The Woman Who Wanted More

by Vicky Zimmerman

  ‘Weren’t you terrified?’

  ‘Of course, but the thought of Samuel kept me going. He wrote beautiful letters I carried with me until I knew the pages by heart – but words on paper can only do so much. His absence felt like a weight I carried all the time. Papa was convinced Samuel would die, and I lived in constant anxiety until I decided to find a job – far less time to mope when you’re busy.’ Cecily pauses to give Kate a hard stare.

  Kate raises her hands to gesture that she’s well past moping. Cecily responds by thrusting her chin forward, a small, sharp gesture that nonetheless indicates a universe of you know what I means . . .

  ‘When you have a sense of purpose,’ says Cecily pointedly, ‘other parts of your life regain their true proportion.’

  ‘Uh-huh, yup, got it, thanks. So you found work?’

  ‘At the Metropole Hotel – running the kitchen staff, from the 6.30 a.m. breakfast shift till 10 p.m. I felt in control in those kitchens. Plus it was so exhausting it stopped me fretting about Samuel – and occasionally Arthur, the lovely white-haired manager, would let me take home some bacon, which kept Papa happy as it had already been rationed and it was his favourite, his rebellion against organised religion.’

  ‘Hold on – there’s a bacon-and-egg sandwich recipe in the book which is cooked in the dark. Is that . . .?’

  ‘ “Dinner the Night the Lights Go Out”,’ says Cecily nodding. ‘The Show Must Go On . . . Even now I could make that sandwich with my eyes shut,’ she says, smiling as her hands gracefully move in a layering motion. ‘Arthur and I made that sandwich one night after an air raid. We’d ushered the staff and guests into the basement shelter. We’d been down there keeping spirits up for hours as the bombs fell. The noise was appalling, we thought we’d all go deaf if we survived. You’d think a person would lose their appetite from fear, but the thought of imminent death seemed to make us hungrier, made us revel in the taste more.’

  ‘Oh! I didn’t put two and two together. I assumed that recipe was written after a power cut in the fifties, not a blackout in the war. You’re so blasé about all this, you make it sound light-hearted – like that dinner with Samuel’s family in Warsaw.’

  ‘Would you have preferred the truth? The Luftwaffe bombed the Metropole two years after I’d left, poor Arthur was killed instantly. Writing the menus more than a decade later, I felt it wisest to cherry-pick. My book was intended as entertainment, not a history lesson or horror story.’

  ‘It’s not cherry-picking, though, it’s like you turn these quite dark things into something else.’

  ‘I’d tasted the sorrow in real life. I preferred to make what was on the page a little sweeter. You’re allowed to do that when you’re a writer – that’s the whole point of being a writer.’

  ‘You mean so that you can make things up.’

  ‘So that you can imagine a better version,’ she says pointedly. ‘Besides, I was fortunate: I was safe, with a roof over my head. I’m ashamed to admit that I actually felt resentful, coming home every night to that shabby house with no working bathroom. My life had transformed from a bohemian whirl in Europe, where every day with Samuel was joy and discovery, to Mama’s and Papa’s mundane routine – the highlight of which was a cup of tea at the ABC. I felt restless and frustrated, like a child again. You understand that, I’m sure, living with your mother in your forties.’

  ‘I’ve got a few more days yet,’ Kate laughs. ‘Anyway, at least Mum has a working bathroom.’

  ‘That set-up is not ideal for your independence.’

  ‘Obviously not – but it’s hardly like I chose it.’

  ‘Really? Who did choose it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I did, after what Nick did, but it didn’t feel like I had much choice.’

  ‘Curious. You don’t see it as your life but as a series of things done to you.’

  ‘You sound like Mum,’ says Kate, groaning. ‘I beg you, please, tell me more about the war.’

  Cecily purses her lips. ‘Very well. I returned home from work one evening to find a new letter from Samuel. He was as miserable as I was that we’d been apart so long, but he couldn’t come home, his work was too important to the war effort. But if I was prepared to take the risk, the embassy could fly me to Stockholm on a bomber plane. My heart leapt. I had to seize this chance to be with him. I said a tearful goodbye to my parents, took the train to Aberdeen and was taken to wait in a cold, darkened airport. Every night I got my hopes up, every night they were dashed when the flight was cancelled due to enemy aircraft. Those were the longest eleven days of my life, until finally the time came when it was safe to fly. That bomber flew so high I wore an oxygen mask strapped to my face the entire way – and after hours that felt like days, we landed.’

  Kate shakes her head in wonder. ‘And you were finally reunited with Samuel?’ she says hopefully.

  ‘I was. But really, I must rest now, I’m exhausted. Promise me something, Kate?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ll look for other digs soon?’

  ‘Digs other than yours?’ says Kate laughing, but Cecily frowns.

  ‘You won’t stay at your mother’s much longer.’

  ‘It’s all in hand, I’ll be moving in the next three or four weeks.’

  Cecily nods, pleased, but then her hand floats to her brow. ‘Not cohabiting with the pigeon?’

  Kate opens her mouth to answer but it gets frozen in an embarrassed smile.

  Cecily grasps at her chest as if in actual pain.

  ‘What?’ says Kate, trying to control her frustration. ‘Can we agree to not discuss him, please? There are so many other interesting things to talk about.’

  ‘We can agree on that. I suppose people only learn from their own mistakes,’ says Cecily wearily. ‘I never listened to anyone wiser, but it’s infuriating to watch you waste valuable time.’

  ‘But you waste your time. I know you don’t like anyone here, but you could engage a little more.’

  ‘At my age I’ve earned the right to do exactly as I choose – and I choose this. Besides, you really wouldn’t understand until you’re at least ninety-two how tired one feels at a molecular level. The only possible purpose for me now is to pass on something of my life to another human, yet you’re a stubborn little mule, you never listen.’

  ‘That’s not true. Those mean things you said about my job finally filtered through. And I take advice from your book. I flick through it all the time.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Absolutely! It’s a real shame it’s out of print – you could republish it tomorrow and it would sell.’

  ‘You do talk nonsense.’

  ‘You could! Everyone who’s seen it loves it.’

  ‘It’s almost as old as I am.’

  ‘It’s still relevant, though – well, apart from maybe that grapefruit recipe . . .’

  ‘People have stopped eating grapefruit?’

  ‘They don’t tend to serve it to impress their boss at dinner parties. Mrs Finn, you’re always telling me human nature doesn’t change, “Dinner for your Ex”, “Dinner for a Noisy Neighbour” – everyone has an ex, and a noisy neighbour – in London, often two.’

  Cecily shrugs. ‘That book has sat for decades withering on the shelf, just like me. I’m glad someone’s enjoying it at least. Right – time for my nap. Are you off home?’

  ‘To the pigeon coop.’

  Cecily sighs but for once restrains herself from further comment.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  ‘I SEE YOU’VE DRESSED for the occasion,’ says Kate, giving Nick a kiss as she breezes into his flat.

  ‘I put the snooker on after you left,’ says Nick, looking down sheepishly at his boxer shorts and T-shirt combo.

  ‘I’ve had the most interesting afternoon,’ she says, coming to sit beside him on the sofa as he throws a blanket over them, puts his arm around her and turns back to the screen.

  ‘With the old lady?’

 
‘Mrs Finn, yes. It was well worth us making that fiskepudding, she loved it.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ he says proudly.

  ‘And her face lit up like a young girl’s when she saw the toffee cake.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Meanwhile, it wasn’t her birthday, I presume she lied to Mrs Gaffney to lure me back into her web.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She was telling me all about the war.’

  ‘Mmm,’ he says, patting Kate’s knee and turning up the volume on the TV.

  ‘Her husband was a spy, he actually was! I thought she might have been making that up.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘And he turned into a dolphin after Hitler invaded Argos, and he spoke exclusively in Nickleback lyrics.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Nick nods and squeezes her hand.

  ‘Nick – seriously,’ she says, giving him a gentle thump. ‘You’re transfixed by Ronnie O’Sullivan’s balls.’

  ‘Sorry, babe, this break is amazing, O’Sullivan’s on fire.’

  I could be too, thinks Kate, frowning as she heads to the fridge. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, cheers, I’m fine.’

  If I were Cara, I’d go and stand in front of that TV and either pull out the plug or do a striptease, thinks Kate, pouring herself a large glass, then telling herself to stop being such a needy diva. She settles back next to Nick on the sofa and takes out Thought for Food, tracing her fingers fondly over the cover.

  Which of these recipes did Cecily write during the war? ‘Early Supper for Parents after a Matinee’ – Aim: to make them feel how much you admire them for not having lost their enjoyment of small pleasures – that must be after tea at the ABC . . . ‘Dinner the Night the Pipes Burst’ – quite possibly that was after something far worse . . . Nowadays you’d have a millennial equivalent: ‘Dinner For When Your Wifi’s Been Down for Like Five Whole Minutes’, she thinks, chuckling.

  She watches the snooker for a while; it’s actually quite exciting. If only Cecily would join the other ladies to watch some TV, or get involved in something more social.

  ‘I can’t quite get my head around how bored she must be,’ says Kate, frowning. ‘And lonely. She just sits there in her memories . . . Though I suppose, if you’re going to live in your memories, at least she has plenty of good ones. She was married to Samuel for sixty-something years. And she’s had such an interesting life. Nick, please stop making me feel like the most boring person on the planet, I want to talk to you for two minutes.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, pausing the screen.

  ‘That’s not even live TV.’

  ‘I’m on a twenty-minute delay, but it’s as good as live. What were you saying?’

  ‘It must be miserable being that old and having no family or friends.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Think about it, seriously, the loneliness, the boredom . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t like thinking unhappy thoughts.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting we have some sort of emo crying fest, I’m just saying try to imagine what it’s like, basically being ninety-seven and waiting to die.’

  ‘It’s depressing. I’d rather watch the snooker.’

  ‘Yeah – clearly. By the way, have you told work you can’t do night shift on my birthday?’

  ‘On the Saturday?’

  ‘No, Friday week – the dinner at Mum’s flat. It is in your diary, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. That’s the week before we launch the new system. I’ll be working a couple of night shifts that week.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ll be practising the menu anyway, I’m trying the birthday feast from Mrs Finn’s book. So on the Saturday we’re booked for Le Montrachet?’

  ‘Yep, and I thought on the Friday night after dinner it might be cool to stay in a hotel. That way you wake up on your fortieth somewhere special.’

  Kate looks at him curiously – it’s so not a Nick idea.

  ‘You know, a posh hotel, breakfast in bed . . .’

  ‘You’re the king of breakfast in bed, Nick. You don’t need to fork out for it.’

  ‘It’s your birthday. Rob and Tasha went to the Ritz last year for Valentine’s Day, he said it was a lot of fun. I think it’s a good idea – not the Ritz, though. It cost about five hundred pounds with breakfast, apparently.’

  ‘Five hundred quid? That is a lot of bacon and eggs.’

  ‘There’s a boutique hotel Rob mentioned in Covent Garden. It’s not that expensive, and it’ll make your birthday feel really special.’

  Extravagance is something Rita’s good at but Kate isn’t, partly because Kate’s salary has always been below par, and partly because it feels self-indulgent. Maybe turning forty would be a good time to start allowing herself to be spoiled, and if Nick’s going to all this effort, why stand in his way?

  ‘Sounds great,’ she says, giving him a kiss. ‘I can’t wait.’

  Chapter Forty-nine

  ‘ANOTHER SCINTILLATING WEEK, Mrs Finn?’

  Cecily lets out a low snort of disdain. ‘This place would be unbearable if it weren’t for the loneliness . . .’

  Kate laughs in spite of the solemn look on Cecily’s face. ‘Did you just make that up?’

  Cecily chews the inside of her cheek, contemplating whether to pass it off as her own. ‘No – it’s a Japanese poet, can’t remember his name. They must have slipped me a Mickey in hospital to wipe my memory.’

  ‘No chance, your memory’s better than mine. On which note, can you please carry on where you left off?’

  ‘You’ll definitely have to remind me where that was.’

  ‘You’d just flown back to Sweden in a bomber plane, to be reunited with Samuel.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right – December 1943.’

  ‘That must have been wonderful, after all those years apart.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Cecily, perking up in her chair. ‘I was terribly excited to see him, so nervous I felt queasy. After I landed I took a taxi straight to his apartment – a beautiful place with thick carpet and elegant furniture, absolute paradise compared to Bournemouth. I had a rest and a wash, but it was still only noon and Samuel wasn’t due home till 5 p.m. so I decided I’d cook him a special meal.’

  ‘Let me guess . . . “Dinner for a Friend Who Returns Unexpectedly from the Airport”?’

  ‘Oh no, that was an entirely unwanted guest who hijacked me in my dressing gown some years later. No, for Samuel I made “First Dinner after Returning from Honeymoon”. I wonder by my troth, what thou and I did, till we loved . . . the same meal I’d cooked the night we came back from Italy.’

  ‘The amazing slow-cooked Bolognese?’

  ‘Minestrone, then spaghetti Bolognese, followed by a delicious almond tart with thick cream. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to buy all the ingredients, but I set out to explore. Stockholm was magical – brightly lit for Christmas, the shops bursting with goods, the air scented with gingerbread. The war felt far away. To my delight I found everything I needed and more and rushed back to the apartment. By 4.30 p.m. the soup and dessert were made and the Bolognese was in the oven. I had put on my best navy wool dress, Samuel’s favourite, and I was glued to the window, hoping to catch sight of him. I waited and waited but he didn’t appear. At 6.30 p.m., I called the embassy but they said he’d left at 4 p.m. By 8 p.m., I was so anxious I poured myself a large glass of glögg but then I must have passed out on the sofa because at 10 p.m. I was woken by the door opening and Samuel in surprise rushing over to embrace me. I was utterly discombobulated, and Samuel – well, he looked so different: older, worn down, his black hair now almost entirely grey. But when I looked into his eyes I could see the Samuel I’d left behind. He was full of apologies, he hadn’t known I’d managed to catch the flight and a key contact had asked to meet wit
h important information about a munitions factory. Samuel had met him at a restaurant and I suspect had eaten too many meatballs, his cheeks were flushed. But when he found out I’d cooked for him, he claimed he was starving and insisted on setting up a little table on the balcony overlooking the city. Even though the pasta sauce was so overdone it was crispy, he ate every mouthful.’

  ‘Ah, that’s so sweet,’ says Kate, clasping her hands to her chest.

  ‘I must admit we’d been apart so long I feared our reacquaintance might be awkward but we were at once closer than ever. I couldn’t believe I’d managed to live without hearing Samuel’s infectious laugh for so long. At one point during that first week I had the most horrible dream, maybe it was too hot in the apartment that night. It was pitch-black in the dream, and there was a thick, choking fog between Samuel and me. I couldn’t see his face, I was confused, but I knew he was being dragged away from me by some terrible force. His hand was in mine but the tighter I gripped, the more his slipped away. I kept calling for him to hold on but he couldn’t hear me. I shouted until my throat was raw, but he kept slipping and then the tips of his fingers left mine and he was gone. I started crying in the dream, and the crying woke Samuel who shook me awake. He kept telling me it was all OK, but the next day I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I couldn’t even get out of bed, it wasn’t like me at all. I felt a crippling fear of losing him,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘That dream felt so real.’

  ‘It must have been all the anxiety of the war, and your separation,’ says Kate. ‘No wonder you felt scared.’

  ‘When he came home from work I made him promise he would never let us be apart again, no matter what, and he promised. He said, “Whatever happens, I’ll always be by your side.” The following night he brought home a beautiful globe and a leather-bound notebook and we spent the next month spinning the globe, planning all the places we’d visit together. Every time we wrote down another country in our book, I felt a little better, like somehow our future was safer because we’d written it in ink. We had a list of nearly thirty places by the time we were done.’