by Tom Holt
‘What can you mean, Miss Coles?’
‘I’d have thought you’d have got all your meat on the—now what is the new term for it?—the marché noir. I call that a bit greedy, Mapp. Not content with stuffing yourself with your ill-gotten gains, you’ve got to come and get your coupons worth off King George. What do you do with it all? I’m sorry if my frankness offends you in any way, Elizabeth, but we have been friends for a long time and I feel it’s my duty to speak my mind.’
This had gone far enough. ‘Once and for all, Miss Coles, I have never engaged, nor do I ever intend to engage, in illicit trafficking in contraband food or clothing. Whatever nasty rumours you may have heard, that is all they are—rumours.’
The usual hum of conversation that hung over the butcher’s queue like smoke had quite died away. Evie Bartlett, whose interest at this time would normally be in only the pound of liver and two pork chops that she had miraculously managed to convert to her own use, was trying to look over her shoulder while keeping her eyes fixed on the counter.
‘Oh come on now, Liz,’ said Irene, ‘what about that orange?’
Evie nearly dropped the liver on to the sawdust-covered floor, and the Padre’s faith in human nature took another deep but fascinating dive.
‘Which orange?’ said Elizabeth.
‘I do call that a bit low, Mapp. Oranges are supposed to be for the children. Now, I know that you and Major Benjy have never been blessed in that respect, but....’
‘Irene Coles, you have gone too far!’ shrieked Elizabeth, stung to the quick not by the appalling frankness of the remark but by the reference to one of her innumerable past deceits. ‘Such a thoughtless creature, to rub salt into that old, old wound,’ she added, retrieving something from the shambles.
‘See if you can’t get me a pair of silk stockings next time you meet your spiv,’ called Irene after Elizabeth’s retreating form. ‘Some people!’ she remarked to the world at large. ‘No scruples. Still, what do you expect of someone who hoarded food during the coal-strike?’ And, moving to the counter, she virtuously bought her four ounces of corned beef.
Chapter 4.
Although Elizabeth might well have thought that she had a monopoly of misery and unhappiness in Tilling that morning, Lucia also was undergoing a certain torment. Her cook, who had been with her for so many years in both Riseholme and Tilling, had seen a leaflet distributed by the Government encouraging civilians to leave areas of the country liable to be in the front line of an invasion, and had taken it into her head that the Government meant what it printed. As if this was not enough, Grosvenor, the twin pillar of the house, had been directed to go and work at the Ordnance Factory. It had only been by the merest chance that Foljambe had been spared—she had an allergy to cordite, as it transpired—but the blow was horribly severe. Another cook was not to be had, and Grosvenor at least had been able to prepare food of a sort. But, as even Georgie was prepared to admit, and as her husband, the long-suffering Cadman, would be only too pleased to confirm, Foljambe was no cook, unrivalled though she undoubtedly was in the fields of endeavour to which she had devoted her life. Food had to be brought across the sea at the risk of brave men’s lives; it would be sinful to expose it to Foljambe’s culinary skills.
‘Georgie,’ said Lucia, collapsed in the garden-room, ‘what shall we do? Lord Tony and Lieutenant Custard are bringing Prince Andrei and heaven knows who else to dinner on Thursday this week. We must give them something to eat, if only corned beef and bottled plums.’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Georgie. ‘This tar’some war is going to spoil everything. I can’t get my embroidery silk, however hard I try, and as for silver polish for cleaning my bibelots, why, they’re likely to corrode away any day now. It’s hopeless. And now this! And of course there’s ....’
He fell silent. He was going to say ‘there’s my hair-dye,’ but even after all these years they still kept up the pretty fiction that nature, not the hairdresser in Hastings, maintained Georgie’s hair and beard in their rich auburn colour. Even if the worry of losing Grosvenor and the cook could turn his hair white, surely it would not do it so very quickly. ‘And of course we’ll have to starve now, as well. Really, it’s as bad as being occupied by the Hun.’
‘Courage, Georgie. We cannot allow ourselves to become disheartened. One of us will have to learn to cook. I will try and learn.’
‘Do you know anything about it?’ asked Georgie.
‘No,’ admitted Lucia frankly.
‘Neither do I, except that if you put cornflour in a sauce it thickens it, although what cornflour is, or whether it’s good for a sauce to be thickened, I haven’t a clue.’
‘Never mind though, Georgie, it’s a start,’ said Lucia firmly, for she dreaded the thought of cooking. ‘Think of all the great male chefs of the past. Escoffier! For a woman cookery is a chore, a drudge, but to a man it should be an art, a science! I have to entertain my guests, for no dinner party can be without a hostess even if it lacks a host. But you, Georgie, you learn things so quickly, and you’re so nimble and delicate with your hands. I believe you’d learn it easily, and be very good at it too.’
The words of protest and refusal froze on Georgie’s lips. For the thought of what he could achieve were he to apply himself to the art, combined with the mention of Escoffier, suddenly inspired him. He pictured himself, the loyal Foljambe at his side like the Sorcerer’s apprentice (no, that was wrong), conjuring soufflés to rise by some necromantic power, or judging by skill and not by the cowardly use of a clock, exactly when the duck was ready. He could create soups out of scraps that would normally be cast out for the dogs, or build cakes that rivalled the mosques of Istanbul for their delicate geometric embellishments .... No one in Tilling could cook, not even Diva; the cakes that she had sold in the tea-shop she had once run in her house in the High Street had been made by her Janet. Surely the possession of such a fundamental skill, elevated into an art-form by his own artistic nature, would mark him out as a practical man, fitted to face a new, sterner age, invested with all the dignity of labour .... Brimming with these socialistic ideas, he turned to Lucia.
‘Very well, then,’ said the nascent William Morris, ‘how can I learn?’
‘I’m sure that cook can give you a few lessons before she leaves,’ replied Lucia, astonished by this ready capitulation. ‘Can’t be vewwy diffy for you big strong men if we silly women can do it. Oo vewwy clever Georgie, learn cooky so, so quickly.’
And so, his eyes blazing, Georgie retired to the kitchen to learn cooky. Cooky, however, proved to be rather harder than he had at first imagined, and an enormous amount of priceless food was destroyed before he had grasped the bare essentials. Lucia went often to the unpatriotic little man at the railway station to obtain the raw materials for Georgie’s pyrotechnics, while Georgie, who regarded a kitchen-range with the same awe as a Polynesian islander regards an aeroplane, vowed time and again that the tar’some thing was beyond him. But cook left, to seek the relative safety of a niece’s house in Wolverhampton, and the household was forced to consume Georgie’s burnt offerings at the shrine of the sainted Escoffier. When all seemed utterly lost and Georgie, having produced some omelettes as tough as papier-mâché trays, had retired to the garden-room in shame, Lucia remembered something. It was a book she had bought years ago, when there was a general feeling of approaching revolution, and a widespread fear that soon there would be no more cooks. The unprepossessing title of the volume was Cooking for Gentle-folks, and the author, a retired clergyman, explained in language that even Georgie could understand exactly what you had to do to dead animals and plants before they were fit for humans to eat. Quite remarkably soon Georgie had risen from the ashes of burnt herrings and carbonated toast, and from then on there was no stopping him. Amusing little snacks began to materialise at entirely unsuitable times of day, pastry turned up all over the house, and sauces seemed to ooze up from the kitchen-table as from some subterranean well.
‘There
, you see,’ said Georgie as they sat back in their chairs after consuming a remarkably fine Woolton Pie, ‘I knew I could do it.’
‘So palatable!’ exclaimed Lucia. ‘And the pastry so light. Georgie, you’re an absolute marvel. And in so short a time, too.’
‘It was that book,’ admitted the chef. ‘It had everything in it I needed, and then I sort of found an ability I never even guessed was there. Fancy that! There’s me being able to cook all these years, and not knowing it. And weren’t those potatoes good?’
‘Exquisite. Why, I’ve eaten better in the last few days than ever before.’ Georgie blushed. ‘I can’t think how we managed in the past. And so very clever of you to use things we can get to imitate things we can’t.’
‘I shall do lobster à la Riseholme for Lord Tony and Prince Andrei,’ declared Georgie decisively. ‘I’ve looked up the recipe, and it’s quite straightforward really. A few things I shall have to work out substitutes for, but nothing terribly hard. And to think how dreadfully difficult I found it to begin with when it’s really all so simple. You could do it, or Evie Bartlett, or even dear Elizabeth. After the war I think I might open a restaurant.’
For a split second Lucia wondered whether she should not have volunteered for this seemingly arduous but apparently pleasant duty. But she dismissed the thought, and decided that it was indeed a special talent of Georgie’s that had lain hidden for so long.
‘Lobster à la Riseholme it shall be then. And now I think I must go down to the High Street, and you must come with me, for you haven’t left the house since you started to cook. A little fresh air after all those delicious fumes. Everyone will be wondering what has become of you.’
So, gathering shopping-baskets and ration-books, they set off down the narrow street, past quaint Irene’s dwelling and round the corner. A quite remarkable spectacle greeted them. Major Benjy, in a tight, antiquated but undoubtedly authentic uniform, was leading a group of similarly antiquated but perhaps rather less genuine-looking soldiers, all armed to the teeth with an assortment of deadly weapons, in the middle of the street. Walking beside the Major, for all the world like a dangerous prisoner with a military escort, was Elizabeth with her shopping-basket over her arm.
‘Platoon-halt!’ commanded the Major, and the soldiers of Tilling performed an approximate manoeuvre to that effect. ‘Good day to you, Pillson, Mrs. Pillson.’
‘Good morning, Major Benjy, such a lovely day it is too. Elizabeth dear, a new skirt surely? How you do stretch your coupons,’ said Lucia, smiling graciously. ‘Any nice things in the shops today?’ And she peered into Elizabeth’s basket as if searching it for black-market food.
‘Very little, alas,’ said Elizabeth, also smiling. ‘And Mr. Georgie. Such a stranger these days. Haven’t seen you for goodness knows how long. Not been unwell, I hope?’
Georgie had, up until now, been feeling remarkably healthy. Now he felt ever so slightly sick.
‘A touch of this tar’some influenza, I’m afraid. All gone now,’ he managed to say, although his eyes remained glued to the Major’s uniform. Judicious work with the needle had not quite managed to undo the shrinking effect of time, but it had entirely repaired the moth-holes.
‘Are you sure, Mr. Georgie? You look a trifle pale to me. And how are the dear officers, Lord Limpsfield, Captain Oldshaw? I did so much enjoy meeting them, dear Lucia—please send them my regards. Unfortunate that we had to leave so early, and it didn’t rain after all. Now, Major Benjy—Lieutenant Benjy I should say—such a drop in rank but worth it to be able to do one’s bit for Britain during these dark hours—I mustn’t hold up the Army any longer, not even to chatter with such dear friends, or I shall be accused of sabotage. Good day to you, Lucia, Mr. Georgie.’
Still smiling, she led her troops (for so it seemed) towards the Landgate. A couple of small children fell in at the rear of the procession and mimicked the ungainly progress of the soldiers, but Elizabeth did not notice. Her cup was running over.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the military, Lucia turned to Georgie, still smiling serenely.
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘did you ever see such a spectacle? Much more tactful not to mention it. Did you notice that disreputable man at the back? I think it is the man who used to be the porter at the railway-station until he was dismissed for drunkenness. No forage cap and his buckles so very tarnished. I fear I shall sleep no better in my bed tonight for the knowledge that Major Benjy has taken over the defence of Tilling. And poor Elizabeth, marching along at the head of the column. Chattering away at me as if she hadn’t been doing her best to brand me a black-marketeer in the eyes of the entire town. I feel very sorry for her at times. Still, I am glad to know that she still feels she can show her face in public. I would hate her to be ostracised on my account. I wonder if there’s any haddock? A dear little fish-pie for lunch tomorrow, Georgie?’
There was as little haddock in Mr. Hopkins’s shop as there was peace in Georgie’s soul, for the spectacle, as Lucia had called it, had aroused quite different emotions in his heart. Sighing, he accompanied his wife to the butcher’s, where Evie and the Padre were contemplating a rapidly diminishing pile of mince as fallen Lucifer must have gazed on the joys of heaven. Diva scurried across the road to join them.
‘Soldiers,’ said Diva. ‘Home Guard. Major Benjy in his old uniform, a bit tight round the waist and I think the moths been at it, but still, a very dignified sight, nonetheless. Did you see them?’
‘I saw Elizabeth, certainly,’ replied Lucia with a far-away look in her eyes, ‘and Major Benjy too in what I suppose was an old uniform of some sort, but the people with them looked like no soldiers I have ever come across. So untidy, dear Diva, so—so unsoldierly! What a contrast with the dear Staffordshires. Mince! What a treat. Oh dear, Evie’s had most of it. I’m afraid you’re not going to get any, dear.’
But Diva was not to be cheated.
‘They looked quite like soldiers to me,’ she said crossly, ‘with their rifles and uniforms. And I think Major Benjy looked ten years younger.’
‘Not knowing what Major Benjy looked like ten years ago, I cannot venture an opinion,’ replied Lucia.
‘Ho! Well, I think uniform has a marvellous effect on the male figure.’ She looked meaningfully at Georgie.
‘You can’t expect them to look as smart as the Staffordshires already,’ said Evie, joining the group. ‘The Major’s only had charge of them for a few days, and already they’ve improved tremendously. Mr. Phillipson, the bank manager, who commanded them before, let them get dreadfully sloppy, but now Major Benjy’s in charge ....’
‘Aye, ’tis remarkable what the hand of authority can achieve,’ added the Padre. ‘They’ll be needin’ a chaplain, no doubt.’
‘Such a comfort to have our own Home Guard, in case the Regular troops are posted elsewhere,’ said Evie. ‘All those brave men.’ She too looked meaningfully at Georgie, for all the world as if she were Kitchener on a poster.
Poor Georgie had not been oblivious to these significant glances, for his own thoughts had been tending in the same direction. How foolish and unmanly he had been, delighting in his cooking, when Major Benjy, whom he had regarded as a boozy old fraud, was preparing to do battle on the beaches. And it was true that he looked younger in his uniform—much younger and slimmer than in his civilian clothes. He had no need of scarce and shameful hair-dye to renew his lost youth, for the King’s uniform achieved that so much more effectively. All of a sudden, Georgie was smitten with a longing that had been growing unnoticed in the back of his mind ever since the Staffordshires came. He wanted to be a soldier too, to wear gaiters and brass buckles and a cap set at a jaunty angle on his head, even if it meant calling Major Benjy sir and standing to attention and shouldering arms (how tar’some that would be). Before, he had been convinced that if his country was so far gone as to need him, his country was probably done for; but compared to some of the decrepit old things who had been waddling along behind the Major, he wa
s a mere boy. In fact, compared to the Major, he was a mere boy, at least as far as waistlines went. Were soldiers allowed to wear toupées? he wondered. And wouldn’t Foljambe be impressed? She could never leave if he became a soldier. She would be his batman—no, batwoman—no, that didn’t sound right either ....
He was woken from this reverie by the sight of the platoon marching past the window, going back to the Institute, which was being used as their headquarters, for drill-practice, or unarmed combat, or a small whisky-and-soda before going home to Grebe. Only this time quaint Irene had joined the small boys, and was marching along with a saucepan on her head and a mop on her shoulder, while Elizabeth, still heading the parade, was looking absolutely furious, but trying to ignore her. Georgie’s military ardour melted silently away.
Irene saluted, performed a balletic right turn and joined the queue in the butcher’s.
‘Just wait till I tell Henry about Fred Karno’s army!’ she said, removing the saucepan. ‘He’ll simply howl with laughter. Oh hello, Mr. Georgie. I thought Lucia had chopped you up and fed you to the officers, you’re such a stranger these days. I’m so glad you haven’t joined up with the rag-time infantry. Better stick to your petit point. Much more dignified. Oh damn, you’ll get the last of the mince. Still, I don’t begrudge you anything, Comrade Lucia. You take it all and make it into something nice; hang on though, your cook’s left. How will you manage?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Georgie enigmatically.
‘Don’t think you should refer to Major Benjy as Fred Karno,’ said Diva, ‘when he’s doing his bit for King and Country. Not respectful.’
‘It wasn’t him I was referring to, it was Mapp. Don’t you see? She’ll take them over as her private army and stage a military coup in Tilling. Everyone who doesn’t admire her new dress or who trumps her best heart will be shot at dawn. A soldier is better accommodated than with a wife, I read somewhere, especially one like old Mapp. I’ve got a good mind to do a picture of it, except that it wouldn’t be patriotic. If only you’d lead the Regiment, Lucia, like Boadicea on her scythed chariot. That would be much better, and you’d make an absolutely ripping generalissima.’