  Wash the nettles and plunge them into a pot of boiling water. Reduce water to a simmer and cook gently until nettles/spinach are tender, 6–8 minutes, then drain and refresh in cold water. Once you have drained off all excess water, chop leaves finely, combine with chives and/or onion, add flour and sauté in a pan with a little olive oil. Add stock and simmer for 45 minutes in a covered pan. Skim and season to taste. Serves 4.

  BORSCHT

  This is the vegetarian version of the dish, so if you like your dishes salty or with extra punch, then add ham hock during the onion-softening stage. It’s a meal on its own, especially if served with
some rustic bread or sourdough.

  2 tbsp olive oil

  2 onions, finely chopped

  1 clove garlic, crushed

  350g/12oz raw beetroot, grated or finely diced

  225g/8oz carrots, finely diced

  225g/8oz potatoes, peeled and finely diced

  1 stick celery, finely chopped

  Fresh bay leaf

  2 litres/3½ pints vegetable stock

  2 large tomatoes, skinned, deseeded and chopped

  50g/2oz cabbage, finely shredded

  2 tbsp apple cider vinegar

  2 tbsp lemon juice

  Sour cream (to serve)

  Chives (to serve)

  Heat the olive oil in a large pan and soften the onions and garlic over a medium heat. Add beetroot, carrots, potato, celery and bay leaf, and sauté until tender before adding the stock and simmering for 30 minutes. Remove the bay leaf and add tomato and shredded cabbage and cook for a further 10 minutes before removing from heat. Stir through the vinegar and lemon juice and serve topped with sour cream and sprinkled with finely chopped chives. Serves 6.

  BEEF BROTH AND BARLEY SOUP

  This recipe evolved because of its use of meat stock, but it is often now made with the beef as part of the dish. If you want to do this, then brown 450g/16oz of diced stewing steak first and then add the vegetables and follow the recipe from there, but leave food chunky rather than passing through a sieve.

  55g/2oz pearl barley

  30g/1oz butter or oil

  2 onions, chopped

  450g/16oz diced carrots and turnips

  Small stick celery, chopped

  Sprig parsley and/or rosemary

  2¼ litres/4 pints beef stock

  Salt and pepper

  285ml/½ pint milk

  Cover the barley with water and soak overnight, then drain. Heat oil in a pan, then soften onions and vegetables. Add the barley, herbs and beef stock. Season to taste. Bring to the boil and simmer gently for 1 hour until the barley is tender. Remove herbs and pass liquid through a wire sieve. Add the milk and bring to the boil again. Serve with fresh crusty bread. Serves 4–6.