The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Ben piped up. “You said bees were lucky, Mum? Can I ask them a favor?”

  “Go ahead, Ben,” she replied, wondering what he had in mind.

  “Bees, I want you to know that if the Stricklands take this house away from us, you’re very welcome to sting Aunt Gwendoline, and Sir Strickland, too.”

  He and Christopher began laughing, and instead of being cross, Audrey couldn’t help but join in. “Bees, you can be our secret defense.”

  She gazed around her treasured land, taking in the vegetables, the cherry trees, the pig snuffling away in his sty, the hens pecking in the grass. She remembered Matthew there, smoking his pipe and squinting in the sunshine, such a gentle spirit, mesmerized with life as if it were an incredible gift and it was our duty to live it to the full. He had enjoyed this world of theirs, running wild with the boys, painting in the meadows, and dancing alone with her in the kitchen, their children asleep above them.

  Abruptly, a call from the gate made her turn. “Mrs. Landon, there’s a letter here for you.” It was the lad from the post office.

  Audrey hurried down the path, taking the envelope. “Thank you,” she muttered.

  The envelope was official-looking, and Audrey ripped it open with her soil-stained hands as she stalked through the back door into the kitchen, slipping automatically into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

  It was from the WVS, the team of local ladies who organized evacuees, billets, and canteens for the troops.

  Never one to miss a chance to show her superiority, Lady Gwendoline had appointed herself the Fenley billeting officer, allocating war workers and evacuees from London into villagers’ spare bedrooms. It was happening all over the country, with a million children and pregnant women evacuated out of the cities and into the countryside to avoid the bombs. Meanwhile, thousands of war workers, mainly single women, had to be housed close to farms and factories, taking up any extra space. Nosy billeting officers would invite themselves into your home, sniffing out extra rooms that could house the needy.

  So far, Audrey had avoided it—her house was virtually uninhabitable with the roof severely damaged—but with every new evacuee came renewed pressure for her to accept some. Evacuees meant more work, more chaos, and more of her precious time, energy, and rations—none of which she had to spare.

  The letter went thus.

  Dear Mrs. Landon,

  Re: A pregnant woman evacuee is to be billeted at your house.

  The Middleton billeting officer has arranged for you to have a new evacuee, arriving to stay with you next week. She is a pregnant woman, due to give birth in three to four months’ time, after which you will have mother and baby until the end of the war.

  As you know, taking in an evacuee makes you eligible for a basic weekly stipend from the government (ten shillings and six pence) and since the evacuee is an adult, she will have to make contributions for rent, food, and household fuel. She will give you her ration book so that her rations can be included in your household’s rations when you shop.

  Finally, I would like to remind you that giving evacuees a home is not only a charitable way for civilians to help the war effort, but it is also a compulsory obligation that cannot be challenged.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lady Gwendoline Strickland

  Fenley WVS Billeting Officer

  Her own sister! Gwendoline of all people knew that Audrey had no time for evacuees—she had enough trouble with her own children let alone adding a Londoner. Was this another way Lady Gwendoline was trying to ruin her chances of winning the contest and getting the radio job?

  Audrey laid her head on the table, wondering how on earth she was supposed to look after another person—two more people when the baby came. Christopher’s anxieties were bound to get worse with all the mayhem.

  “I bet Aunt Gwendoline doesn’t have any evacuees in her giant house.” Ben had come up behind her. “Shall I spy on Fenley Hall for you, Mum?”

  “No, Ben darling,” she replied, trying to hide her frustration. “I’ll just have to go and see Gwendoline, make her find somewhere else for them.” She took a long, deep breath. “Failing that, we’ll just have to convince the evacuee that she doesn’t want to stay, not even for a single night.”

  Audrey’s Sweet Pickle Chutney

  Makes 4 to 6 jam jars

  2 pounds mixed vegetables (carrots, beetroot, onion, green beans, cauliflower), chopped

  Around 4 pints of brine (¼ cup salt to 1 pint water)

  1 tablespoon pickling spice (black pepper, mustard, coriander, cloves, bay leaf, allspice)

  ½ tablespoon ground ginger

  ½ tablespoon ground turmeric

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 pint vinegar (malt is best)

  2 tablespoons sugar

  2 apples, pureed

  1 date, if available, finely chopped

  Submerge the vegetable pieces in the brine and leave overnight. Drain and rinse the vegetables well, patting them dry.

  Stir together the pickling spice, ginger, turmeric, and flour. Add enough vinegar to make a paste.

  Heat the remaining vinegar and dissolve the sugar in it. Add the spice paste. Stir well, then cook for a minute, until slightly thickened. Add the chopped vegetables, pureed apple, and date (if available), and stir. Cook for 4 to 5 minutes. Remove from the heat, immediately put into jars, and seal.

  Lady Gwendoline

  Inside the ivory elegance of her private reception room, Lady Gwendoline sat neatly at her small desk. Though rather elaborate for a usual day, she was wearing a pristine dove gray dress as she was accompanying Sir Strickland to a gala in London. Her morning had been spent studying The Lady, taking stock of the opinions about the war that she should proffer should anyone ask.

  “Our duty to King George, as well as the ordinary people,” she practiced out loud, “is to hold ourselves ever upright, leading our communities with bravery, clear-mindedness, and the smile of a victor.”

  Was that quite right? Did it supply the right amount of noblesse oblige?

  The complex inner workings of the upper-class mind remained an enigma to her. She never felt completely at ease with them. Having studied their motivations and manners for decades, she couldn’t help wondering if the hours of struggling in social discomfort were worth it. Did any of the connections merit the polite sneers and scoffs of disapproval she received for not being “true blue”?

  Granted, her title had given her a rightful lead in local affairs—she was now considered the lady of the village, although the throne of her own making never felt quite as comfortable as she’d expected. It was certainly lonelier than it had been in her dreams.

  To assimilate into the upper classes was a joint ambition of both her and her husband. Sir Strickland reminded her of it continuously, pointing out her failings to “help her onto the path to success.”

  Why couldn’t she live up to his standards?

  No wonder he got so angry. She was letting him down, letting them both down.

  The knock of the butler interrupted her thoughts. “Mrs. Audrey Landon is here to see you, m’lady.”

  “What?” Lady Gwendoline exclaimed.

  Audrey burst in even before Brackett had opened the door for her, then stood, scowling, her boots bringing in half the soil of Kent.

  Lady Gwendoline looked her up and down. “Don’t you have any manners at all?”

  Audrey’s glare moved from the elegance of the room to Lady Gwendoline. In her hand, she held a letter, somewhat crumpled and grubby with soil. “Are you trying to ruin me, Gwendoline? You know very well that I can’t have evacuees.”

  “Oh, I was wondering to what I owed this intrusion.” Lady Gwendoline plastered on her false smile. “We all have to do what we can for the war effort, don’t we? Everyone else who
has spare rooms in the village has evacuees. You’re the only one who doesn’t. You wouldn’t want word to get out that you’re not doing your bit, would you?”

  Audrey shook with anger. “But I already have my three boys to look after, and—”

  Lady Gwendoline’s eyes narrowed, her teeth gritted with determination. “I know that you have at least three extra bedrooms that are currently not being used.”

  “They’re uninhabitable!” Audrey cried. “The roof has collapsed on that side of the building, and there’s damp everywhere—something green is growing in one of them. Another bill came in this morning, and I can hardly make ends meet, let alone find the money to fix the roof. I couldn’t possibly cope with any more people in the house.” She paused for breath, looking frighteningly close to tears. “You’ll have to find somewhere else for her to go,” she finally demanded.

  Yet Lady Gwendoline remained unmoved. “Don’t worry. It’s not a horde of unruly children, just a pregnant mother. She’ll be quite self-sufficient.”

  “But the boys are so rambunctious.” Audrey had begun to talk terribly quickly, the words spilling out in a torrent. “The house isn’t fit for a baby.”

  “I’m sure you can get a room ready.” Lady Gwendoline picked up one of her magazines dismissively. “It was an urgent request from the Middleton billeting officer. I don’t have a name or any details, but it says she’ll be arriving next Monday.”

  “What about Fenley Hall? You have twelve bedrooms at least. They can’t all be full.”

  “Sir Strickland needs them for important visitors, with his role in the war.” Lady Gwendoline picked up a little silver bell and rang it for the butler. “Not that it’s any concern of yours.”

  Audrey was pleading. “But I can’t have any more people in the house! I simply can’t!”

  Lady Gwendoline put down the magazine. “Audrey, your lack of generosity is startling. This poor woman has wanted to be rehoused for a number of weeks. Apparently, she is being treated badly in her current billet.”

  “Oh no!” Audrey wailed. “I’m getting landed with a fusspot!”

  Lady Gwendoline put on her caring face. “I have to ask you to change your tone. It is our duty to take care of those in need.”

  “Why can’t she go farther into the countryside, away from the Blitz? We’re only a few miles outside of London. A bomb could drop on us any minute.”

  “The woman works in the Fenley Pie Factory, which is why she needs to stay local. Now let’s stop this ridiculousness and find a little generosity in our hearts, shall we?”

  “You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” Audrey spat. “You’re trying to fill my life with baking and now evacuees to stop me competing in the cooking contest.”

  Lady Gwendoline gave a little bray of laughter. “How ridiculous you are, Audrey. Why would I do that, and to my own sister, too?”

  “You’ve always tried to bring me down! You tried to ruin my chances with Matthew when I first met him, ridiculing his art and making fun of his old motorcar. And if that wasn’t enough, you made a mockery of my wedding by feigning the mumps and fainting in the church. You can’t help but find ways to undermine me.”

  “It was the mumps! Mama accused me of making it up, and you believed her. I know she was the perfect mother to you, but to me she was vile. You were always the pampered favorite. Well, it’s time to face reality: There’s a war going on, and you’re just the same as everyone else now, regardless of what she said.”

  Audrey softened. “I know she could be unkind to you, but you showed her, didn’t you? You became a lady with all that money, the title, your upper-class friends. I know she disapproved, and that must have hurt. But now you’re the one on top, and here I am, struggling to stay alive, and you foist an evacuee on me.” Hands on hips, she looked exasperated. “Admit it, Gwendoline. It’s the cooking contest, isn’t it? You’re trying to ruin my chances. You just can’t bear that I might be a better cook, can you? That I might be the one who gets on the radio? This is my one chance to get my life back. Do you have to beat me at everything?”

  Lady Gwendoline adopted an appalled look, ringing her little bell again and wondering what had happened to the butler. “I can’t believe that my own dear sister is accusing me of this. I give up my precious time to be the billeting officer for the village, and this is how I’m treated? Perhaps you need to look at yourself, Audrey. At how selfish you have become.”

  Brackett came in, and with a nod from Lady Gwendoline, began unequivocally showing Audrey to the door.

  “But—” Audrey barged past him back into the room. “You can’t do this to me, Gwendoline. I’m your sister. I lost my husband. Please?”

  But Lady Gwendoline was already absorbed in her magazine. “We’ve never been sisters, Audrey. You were the only one who counted. Mama’s little favorite. I was the black sheep, and black sheep can’t be sisters, can they?”

  “I know that Mama found you difficult to understand, but I was always your sister. I tried to stand up for you. I thought we were a team.”

  “You thought wrong. She left you our home, didn’t she? What did I get? Nothing. It was like I didn’t exist.”

  “You were already living here in Fenley Hall. What could you possibly want with a crumbling mansion?”

  Lady Gwendoline felt a searing heat through her temples. “I could have been asked,” she said surprisingly gently, and then she felt a lump in her throat. Tears were something she rarely allowed, so she quickly pulled herself together, growling at her sister. “Since you wanted the precious house so much, you got it, and so now you have to put up with evacuees.”

  Audrey’s face went pale, she looked momentarily as if she were about to say something, but then, with a sob, she turned and fled from the room.

  Lady Gwendoline was alone. Only the printed words of the society ladies in the magazine meandered and dissolved in front of her eyes as she tried and retried to focus.

  “Don’t let her bother you,” she whispered to herself. “Focus on the gala. Prepare, always prepare. That is the key to success.”

  Nell

  Nell’s room, high up in the western turret, was the smallest in Fenley Hall. Not only was it marginally smaller than the pantry, but it was also narrower than Lady Gwendoline’s wardrobe, a thought that made Nell feel not only peeved but also terribly small herself, as if her very life were nothing but a minute speck in the cosmos. Of course, she was crucial to the day-to-day running of the hall, but in more of a mechanical way, like a factory needs a part, or a motorcar needs fuel.

  Tonight, the room seemed impossibly cramped, filled on every available surface with recipe books. Most of the dishes were staples of great houses around the country: venison stew, boeuf bourguignon, fillets of sole Véronique.

  Mrs. Quince had let her go upstairs early, saying that she would get the stock done for the morning. Nell needed to find the right recipe for the contest.

  “I need something else,” she murmured, looking up from the pages. “I need something special.”

  But where could she find such a thing?

  Her mind whirled with starter possibilities. The salmon mousse choux pastries she made for Sir Strickland’s parties were always well received, and her poached haddock quenelles were legendary. And yet neither seemed quite right. They both used too many scarce ingredients that everyday people wouldn’t be able to buy. Heaven only knew where the Stricklands were able to get such things. The packages always arrived from different deliverymen, in plain cardboard boxes, no source, no name, no trail.

  A whoosh on the gutter outside her window startled her. It was only the wind whisking around the corner turret as usual. It always made that faintly disturbing sound.

  Like a ghost, she thought to herself.

  There had been rumors that the hall was haunted, and of all things, the notion that an unhappy servant
who had come to a bad end was now floating around to harass incumbents did not sound far-fetched in the least. The ghoulish forms of kitchen maids from years gone by would drift through the cellars in a never-ending search for ingredients, pots and pans, recipe books.

  That’s when it struck her.

  “Of course! That’s it!”

  She leaped up.

  “That’s precisely it! I need to find those old recipe books.”

  Grabbing her torch, she plunged down the servants’ stairs, charging into the dimly lit kitchen, almost knocking poor Mrs. Quince to the ground.

  “What’s the hurry, dear?”

  “Do you know where the old recipe books are kept? The ones from centuries ago? I’m sure I saw them at some point.”

  Mrs. Quince took out a handkerchief and mopped her brow, a gesture she used to indicate that perhaps things were going a bit too far. “Slow down, dear. I really don’t know where those old things are. I think they were thrown out when the Stricklands moved in. They wanted a lot of the old stuff gone.”

  A frown fell across Nell’s face for a fraction of a second, before she took a deep breath. “Well, I’ll take a look anyway. No harm in that, eh?”

  With that, she switched on her torch and dashed into the maze of cellar rooms behind the kitchen.

  Dust hung in the air of the low rooms, disused cellars, and secret nooks off the winding passages. They housed all sorts of old things: a chipped enamel weighing scale, a rusty old mincing machine draped with cobwebs, a pile of ornate platters that had enjoyed display in grand balls of the last century.

  There were some butter coolers, with cloth tops kept wet to keep them cold. Thank goodness Sir Strickland bought a refrigerator! Nell thought, remembering the days where they had to scald the milk and milk jugs every morning before setting them on the cold slab in the pantry wrapped in cool, wet gauze.