“Can you sing?” he asked.
“No—not well. I’ve never sung in front of anyone before, just by myself sometimes. I don’t know many songs.”
“Can you sing something for me?”
“I-I—”
Seeing her stammering, he quickly said, “I will sing something for you, and then, maybe, you can sing after.”
And without another word, he began to sing in Italian, a simple, lilting melody, fast and uplifting. His voice was clear and loud—he wasn’t shy in the least. In fact, he sang like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When he finished, he made a small bow and said, “That was a country song called ‘La Bella Polenta.’ It’s about a dish we make using ground corn. My grandmother makes the best polenta in the world.” He looked delighted. “And now, can you sing for me?”
Her heart began racing. “I-I don’t know any songs, and my voice isn’t as good as yours.”
He grinned. “Any song will be good—I am not judging you. Music is for sharing. It is not for us to say who is good or bad.”
And so, nervously, she began. “I’ll sing you one-o. Green grow the rushes-o. What is your one-o? One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.” There she stopped. “I-I don’t know any other verses.”
“You have a very beautiful voice—you must sing more often.”
“I’m too shy,” she murmured. “I-I can hardly speak in front of people, let alone sing.”
He looked over, his head slightly to one side. “Maybe, if you come back one day, I can teach you.”
Suddenly, she began to feel overwhelmed and began walking faster. “Maybe I should go.”
He hurried to catch up with her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please don’t go without your hare. It is just up here.”
At the top of the hill, he drew to a halt beside a meadow.
“This is the place,” he said. “I saw one here yesterday.”
“How will you trap it?” The man had neither a net nor a cage, nothing.
He looked around the expanse of long green grasses, the occasional flash of yellow buttercups or white daisies. “Stay here. Don’t move. And don’t talk. We must be very quiet.”
With that he turned to the field. The grass was almost as high as his knees, and he gently began to walk through, heading first down the field and then across, all the way around the edge until he returned, full circle. But he didn’t come all the way back to her. He walked in a kind of spiral, the circle getting smaller every time he went around.
Every so often, he would look over to her, put his finger to his lips, and make a pointing motion toward the middle of the field, where the grass was slightly lower or flattened down.
Has he found a hare? she thought.
And if he has, why is he walking around it?
The spiral continued to get smaller, and his walking became slower, until he was almost at the flattened part of the field. She watched as he slowed almost to a stop, his eyes and face down at the patch of grass.
Then he gradually eased himself down, there was a bit of movement, and then he stood back up, his prey in his hands.
She let out a gasp.
His stride held a quiet pride as he marched back through the field toward her.
“How did you do it?” she gasped.
He took her basket and placed it inside. “The hare likes to hide not run. He will only run if you try to shoot him or if you walk up to him as if to catch him or tread on him. Otherwise he likes to flatten himself against the ground, pretend he is not there. If you are careful and do not frighten him, he thinks you haven’t seen him.”
“And then you can get him.”
“That’s right.” He handed her basket to her. “Your hare.”
Their hands brushed past each other as the basket passed from him to her.
“Thank you,” she said.
He shrugged. “It is not hard.” And then, all of a sudden, he smiled a soft, lilting smile that lit his whole face with the morning sunshine. “I catch hares at home a lot.”
“Your home sounds lovely. I hope they let you go back soon.”
“And I hope you win the contest.” His eyes met hers. “You need some good luck, too.” And she was reminded that they were both prisoners in a way, both trapped.
There was a silent moment, the space between them suddenly so tight she could barely breathe, and yet so distant, as if the whole world and all its wars stood between them.
Is this it? she thought. Is this the moment when I have to leave? Head back to reality? The beds to be made, the lunch to be prepared, the dishes to scrub?
“My name is Paolo.” His smile was gone, replaced with seriousness—or was it sadness?
She opened her mouth to speak, but what should she say? “Tell Barlow that I got the hare.” Really? Is that all that I can think of? she thought, annoyed with her shyness.
He took a small step toward her.
Is he going to kiss me?
Panic rose inside her. Torn between running for all she was worth and staying, allowing herself that one small experience, she remained stuck ambivalently, desperate for any flash of color in the drabness of her world. That one small gift of a kiss. The parlor maid had talked about kissing all the time, every week a new set of lips. Nell was happy to imagine how it would feel. But now, here, she felt the urge to know it for real.
But what if he took advantage of her? Dragged her into the wood? The parlor maid had talked about that, too. She should get away now.
His eyes looked over her face, to her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, where they lingered a moment too long.
“I have to go,” he said. “I will be in trouble if I am away too long.”
A small step closer.
“Yes, I have to go, too.” She glanced around, feeling the blood flood to her face.
Then, as if not knowing what to do, he suddenly took a step back, picked up her hand—and then something unimaginable happened.
He lifted her fingers up, and very slowly lowered his mouth onto the back of her hand. His lips were like velvet, pressing with the faintest hint of movement, the lightest perception of moisture. It was as if he were a knight of old, and she a lady. She let out a little laugh at the idea—her a lady?
His large, dark eyes looked up into hers, his lips still on her hand, and her heart began to pound in her chest, her lips parting involuntarily to release a shuddered breath.
Could this really be happening to me? Invisible Nell Brown?
“Goodbye.” He slowly let her hand down, smiling again, a gentle, conspiratorial kind of smile. “You will win with your primo, and then you come back to me for your secondo, my next catch.”
With a dry throat, she determinedly took her hand away, gripping the basket handle. “Thank you, I’ll do that,” she said softly. “Cheerio, then.” And as nonchalantly as she could, she began down the path toward the hall.
As she walked, she heard his voice saying softly “goodbye,” and she turned one more time, watching as he headed off in the opposite direction.
At that moment, he spun around and lifted his hand high in the sky to wave, as if the fields, the sunshine, the day itself, belonged to them.
That they were as free as nature itself.
She waved back, feeling that same jubilation, and as the space between them grew, they both kept looking behind them, a game or a gesture or simply a yearning.
It wasn’t until he was out of sight that she clutched her basket in her arms and she ran. She ran across the fields. She ran through the wood, darting this way and that through the trees. She ran as fast as she could, propelled into a sprint, the energy pounding inside of her with an intensity that she’d never felt before.
Zelda
Zelda’s first week at Audrey’s house was
not an unmitigated success. As promised, Zelda had found a man to mend the roof, for which he would charge her a good sum. In order to pay him, she decided to pawn a pearl necklace that Jim Denton had given her, only to find that the pearls were fake.
“Are you sure?” she’d asked the man in the scruffy pawnshop in Middleton.
The man looked at her through his monocle, his one eye enlarged. “I’m afraid so.” Then he added with a little jeer, “Hope you weren’t expecting to marry him.”
Zelda gave a thin smile, took the pearls, and left.
As she strode down the high street, deep inside she felt a thud of annoyance. “Does Jim Denton think he can make a fool out of me?”
Ever since her mother sent her out to clean houses when she was ten, Zelda loathed people making a fool out of her, telling her what to do. Every night she’d come home, exhausted from scrubbing, only to be yelled at to look after her younger siblings, change them and feed them with whatever scraps she’d stolen from the homes she cleaned. She screamed back, of course, only to be slapped back down, threatened with being locked in a cupboard until she held her tongue. Two years later, her mother, with yet another baby on the way, pushed mouthy Zelda out of her house to work as a live-in scullery maid in a high-class London mansion. She was meant to send home a shilling each week.
She never did.
And she never set eyes on her mother again.
“I’ll never set eyes on Jim Denton, either,” she growled. “Where am I going to get the money from now?” She’d have to beg the roofer to let her pay in installments, as she got paid.
When she arrived back at Willow Lodge, she saw the younger two boys, Ben and Christopher, in the garden and joined them to pick some vegetables for dinner.
“Mum’s gone to the neighbor to borrow their frying oil—we share it because it uses too much oil for one family,” Ben said, yanking a carrot out, dusting it off, and taking a large chomp. “We have to stay here and do the weeding.”
“These are weeds, even though they look like flowers,” Christopher said, twiddling a buttercup between his fingers. “If you put it under your chin, you can see if you like butter.”
“Why don’t you try it on me?” Zelda said, crouching beside him and lifting her chin.
He held it up. “Golly, it says you like butter very much indeed.”
Ben was jumping around beside them. “Do it to me!”
They were so busy that they barely heard the growing sound of the plane in the distance.
It wasn’t until the noise was loud and sudden, the black form appearing over the trees, that Christopher dropped the flower, his face ashen.
“Not another plane,” Ben said, his eyes large and anxious. He looked at Zelda. “Quick, we have to take Christopher into the Anderson shelter. He gets scared.”
Zelda could see that. The boy looked as if he were about to faint, and then suddenly, without warning, he began to cry, hefty, uncontrollable sobs.
Gathering him in her arms, her first thought was sheer and utter annoyance.
How dare Audrey leave her in this situation!
This, however, was promptly overtaken by the notion that she had to do something. The convulsive sobs had stopped, and it sounded ominously as if he had stopped breathing completely.
Looking into the sky, she tried to register if it was one of our planes or theirs. Years in the Blitz had taught most Londoners a thing or two about spotting enemy aircraft.
“Hold on, everyone! That plane isn’t even an enemy one. It’s ours!”
Ben gazed up, hand over his eyes to see better. “Gosh, really?” he said, surprised.
Surprised by the change in mood, Christopher had pulled away and was now looking into the sky, too. “How do you know?”
“Look,” Zelda said. “There’s a small round target on the bottom of each wing. That means it’s one of ours. It’s a little Spitfire.”
There was silence as they all watched it zipping past.
“Are you sure?” Ben was keen to know. “Mum usually rushes us inside, so we don’t get the chance to have a good look.”
“Do you see the shape of the wings? They go straight out, and they’re elliptical. Spitfires stand out from the other planes. I’ve got a booklet somewhere, all about how to spot enemy planes. In London, you need to know before rushing to find a shelter.”
They stayed in silence watching the elegant little plane flitting over them.
Then Christopher began to look scared again. “What do the Nazi planes look like?”
“They’re easy to spot. They have a black cross on the bottom of their wings. They tend to come over in formations—triangular shapes like geese migrating for the winter. Our planes are often on their own as they don’t need to stick together when they’re at home.”
“Can we see your booklet?” Ben pulled her arm to go back to the house.
“Will you teach me the difference?” Christopher asked, his face up toward hers.
She took them inside and dug around in her suitcase for the thick booklet.
AIRCRAFT IDENTIFICATION
Friend or Foe
Immediately, they settled down at the kitchen table to study each one.
The sound of the front door heralded the return of Audrey, racing into the kitchen having heard the plane.
Instead she met a peaceful scene, the two boys reading and Zelda whipping up a leek and potato quiche for supper.
“What’s going on?” Bemused, she put down the saucepan of shared frying oil, complete with an old wire basket.
Christopher held up the booklet at her. “Zelda gave us a book with pictures of all the planes so that we know if we have to be scared or not.”
“And if it’s a Nazi plane,” Ben said, soaring around the room, “we’ll know if it’s a bomber about to drop bombs or something less frightening, like a fighter or a reconnaissance aircraft.”
Christopher smiled, as did Zelda.
Audrey only looked confounded.
“But, the planes…How did you…?”
Calmly chopping a leek, Zelda said breezily, “Well, I didn’t see anything to get panicked about. If you’ve spent the past few years in the London Blitz, a lone Spitfire isn’t going to worry you. In fact, nothing short of a formation of Junkers would scare me—you can tell them from the others by their guttural engine noises. When you spot them, then it’s time to find a shelter.” She gave the boys a concluding nod, like it was easy as pie.
Ordering the boys back outside to finish the weeding before supper, Audrey pulled out a chair. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful to you for calming down Christopher, but is it wise to advise children not to be worried when an aircraft goes overhead?” Her tone was cross, as if Zelda had overstepped the mark.
“The poor boy’s a bag of nerves, Audrey. They can’t be terrified every time a plane goes over. You can’t wrap them in cotton wool all their lives.” Zelda’s tone was one of impatience. “Arm them with the facts, tell them when they should be worried, and leave the rest to them.”
Audrey crossed her arms angrily. “It’s all right for you. You haven’t already lost a husband in this ruddy war, have you? If you had, I’m sure you wouldn’t be so cavalier about the remainder of your family.”
Zelda shrugged. “I’m sure it’s hard for you, Audrey, but you can’t lose your head. Let them get through it by themselves—they’re not going to break.”
Snarling with annoyance, Audrey stalked over to the back door. “I’ll do what I want with my children,” she snapped, before storming out into the garden.
Zelda was suddenly alone, questioning why she’d bothered—what did she know about children?
Why did she even care?
“Why did I say anything?” she muttered into the browning leeks, thinking of her own childhood, the opposite of theirs. The dir
ty tenement flat, her mother hitting her if she didn’t mind her young siblings. There was no playing in the garden for her.
But before she got any further, Audrey came back into the kitchen, coming alongside Zelda at the stove. “Look, I’m sorry. Maybe you were right.” She didn’t sound very apologetic, more resigned, confused even.
“What do you mean?”
“The boys are outside talking about how to spot a plane. So, thank you because, whatever your reasons, you seem to have allayed their fears—at least for the day.” She paused, watching them through the window. “Perhaps I am too worried for them.”
“Perhaps you are.”
Silence reigned for a minute, and then as if remembering something, Audrey put her hands on her head and let out a loud, “Drat!” She plumped down on one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s the contest tomorrow, and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do.” She glanced at Zelda and snapped, “I hope you don’t expect to cook in here, too?”
“I already told you. I’ll use the factory kitchen.”
Pulling out a pile of recipe books, she mumbled, “Frankly, Zelda, I don’t know why you’re even in this contest. All your talk about being a big chef in London.”
“But I’m not a head chef, am I?” Zelda focused on rolling the pastry for the quiche. “No one wants a woman as their head chef. I’m better than half the male chefs in London—often ludicrously better—but it’s not au fait to have a woman at the top.”
“But what if you’re better?”
“They want me to cook all right, but only so that a male head chef can take the glory.”
“That’s appalling.” Audrey’s annoyance vanished.
“I’ve tried to change them, argued, coerced, worked my way up, but nothing alters the fact that I’m a woman in a man’s world. Sometimes the restaurants tell me that it’s not to do with them—they would take me as a head chef. No, it’s the clientele. ‘If we want to stay in business, we have to have customers. No one would come if we had a woman as head chef.’ Women are viewed as cooks, not chefs.”
“But all the men have to go into the services. How can restaurants get by without using women chefs?”
The Kitchen Front Page 12