The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  “Audrey was wrong. You don’t look like me.” Then she breathed a little laugh. “But you don’t look like Jim Denton either, so that’s one good thing.”

  The girl looked up at her, a tiny hand going up to her mouth. Zelda reached out a finger and slipped it into the little hand, and miraculously, it just closed in, grabbing it tightly.

  “I’m not breastfeeding, if that’s what you want,” she said, but then added more softly, “but I’m sure Nell can get you a bottle when she’s back.”

  Her body felt warm against Zelda’s, reminding her that not long ago, she had been inside her.

  “How extraordinary that a little girl like you can grow inside me.”

  She tried to take her finger away, but the baby gripped it more. So Zelda left it there.

  “I wonder what kind of life you’ll have,” she whispered. “Lots of toys, a big house, a mother and father who will love you.” Her smile faded. Zelda had never known her dad, and her mum was so horrid she’d have been better off without her. “That’s why you’ll be better off without me,” she said. “You’ll be adopted by people who know how to love, to care for someone. You won’t have to live a life like mine.”

  Deep inside, Nell’s words about the orphanage flitted in and out. Surely, they wouldn’t send her to a place like that? In any case, even if they did, she was a tough little thing. She’d learn how to fight for herself, just as Zelda had.

  Minutes passed. Little by little, she looked over the child. First, she stretched out one leg, watched how the toes curled down as she ran her finger down the foot. Beneath her soft lilac swaddling blanket, she was wearing a long white cotton dress. On one of her visits, Audrey had told Zelda that she had been given it, along with other girls’ clothes, by one of the women in the village. She had washed and ironed it specially for the big day, when she was going to the adoption agency.

  “Don’t you look fancy!” Zelda whispered as she saw the embroidered dress. “Everyone will want to keep you!”

  Her thoughts turned anxiously to Gwendoline’s comments about the woman downstairs. She recalled the woman’s voice on the telephone, how severe she’d sounded.

  “A lot of those busybody women are much less fierce than they seem, aren’t they?” she murmured. “Audrey will sort it out.”

  The baby looked up at her, and then gazed around the room. Without thinking, Zelda wriggled to the side of the bed and got up, padding over to the dresser and showing the baby first a bracelet with blue Bakelite gems, then some long black-and-white art deco earrings, dramatic long triangles for an avant-garde look.

  “Those were the days! I wore these to a cocktail party in the Café de Paris.” The baby seemed to stare at it, mesmerized

  Zelda went back to the bed, sat down, nestling the baby into her and looking down into her pert little face.

  “I wonder if you’ll ever think of me, when you’re older.” The baby fidgeted, stretching. “I want you to know that I didn’t want to give you away, but I can’t have you. You see, I’m a chef, and if you’re a woman and you want to be or do something great, you can’t have children, no matter how much you want to keep them…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  The sound of running came from the front garden, then some brusque chattering could be heard in front of the house, Nell’s and Audrey’s voices trying to stay hushed. Then the front door opened and closed.

  Zelda pulled the baby closer. Their moments together were slipping away, as if sand were flowing unstoppably through her fingers.

  She bent her head and kissed the tiny forehead, lingering on the soft, fragile skin. “Please know how much I love you,” she whispered. “Wherever you go, whatever happens, know that you’re always in my heart.”

  Footsteps on the stairs, hurrying, darting, echoed through the house, and the bedroom door was shoved open.

  “You can’t go ahead with this!” It was Audrey, striding across the room, her arms out to take the baby. “We owe it to her to give her to someone good.”

  But Zelda held tightly on to the infant. She looked from Audrey to Nell, the sound of Gwendoline and the woman down in the drawing room, still discussing the war. And beyond them all, the sound of the future, the crying, the laughter, the joy—the sheer, unadulterated joy!—was right there.

  “It’s all right. I’m going to keep her.” And through eyes glassy with tears, she looked from the baby to Audrey. “We’re going to keep her.”

  Nell

  The pale autumn sun beamed over the London buildings as Nell hurried up Regent Street to the BBC headquarters. She didn’t pause to look at the bomb damage, the monstrous gaps in the majestic old terraces, or the jaggedly opened hotels and office buildings, their insides bearing wallpaper and furniture like broken dollhouses. She barely even noticed the massive crag in Broadcasting House itself.

  It was her first day appearing on The Kitchen Front, and nerves, mingled with raw excitement, coursed hotly around her small being.

  “Didn’t you see the signs outside?” a man at a makeshift desk in the lobby asked her. “A five-hundred-pound bomb fell on us back in 1940, and we’ve been broadcasting from the basement ever since.” He pointed to a small door. “Go down a level, then left at the corridor.”

  Stepping into the darkened depths, she felt as if she were part of an exciting adventure. Not only was she in the heart of the BBC, but she was heading into their underground bunker.

  Is this really happening to me, Nell Brown? she thought breathlessly.

  The corridor was gray and poorly lit, but every door had a series of labels or lists, and as she came across the one that included The Kitchen Front in large, handwritten letters, she took a sharp intake of breath.

  You can do it, Nell Brown!

  The previous week had been busy beyond belief. Ambrose had invited her over a few evenings to go over scripts and to help her with pronunciation. The more she rehearsed, the more relaxed she felt and the less likely she was to stumble over her words.

  Meanwhile, the four women were busier than ever. Gwendoline had secured the restaurant in the village, and just as they started to clean and reorganize it, orders for pies and cakes began to boom. The airing of the final round of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest had helped Gwendoline land more new customers—even some from London.

  The previous evening, she had gathered them together eagerly.

  “We need to decide on a name for our new restaurant and catering business.”

  A ripple of excitement went through them.

  “What do you think about The Kitchen Front Cooks?” Zelda said. “It’s what we’re about, after all.”

  Gwendoline shook her head. “I don’t know what Ambrose and the BBC would say. It’s the name of their program, after all, not ours.”

  “And also,” Audrey added, “we need a name that will work after the war is over.” She grinned. “We do plan to be here for a long time, don’t we?”

  That brought a few laughs and cheers.

  “What about The Fenley Cooks? That tells everyone where we are,” Zelda suggested.

  “It does, but perhaps we need something with more of a ring to it,” Gwendoline said.

  They sat in thought for a while, and Nell, knowing she would never be the one to come up with anything, began to gaze through the window, wondering what Paolo was doing. She tried to get over to see him some evenings, and Sunday afternoons were always theirs. Sometimes they still cooked outside together, but as the autumn was coming in, they often just huddled in the old hut and told stories, enjoying each other’s company.

  “What about The Speckled Hen?” Audrey suggested. “After Gertrude.”

  “Already taken, I’m afraid,” Gwendoline said. “There’s a pub with that name the other side of Middleton.”

  Nell was still thinking about Paolo, but then, suddenly, it came to he
r. “What about The Four Friends? It’s about us.”

  “That’s perfect!” Gwendoline and Zelda said together, making everyone laugh again.

  “It sums us up,” Audrey said, taking everyone’s hands. “United we stand, united we fall.”

  Everyone cheered.

  Following that momentous decision, a discussion about the menu ensued. Since there was a healthy demand for some of the dishes made for the contest, they decided to start with those, although everyone agreed: Gwendoline’s sardine rolls were perhaps too much of an acquired taste.

  As Nell stood there petrified at the door to the broadcasting studio, she thought of her friends. Funny, she’d never really had friends before, and here they were, all working together, relying on one another.

  And her job was to spread the word on the radio.

  With a sense of purpose, she knocked rapidly on the door.

  A young, spectacled man wearing headphones opened it, put his finger to his lips, and ushered her in quickly.

  Inside, a man behind a microphone at a desk was reading the news, his low, clear voice so utterly familiar. The sound of it transported her, and all of a sudden, she was taken back to the Fenley Hall kitchen, Mrs. Quince telling her to “turn the wireless on and we’ll listen to The Kitchen Front. It’s on after the news.”

  Mrs. Quince. What would she think of her little protégé now?

  “She’d be utterly thrilled,” Nell mused, and a smile touched her lips, as if she felt the presence of the old cook there with her, urging her on in her usual way. Go on, Nell. You know you can do it! I have every faith in you.

  Ambrose appeared beside her. “All set, then?” he said cheerily.

  “I’m a bit nervous, to be honest,” she muttered, taking her script from the handbag she’d borrowed from Gwendoline, the source of her new clothes and shoes.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I don’t think it comes easily to anyone. You just get used to it, learn that it’s not such a big problem. Why don’t you pretend you’re Nell six months from now, a completely professional speaker?”

  She laughed. “I’m too busy being nervous to even think.”

  “At least you don’t have a lot to say this time. They decided to ease you in gently, and ease me off gently, too.”

  That made her turn around. “You’re leaving?”

  “No, no, my dear. They want to reduce the time I spend on the program so that I can present other shows, too.” He glanced around. “Now that the war is spreading around the world, we’re a bit thin on the ground here in London.”

  The news presenter was drawing to a close, and as the short music played between programs, Nell followed Ambrose to sit at the desk, a technician pulling up an extra chair. When the music faded out, all eyes were on Ambrose as the chief technician counted down on his fingers: three, two, one.

  “Welcome to The Kitchen Front.” Ambrose, as smooth and professional as ever, opened the show, listing the foods that were temporarily scarce (onions were becoming an ongoing problem) and food where there was a glut (a large shipment of salt cod had made it through from the Atlantic).

  Then he turned to Nell.

  “And today we have a special newcomer to the program. Miss Nell Brown, as you all know, won The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest, and is now here to help you make the most of your rations. In a wonderful rags-to-riches story—although I can hardly equate working at the BBC as ‘riches’—until recently she was a kitchen maid, and now she and her fellow competitors are to open a restaurant in Fenley. Can you tell us about that, Nell?”

  The director was motioning frantically at Ambrose to go back to the script. He wasn’t supposed to be helping the maid promote a new restaurant. He was supposed to be talking about salt cod.

  Nell glanced at her script—now meaningless since Ambrose asked her about the new restaurant. His eyes bore into her, smiling.

  You can do it!

  “This is Nell Brown here, and I’m absolutely delighted to be on The Kitchen Front, albeit a little nervous. As a kitchen maid, with help from Mrs. Quince, the best manor-house cook in the country, I discovered a wealth of techniques and shortcuts, not only to deal with the rations and shortages, but also to make our dishes taste that much better.”

  Ambrose was nodding enthusiastically, urging her to continue. Even the technicians had stopped panicking.

  “And yes, Ambrose, after competing against one another in The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest, the four competitors have joined forces to open a new restaurant in Fenley. You’ll be able to try the winning dishes from the contest, as well as some terrific new ones, all using local ingredients from the countryside where we live. We’re calling the restaurant The Four Friends.”

  Ambrose stepped in. “What a splendid name! I can’t wait to taste some of those special dishes again. When do you plan to open?”

  “The opening night will be on November the eighth, so please telephone Fenley five-three-three to book your table.”

  “I’ll have to make a reservation,” Ambrose said wholeheartedly. “But, let’s get back to today’s program. After a few ideas for recipes with salt cod, Nell is going to tell us how to make pastry go that little bit further…”

  The rest of the program went perfectly, and as they were hustled away from the desk to make way for another news presenter, Ambrose patted her back.

  “You see! You were marvelous!”

  She grinned, relief flooding through her. “Thank you, Ambrose, for helping us spread the word about the restaurant.”

  “It was my pleasure. After all, the cooking contest has become quite the national sensation, and I have you ladies to thank for that.”

  Audrey

  The Four Friends Dinner Menu

  3 courses for 5 shillings

  Starter

  Wild Mushroom Soup

  Scrod St. Jacques

  Main Course

  Rabbit Cacciatore

  Spam and Game Pie

  Desserts

  Summer Pudding

  Croquembouche

  The evenings were no longer light, and a chilly mist had already fallen by seven o’clock on the auspicious November date. The four women had been in the restaurant all day. It’s not every day that your very own restaurant is opened, after all.

  Audrey had popped home to pick some more fresh herbs from the garden and to fetch the boys. Baby Madeleine was already in the restaurant, tucked into her pram—thank heavens she was a good baby, an absolute poppet with her big eyes and rosy cheeks.

  If Audrey was quick, she’d have time to change, like the others already had, their best dresses under their aprons. She raced up the stairs and into her bedroom, throwing open her wardrobe and parting the old coats and boots at the front.

  “I know it’s in here somewhere.”

  Pushing back Matthew’s old clothes that she wore for the garden and the cooking, she felt as if she were going back into the mists of time.

  And suddenly, there they were: her dresses.

  First there was the peach one she had worn to one of the boys’ christenings—it must have been Christopher’s, judging by the style. She smiled as she remembered the day, how Matthew had looked so proud holding the baby in his best suit, the other two boys nestling in beside them. And it struck her that she was lucky to have such memories. How wonderful that era had been—how fortunate she was to have had Matthew—and for once, the feeling wasn’t all consuming, devastating.

  “Mum!” An urgent voice called from downstairs. “Are you coming?”

  Quickly, she brought out the peach dress, took off her messy trousers, and for the first time in years, slipped the dress over her head. It fit well, although she’d lost a little weight, and as she looked at herself in the mirror, grabbing her hairbrush to give her curls a quick tidy, she realized that she could s
till look good.

  She found the matching shoes and slid her feet inside, then grabbed a coat and dashed down the stairs, feeling the strange daintiness of wearing shoes with heels.

  “Mum, you look wonderful!” Ben was at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes opening wide with incredulity. “Come and see, everyone. Mum’s put on a dress.”

  Christopher came running in from the kitchen. “Wow, Mum! You’re beautiful!”

  “Well, she always was beautiful, only wearing Dad’s clothes.” Alexander tried to be tactful, but he gave her his broadest grin. “Although I’d forgotten how good she could look.”

  Together, with the basket of freshly picked thyme and chives, they hurried out into the chilly evening, their torches beaming ahead of them into the misty night.

  “Are you going to make a speech?” Ben asked. “If you are, you need to tell everyone that we helped with the painting and decorating. Credit where credit’s due, you always say.”

  She put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him toward her as they walked. “I think Aunt Gwendoline will be the one to give the speech, but I’m sure she’ll do you proud.”

  As they turned the corner into the main part of the village, though, their hearts fell. Instead of the bustle and excitement of an opening night, the place looked completely deserted. No one was going in or out, no lights or noise. There were no signs of life at all.

  They drew to a disappointed halt.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Audrey grabbed their hands and hurried them on. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Perhaps people mistook the date—and then there’s the blackout, too. We won’t be able to see any light from the road.”

  But she picked up her step, feeling a sense of dismay sear into her.

  What happens if this doesn’t work? she thought anxiously. Fenley is a small village, maybe we were too optimistic to think that we could fill a whole restaurant.

  “Wait,” Ben said as he ran ahead. “I can hear something.”