The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Lady Gwendoline smiled imperiously and said, as if reading from a government leaflet, “The Ministry of Food is here to make everything even. They employ dieticians to make sure each citizen gets what he or she needs, from pregnant women to workmen, from protein to vitamins. Farm experts have worked out that the most productive way to use the land is to keep dairy cows not beef cattle, and cereals go a lot further than meat from a few cows, sheep, or pigs. Rationing keeps prices low and makes sure that everyone gets what they need.”

  The blond-haired woman tried to retaliate, but Lady Gwendoline spoke over her, loudly thanking everyone for their time and attention, drawing the show to an efficient end. Two helper girls popped out from the wings to clear away the cooking materials, while a crowd trickled up to the stage to speak to her and collect Food Facts leaflets.

  “Jolly good show!” a robust woman said, slapping Lady Gwendoline heartily on the back. “I say, could we have a taste of that pie?”

  More congratulations enveloped her as she began handing around plates of pie to the delighted crowd, and it was only after the women began to disperse that she spotted Ambrose Hart approaching her.

  “Ambrose!” she called, as if delighted to see him. She often met BBC personalities through her husband, and they were among her people to collect; who knew when they might come in useful. “How wonderful of you to come and see me doing my bit for the war.”

  “Yes, a wonderful demonstration.” He seemed distracted. “You know a lot about this rationing business, don’t you?”

  She preened. “I am an expert, Ambrose. You know that.”

  He should by now. She had been hinting at helping behind the scenes of The Kitchen Front since the war began.

  “Actually, that is precisely why I wanted to speak to you.” He glanced around, making sure they weren’t overheard. “You see, the chaps in charge at the BBC think The Kitchen Front needs a woman’s voice, a co-presenter of sorts, someone to share recipes and advice to women at home, to strike a conversation with the listeners. They think that—”

  “I’d be delighted, Ambrose,” Lady Gwendoline cut in. “I had been thinking precisely the same—”

  “Well, in actual fact, they have something else in mind.”

  “What?”

  “They want me to hold a local contest to find the right woman.” He shrugged, clearly disliking the BBC’s implication that his own broadcasting style had been found wanting. “You know how much these ministries like their competitions. They raise morale and give the papers something good to write about instead of all the battles we’re losing.”

  “What kind of contest?” Lady Gwendoline also enjoyed competitions, especially those that she was certain to win.

  “A wartime cooking challenge. They want a range of women who work with food to enter: a manor house cook, a restaurant chef, a cooking demonstrator—you know the kind of thing. Would you like to join?”

  Lady Gwendoline tried to stop herself from looking too eager. It was her chance for true fame as a radio presenter. After The Kitchen Front, who could tell where her career could take her? That would show everyone—especially Audrey—where the family talent really lay. “Who else are you going to ask?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about that. You see, we want to invite your head cook up at Fenley Hall to join. It isn’t usual to have both master and servant enter the same competition, but under the circumstances…”

  After only a moment’s consideration, Lady Gwendoline nodded. “I’m sure that Mrs. Quince would be delighted to enter.” Having a fellow competitor under her servitude was bound to be valuable—especially one as proficient as Mrs. Quince. The cheery old cook was the embodiment of good old-fashioned servant loyalty.

  How useful that could be!

  Ambrose was droning on. “People are getting disgruntled because there isn’t enough meat and too many potatoes. Housewives have to become more innovative.”

  “And that is precisely what I’m good at. Tell me, how do you plan to judge the contestants?”

  He waved her away, heading for the door with a slightly wary look on his face. “I’m holding a meeting at my house next Tuesday evening at eight o’clock. I’ll have worked out the details by then.”

  Lady Gwendoline was left standing, thinking it all through. She could see it now, her voice on the radio program catapulting her into the spotlight of society. Sir Strickland would be pleased, wouldn’t he? Think of all the extra publicity and connections he’d get. And as for her, well, the world would see that she was more than just the pampered wife of a rich man. She knew what they said, how they spoke about her marrying for money. This would prove that she had the right kind of wartime spirit, as well as being a truly skilled and dexterous cook generously sharing her knowledge with the nation.

  But more than that: She would be famous.

  “What a frightfully good plan,” she murmured under her breath, hugging herself with a sensation of victory.

  Sir Strickland’s chauffeur had been sent to drive her back to the hall, and as she climbed into the black Bentley, a woman’s voice called from behind her, “Wasting fuel on unnecessary journeys, are we, Lady Gwendoline?”

  She recognized the blond-haired woman from the audience and chose to ignore the remark. Government propaganda slogans about fuel rations were directed at other people.

  The chauffeur closed her door, and the car began its short journey home. As it turned into the grand hall drive, she felt the familiar sense of pride, although it had been dampened over the years by the nagging need for ever-greater triumphs.

  The car door was opened by the chauffeur, and then the massive, oak front door of the hall was opened by the old butler, Brackett. Her high heels clipped the marble floor as she walked briskly through the galleried hall to her private reception room overlooking the gardens at the back of the house. As it was late, she had instructed Mrs. Quince that she would partake of a late supper there, and it was a relief to be able to retreat to her own comfortable space. She’d had it painted a light ivory, and the sofas were softer than those in the formal drawing rooms, the silver velvet drapes luxurious and warm compared to the starchy formality of the rest of the hall.

  Yet it was more than that.

  She couldn’t bear another of those chilly dinners with her husband. From the other end of the long table, he would tell her sparse details about the coming business dinners and events she was to attend—what she was and was not allowed to do and say while the men sat discussing the war.

  “All husbands and wives need time apart,” she said to herself as she sank into her favorite floral green armchair. Being alone meant time to focus on her plans, arrange her Ministry of Food demonstrations, or organize her next move in village politics. Her husband’s influence as the village’s largest employer had landed her the position of Fenley’s billeting officer, enabling her to boss her way into every house and lodging in Fenley to claim suitable spare rooms for evacuees and war workers. Billeting officers had significant power these days, and Gwendoline intended to use hers smartly. All in all, there was a lot to busy her mind.

  Loneliness was something she ignored, although sometimes she could feel it tugging at her insides, like a forgotten stitch.

  Ten years her senior, and already well established, Sir Strickland was an important man by the time she met him. That was part of the attraction. Although he hid his menial background, she knew he’d started his business selling pies off a barrow in the poor East End of London, slowly scaling into canned and preserved meats.

  Most of his bully beef factories were in Uruguay, millions of cans shipped over the treacherous Atlantic to feed the troops in Europe. But he kept his hand in home-produced pies, and one of his smaller factories was the Fenley Pie Factory, which employed 250 workers to make cost- and ration-efficient pies. Lady Gwendoline had never asked precisely how they made meat products
so economically. After all, one needed to make money, not understand how it was made.

  Recently, new canning companies had begun to erode Sir Strickland’s domination. Although she wasn’t privy to business details, Lady Gwendoline was all too aware of the slip in sales—the rush to please ministers, the lavish dinner parties to secure wavering contracts, her husband’s increasingly taut temper.

  What she did know was that Sir Strickland also had a hand in domestic food production, owing to the Fenley estate’s substantial farm, which conveniently provided the hall with plenty of food, on- or off-ration. She knew that food-rationing rules were likely being bent, but didn’t everyone do that, where they could? After all, Sir Strickland had been given the post of regional officer at the Ministry of Agriculture, which put him in charge of checking that rationing rules weren’t being broken. Overseeing one’s own farm was simply a perk of the job, Gwendoline reasoned.

  A little chuckle escaped her when she thought of her sister working her fingers to the bone for the love of a poor artist while she, the younger sister and black sheep of the family, had married into luxury. It was sad that Matthew had died, of course, even though she’d never liked the man. Why on earth had he become an impoverished artist when he might have gone into business or industry, what with his family and education. Audrey had made her own bed, but still, there had been moments when Gwendoline had almost felt sorry for her.

  The silvered ting of the carriage clock on the mantel announced nine o’clock, time moving swiftly for once. The evening’s work had made her feel busy and worthwhile, different from other evenings, when time could plod inexorably on.

  She rang the little bell for her supper. Annoyingly, the parlor maid had got a job in a munitions factory, and they were having to make do with the scrappy kitchen maid serving at table. Finding a replacement didn’t look hopeful now that all young women had to do war work.

  Within minutes, the nervous kitchen maid appeared, her eyes down at the floor as she walked quickly over with a tray bearing tonight’s dinner. Whisking off the silver dome, Lady Gwendoline saw that it was fillets of lemon sole Véronique, her favorite.

  As the maid set the plate on the table, a knife dropped to the floor.

  Lady Gwendoline winced. “Just give it to me.”

  The girl picked up the knife for her and darted out without a word, and Lady Gwendoline sat down at the small dining table.

  “Sole Véronique,” she murmured as she gently pulled apart the soft, white flesh. “Now this would make a winning dish for the contest.” It was a shame that cream was hard to come by for most ordinary homes, though.

  “I’ll make the best dish in the county, with a few wartime changes for good measure,” she murmured.

  The Ministry of Food’s Lord Woolton Pie

  Serves 4

  For the filling

  4 pounds chopped vegetables (such as carrots, turnip, cauliflower, potatoes)

  1 onion or leek, chopped

  1 teaspoon vegetable extract, or ¼ pint stock

  1 tablespoon oatmeal

  Parsley, chopped

  Salt and pepper

  For the potato pastry crust

  1 cup wholemeal flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  Pinch of salt

  2 tablespoons butter or cooking fat

  ½ cup mashed cooked potatoes

  Milk for glaze

  First cook the filling. Place the vegetables, onion or leek, vegetable extract, oatmeal, parsley, and salt and pepper into a pot and just cover with water. Bring to a boil and cook until tender, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking.

  Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. Make the pastry by mixing the flour, baking powder, and salt, and then rub in the butter or fat. Mix in the mashed potato, working it into a ball that can be rolled out. Put the vegetables into a deep pie dish and cover with the pastry. Use a little milk to brush the surface, then bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until the crust is golden brown.

  Miss Nell Brown

  Fenley Hall Kitchen

  The kitchen at Fenley Hall was a heaving vaulted stone expanse. Half underground, a row of broad, arched windows spread light over the warm, cavernous space. It was the impressive old meal factory of a great house of the highest standing, and as Nell scuttled around she felt a kinship with maids from the past—although there would have been far more of them even twenty years ago, with a hierarchy of kitchen and scullery staff, a grand cook presiding over them.

  Now there was only Nell to help the cook, old Mrs. Quince, and she had to do the work of three maids. Feeling like a young rabbit, she sped through the maze of tunnels—the main kitchen, the pantry, the scullery, the wine cellar, the ice cellar, the buttery—the authoritarian tock of the grandfather clock always hard on her heels, Go, go, go!

  “Why is it always down to me to do all the work?” Nell huffed as she dashed back in from the pantry. The lively parlor maid had been gone for three long months. “Everything feels so flat now that she’s gone—and I have to clean this big place, too!”

  “Oh, Nell dear, no one has a full downstairs staff anymore.” Mrs. Quince was at the kitchen table, her old cooking book open as she planned the week’s meals. “I remember when the place was packed with maids. We were like a big family—not always happy, but a family no less.” Her smile faded. Nell knew she was recalling the servants who’d been let go when the distinguished earl had been forced to sell Fenley Hall to Sir Strickland to pay off debts. Now, with the new war, anyone remaining had left to join up or to earn more doing war work.

  The smell of frying mushrooms, blended with rosemary and thyme, warmed the vaulted rooms as Nell went back to her stock, adding a dribble of wine—there might be a war on, but Sir Strickland’s wine cellars were always full.

  “You can make twice as much money in the Fenley Pie Factory,” Nell mused. “And you don’t have to get up at five every morning.”

  “But it’s not a nice place to work. Sir Strickland owns that factory, and I wouldn’t trust him to stick to the health and safety rules.”

  The maid stirred the stock absently. “Once I’m twenty next year, I’ll have to find war work anyway because of women’s conscription—unless I’m m-married by then.” The thought of marriage fluttered chaotically through her head, like a moth around a hot lightbulb.

  “War’s too dangerous for women, if you ask me,” Mrs. Quince said protectively. She dreaded losing her dear friend and only help.

  “They’re not sending us to the front line.” Nell laughed gently. “Even if you’re put in the military, all you do is mend trucks, do paperwork, or ferry officers around. Otherwise, it’s munitions factories or farms. I’ve always fancied becoming a Land Girl. There are some at Howard’s Farm. I see them in the village in their brown uniforms, always laughing and linking arms. I know it’s hard work, farming, but it would be nice to be outside, back with nature.”

  “You’re better off sticking with your cooking, Nell,” Mrs. Quince said. “You have a great talent, and you shouldn’t waste it.” When Nell had first arrived at the hall, the old cook had seen something in her, picked her out, and trained her up as her assistant. “You’ve got a keen perception for taste, and your quick thinking is superb. I’ve never known anyone to adapt recipes and understand techniques so thoroughly.” She looked tenderly at the girl. “You reminded me of my little sister when you first arrived—how I missed her when I left home! Such a pure and eager spirit. I always said, Nell, that I would help and guide you along your way. And look at you now! A highly skilled cook in your own right.”

  The girl gave the old cook a smile. “I-I could never stand on my own, not without you here.”

  “You’ll see. You just need more confidence in yourself.” Mrs. Quince went back to her recipe book, following a handwritten recipe with a plump finger. “Be a duck
and see how many eggs we have?”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Nell bustled over to the pantry, kept cool on the very corner of the building. “There’s six here from Fenley Farm.” She poked her head back out. “Seems a bit unfair that we get best pickings from the estate farm.”

  “I have a feeling that Sir Strickland is stretching some rules there.” Mrs. Quince sighed. “But we should count ourselves fortunate that we can get what we need. Get the ration books for me, would you?”

  There were five ration books in all. Two for upstairs: Sir Strickland and Lady Gwendoline, and now only three for downstairs: Mrs. Quince, Nell, and old Brackett the butler.

  “The Stricklands need to try harder to get a new parlor maid. I think they’ve forgotten they asked me to help out. It’s too much for one person.” Nell hadn’t minded doing the parlor maid’s work at first, but it was only supposed to be a stopgap.

  Mrs. Quince chortled, “Provided someone does it, they don’t care.”

  “They don’t even know I exist, do they?” Nell wandered back to her stock. “It’s not that I think I’m special, but they could at least remember that I’m doing it on top of my own work.”

  “Why don’t you remind them yourself? Go upstairs and have a word with her ladyship?”

  Hastily, Nell began chopping some garlic and celery and throwing it into another pot, adding a little butter to soften them before putting them into the stock. “They’ll never listen,” she murmured, knowing that she’d clam up as soon as she set foot upstairs, her words jumbling or stalling completely.

  Nell loathed the Stricklands, and especially so since the Blitz began. Only fifteen miles south of London, the village of Fenley was on the path of the Luftwaffe’s nightly air raids, and Lady Gwendoline had drawn up a strict routine that was to be followed every night the bombers came over. As the air-raid siren sounded, Nell was to assist the Stricklands down to the cellar with torches. The cellar beds were to be freshly made in readiness. Mrs. Quince and Nell were given a small corner with a few blankets to spread across the stone floor while Brackett, the aging butler, had a curtained-off cubicle to himself. Nell was expected to stay awake, popping upstairs to listen for the siren played once as an “all clear.”