Miss Graham's Cold War Cookbook

by Celia Rees

  Back at the flat, they went straight to the basement kitchen. Dori retrieved the Radiation Cookery Book from behind the Bird’s Custard Powder.

  “It’s not much of one.” Dori sat back when they had finished the code. “Rather Heath Robinson, truth be told. It certainly wouldn’t pass muster with SOE, or any other intelligence agency for that matter, but that could be all to the better. Enough for tonight.”

  The next few days were spent on the mundane: buying clothes and things that might be difficult to obtain—sanitary towels, toothbrushes, toothpowder, talcum powder, decent soap, makeup, perfume; and haberdashery—sewing machine needles and bobbins, ordinary needles and Sylko thread. Useful wampum, Dori called it. Then on Edith’s last evening, Dori came to her room, a fur coat over her arm.

  “I want you to take this. It’ll be cold out there. You wouldn’t believe how cold. Come, try it on.”

  Edith slipped her arms into the sleeves. Her hands automatically stroked the thick fur, slippery against her cheek and under her fingers. It smelled faintly of powder and Dori’s perfume, Guerlain L’Heure Bleue, and beneath that, a slight, sharp animal smell.

  “Dori, really, I couldn’t possibly,” Edith began, although she already felt reluctant to part with the warmth of it, the soft, rich beauty of the fur. “You might need it.”

  “What for? I’m not going anywhere. Not yet anyway. It is never so cold here. I have boots. Proper boots. Nice leather, fur lined, knee-high. I want you to take those, too. Try them on. We’re about the same size.”

  Edith pulled on the boots. They fit perfectly.

  “This is very generous of you.” Edith slipped her hand into the pocket. “What’s this?”

  Her fingers closed around cold, smooth metal.

  “It’s a pistol. The bullets are here.” Dori held out a cardboard box of shells.

  Edith turned the weapon over in her hands. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to use it.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  “But is it really . . . necessary?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dori said. “Vera agrees. We think you should take it for your protection. It could get dangerous.”

  Edith had never held a handgun before, let alone used one. She looked down at the dull, dark metal of the short barrel, ran her fingers over the curved trigger inside its guard, felt the hatched rubber of the grip against her palm.

  “But I can’t possibly take it. What if I’m stopped? Searched?”

  “Wrap it in underwear, preferably worn. They don’t like picking through soiled undies. Or in a box of sanitary towels. They never touch those. And you have a rank. Use it. Act innocent but haughty. Haughty gets you a long way.”

  “But I’ve no idea what to do.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Edith listened to Dori’s instructions, watched as her slim, strong, practiced hands handled the weapon. She loaded and reloaded the pistol under Dori’s watchful eye, feeding bullets into the clip, taking it out, squeezing the trigger on the empty chamber, noting how the safety mechanism worked, until her hands were gray, filmed with fine-grade gun oil.

  “That should do it. You don’t have to actually shoot a gun,” Dori said, “just know how it works. Aim at the body. It’s a bigger target. Get close enough and even you can’t miss. Once he’s down, move in for the headshot. That way he won’t get up.”

  This woman had seen death and dealt it. Edith looked down at the gun in her hand and hoped she’d never have to act on her advice.

  “That’s enough. Wrap it in your knickers.” Dori stood back to scrutinize. Edith felt like a knight being armed for his first battle. “There’s something else I want you to have.” Dori unclasped the medallion she wore around her neck and handed it to Edith. “It is Our Lady of Cze˛stochowa.”

  In Edith’s palm lay a tiny oval icon, executed in jewellike enamel, encased in gold: a black Madonna, her dark face scored and marked, the Christ child in her thin arms.

  “You can’t give me this!”

  “Take it!” Dori closed her fingers over the talisman. “Your need is greater. She will protect you.”

  “Thank you!” Edith could feel the tears stinging at her friend’s kindness.

  “Let me fix it.” Dori reached around Edith’s neck and secured the clasp. She held her close for a moment and whispered, “May she keep you safe.”

  When Dori released her, there were tears in her eyes, too.

  Germany

  1946

  6

  Blue Train, Hook of Holland—Hamburg

  4th January 1946

  Blue Train Picnic

  Broodje kroket

  Rookwurst (Smoked Sausage)

  Mustard

  Hard-boiled eggs

  Genever

  Broodje kroket: Not unlike a rissole, flecked with parsley. Made with leftover meat, minced or chopped, mixed with onion but bound with a béchamel then formed into a fat sausage, crumbed and deep-fried. Eaten in a bridge roll with mild Dutch mustard.

  More like a rissole than a croquette. Find under Meat (66, 63). Can be baked at Regulo 7 (or 6 depending on the oven) or fried for 9 or 10 minutes (turn after 5).

  Hook of Holland station. A blue enamel token gave her a place on the train to Hamburg. The line of carriages stood the length of the platform; at the head of them the huge engine hissed steam. Travel came down to a game of snakes and ladders. Liverpool Street Station to Harwich. Boat to Hook of Holland. Now she was on the train to Hamburg. So far, no snakes.

  She stowed her leather Gladstone in the nets and took a window seat, resolutely facing the direction of travel. The window was grimed on the outside but she wiped at it, impatient to get going. The stationary train conjured other platforms on other stations. She felt herself slipping backward into memories she’d been trying to avoid. The awkward farewells at Coventry. The family assembled to see her off, the parting stilted, still colored by the row that had blown up when she had announced her intention to go to Germany and work for the Control Commission.

  “Are you out of your mind, Edith? I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous!”

  Her sister, Louisa, led the attack, since Mother had taken to her bed.

  Louisa was the beauty in the family. Even as a child, her looks had gone beyond prettiness. Rich, auburn hair, large dark eyes in a heart-shaped face. Louisa had been her father’s favorite, everybody’s favorite. Spoiled and headstrong, she’d married young. The war had been a godsend to her, allowing her to leave her life in the suburbs and travel with her handsome RAF husband to bases all over the country. But now all that was over. All the glamour had gone. Now this. Just when she was having to adjust to normal civilian life again, Edith was planning to swan off. Not only that, but the responsibility of caring for Mother would naturally fall on Louisa. It wasn’t right. It was against the natural order of things, and it had put her into a towering rage. She had her own family. Edith was a spinster: it was her job to look after Mother.

  She had invited herself and the rest of the family around for a Sunday teatime confab. Perfectly turned out, as always, in a striped silk shirt and pearl-gray costume, her lustrous hair scrolled back and caught at the nape in a snood, she strode about the small front parlor, full of righteous indignation, gesturing with her cigarette.

  “What on earth are you thinking of? How could you dream of doing such a thing? What about Mother? How will she cope? You know there’s no help to be had these days . . .”

  Brothers, Ronald and Gordon, fell in line with her as they always did, adding their chorus: “Lou’s got a point there.” “Have you thought it through, old thing?” “Aren’t you a bit long in the tooth?”

  “I’m not that old . . .”

  “Not far off forty!” Louisa laughed, sneering and harsh.

  The sisters-in-law, Trudy and Vi, joined in, bleating protests, shocked that she should dare to break away, duck her responsibilities as the spinster daughter of her elderly mother. Their real fear was that they’d have to
take over care of Mother, do the housework, the washing, the shopping, the gardening, keep the lawn mowed and the hedges trim.

  Edith tried to explain that she was not doing this out of spite, or to shirk her responsibilities. She wanted to do something. All through the war, she’d seen others leave to join the forces, do useful work. She’d done nothing. She felt wasted, unfulfilled, as though she’d missed an important experience. Others had risked their lives, done things that meant something, that counted. All she’d done was trudge backward and forward to school, call the roll, teach the girls, come home, tend the garden, dig for victory, manage the ration, cook supper, listen to the wireless with Mother. This was her chance to make a real contribution. All this just earned an exasperated stare from Louisa.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Edith! What do you take us for?” Her carefully drawn brows arched higher and her red-lipsticked mouth curled with contempt. “I’ve never heard such claptrap.” Louisa turned away to light another cigarette, cupping her taloned fingers as if she was standing in a gale.

  Only her brother-in-law, Ted, had been sympathetic. He stood by the mantelpiece, hands in his pockets, as handsome and affable as ever, his dark hair sleek and close to his head, brushed back from a prominent widow’s peak. He’d watched the row, a slight smile showing the gap between his perfect white teeth. Louisa had married him for his looks rather than his prospects.

  He was the only one Edith could really talk to, the only one with whom she had the least thing in common. He was a teacher, too. He’d volunteered early and got a commission. Louisa didn’t want to see her husband diminished by civilian life, but Ted didn’t seem in the least bothered about swapping his RAF uniform for gray slacks and a sweater and returning to his profession. He was looking forward to the part he might play in the changes the new Education Act would bring.

  He carried out the tea things with Edith. Barely touched. A precious tin of salmon had gone into the sandwiches; a whole week’s butter ration into the fruitcake. The raspberry buns, Mother’s favorite, had been waved away with a peevish, “You know the pips get under my dentures.”

  “Never mind.” Ted grinned. “Kids’ll polish that lot off. Let’s go out shall we? See how the garden’s doing.”

  He lit his pipe as they stepped outside. They walked down the York-stone path past the flowerbeds and lawn. Children dodged in and out of the shrubbery. Ted’s pipe smoke wreathed up through the cold, damp air like a veil. They stopped at the vegetable patch, brassica stumps still in the ground, a forlorn row of sprouts, the bean sticks showing ghostly in the mist.

  “I really ought to dig it over,” Edith said. “Get the broad beans in.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll see to this.” Ted knocked out his pipe on the sole of his shoe. “What does Leo think? Have you been in touch at all? You were pretty close at one time. His ma’s in a nursing home, Lou tells me. House and land sold to a builder. Plans afoot to develop all around there. Must have made a pretty penny.”

  There was no jealousy. It was just an observation that chimed with the family’s perception of Leo; he was the rich one, private school and Oxford. Not like us.

  “Met him a couple of times during the war, in London, you know,” Ted went on. “Always cagey about what he was up to. Got the impression that it was pretty hush-hush.” He looked over at her. “Thought I saw you with him once, on the Strand. You were visiting your pal Stella. Never said anything.” Ted turned to her with his wide, white smile. “You go off and do it, kid. You need to get away from here. You’ve done your turn with your ma. Let the others take over. Lou will grumble, but she’ll manage. They’ll need good people over there. It’s a bit of a mess, from what I hear. You deserve this chance.”

  A shrill whistle sounded. Doors slammed. A long blast signaled departure. Edith relaxed into her seat as steam billowed past the window and the wheels began to turn, slow at first then faster. This felt entirely right. The right thing to do. She suddenly knew that she would not be going back. Not ever. She should have made the break a long time ago.

  “Mind if I join you?” A young army officer stuck his head into her compartment. “Not many seats left.”

  “No, please do.”

  “Phew! Only just made it!” He pulled off his glove with his teeth and held his hand out to her. “Alex Drummond. Bulldog, inevitably.”

  Edith laughed. “I’m Edith. Edith Graham.”

  Bulldog. One of those forces sobriquets: “Tinker” Taylor, “Chalky” White. Medium build, not very tall, but there was a strength about him, in the squareness of his shoulders and the easy, physical confidence with which he moved and held himself. His pleasant face was just short of handsome, wide across the eyes and forehead with a strong squarish jaw. More bull terrier than bulldog, but the nickname suited him.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Graham.” He lifted his bag one-handed and boosted it onto the nets. He looked down at her, quizzically. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “I don’t think so . . .”

  He removed his cap, revealing bronzish hair, tightly curled, like a Greek statue, short at the sides, as though he’d just had a haircut.

  “New Year’s Eve. Dori’s party. As we came in, you were leaving with Leo Chase.”

  “Of course. You were with Vera Atkins.”

  He smiled, seemingly delighted by her recognition, the connection made. He took off his greatcoat and sat opposite her. Edith smiled back. She had a suspicion that this was more than a coincidence, probably Dori or Vera keeping an eye on her, not that she minded. It was a relief to be watched over, and she’d be glad for the company.

  “I suppose we both look a bit different out of our finery.” He nodded toward the coat she was wearing. “Though that is a rather splendid fur.”

  “Dori’s.” She pulled the coat closer around her. “She insisted I take it against the cold.”

  “Thought it wasn’t Control Commission issue.” Drummond glanced at the badge on the cap on her lap: CCG, gold interlocked letters. “Is that who you’re with?”

  Edith nodded.

  He opened his cigarette case, automatically offering it to her.

  “I don’t. Thanks.”

  “Sensible woman.” He snapped the case closed and lit his cigarette. “Make sure you pick up your ration. Germans would rather be paid in cigarettes than marks. Strictly against regulations but everybody does it. Going far?”

  “Hamburg. Then Lübeck. I’m stationed there. Education Officer.”

  “All the way, then.” His smile showed a slight gap between his front teeth.

  “You?”

  “Bad Oeyenhausen. I leave the train at Osnabrück.”

  They sat in silence. Edith looked out of the window. Drummond finished his cigarette.

  The train was taking them through the outskirts of Rotterdam. Evidence of heavy bombing: broken buildings blackened and hollowed, warehouses crumpled as if they were made out of cardboard. In the distance, huge cranes lay, unhinged and twisted, listing into the river.

  “Rotterdam took two doses.” Drummond stared out at the devastation furling past their window. “Germans in ’40, then we had a go—shipyards, docks, and the E-boat pens.”

  “E-boats?”

  “Fast attack craft.” He folded his arms, his jaw set. “Bloody nuisance to our shipping, so it had to be done.”

  They lapsed into silence again. Eventually, the train left the urban destruction behind and they were in a flat, geometric landscape, drab greens and browns with dykes and polders and windmills. Everyone’s idea of Holland, culled from geography books and travel guides, but textbooks and Baedeker didn’t show the broken bridges, their metal spars sprawled in the rivers as if pulled from their abutments by some giant fist.

  “Want some of this?” he took out a flask and two thimble-size metal cups. “Genever. Have a drop. Keep out the cold.” He poured her a tot of gin. “Cheers!” He threw his back and poured himself another. “Wonderful! Not like that London stuff. That just makes you dr
unk. This is warming, sustaining. A real aqua vita.”

  Edith sipped cautiously. She didn’t usually drink neat gin in the middle of the day. The spirit was thick, almost oily, and aromatic with the piney sharpness of the juniper and other flavors she couldn’t name.

  “Just the thing, eh?” He reached over and poured her another. “You missed a good party. Pity you had to leave so early. It was one of Dori’s best ever.”

  “So I hear.”

  Edith looked out at the passing villages. Places one might glimpse for a fleeting moment but would never visit. In the middle distance, a man drove a horse-drawn cart, hunched over his reins; in the foreground, a couple of men shod in clogs plodded along a glistening, muddy road. It could be Brueghel. Medieval.

  “I say,” he began. Edith turned back to find Drummond smiling at her. “I was thinking about going along to the dining car, such as it is. Perhaps you would care to join me? Food is pretty poor on these trains.” He picked up his knapsack. “Luckily, I’ve brought provisions. You’re welcome to share.”

  The dining car when they reached it was almost full. They slipped into a table. Drummond took out a napkin bundle tied neatly at the top. He undid the knots and unwrapped a series of packages.

  “We have broodje croquetten with mustard—meat croquettes wrapped up in a soft white roll, really delicious—and rookworst—Dutch smoked sausage—and hard-boiled eggs. I’m always starving after the crossing but can’t eat the muck they serve up when we get to the Hook.” He shuddered. “So I breakfast at this little café. Hot rolls, real jam, proper coffee. Just the job. I have them make a little picnic up for me.”

  He portioned the food carefully. He had good hands for a man, broad across the backs, but not fat; neat nails with short, strong fingers. Edith always noticed hands. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The food was delicious. Different. Continental.