Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  They had gone back downstairs to the bar area and the small dining room that they knew needed a lot more work. ‘A full restoration,’ Peter had said, shaking his head. She opened the door to the kitchen cautiously, not knowing what she might find; a scrapheap of disused equipment and rusting cookers, a pile of rotting food and stained plates? But the room was quite clean, stark even, and the owner informed them that they hadn’t cooked a meal there in a long time; not since his wife passed away. The bones of what she needed were there: large benches with plenty of workspace, a large range and a smaller wood-burning stove to keep the meals warm, and a room for cold storage. A double sink and draining racks were well placed close to the double doors through to the restaurant and a serving station ran the length of the room that would act as a pass to allow the dishes to be served and garnished. This was more like it; Maggie could picture them here now. Peter out front keeping the customers happy and the bar well stocked and running smoothly. Her in here, doing what she loved best.

  There was a strange rasping noise, and she was startled from her recollections by Mr Ferguson clearing his throat and looking up at her.

  ‘Well, what is it, Miss Johnson?’ he asked, placing one chubby hand on top of the other.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of research, sir . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘And I’ve found that some of the other factory canteens are growing their own produce. They can get hold of more fruit and vegetables that way, and it gives them a bit more variety.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I thought it might be something we could do too. Highbury Fields is not so far away, and we’ve got some keen gardeners here who are ready to help.’

  ‘And how exactly would that work?’

  ‘Well, we’d only need a few pounds, just to get started—we’d have to buy some seed and tools—but after that it will be just a question of time and we can work out a roster or something . . .’

  As her voice trailed off, his expression softened.

  ‘I appreciate your resourcefulness, Miss Johnson, but I think our time is better spent doing what we are supposed to here and getting on with providing hot meals for the workers. I don’t think you need concern yourself with “variety”; sticking to the menus and following the recipes we have been given by the ministry will suffice.’

  She knew he was referring to the few occasions recently when she had made changes to the set dishes; changes that had been appreciated by the workers but had met with her supervisor’s disapproval. How could he be so narrow-minded when everyone else was going to such lengths to help each other? she fumed. She had been naive to think he would let them grow their own vegetables and she should have known it would be pointless asking. Perhaps she should apply for the British Restaurant scheme after all; she knew there was far more she could do to help overcome the food shortages if only she were given the chance.

  ‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ she said, rising from her chair, but her courtesy was wasted; his attention was already back on his work and he didn’t bother to raise his head.

  After running so late, the shift passed quickly and Maggie didn’t get the chance to talk to Eliza again until the end of the day.

  ‘So?’ Eliza said, following her down the aisle towards the preparation area. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Maggie replied, scanning the tops to check each utensil had been put away and every surface wiped clean.

  The clock showed five fifty; she only had ten minutes to get packed away, find some ingredients to make supper for Robbie and be on her way.

  Eliza pulled herself up to sit on the benchtop, legs crossed at the ankles. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Shall we do it anyway?’

  Maggie stared at her. ‘You aren’t serious?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And how do you propose we pay for it?’

  ‘I don’t know—you’re the one with the brains. You’ll think of something. I’m the manpower. It’s what Woolton wants, remember: The battle in the kitchen can’t be won without help from the kitchen garden,’ she intoned in a deep masculine voice.

  ‘Ferguson wouldn’t even consider it,’ Maggie said. ‘Told me to stick to the menus and recipes we’ve been given.’

  ‘Oh well, it was worth a try, Mags.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Of course it was. He knows now that you can do more—that you want to do more. When they realise Janet isn’t coming back he’ll look to you as her permanent replacement.’

  ‘I don’t want to be supervisor anymore.’

  ‘What? I thought it was what you had always wanted?’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too.’

  Maggie reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a piece of folded newspaper.

  ‘Read this,’ she said, passing it to Eliza.

  ‘The Times!’ Eliza exclaimed. ‘When did you start reading The Times?’

  ‘Very funny. Seriously, this is important. I first read about it a few weeks ago and it seems as if it’s really going ahead.’

  She pointed to the headline: EMERGENCY FEEDING OF THE PUBLIC: CATERING INDUSTRY’S PART. Then, checking that Mr Ferguson wasn’t nearby and that the other girls had left already, she returned to the article. ‘It says here that more than two hundred and eighty new British Restaurants have been approved by the ministry. And there are some one hundred and forty-seven London meals centres carried out by the London County Council.’ She glanced up to see if she had Eliza’s attention. ‘There’s also two hundred and fifty British Restaurants which were taken over by the Ministry of Food from the Ministry of Health. That’s more than eighty-two thousand meals a day they are serving!’

  When she looked up Eliza was frowning.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I think it sounds like a lot of food.’

  ‘But they are looking for people to run them. Look . . .’ She pointed to a small printed box at the bottom of the page instructing interested applicants to send a letter of interest together with full curriculum vitae and references.

  ‘So, are you going to apply?’

  ‘I was going to, but now I’m not so sure.’ She hesitated. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about it, but then Mr Ferguson has a way of making me feel so hopeless about everything.’

  ‘Well,’ Eliza said as she carried on reading the article, ‘I think you’d be as mad as a coot not to. Your chance to get away from Ferguson, cook what you want . . .’

  ‘I don’t think you can do that—you still have to cook what the ministry says—but, as you say, at least it would be better than being stuck here with old Ferguson stopping us from doing anything vaguely useful.’

  ‘So why haven’t you applied already?’

  ‘I’ve already told you: I don’t know if I can do it alone.’

  The air seemed to flow out of her, her body slumping back against the bench. ‘It would have been different if I’d been doing it with Peter . . .’

  ‘Oh, Mags.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do it without him.’

  ‘Of course you can . . . I know you can.’

  Maggie looked at the clock again; it was nearly five fifty-five; she needed to be on her way.

  ‘Just forget it,’ she said, untying her apron. ‘I should never have said anything.’

  ‘No,’ Eliza said, grasping hold of Maggie’s arm, stopping her from moving away. ‘Wait. Don’t you remember those pictures of the King and Queen at that school in Peckham? That was a communal feeding centre, wasn’t it? And they were giving meals to people who had lost their homes. Londoners need these centres. They need more British Restaurants, Maggie.’ Eliza’s eyes were stern, challenging her.

  ‘I have to go,’ Maggie said.

  Her friend refolded the article and tucked it into Maggie’s palm. ‘I don’t doubt that you can do it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing Eliza’s hand. ‘I really do have to go though.’

  Maggie
ran her fingers across the cool scrubbed worktop as she walked, thinking about Robbie knocking on her door and leaving when no one answered, or perhaps just letting himself in as he had before.

  Maggie was already half regretting inviting him; what did she actually know about him anyway, apart from the fact that he was far too young to be on his own, that he was very clever with his hands and that he was a thief? Perhaps she had been too sentimental because of Ernest. Robbie had reminded Maggie of her brother the instant she saw him, and while her head knew that helping Robbie wouldn’t bring Ernest back, that it wouldn’t change what had happened, her heart was telling her something else. In any case, she had made a promise and she had to keep it, so she walked over to the pantry and pulled open the meat safe to see what was left. An end of bacon, that was all, until the deliveries arrived the next morning—and Ferguson would notice if it went missing; he always did a stocktake at the end of each day. Robbie had requested apple crumble and toad-in-the-hole, but they’d run out of sausages at lunchtime and the flour was riddled with weevils so it had been thrown away. On the floor by her feet, two sacks of potatoes leaned against each other; maybe she wouldn’t be able to give Robbie what he had asked for, but she was sure he would be perfectly happy with a filled jacket potato, melted butter drizzling down the side and tasty cheddar crumbled on the top. She could never resist a baked potato when she was young, especially on 5 November, Guy Fawkes Day. She and her brothers had anticipated the potatoes as eagerly as the burning of the Guy Fawkes dummy and the fireworks. (Imagine that, she thought to herself: a time when there was delight not horror when fire lit up their skies.) Her father would prod and turn the parcels in the spitting bonfire until they were ready, and then came the ritual of handing them out: a relay of hot potatoes until they each had one. Maggie would try to make each mouthful last longer than the one before, but the first one was always the best; when the bitterness of the slightly burnt skin gave way to the sweet powdery flesh that dissolved on her tongue. No potato had ever tasted as good as her dad’s on bonfire night.

  She brushed the dried mud off the surface of two potatoes and slid them into her pocket. On a nearby shelf a small wedge of cheddar rested alongside a whole new wheel. She hesitated for a moment, instinctively looking over her shoulder; seeing no one there, she slipped it into her other pocket and headed for the door.

  The sun had only just dipped behind St Mary’s church but Maggie could already feel the drop in temperature and the shift in the sounds of the streets; the vehicles on Upper Street seemed to be driving faster than usual, pedestrians more hurried, their footsteps quick. And there was a great shadow above her as the starlings wheeled overhead, their evening song just beginning.

  Simple piano notes spilled from a first-floor window; the unexpected sound of a child practising, the smell of cooking accompanying the notes as they drifted out onto the street, just as crisp and clear. She had always enjoyed walking home with Peter, guessing what different households were having for dinner based on the smells that collided in the dusk. Before the war they’d had time for lots of idle games.

  As she turned into her street she caught sight of the brown hessian wall; she would never get used to seeing sandbags outside their homes, no matter how long this damned war went on. Outside public buildings was one thing, but here was quite another story and it always gave her a disquieting feeling. It didn’t help that dusk was her least favourite time of day, the point when day transitioned into night, when she couldn’t hide from the fact that her life would never be the same again; that she wouldn’t have the husband she loved or the babies they planned for. And it was now that she missed Peter the most, wished he was alongside her, preparing their meal, sharing the details of their day.

  By the time she was at home in her kitchen and had taken the potatoes from her pockets and washed them, she was beginning to feel more settled, soothed by the restorative act of cooking. The memory of Ferguson’s stubbornness irritated her, and she still couldn’t get the idea of running a British Restaurant out of her mind. She needed to though; she couldn’t do it without Peter and she had no intention of being pushed into it, no matter what Eliza said. She also didn’t want to be melancholy when Robbie arrived, so she forced her mind onto other things. In no time the potatoes were in the oven and she had prepared a small salad, but even though half past six had come and gone, there was no sign of Robbie. No matter, she decided. That would give her extra time to start on a mock cream to go with the apple charlotte. And perhaps she could make a gratin of leeks and mushrooms to use some of the cheese and breadcrumbs she had collected. It had been such a long time since the boy had had a hot meal, and who knew when he might have another? She would make this meal one to remember.

  Cooking had always been her favourite distraction; growing up she cooked after Ernest had gone, and again while they waited and hoped for their mother to return. She had always diligently followed a recipe, making sure she used the correct technique and the best ingredients she could find in her parents’ grocery store. She remembered the excitement she felt when using new things, ingredients she had barely heard of much less tried before. Her brothers and Tom wolfed down everything she made, even the dishes that didn’t work, and were lavish in their praise.

  The apple slices were beginning to brown so she picked them off the board and started layering them on the bottom of the cooked pastry case, neatly arranging them symmetrically around the base. The pale crescents were soon hidden by the smooth almond mixture, a handful of flaked almonds sprinkled over, landing on the surface and creating small indentations as they became embedded in the sweet doughy blend. She placed the tart on the top shelf of the oven, above the potatoes that had been moved right down to prevent them from crisping even more.

  The glass ceiling light cast a warm honey glow around the room and her mood lightened as she continued her work on the table in its centre. She listened out for Robbie’s footsteps but the only sound was the rhythmic tick of an old clock. She tried hard not to keep looking at it, but she couldn’t help herself and finally glanced up. It was a whole five minutes since she’d last looked and a full fifty minutes since the boy should have been here. Perhaps he wasn’t coming after all, or he had forgotten—or maybe it was never his intention to come in the first place. Her hands stopped fiddling with the cutlery and she placed the dessertspoons back in place above the forks. Everything was ready; the dish of leek gratin sat on a tablemat, the molten bubbling cheese releasing a sweet tangy steam. The apple charlotte, its pale brown crust studded with caramelised almonds, rested beside a glass bowl of mock cream, the silver serving spoon ready to deliver the smooth creamy pearls. She retrieved the two potatoes from the oven; they were overdone now, their insides probably claggy and dry.

  It really didn’t matter about the food; her landlady was home so the meal wouldn’t go to waste. She would understand if he had just changed his mind or got caught up with friends, but what if something had happened to him? He had seemed so sincere about wanting to come that she couldn’t help but think that there might be something wrong.

  Chapter Three

  When arranging a salad, remember that a bright

  glean here and there in the greenery is tempting

  and where the eye leads, good digestion follows.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 5

  Robbie had quickly learned that The Savoy’s location near the banks of the River Thames ensured it wasn’t just toffs and tourists who were able to enjoy the luxury; hungry mice and rats were regular visitors too, especially late in the day, when he too found that the best opportunities offered themselves. If he played it right, he could sneak into the kitchen and get something to take to Maggie’s with time to spare.

  It was despite the chefs’ best efforts, and the fact that they fought as hard to keep the rats at bay as they did to hold on to the young apprentices they struggled to find, that the area was still overrun with vermin. Hours spent eavesdropping while waiting for the rig
ht moment to make his move had taught Robbie all manner of things involved in running the hotel’s vast kitchens. Tonight was no exception; as he watched from behind the safety of a delivery van, a stern-faced chef oversaw the placement of baits at regular intervals along the grand stone perimeter. He had seen the kitchen hands engaged in the same ritual at other hotels and restaurants, but there was nowhere that did it as thoroughly as here. They even lay traps at the entrances and glue boards in the concealed spaces behind furniture and beside doorframes, where none of the hotel or restaurant guests would ever look. It was as unlikely that they would see the real workings of the hotel as he was to see inside the grand reception hall or opulent ballrooms at the front. His mum had been inside once to deliver an urgently mended evening gown to one of the guests. She had described the finely dressed valets and porters, the electric lift that had taken her up to one of the suites, and how the rooms dripped with velvet and brocade.

  There was a shout from the left side of the building and a young man in his early twenties waved at another chef, who dutifully marched over with a hook and pole. Often the rats would eat the bait and crawl into the bushes or back down into the sewers to die, but Robbie had also seen how their gluttony would sometimes mean that they were unable to make it and their bodies would be left in the hotel grounds as bloated and rigid as a stuffed toy. The younger man made several clumsy attempts at transferring the body into the bag, causing more and more of his hair to spring from beneath his tall white hat, while the other one stood by shouting at him. Robbie took his chance; he tied Spoke to the railings and sneaked past. Just a quick detour and then he would make it to Maggie’s in time for dinner and with a peace offering to show her how sorry he was for stealing her food that morning.