The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Make the marzipan. Blend all the ingredients together into a paste. Smooth it around the outside of the cake.

  For the icing, mix the powdered milk and sugar in a bowl with a little water. Melt the margarine or butter and mix it in with the vanilla essence. Add water until you get the right consistency and smooth or pipe the icing over the cake.

  Audrey

  It was one of those clear, bright mornings, as if Mother Nature wanted to make the day match Mrs. Quince’s sparkling-eyed joy. Not a wisp of cloud broke the pale blue morning splendor, no breeze disturbed the tang of autumn in the air. There was a stillness, only the distant sound of cattle lowing in a nearby field. It was as if the world had polished itself up and was in very best form for the sad passing of the beloved old cook.

  And beloved she was, Audrey thought as she stood beside the church door, watching the people pouring in. Most of them were from the village, people who remembered her generosity, how she donated cakes to raise money for the school, made pies and cakes for village events, baked her Special Occasion Cake for christenings and weddings. Her jam was legendary. She’d stopped entering the jam contest at the village fair, claiming she was too busy, although everyone knew it was to give the other cooks a chance of winning.

  The church bell couldn’t be rung—it was only to be rung in the case of invasion—and so the old vicar checked the hour on his wristwatch and ushered them into the church himself. The four women filed into the front row with the boys, Gwendoline at the end, then Nell, Audrey and the boys, and Zelda at the far end. Together they huddled, as if the grief of one of them was to be shared out, each of them taking on some of the burden.

  The coffin was already in the church. At the sight of it—her old friend lying lifeless in a wooden box—Nell began to cry, turning her face into Audrey’s shoulder.

  “Death is just not fair,” Audrey murmured, half to herself. “The most painful part of living is the fact that little by little, our family and friends leave us, and then, in the end, it is our turn. We all have to say goodbye to everything we’ve ever known.”

  The vicar began. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the memory of our dear friend, colleague, and cook, Mrs. Eileen Quince. She was born in London’s East End, the second youngest of five. When her father, a docker, was killed in a work accident, his children had to go to work. Eileen arrived here in Fenley at the age of ten years old. At first she was a scullery maid, but her talent for cooking quickly enabled her to move up to the position of kitchen girl and subsequently kitchen maid. The death of her predecessor, Mrs. Newton, led to her becoming the new head cook of Fenley Hall, under the late earl.”

  Audrey couldn’t help thinking about Mrs. Quince’s life. Just ten when she had been sent away from home to work in a big house—she must have known that she’d barely be able to see her family in London. Once, Mrs. Quince had told Audrey that she had a sister with whom she kept in touch, writing letters when they could. Her sister had become a housekeeper in another big house, and every five or ten years they would meet for tea in a Lyons Corner House in London.

  How sad to be so far away from the people and place where you grew up. She must have missed her mother a great deal, although apparently Mrs. Quince’s mother had been strict, part of the reason why she herself was always so calm and soft-spoken. She was always so bright-eyed, so content with her lot. Her internal flame flickered on regardless of the challenges she faced, taking the rough with the smooth, determined to see the joy in life, always the joy.

  Her grave was to be situated beside that of Mrs. Newton, as she had requested when the vicar visited her in hospital. Gwendoline had arranged for the headstone.

  “It’s up to her employer to settle these things, and as I used to be her employer, I decided that we should do it.” She’d asked Nell what to put on the gravestone, and together they agreed on it, making a guess at her birthdate.

  MRS. EILEEN QUINCE

  January 1867—September 1942

  She fed us with her wisdom

  Nourished us with her joy

  Strengthened us with her love

  As they stood beside the grave, Nell seemed to hold her breath while the coffin was lowered down into the ground.

  “It feels so wrong, as if the world has gone off course and no one’s doing anything to stop it.” She looked at Audrey beseechingly.

  Audrey put an arm around her. “I know you want her to be alive—you feel like you need her to carry on. But the body in the coffin is just that: a body, the shell of the person you love. The essence of Mrs. Quince, the one you know and love, is all around us, in nature and the stars, in every recipe of hers that you cook, and deep inside your heart.”

  She turned her head into Audrey’s shoulder.

  Audrey stared into the ground, tears coming to her own eyes again. “No matter how many times we say that someone is dead, the fact is we simply can’t imagine a world without them.”

  “Every kitchen I shall ever enter, she will be there.” Nell sobbed. “She will be in every pantry, at every stove, and seated at every kitchen table.” She paused. “She will be there, drinking hot tea and scouring her recipe book, discussing what to cook for the week or making fun at Ambrose talking nonsense about cooking on The Kitchen Front. She will be everywhere, and everywhere will be brimming over with her kindness and love.”

  The funeral reception was held in Audrey’s drawing room, a capacious and rather austere room at the front of the house. In its heyday, when Matthew had been there, it had been his artist’s studio. Before he left, he put his good artworks away—most of which Audrey had been able to sell—and the room became a playground for the boys. Gwendoline and Zelda had tidied it up. In one of the bedrooms, they’d found a worn maroon rug, as well as a few small tables that now acted as occasional tables.

  On the far wall over the mantlepiece was Audrey’s favorite of Matthew’s paintings, and as she walked in to be greeted by it, her heart seemed to fall. It was a portrait of her, just after they’d been married. She was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, smiling as she looked directly at him. That afternoon was a memory she would never forget, the warmth of the room, the yeasty smell of fresh bread she’d only just baked, the soft, gentle feeling of his presence, like a wash of satin petals tumbling over her. In her face, she saw a young woman in love, at ease with the world, captivated with life.

  Suddenly, like a knife into her stomach, she was aware of how different she had grown to be, how pain, hardship, and loneliness had become part of her. How she longed to be that young woman again. She wanted to smile in that way, to delight in the scent of the fresh bread, to enjoy her friends and family, to feel blessed by them. She wanted to feel the exuberance of life.

  “I need to change,” she murmured to herself. “I need to be more like the person I used to be—not the person that I have become.” She pulled the pins out of her hair and let it down, her fingers loosening it so that it fell over her shoulders. And slowly, she smiled. “I need to remember all the good things I have: my family, a roof over our heads, a garden full of food, a kitchen full of love, and my dear, dear friends.”

  She rejoined the others, greeting the mourners and organizing the food, making sure that every dish was well stocked.

  Ambrose was there, of course, to give his condolences to Nell and the others. “The world will be bereft without her. Her food was legendary, but also her warm heart and her humor.” He looked from one to the others of his four contestants. “I didn’t realize you all knew her so very well.”

  Audrey stepped forward. “It’s a long story, Ambrose, but it appears that we now live under the same roof.”

  He grimaced. “Oh goodness, Aude. How ghastly for you!”

  She smiled. “Actually, it couldn’t be better. If you’d have asked me a month ago, I would have balked at the idea, but now”—she looked from one to ano
ther—“now it seems that we were always friends in the making. After all, we have the same love: cooking.”

  “And winning a certain contest. How are you going to get through that, eh?”

  She chuckled. “You’d be surprised what the power of friendship can do.”

  After the last guests had said their sad farewells, the women retired to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Quince would have been happy with that feast,” Gwendoline said, pouring a little sherry for everyone. “Well done, Nell. I know it must have been dreadful to get through it, but you did the old lady proud.”

  “She’d have loved it,” Nell said sadly. “It would have delighted her to hear how much everyone enjoyed the food from her recipes. To her, food symbolizes the exchange of love. We nourish who we love.”

  And with that, she asked them to raise their glasses.

  “To Mrs. Quince, whose recipes and spirit live on through us.”

  Zelda

  Zelda’s bump was getting bigger by the day, and she tried not to think about the birth. A local midwife looked after deliveries in the area, as was the case in most rural places, Middleton Hospital only dealing with emergencies. Zelda could only hope that the midwife was a good one, and ardently prayed that the baby wouldn’t be born before the final round of the cooking contest, forcing her to withdraw.

  That said, she was lagging three points behind Nell, the current leader, and would have to make her showstopping dessert truly excellent in order to win. Things had become so busy now that she was organizing a production system in the kitchen and clearing the outbuilding for the much-needed expansion. She’d hardly had time to think about the contest, let alone her pregnancy and what lay beyond.

  In the back of her mind lurked London, a frenzied and muddied place, awaiting her return once the baby had been born and off-loaded. She bit her lip as she thought of it. Hopefully, she would win the contest, but she couldn’t bank on that. She needed to be ready to do battle, pull connections, charm, bribe, and seduce her way back in. Part of her longed for her old life, the normality of it, the challenge. But part of her felt an exhaustion, a boredom. She imagined returning to her old flat, a one-bedroom place off Holloway Road, back to the venue of her love affair with Jim. The other people in the flats came and went—either married, moved back home, or just vanished. She always felt like the winner, the survivor, for remaining there for so long, but it suddenly struck her that her life in London could be viewed in a different light.

  Was I fighting hard just to stand still? she thought.

  And then there was Jim. Even though the thought of him filled her with rage, if she were honest part of her still stung from his rejection. The things he had said, had implied, had undermined her confidence to the very core. How could she have been so utterly taken in by him—used by him? After discussing him further with Gwendoline, she saw that what she had thought was love was only manipulation—it was a game that he played with any woman who could be of use to him.

  She began to think of her London life. She used to think that success was becoming a head chef, whatever the price. But perhaps she should also think of the cost.

  Isn’t happiness an equal part of success?

  Fortunately, life was too busy to dwell on it. She had her plan, and it was better to stick with it. Once she was back in London, she was sure to snap back into it.

  With only a few days before the contest finals, Audrey called everyone to a meeting in the kitchen.

  “We need to discuss the next round of the contest—it’s just around the corner, and I have no idea how we’re all going to use the same kitchen. I suggest we claim two hours each.”

  “How are we going to compete against one another, after everything we’ve been through?” Nell said.

  “Every man for himself!” Zelda laughed. “Or rather every woman for herself. I think we need to uphold the essence of the contest and each give it our best.”

  “I agree,” Gwendoline said. “Although I have to admit that I’m not so keen on presenting on The Kitchen Front anymore.”

  They looked around at her.

  “Why ever not?” Audrey asked.

  “I’m thinking about taking on a job in a proper top restaurant.” She grinned.

  “Where?”

  Gwendoline put her hands on the table. “I suppose I ought to come clean. I’ve thought of a terrific new business plan: to open a restaurant here in Fenley. There’s been nowhere to eat here since the Wheatsheaf closed, and with the army arriving in Fenley Hall next week, there’ll be plenty of business.”

  “But how will you open a restaurant?”

  “And with what money?”

  Gwendoline clasped her hands in front of her excitedly. “I’ve been speaking to the owner of the Wheatsheaf’s empty premises, and since he’s unlikely to have any more tenants, he’s letting me rent it for a song.”

  “What a terrific idea!” Nell cried.

  “I’ll do a little decorating, sort out the kitchen, and then open in a month or two’s time. I thought we could specialize in wartime Cordon Bleu,” Gwendoline said, winking at Zelda.

  Audrey folded her arms. “But what about my pie business? I thought you were helping me?”

  “We could merge your pie business with the new restaurant and relocate production to the new premises. The kitchen there is large, and it has great storage. You could solve the problem you have with expansion, and we could label the pies with the restaurant name. Everyone will know about us, from Middleton and other local towns to London, even.”

  Audrey thought this through. “It does sound like a good idea. Everyone needs restaurants these days to escape the rations.”

  “How do rations work in restaurants?” Nell looked puzzled. “Do you have to hand over your ration book?”

  It struck Zelda that Nell had probably never been in a proper restaurant in her life. “No, it doesn’t use any rations to go to a restaurant. That’s the beauty of them. They’re a great place for people to go when they’re out of rations or need a special treat.”

  Gwendoline piped up, assuming her Ministry of Food stage voice, which made everyone laugh. “When the government decided to ration food, they realized that restaurants, canteens, and so forth were going to play a big part in how the nation was going to feed itself. A lot of people get a meal or two at work factories and canteens, like the one Zelda worked in at the pie factory, and people in towns and cities can go out for lunch—sometimes dinner, too. Restaurants are more popular than ever, mainly because they don’t use anyone’s rations.”

  “But don’t restaurants have to ration supplies?”

  “Restaurants buy their ingredients from special wholesalers, who get the food that the Ministry of Agriculture deems available. One week, it could be pigs’ liver, and all the restaurants served by that wholesaler have to do what they can, making it into pâtés, pies, and parfaits. The next week it might be tinned sardines.” They all looked at one another, remembering Gwendoline’s woeful sardine roll starter.

  “But isn’t that terribly unfair to people who can’t afford to go to restaurants?” Nell muttered.

  “The Ministry of Food put a cap of five shillings on a three-course meal so that most people can afford it, and most restaurants charge less than that. The cap is there to stop the top London hotels from being exclusive—rations are about feeding the country, not just the rich.”

  Zelda leaned forward. “The Dartington used to get around it by charging a fortune for cloakrooms and drinks. Some of the big restaurants have a table charge, too, just to keep the right kind of clientele. I suppose, if they produce top-notch cuisine, it’s only fair that they can charge a little more.”

  “Some restaurants charge far less,” Audrey said. “The British Restaurants serve meals for only nine pence!”

  “But the British Restaurants aren’t run as businesses,
” Gwendoline corrected her. “They’re canteens run by the government or volunteers to make sure everyone gets a good meal. They used to be called Community Feeding Centers until Mr. Churchill deemed it too depressing. He thought up the name British Restaurants himself. There are a lot of them in cities, especially bombed-out areas.”

  “But, Gwendoline,” Audrey cut in. “Precisely how do you intend to make money, with all the five-shilling rules and British Restaurants cooking meals so cheaply?”

  In her element, Gwendoline took a deep breath. “First of all, we’re going to provide upmarket food for army officers and the local well-to-do. With my work and connections, a new restaurant is bound to cause a stir. We’ll be far more upmarket than the British Restaurant in Middleton, affordable for a weekly outing, providing gourmet food at a reasonable price.”

  Audrey sat pondering. “Well, it sounds like a plan of sorts. Why don’t you make some more plans, and we’ll see how it could work, shall we?”

  “Oh, Audrey,” Zelda said. “You needn’t be so flat about it. It’s a great idea, and it solves all your problems, too.”

  Gwendoline looked eagerly around at them all. “I thought we could all join together, use our collective cooking skills. What do you think, Nell? You’re one of the best cooks in the county.”

  Nell looked ecstatic. “I’d love to join, if Audrey can spare me. It sounds like it might be a bit of fun. Don’t you think so, Audrey?”

  “Well, I’ll have to think it through,” Audrey conceded. “But it does seem to make good business sense.”

  Gwendoline’s eyes glistened with excitement. “What about you, Zelda? You could be our head chef? Haven’t you always wanted your own Cordon Bleu restaurant?”

  Zelda shrugged. “I’m afraid London awaits. After the small problem has been, well, organized, I’ll be heading back.” She glanced at her bulging stomach. “In any case, I’ve already been in touch with the management at the Ormsley Hotel, and they tell me there’s space for me to start as an assistant chef immediately. From there, I’ll work my way up.”