The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Zelda

  Zelda had not been altogether happy about the arrival of Nell and Gwendoline into the household. Even after their initial shock that Zelda was the pregnant evacuee, and their agreement not to share the news of this, she was still put out.

  “I don’t trust Gwendoline not to blab about my pregnancy,” she muttered to Audrey while they were clearing up the breakfast things. “Regardless how much she says she’s changed, she still thinks I stole her precious chef. What’s more, you know how much she wants to win this contest. Wouldn’t it be convenient for her if one of the contestants had to drop out?”

  “She promised she won’t tell anyone. In any case, she’s turned over a new leaf.” Audrey leaned toward her. “And she knows I’d kick her out if she does.”

  After a few days, Zelda realized that Audrey was right. Gwendoline was helping around the house and, more usefully, bringing in more business. In addition to that, having Nell there was nothing but a boon for Zelda. She helped clean and cook just at the time that Zelda was starting to slow down.

  Which brought her to her next problem: How was she going to get through the last round of the contest? She would be eight months’ pregnant by then. Even with her scarf and draped clothes, it would be impossible to hide it completely.

  Which was why, one morning, on the way to work, she decided to pay Ambrose a visit. Putting on a light tan raincoat, she carefully left it open, arranging her scarf over the top to hide the bulge.

  In the morning light, Ambrose’s cottage looked impossibly quaint, the garden dappled with late summer flowers and a bird feeder nourishing an overzealous squirrel. She paused, wondering if she’d only be making things worse.

  “No, I’ll win him over,” she muttered determinedly, and marched up the path to ring the bell. “I haven’t any other choice.”

  The wizened old maid showed her into the drawing room to wait.

  “May I take your coat?” she said, as if exhausted by the thought.

  Zelda shook her head. “No, I’ll keep it on, thank you.” Her task was to convince Ambrose that they could keep it under wraps—even with all the newspaper photographs—so she had to present the case well.

  “Hello? Zelda?” Ambrose walked in, taken aback at seeing her there so early in the morning.

  “Lovely to see you, Ambrose.” Zelda stepped forward and put out a hand. “I hope it’s not too early.”

  He took her hand gingerly, evidently worried about what this meeting might bring. “Not at all. Do sit down.”

  She perched on a sofa. “I have something of a, well, personal nature that I would like to discuss.”

  Ambrose grimaced briefly, then quickly smiled and took a seat in a chair opposite. “Is it about the contest?”

  “I am unsure of some of the rules per se, but wouldn’t it be terrifically unfair should the BBC want to eliminate me—especially so close to its conclusion? It would quite disrupt the natural order of things, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “But why should it?” Ambrose looked befuddled.

  “Because I’m pregnant.” As she divulged this, she pulled open one side of her coat to reveal the bump.

  He choked, getting to his feet in alarm. “W-when did that happen?” he muttered, aghast.

  “I’ve been pregnant all along. It didn’t matter when it didn’t show, and I didn’t think—well, I just didn’t think.” Zelda felt her voice drop, and her eyes looked into his beseechingly. “The contest is such a massive opportunity for me, and I couldn’t bear to be knocked out now, just because of a, well, temporary situation.”

  “But the aim of the contest is to find a woman presenter for The Kitchen Front. How can you do that if you have a child?” Ambrose’s face reddened with uneasiness.

  Zelda looked at her hands. “Well, I plan to give the baby up for adoption. You see, I am not married.”

  Ambrose made a heavy sigh and stalked to the window. “Oh dear, I don’t know what my producer will say.”

  She followed him over. “But the people in the BBC don’t need to know, do they?”

  He turned around to look at her. “Of course they’ll know.” And then his face scrunched, uncertain. “Wouldn’t they?”

  “The only person of rank who is actually at the contest is you, Ambrose. You could tell the technicians to draw a blind eye—I’m sure they would. After all, losing one of your four contestants so late in the contest might cause more trouble than it’s worth, especially if the press got wind of the scandal.”

  “But what about the photographs?”

  She glanced down at her coat, cleverly concealing the bump again. “I can wear something to hide it—I know it’s more difficult now that it’s larger, but I can make sure I stand behind someone or something to cover it. I am planning on making a spectacular dessert, something truly special—it will be well worth keeping me on, Ambrose.” She gave him a smile of excitement—surely he couldn’t resist the promise of such a great dish?

  He seemed to weigh it up in his mind. “What is it?”

  She grinned. “I can’t tell you that, Ambrose. You only need to know that it will conveniently cover everything in front of me, and that it will be not only magnificent, but also utterly delectable.”

  “But—oh dear! I have to say that the whole idea of just ignoring it is terribly tiresome. What would happen if the BBC officials decided to drop by?”

  “You can simply say that you didn’t realize—that for all you know I might have put on a little extra weight.” She eyed him carefully and swallowed before playing her trump card. “Tell them that you’re not much of a ladies’ man.”

  That made him turn around.

  His eyes looked into hers anxiously. “What do you mean?”

  “We all have secrets that we’d like people to ignore.” It wasn’t said in a threatening way, just a simple statement—a plea for him to understand her circumstance. “It wouldn’t be fair to disqualify me because of my temporary condition. Sometimes people can be so biased—especially if one steps outside the norm, gets pregnant without being married, or does something that polite society frowns upon.” Her eyes pierced his meaningfully.

  “Well, if you put it like that…” Ambrose took out a handkerchief to dab his brow.

  “If you give me a chance in this contest, Ambrose, you’re being fair. You’re showing that society’s rules don’t define us.” She looked at him pleadingly. “You’re showing that you’re not one of the ones making judgment on everyone, damning people for stepping out of turn.”

  They stood watching each other, suddenly stripped down to individuals, both with things they wished to hide, both potentially outcasts.

  “Do you really believe you can get away with no one finding out?” he asked.

  She nodded. “No one will know for certain, and the newspaper photographs won’t show a thing—I’ll make sure of that.”

  He glanced at the finery around the room—the statues and the photographs on the piano—possibly contemplating all that he’d accomplished.

  “You could share your success by helping another marginalized person. It would be fair, honorable.”

  There was a pause, and then he said, “All right, provided you do your best to cover it up.” He looked her up and down with a nod. “And if they do find out, not a word about this conversation.”

  “Thank you, Ambrose.” And before she knew it, she had leaped over and given him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so very much.”

  As she beamed at him, he couldn’t help smiling back, and the thought crossed her mind that perhaps there was good in people, after all, a hope for a fairer, kinder future.

  With thanks and promises that she wouldn’t let him down, she bid him goodbye and made her way to work. Inspired by a sense of righteousness, her stride widened, lighter and almost jubilant as she headed to the Fenley Pie Factory.
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br />   The kitchen was in chaos. The dishwashing area had flooded during the night—goodness knows how—and as well as finishing the breakfast, she had to coordinate a clean-up. It was past ten o’clock, when she finally had a short break, that Doris tapped her shoulder. “You’re wanted in the office.” She looked aggravatingly pleased with the notion.

  A breath of annoyance escaped Zelda as she headed to see the manager.

  With a derisive sniff, she made a curt knock on the door and briskly entered without waiting to be called.

  “Good morning, Mr. Forbes.” She took the seat opposite him, looking at him impatiently. “You asked to see me.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Forbes said. “Miss Dupont.” He began to rummage around his desk for a sheet of paper, which he duly produced, offering it to her across the table. “Orders, I’m afraid.”

  The letter contained the following message.

  Dear Miss Dupont,

  Re: Your dismissal

  Since it has been brought to our attention that you are now in the family way, we hereby give you notice that your employment at Fenley Pie Factory will be terminated with immediate effect.

  Yours Sincerely,

  Mr. H. Forbes

  Zelda’s chin jerked to the side indignantly. “Who, in heaven’s name, told you this?” She looked down at the letter. “It was that silly girl Doris, wasn’t it?”

  A rush of red surged into his face. “Well, not precisely. But there are always a lot of criticisms about your shouting and so forth, and I think she felt—”

  “You’ve got to shout at the girls to get them to do anything!” Zelda yelled, standing up furiously. “Are you going to let them get away with this?”

  His eyes went to her belly. “But it isn’t as if there’s anything we can do about the main problem. There are policies about pregnant women.”

  Changing tack, she softened her approach, coming around the desk and bending low beside him to give him a glimpse of cleavage. She knew he liked her—he probably had a thing for strong, bossy women. “What about overriding the policies?” She leaned her head to one side as coquettishly as she could.

  “Well, I’m afraid that would be impossible.” He coughed uncomfortably, trying to loosen his tie. “You see, if Sir Strickland finds out—”

  “Don’t tell me a big, strong man like you is afraid of Sir Strickland?”

  “Well, he could get rid of me, too, you see.” He got to his feet, trying to lead her to the door. “I must impress upon you, Miss Dupont, that there really is nothing I can do under the circumstances.”

  He opened the door, and she looked at it as a cat might before getting put out on a rainy day.

  “Are you throwing me out?”

  “You know that I would help you if I could. Even under the circumstances”—he glanced down at her stomach—“I would have personally preferred you to stay.” Then he added with great emphasis, “Preferred it very much.”

  His doleful eyes looked at her almost hopefully, and she let out a frustrated huff and stepped briskly out of his office. She knew there was nothing she could do but leave. Her pregnancy was out, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. Collecting her final pay from Forbes’s secretary—it only amounted to the few days she had worked that week—there was nothing left for her but to go.

  Yet with every step, she couldn’t help but think about her future.

  “I’ll simply have to move back to London as soon as the baby’s been given over for adoption. Everything will go back to normal. I’ll win the contest and be the best radio broadcaster the BBC has ever known. And if I don’t win, I’ll find a top restaurant job, be free and single, all on my own again. It’ll be wonderful.”

  She made a determined nod. “Yes, wonderful.”

  Audrey

  The kitchen at Willow Lodge was all a-flurry. Flour swirled in the air, which was hot from the oven and thick with the scent of pork fat melting in a saucepan on the stove. With Gwendoline getting new Cornish pasty orders from Middleton, Audrey found herself busy from morning to night. Cornish pasties were extremely popular because they were handy and portable. They were ubiquitous in public air-raid shelters and the emergency food centers that fed the bombed out and clean-up crews in devastated areas.

  Nell had become her right-hand woman, and what a productive partner she was!

  “Mrs. Quince has taught you how to render pork fat very well!” Audrey watched her carefully trim any meat off the block she’d bought from the butcher, boiling it until any fragments of meat or skin had risen to the surface, sizzling in the bubbling liquid oil. Dexterously, she then poured the mixture through a muslin cloth, collecting the pure oil in a large jar.

  “It’ll be a hard, white lard when it cools. Mrs. Quince loves to use lard. It adds a lovely robustness to pastry and puddings, and it costs next to nothing.”

  Audrey patted her shoulder. “Not only a great cook, but also a brain for economy!”

  She looked down at her list. So much to do. Gwendoline’s arrival had been good for the business, but her revelations about their mother had taken their toll. Once again, she caught herself gazing through the window, thinking about her life, how easy her childhood had been, how she always felt she could rely on her parents, even when marrying a penniless artist. How different it was for Gwendoline, forced to make an advantageous marriage to find security. Audrey knew she was like her mother in many ways, but she made a silent vow to try to understand why people behave the way they do rather than making judgments based on appearances. How wrong she had been about Gwendoline, thinking it was her character when it was the result of a lifetime of chastisement. Now Audrey was determined to step away from her mother’s legacy, be her own person.

  A headache was coming on, and she put a hand to her brow. “I need to collect some meadowsweet for my head,” she muttered.

  Nell glanced around. “Goodness, Audrey! What a godsend to know about medicinal plants with all the pharmacy shortages.”

  A noise at the front door made them both glance into the hallway.

  There, coming in, a bag banging against the doorframe, was Zelda.

  “You’re home early,” Audrey called out.

  When Zelda looked up, Audrey saw something new in her eyes. Even though she held her head more upright than usual, there was new determination about her, a ruthlessness.

  “Are you all right?” Audrey walked into the hall. “What happened?”

  “That wretched man sacked me. They found out I was pregnant.”

  The bulge of her belly was visible beneath her open raincoat. “Well, I suppose it was always going to happen.” Audrey sighed, trying not to look disheartened. “Did you get your last pay?” she asked gently, trying to keep the urgency out of her voice. The business expansion had relied on Zelda’s pay for the extra ingredients. They literally couldn’t live without it.

  Zelda dug a hand into her pocket and dragged out a small envelope. “This is all they gave me.”

  Audrey looked inside and quickly counted the coins. It wasn’t nearly enough.

  Zelda looked at her pleadingly. “I know you don’t need extra help now that you have Gwendoline and Nell, but please let me stay, Audrey, just until the baby’s born. Then I’ll be out of your hair, back in London. I’ll get a job, and I can send you the back rent from there.”

  Audrey sighed again. “Look, I have to collect some herbs. We can talk while I pick.”

  With her bags left in the hallway, Zelda followed Audrey through the kitchen and out the back door into the garden.

  It was a heavenly morning, the bees buzzing lazily as they lapped up the last vestiges of summer. The lingering smell of smoke from burning the fields brought an unconscious reminder of the beginning of autumn, the forthcoming march through harvest and Halloween to Christmas. The reliability of the seasons—the formidable
character that shaped months, years, lives—it gave Audrey a comfort that surged through her.

  She would survive this war. Nature would carry her through, as it always did.

  Only, as they strode toward the wood, the almost unbearable wavering of a distant engine droned in and out, coaxingly absent for a few moments, making one believe that it was all in one’s mind, before coming back fuller and thicker.

  Looking out to the horizon, their hands shielding their eyes, the two women watched as a formation of three hefty bomber planes grew from specks to large, thundering war machines. The noise grew to a powerful throb, and a flock of starlings swarmed up from the wood, sweeping through the sky in a swirled formation all of their own.

  “They’re Nazis. Take cover.” Audrey grabbed Zelda’s arm. They’d be strafed if they were spotted. Together they raced through the garden to the cover of the trees, their legs pounding through the long grasses, the dandelion clocks scattering their time into the wind.

  “They’re heading to London,” Zelda said, panting. “We’re safe.” She unconsciously rubbed her bulging belly. “You never get used to the bomb raids, you know. They say you make it part of your day, going into shelters, packing a toothbrush in case you don’t make it home for the night. They say it gets easier, hearing the roar of plane engines. But it doesn’t. It gets harder and harder.”

  “It must have been dreadful in the Blitz, having to live like that.”

  “It was horrific. When the Dartington was bombed, all I could think was that it could have been me in there. A different work shift and I’d have been gone. And what would it have mattered if I had been killed?” The hardened look came back to her face. “The world would go on turning. My kitchen staff might have even been quite pleased.”

  Audrey watched, wondering what it must be like to be Zelda, alone and scared, fighting to stay alive. She reached across and squeezed her hand. Zelda, not used to the gesture, instinctively pulled away, but then realized too late that it was meant in good faith and gave her a reluctant smile.