The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘You promise Mrs Finn isn’t going to give me a hard time?’ says Kate, scrambling up from her seat. Kate could do without spending her entire Sunday arguing.

  ‘Oh I’d never promise the impossible. But why not get her to talk about her life, her beloved husband, her adventures? It’s the only thing she still enjoys doing.’

  Cecily is sitting straight-backed in her chair, a half-eaten bowl of beige soup from lunch on her tray table. Her expression softens slightly when she sees Kate, and her brown eyes sparkle with mischief.

  ‘I brought you some biscuits, Mrs Finn. Sorry I didn’t make them myself, but I figure you won’t eat them anyway,’ says Kate, handing her the fancy lemon shortbreads she’s bought en route.

  Cecily holds the packaging up with her left hand, squints, then discards it on her side table. Cecily’s right arm has a constant low-level tremor and Cecily re-clamps her left hand over the wrist to hide the fact. ‘I can’t see properly,’ she says. ‘I almost thought it said lemon shortbread, which would be preposterous.’

  ‘What have you got against lemons?’

  ‘Citrus has no place in a shortbread. Leave those at the carers’ station on your way out.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Shortly. First, tea,’ says Cecily, picking up the phone and ordering a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of ‘unflavoured, unpretentious shortbreads’. Kate turns her gaze to the well-worn Persian rug. She’ll save herself the fiver on biscuits next time; in fact, there won’t be a next time.

  ‘How’s your weekend been?’ says Kate.

  ‘Dreary and interminably long. Yours?’

  ‘Not far off,’ says Kate, smiling. ‘Anyway, back to work tomorrow, a monkey at a typewriter . . .’

  ‘Explain to me why you do that job?’ says Cecily, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

  Kate shrugs. ‘Why does anyone do any job? For the salary. I know how to do it. I have friends there.’

  ‘But such a singularly pointless job? What did you want to be when you were young?’

  Kate tips her head back and strokes her neck. She hasn’t thought about that for a long time. ‘A journalist, like my father. I used to sit in his study while he was working. I loved the sound of his typewriter. If he ever made a mistake, he always used to let me do the white-outs. My dad loved words, so he was always encouraging me to be creative. I’d write stories and make up little radio shows for him on his tape recorder.’ Kate feels a dull ache as she remembers a younger version of herself for whom any future seemed possible. That version disappeared the minute her father was diagnosed.

  ‘Did you go to college?’ says Cecily. ‘Presumably you don’t need qualifications to write about sausages?’

  Always a dig. ‘I started an English degree, but then Dad died and I went to work.’

  ‘Oh, he died young?’ says Cecily, looking suddenly troubled. ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Forty-six.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, momentarily chastened. ‘Forty-six is hard. And you never went back to your education?’

  ‘I was a bit broken for a while, and then it felt too late, I’d missed so much. And Mum pointed out I could read and write on my own time. Oh, hang on,’ says Kate, as she hears a knock at the door. She takes Cecily’s soup bowl and swaps it for a tray of tea and biscuits the carer brings in. ‘How about you, Mrs Finn?’ she says, settling back down. ‘What did you want to be when you were young?’

  ‘Me?’ Cecily taps her chest with a flourish. Even though she’s wearing a shirt, jumper and sleeveless cardigan, her curved fingers make a noticeable hollow thud against her bony chest. ‘I wanted to be a movie star, so that I could stand out, and a Catholic, so that I could fit in,’ she says, reaching for a biscuit. ‘Neither came to pass, although I travelled the world and married a spy – oh, my dear Samuel. We were so very happy.’ She sighs. ‘I perfected the art of fiskepudding, danced the hula in Kauai under the midnight stars . . . and I did make it to Hollywood in the end.’

  Kate will take the spy part with a pinch of salt, the Hollywood part too – and she has no idea what a fiskepudding is, but a long and happy marriage? Sounds encouraging. ‘How far back do you remember?’

  ‘Oh, all of it! But you don’t want to hear my boring old adventures, do you?’ says Cecily, with a sparkle in her eye indicating that she’d very much like to share her stories.

  ‘I can think of nothing I’d rather be doing.’

  ‘Then you must have a dire imagination. No, dear, run along and play Scrabble with Maud, God knows she could do with winning for once.’

  ‘I came to see you, Mrs Finn. I want to hear about your life.’

  ‘About the time I flew in a bomber in the war? Or the time my car broke down on the way to my own wedding? You don’t want to hear about the time I met Groucho Marx, do you, surely you’d rather go home and think about carrots?’

  ‘Absolutely not! Groucho Marx? Seriously? Tell me everything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, yes, one hundred per cent. Please?’

  Cecily struggles to contain a smirk of victory. ‘Well, if you insist.’ She settles deeper into her chair and takes a breath. ‘My father, Joseph Polonsky, was a renowned maker of treats, famous across all of London and even parts of the Home Counties. His life was tough, but he and my mother brought happiness to everyone around them. I was born in Forest Gate, a terribly dull suburb in East London. I was the last of three, my arrival entirely unplanned, but I obstinately refused to be got rid of by traditional gin-based methods, though Mama tried hard. Papa was Lithuanian – a brilliant man, a free thinker and a socialist – but when he arrived here his English was so poor he ended up working in a sweatshop in Leeds, making buttonholes.’

  ‘Making buttonholes – that’s so strange, like making the holes in a Polo.’

  ‘Nothing like it,’ says Cecily dismissively. ‘It was there he met Eva, my mother.’

  ‘She was from Yorkshire?’ says Kate, checking the tea has brewed before pouring it.

  ‘Half a cup at a time for me.’

  ‘Half-full?’

  ‘Half-empty.’

  ‘Same thing,’ says Kate, catching Cecily’s eye with a smile that is returned with an imperious glare.

  ‘Mama was from Poland. Her father was the village baker – she grew up in a house sweet with the smell of freshly baked challah.’

  ‘Ah, you mentioned your grandfather’s bread the other day . . .’

  ‘Mama was a wonderful cook too, and a beauty, with luxuriant hair and piercing blue eyes. My father loved beauty. He always preferred my sister May to me – she was pretty and she never answered back. He used to say, “Cissie, you have a head like Bismarck and a brain like a Bismarck herring”.’

  ‘What’s a Bismarck herring?’

  ‘A pickled one. Papa once invented a contrivance made from a chicken bone and fixed it to my nose to make it a better shape: failed miserably.’ Cecily turns to show her profile, running her nail down the length of her aquiline nose. ‘I digress. Mama was summoned to Leeds to make a match with her brother’s friend who owned Papa’s factory. She took a violent dislike to this suitor but fell deeply in love with Papa. They would meet secretly after his shifts, and she would stare into his dark, intelligent eyes, captivated by his passionate opinions. He always expressed himself so beautifully, and even though her English was very limited, she drank in his words and flourished. After six months he gave her a sapphire ring he’d saved for since the day they met, and he proposed. My uncle was outraged at the engagement. His sister had chosen this nobody, and he literally threw Papa down the stairs, but Mama was in love. The next morning they packed their bags, eloped and fled to London.’

  ‘That’s so romantic.’

  Cecily frowns, her mouth forming deep creases. ‘Their life was hard. Papa was unwell on and off for most of his life. Mama, soon pregnant with May, was forced to scrub floors and take in washing. Papa ended up working in a sweet factory. I remember visit
ing him and seeing these incredible long ropes of sugar paste being twirled on enormous hooks, emerging as clear sticks of barley sugar, the most fabulous treacly smell in the air. I must have been three at the time.’

  ‘You remember that far back?’

  ‘I remember with great clarity things people insist are impossible – my stately green perambulator, wheeled by my nurse Clara who died four weeks after being jilted.’

  ‘From being jilted?’

  ‘From consumption. Bad timing, though. Papa took me to the hospital and there she lay, burning black eyes, her twisted fingers plucking at the sheets.’ Catching the disturbed look on Kate’s face, Cecily laughs bitterly. ‘Papa didn’t believe in what he called “Hampstead” methods of indulgent child-rearing. How he’d laugh to know I’ve ended up in Hampstead, mollycoddled like the most useless of infants: Have you eaten your mush today, Mrs Finn? Do we need a little trip to the bathroom?’

  ‘Tell me more about the sweet factory,’ says Kate, fearing Cecily will sink into a darker mood.

  ‘Papa didn’t stay there long,’ says Cecily, nudging herself forward in her chair with her elbows. ‘He’d noticed a confectioner’s near us for sale. He had twelve pounds in savings, the lease was four hundred pounds, but he was a much-admired man, renowned for his intellect, and everyone loved Mama – she was as gentle and warm as Papa was intimidating. Their friends and neighbours wanted to help, so they gathered together to lend him money and he bought 25 Woodgrange Road, E7, and turned it into Polon’s Treats.’

  ‘From sweatshop to sweet shop . . .’

  Cecily raises her cup to Kate, who blushes. ‘Is that the type of dreck they force you to write at work? That’s why Papa always said to be your own boss. He said his idea of happiness was being able to tell everyone else to go to the Devil,’ she says delightedly. ‘So now he was the boss, though of course it was Mama’s hard work that built the business. They opened a salon in the back room, and became famous for their ice creams. Mama would rise at 5 a.m. to stand in our little yard, churning the ices by hand in these small salt-packed vessels. In summer, if I was up early enough, she’d let me turn the handle and as a reward she’d let me sample the custard. Toffee was my favourite, though one summer she made strawberry and cream flavour, which was the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted, and we lived in Italy for years.’

  ‘Your family did?’

  ‘No, that was some years after Samuel and I were married. Mama used to make English madeleines too, different from a Proust one. These were the prettiest little pink-and-white towers, the fluffiest sponge, made with jam and coconut and a cherry on top, marvellous,’ she says, bringing a trembling hand to her lips, which quiver at the memory.

  ‘Your mother sounds like a domestic goddess.’

  ‘She did everything – cooked for Papa, nursed him, supervised the shop, charmed the customers – so my early days were presided over by the shop girls. Emmie was my favourite, what a virago.’

  Kate is too embarrassed to ask what a virago is, she’s forgotten – though when she looks it up later she sees the description neatly fits Cecily.

  ‘Our shop was next door to one of the earliest cinemas, the Grand Theatre – Emmie used to sit me down on the front row while she went off to see her boyfriend.’

  ‘She left you alone? How old were you?’

  ‘Legend has it I would only drink my bottle if it was given to me on the steps of the entrance. I saw every film twice, I fell in love with storytelling when I was young. I spent a lot of time living in my imagination.’

  ‘Hence the books too . . . You brought all these with you when you moved here?’ says Kate, heading to inspect the main wall of bookshelves more closely.

  ‘We had twice this collection at home. That’s one of the worst things about the whole indignity of getting old – things are taken from you constantly: your possessions, your hips, your eyesight.’

  ‘Then surely you’d rather not be surrounded by reminders of what you’ve lost?’

  ‘What I’ve lost? My books remind me of everything I’ve had – a lifetime of adventures.’

  Kate looks at the rows of books in front of her and her heart soars. All these stories, all these endless discoveries to be made. She traces her fingers along the spines in front of her – a vast selection of fiction, art, poetry and travel.

  ‘Look to the right,’ says Cecily. ‘They’re probably to your taste.’

  Kate scans the titles and her eyebrows rise. Cecily has almost every cookbook Kate has stored at Nick’s, plus several hundred more – everything from Mrs Beeton via Fanny Craddock through to Nigella. It’s not only recipe books, but books on the history and science of food, and fiction with food at the heart of it. ‘Nora Ephron!’ says Kate, excitedly pulling the slim volume of Heartburn from the shelf. ‘This is my favourite book ever,’ she says, beaming with happiness.

  ‘I take it you’re a fan of cookbooks?’

  ‘Very much so,’ says Kate, longingly. ‘I adore them, I’ve got loads at home. Well, actually, I haven’t got any at the moment,’ she says, suddenly crestfallen.

  ‘Was there a fire?’ says Cecily with concern.

  ‘Yeah, in my relationship,’ says Kate, wincing as she shakes her head.

  ‘That sounds painful.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll get them back at some point,’ says Kate, biting her lip.

  Cecily pauses for a moment with a pensive look on her face. ‘Well, then,’ she says decisively, ‘if your shelves are empty, you must borrow one of my books.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

  ‘I insist. Otherwise it’s yet another weekend I’ll have spent utterly without purpose.’

  ‘Can I really take one?’ says Kate, though actually, she’d love to. Oh, she’s always wanted to read these Howard McGees . . .

  ‘Hurry up and choose. I want to rest,’ says Cecily abruptly.

  ‘Oh, OK . . . how about this Elizabeth David?’

  ‘No, that’s a first edition,’ says Cecily. ‘Pick another one, any other you like.’

  Kate scans along the shelf. ‘This Silver Palate one?’

  ‘Under no circumstances is that to leave this room.’

  ‘I thought you said take any one . . .’ mutters Kate.

  Cecily frowns, straining forward in her chair to see where Kate’s focus is. ‘Try the next shelf down.’

  For some reason Kate feels like she’s playing a game of hot or cold. Her hand is drawn to a colourful hardcover on the shelf below. ‘This?’ she says, fishing it out. Thought for Food: A Cookery Book for Entertaining Occasions by Esther Shavin, its title written in a jaunty 1950s font. The cover illustration shows a dinner party with a vivacious hostess presenting a stern guest with a platter of chops. Another guest has his fingers crossed in an exaggerated comic twirl. Kate’s never heard of the book but it looks interesting.

  Cecily smiles and her whole body relaxes into the chair. ‘Perfect. I couldn’t have chosen better for you myself.’

  *

  Later that night, Kate wonders if Cecily did indeed stack the deck. Kate had thought it was the colours on the book’s spine that attracted her – pink and yellow, like a rhubarb-and-custard sweet – but maybe it was the fact that it was the only book sticking out in an orderly line, almost like it had been dragged across her path.

  Either way, Kate can’t imagine a more perfect book to alleviate her current anxieties – it’s charming, funny and easily digestible. On the bus home she reads the jacket blurb:

  A cookery book that will be equally at home on the kitchen shelf or bedside table. A selection of menus chosen for the major occasions of life and love, with analyses of the reasons for each . . . Should appeal to everyone who appreciates good food, good taste and good humour. 15/- net

  She flicks to the front – published in 1957 – then to the Foreword:

  I’ve written this book not for those heroic housewives who, having produced a Cordon Bleu dinner for twenty, emerge from t
heir kitchen triumphant. I address, rather, the more easily dismayed to whom a gastronomic occasion is a challenge and a dilemma. What shall one give to the man one hopes will stay on after dinner? The man one hopes will not?

  Kate was planning on tidying her room, but finds herself glued to the book. Cecily’s obviously read it several times herself, the edges of the slipcover are well thumbed and there’s the occasional time-faded food stain on the yellowing pages.

  The book is in six sections including Family Occasions, Social Occasions and Occasions of Emergency. Each section has a dozen short chapters – ‘Luncheon for a Bad-Tempered Client’; ‘Supper to Make Peace with Your Sister After a Squabble’ . . . Each chapter starts with a relevant quote, then lists the meal’s aim, followed by advice on the setting, menu and recipes.

  It’s the Occasions of Love section that most intrigues: ‘Dinner for a Charming Stranger’; ‘Dinner for the Man You Hope to Marry’. Under ‘Dinner for a New Love, an Old Love and the Old Love’s New Love’, the aim states:

  Very complicated. Putting it as simply as possible: to flaunt your new love before your old love and at the same time show your old love’s new love that, were your new love not so much more attractive than your old, you could bring your old love to heel again with the flick of an eyelash. Setting: Subdued lighting, preferably candles. This will be as flattering to her as to you, but that can’t be helped.

  The menu sounds delicious: lamb skewers on jewelled rice, followed by Cecilienne Chocolate Pudding.

  Kate drifts to Rita’s kitchen craving a plateful of lamb, the book carefully balanced in one hand. She’s too absorbed to cook but she makes a couple of rounds of toast and peanut butter and returns to her room, entranced.

  She falls asleep after midnight with the book on her pillow, her fingers tucked safely between its soft, thick pages, her body curled peacefully under the sheets.

  Chapter Twenty

  THOUGHT FOR FOOD’S cover states that its author Esther Shavin is also a screenwriter, a travel journalist and a children’s author. On Monday in her lunch break Kate googles her. There are IMDb references to two films she wrote in the 1960s. Second-hand copies of her books are listed on various websites. There’s no indication of whether she’s still alive, but if she was middle-aged when writing, she’d be dead by now. Kate buys all nine copies she can find – her friends will love it too – even though some of the food is old-fashioned, the advice and wit are timeless.