The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  “Well, I don’t have the recipe with me right now,” she snapped uncomfortably.

  “You should be able to tell me the ingredients, though, if not the precise amounts.” Ambrose’s eyes pierced hers.

  Suddenly fraught, Lady Gwendoline’s eyes began shifting fast around the audience. Was she looking for someone?

  And had that someone helped her?

  Zelda followed Lady Gwendoline’s gaze into the crowded rows. She didn’t know who she was looking for…

  That’s when she saw him. Sneaking in late and sitting at the back, smug and rakish as ever.

  Of all the people in all the world.

  Jim Denton.

  Her head swam momentarily. There he was, as real as ever, only looking impeccably tidy and respectable in a sharp suit instead of his kitchen apron. The mere sight of him made her feel longings she’d forgotten, the way they’d ripped off each other’s clothes, the softness of his supple skin under her lips, the firmness of those shoulders, the way he’d gazed into her soul…

  She shook her head to bring herself back to earth.

  What is he doing here?

  Had he seen her photograph in the newspapers? Had he realized his mistake and come to claim her?

  But then her heart plunged as she watched his eyes meet Lady Gwendoline’s.

  “Money,” Zelda said under her breath. Of course, that was the only thing that was truly important to Jim.

  Lady Gwendoline must have been paying him to help her cook—and probably more, if she knew Jim. And now she seemed to be beseeching him to somehow impart the ingredients of his stock.

  But he only shrugged an apology, the glimmer of amusement on his face.

  “W-well,” Lady Gwendoline dithered. “The usual ones, plus some yeast extract and a little malt vinegar. Salt and pepper,” she added pathetically.

  “Ah,” Ambrose muttered, his eyes flashing to the audience, taking stock of the situation. A man who had dined in as many London establishments as Ambrose would have recognized Denton’s face as the target of her stare and put two and two together.

  With a stiff smile, he put his plate hurriedly back on the table to move on. “Thank you for your explanation,” he said adroitly, stepping forward to the final contestant, Zelda.

  Suddenly, Jim’s eyes shifted from Lady Gwendoline straight to Zelda’s, his smile transforming into surprise as he realized who she was, what she was doing there.

  But then she watched his face creasing into confusion as his eyes looked her up and down. The surprise in it had gone, replaced by a question. Was it the floral dress: a style she would never wear? Or was it the vague shadow of the bump lurking beneath?

  “Now, who do we have next? Ah, Miss Zelda Dupont.” Ambrose was in front of her, but Zelda’s attention was gripped by Jim Denton. She needed to focus. After all, it wasn’t for her that he was there—he was being paid by her competitor. She needed to pull herself together.

  Winning the contest and getting the job as presenter was everything.

  Nagging at the back of her mind, however, was a deeper, more worrisome problem. What would he say about the baby? Would he ever want to see her again, or on the contrary, would he demand to have some say in the child’s life? More crucially, would he spread the news around her London circles?

  If the BBC finds out, I’ll be out of the contest.

  How she wished he wasn’t there.

  “Miss Dupont?” Ambrose’s voice shook her back to the contest.

  “Oh, mine is a cold-pressed pie with hot-water pastry,” she said without her usual aplomb, lifting the silver dome quickly to reveal the golden, flaky crust glowing with perfection beneath the stage lights.

  As she cut a hefty slice, the smell of pork and cold meats blended with herbs spread through the hall. Beside the pie, she dished some pickled beetroot salad.

  Ambrose eyed the pie hungrily. “What’s it made with?”

  “Spam and local wood pigeon,” she said simply. Her mind was frenzied, her hands shaking, her voice small. Quite unlike her usual confident self, she suddenly felt vulnerable.

  A great murmur spread across the hall. Cameras clicked and people stood up to see. Although not new as such, Spam was still a curiosity.

  “That’s very ingenious of you to put it into a cold-pressed pie. Spam is likely to become one of the mainstays of the wartime kitchen, with so much coming over from America.” Ambrose cut a piece off and tentatively tried it, his face evidently delighted with the result. “Are those pickled walnuts inside?”

  “Yes,” she replied. Automatically, she began to list the ingredients, how she’d selected them and then cooked the pie. “I panfried the sliced Spam for a few minutes to bring out the bacony flavors. It also adds a crispness to the texture that a pie like this needs. Spam can be rather spongy if you’re not careful.”

  “Indeed,” Ambrose said, eating more. “And there’s game in it, too?”

  But Zelda’s attention was gone. She was watching Jim, as he watched her, replying mechanically. “I added the meat from four roasted wood pigeons. It keeps the inside of the pie firm—I couldn’t use pheasant or grouse as it’s not the gaming season. Wood pigeon is a pest, so the farmer was happy to shoot a few for me.”

  She barely even noticed that Ambrose took a second forkful, nodding with satisfaction before replacing the plate and turning to the audience to conclude the round.

  “I think we can all agree that tonight has been a resourceful and creative round. Now I will announce the points.”

  With bated breath, the audience and contestants awaited his scores. But Zelda’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  Regardless of how ardently she wanted to win the contest, all she could think was how this one, stupid, callous man—who hadn’t even cared enough to buy real pearls—had now so much say in her life. And yet, as she let herself steal a glance over to him, their eyes locked, and she felt that giddy tumble, that surge of craving. How long it seemed since she had seen him. How lonely and hard life had become. How she yearned for their connection.

  Ambrose was at the side of the stage ready to announce the scores. “This round’s winner, with nine out of ten points, is the extraordinarily heartwarming rabbit cacciatore from Miss Nell Brown. The flavors blended together extremely well, and all told, it was one of the most remarkable dishes I have ever tasted.”

  Nell gave a ridiculous little bob, as if she had been thrust in front of the King George himself, too petrified to even smile. A photographer rose unenthusiastically to take a picture. In her gray maid’s uniform, she hardly looked the image of culinary innovation.

  “Second place goes to Miss Zelda Dupont, with eight points for her Spam and game cold-pressed pie. I’ll definitely need this recipe for The Kitchen Front! We’re very much on the lookout for ways to cook with Spam.”

  There was a round of applause, and Zelda smiled tepidly. In the audience, she saw Jim smirk.

  She couldn’t wait for this wretched event to be over. Was it better to speak to him, try to convince him that everything was fine? Or was it safer to flee, avoid him, give him no further chance to observe? The longer she spent with him, the more he was bound to notice the bump, and the more she was likely to yield to his power.

  And yet he gazed at her, as if mesmerized by her presence.

  Ambrose went on. “Mrs. Audrey Landon, your mock chicken was simply delicious.” He gazed at her ardently. “You come in just behind with seven marks out of ten.” Audrey looked stoically into nowhere, as if her life were so destroyed that this extra blow barely made any impact.

  Meanwhile, Lady Gwendoline was virtually frothing at the mouth for being overlooked thus far.

  “Lady Gwendoline, I’m giving you six out of ten,” Ambrose said, glancing pointedly into the audience toward Jim. “Although using whale meat is an inspiring idea, it isn’t quite the
thing to get help from elsewhere.”

  Lady Gwendoline huffed, bore impatiently through the photographs, and then strutted off the stage, threading her way toward Jim. He, meanwhile, decided that it was time for him to take a different route to see his former girlfriend on the stage.

  Zelda watched in dismay as he approached, then, seizing the moment, she hurried down off the stage and vanished into the crowd. Only, just as she was making good headway for the door, she felt a firm hand around her upper arm and came face-to-face with her former lover.

  “What are the chances?” he murmured, that half smile playing around his mouth.

  She tried to be calm, normal. “That was precisely what I was thinking,” she uttered dismissively, trying to shrug her arm from his grip as she pressed on toward the door. “But then I realized that you’re being paid to be here, and it all slid into place.” She gave him her usual ironic smile.

  “I see you came in second.”

  “And I see that you came in last,” was her rejoinder.

  He grinned. “You haven’t changed.”

  With relief at this sentiment, she pulled open the door. As soon as they were outside, she said, “Well, lovely to bump into you. Cheerio.”

  “Zelda, stop!” He spun her around. “I’m staying the night in the local tavern. Wouldn’t you care to join me for a drink?” He asked it with high-class politeness, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the pub opposite.

  “What about Lady Gwendoline? Shouldn’t you be commiserating with her?” She laughed, trying but failing to free herself. “Or has she already given you the money?”

  “Touché, my hornet! Always the little darling, aren’t you?”

  The evening was chilly, a wind blowing down the lane. As they walked on, his hand still on her arm, the voices from the hall faded, and a fox trotted across the lane in front of them, darting into the bushes to the fields beyond.

  No cars went by—the fuel rations had kept most of them off the road. Houses were closing up for the night, blackout curtains put up, all the light contained.

  “Isn’t this place a little too sleepy for you?” He grinned. “I bet they weren’t ready for you, all your chaos?”

  “I’ll have you know that I’m a very upright citizen these days,” she said.

  He laughed gently, releasing her arm and slowly catching her hand, pressing it with his fingers.

  She was shocked how quickly her body responded, almost desperate for his touch.

  But she had to keep her wits about her, and she slowly relinquished her hand. “I wouldn’t want you to get your hopes up,” she said. Levity, she thought, would see her through this ordeal.

  Yanking the door open, she disappeared into the smoky old bar, a strong whiff of cigars and yeasty beer pervading her nostrils. The low ceilings and dark beams forced Jim to stoop as he made his way to the bar. Once there, he ordered a pint of ale for himself and a pink gin for her. She couldn’t bear the taste of gin now she was pregnant, but it would be easier to leave it than complain, so she took it and found a small table.

  As soon as they were seated, he leaned forward to kiss her, whispering, “We’re meant for each other, darling. Why did you leave London, and for this dreary place, too?”

  She pulled back, exasperated. It was typical of Jim to want her as soon as she didn’t seem interested. “I told you before. I was conscripted into work here. I begged you to help, but your attention seemed to have shifted.”

  “I didn’t realize you were going to be away for so long. Sweetheart, I need you.” He leaned across the table, closer to her, and whispered, “Why don’t I remind you how much I love you? I have a room upstairs.”

  She grimaced. “You’re only interested in having someone warm your bed for the night.”

  He chuckled, running his hand through his hair. “Whatever the situation, why not? We were always so good together.” He whispered hoarsely, “I know how much you want it.”

  The awful part was he was right. Having him right there, in front of her, it was almost unbearably tempting. But she couldn’t forget the way he rejected her—not even listening when she went to tell him about the pregnancy. Any respect she had for him had ebbed a long time ago. “I have a new life here, one that doesn’t include useless cads.”

  Meanwhile, he was glancing up and down Audrey’s floral frock. “I have no idea where you got the frightful dress from, but it looks a bit like a nightdress to me.” He leaned forward again. “And I can’t wait to lift it off that soft, sweet body of yours.”

  “Do you think you can snap your fingers and I’ll come running?”

  He smirked. “That’s what usually happens.”

  She sat back. “As a matter of fact, Jim, I’ve found that life on my own is much more rewarding.”

  Perplexed, he sat back, too, evidently not believing a word of it—although, truth be told, even she would have had trouble believing it of herself four months ago.

  “You’re having me on! How could you possibly let me go? I’m quite a catch, you know. Lady Gwendoline certainly thinks so.” He let out an imperious chortle, sweeping his hand through his hair again in his practiced, arrogant way.

  Zelda couldn’t help wondering why immaculate Lady Gwendoline was dabbling with the hired help. Even though she knew how alluring Jim could make himself, she wondered if all were as perfect as it seemed in Fenley Hall.

  He moved toward her, trying to take her hand, but she quickly pushed her chair away from the table to put some distance between them.

  And that was when everything changed.

  Jim saw the bump.

  Her quick movement had shifted her carefully arranged clothing, exposing the giveaway shape beneath. His eyes were pinned on it, his head moving to the side to get a profile view, his mouth slightly ajar. After a moment, he leaned forward, grabbing her roughly by the arm.

  This is it, she thought, taking a deep breath. He’s going to expose me.

  “Who did that to you?” He emphasized “that,” like it was something heinous, disgusting.

  With a dignified smart, she pulled her arm away. “It was you, of course. Do you think I’m some sort of slut?” She remembered how her previous landlady had called her that, and she shuddered.

  He made a horror-struck grunt, his lips contorting into a snarl. “It can’t be mine,” he said savagely.

  “Well, it can’t be anyone else’s,” she muttered, feeling annoyed, betrayed.

  A series of huffs and grunts came out of him, and then he pulled himself together. “Well, you’d better deal with it. I don’t want any children making claims on me.” His voice was rising hoarsely. “Get rid of it!”

  She snapped at him, “It’s illegal to ‘get rid of it.’ In any case, it won’t affect you. I’m giving it up for adoption.”

  Slightly pacified, he watched her for a moment, his eyes narrowing in thought. “There’s a good girl.”

  The rudeness of the man! Zelda thought angrily. “Good? That’s not how it sounded a moment ago, when you were implying that I was a tart. Don’t patronize me, Jim Denton! Didn’t it cross your mind that I wouldn’t want the child either? I am a highly trained chef. I’m just as good as you are—better even!”

  “The last woman who got pregnant tried to trap me into marriage,” he blurted, as if that should solve everything. He was suddenly the victim in all this.

  “How dare you suggest that I’m like some other woman from your past!” There was a new form of outrage in her voice. “As if I’d be desperate enough to marry the likes of you? Ha!”

  Rather than offended, Jim looked disgusted with her now, his lip curling with repugnance. “Make sure you don’t put my name on any birth certificate.” His eyes narrowed on her.

  Then, with a snide inhalation of breath, he thrust back his chair and stood up to leave. “You’d better be tell
ing the truth. I don’t want to hear about the baby—or you—ever again.”

  With that, he turned and stormed out of the pub, slamming the door behind him.

  Other people in the bar had begun to look around, and Zelda found herself holding back tears. Sitting as still and dignified as she could for a few minutes, she carefully got up and walked outside.

  Jim was nowhere in sight, thank goodness.

  “I don’t need him,” she murmured, beginning the walk back to Willow Lodge, trying to let the fresh, natural smells of the countryside seep into her skin and purify her from his grubby callousness. Tears sprang involuntarily to her eyes. Zelda wasn’t one for crying, but as she trod, carefully, thoughtfully, down the dark, narrow road, a deep feeling of anguish swept through her.

  And without knowing precisely why, she slowly sank onto the curb and began to sob.

  The Wise Housewife

  Shops early

  Carries her own parcels and takes her own wrapping

  Saves fuel, light, and time

  Keeps her family healthy by giving them at least one uncooked and one correctly cooked vegetable every day

  Uses vegetable water for cooking

  Source: Ministry of Food leaflet

  Lady Gwendoline

  Lady Gwendoline strode out of the village hall and got into the car waiting to take her back to Fenley Hall. She was furious, first with the contest, second with herself, but most of all with that scoundrel James Denton. The public humiliation of coming in last was bad enough, but now her hired chef had vanished with the floozy from the factory canteen.

  How did they know each other?

  Without acknowledging it, a hope had risen within her that, after the winning the contest, Chef James would be keen to formalize their relationship. He’d mentioned that he had taken a room above the pub, and she’d looked forward to spending the rest of the evening together huddled in his bed. She imagined how he would tell her his life story, how he needed her to make his life complete. He would listen to her innermost thoughts and dreams, put his arms around her as she cried about Sir Strickland’s cruelty. He would tell her that everything would be all right now that he was in her life.