Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  A second silver frame contained a more recent photograph; two smiling faces, hers pressed up against Peter’s, eyes glistening.

  She left the photograph on the table and picked up the one of her parents, wrapping it in a woollen shawl and placing it on top of the jewellery box. Then from the bottom of the wardrobe she retrieved a shoebox and was about to put it in the suitcase when she hesitated. Peeling back the tissue, she glimpsed the cream satin of the unworn wedding shoes, the light catching the silver thread of their brocade trim. At the side of the box, beneath another layer of tissue, the marcasite clasp of a small, embroidered bag came into view. Her fingers played across the thin silk strap; she had looked at lots of bags but this one had been perfect: just long enough that it hung from her wrist but not so big that it would get in the way of her posy of white roses.

  She closed the lid of the shoebox, the reflected light in the sheen of the trim fading along with her smile.

  Glancing around the room, she checked she hadn’t missed anything and noticed the row of books arranged on the mantelpiece. She would keep them close by for now, she decided.

  She fastened the suitcase and stood it by the door; now she was certain to be ready for Sunday when they would go through their usual routine and Aunt Mary would offer her tea. ‘If there’s any left in the pot,’ was Maggie’s standard reply, knowing that there would be, but that it would be weak and lukewarm. And that when she sipped it her aunt would say, ‘Wet and warm, that’s the way Gran used to like it. Wet and warm.’ Only there was no way of knowing if her aunt would be in one of her sentimental moods or snapping at Rose as she often did.

  Maggie remembered their gran saying it too. The ritual had become their way of acknowledging her; the perfect Devonshire tea complete with the polite teatime conversation, sticking to topics that she knew wouldn’t invite harsh judgments from her aunt, scones with plump juicy sultanas and thick jam, but which she now made with carrots instead of fruit. It would all go well until, inevitably, Aunt Mary went too far; perhaps if Rose stood up to her mother more often Mary might not be so critical of her.

  Maggie’s attention was drawn back to the mantelpiece, caught by the gold embellishment on the side of a book, the brown-and-red-leather spine imprinted with gilt lettering: Beeton’s Household Management. When she picked it up the cover felt dry and brittle and the first few pages crackled open. On the inside cover a neat black script read Jane Beardmore, September 1874. They had found the book at a church fete in Highgate and, much to his feigned annoyance, she hadn’t allowed Peter to write inside, insisting the book still belonged to Jane Beardmore. Instead, Peter had bought her a bookmark and placed it inside.

  Sitting on the bed, she flicked through the chapters, savouring the aged musty smell and the crispness of each page, and recognising familiar recipes she had made. Sometimes the recipes had sounded so old-fashioned and revolting that they had both laughed as she read them aloud. Then she came across the bookmark, the delicate colourful illustration of butterflies along one side, just as she remembered, and the inscription: To my darling Maggie, Never forget the gift you have. Love always, Peter x

  She looked back at the framed photograph on the bedside table, at the promise of his dark eyes.

  Was this his way of showing her what to do? She hadn’t wanted to apply to the ministry because she didn’t want to do it without him, but perhaps that was why she should do it now—because he no longer could.

  Chapter Six

  POTATOES SAVE SHIPPING:

  Potatoes, which are home-grown, give us

  the same kind of energy-food as cereals,

  which are imported. Eat them in place of

  bread and other cereals wherever possible,

  and you help to save shipping space.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 3

  Even though she had been waiting for nearly an hour, the strong smell of disinfectant barely concealed the institutionalised smell of the council offices. There were only two other women waiting on the benches of the long cheerless corridor, surrounded by the chorus of tapping from the typing pool at the far end and the click-clack of the secretary’s heels. It was the fifth time the woman had passed by and Maggie couldn’t help admiring her tailored grey wool suit and the black patent-leather shoes. Rose would love them; they looked expensive, perhaps from Dickins & Jones or one of the other department stores, not like the shoes they might buy from market stalls on their regular outings together.

  Maggie smiled hopefully as the woman approached but she just smiled back and carried on into another office. She supposed the secretary was trying to be kind, but it just unnerved her and made her wonder all the more why the Food Officer was keeping the interviewees waiting so long. It was a good job she had told Mr Ferguson her medical appointment might take a few hours and had managed to get the whole morning off. She hadn’t been for a job interview in years, not counting the quick twenty-minute discussion for the radio factory, and it seemed that even her stomach was growling in protest.

  She looked at her watch again; nearly sixty-five minutes late now.

  The grey-suited woman reappeared in the office doorway, folder in hand, and Maggie sat up, expectant.

  ‘Miss McNulty?’

  The young woman on the next bench followed the secretary into the office behind her.

  Maggie sighed and shifted from side to side, trying to alleviate the low ache of her back, rolling her neck and wondering why on earth they had such grand hallways with high ceilings and ornate marble floors, and then such uncomfortable wooden benches to sit on.

  Since she lived so close to the council offices on Upper Street, she had left home early and stopped at a cafe on the way, where she had been compelled to get out her notebook and make notes on things that she liked. The decor was far too twee, with lots of lace and brocade table lamps and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. She wanted to create an environment where a man would feel as welcome as a woman—which meant no bone china teacups that he couldn’t fit his fingers through. The doilies would have to go as well; way too fussy and extra clearing up. The cakes looked tasty though, displayed under great domes of glass . . .

  ‘Miss Johnson?’

  As the woman drew near, Maggie was able to see the detailed tailoring of her suit and the fine trim of its black grosgrain ribbon, and she self-consciously smoothed down the creases of her own skirt as she stood. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to wear the only suit she owned, a dark blue crepe de chine skirt and tapered jacket meant for her going-away outfit. She had lost weight in the intervening months and her skirt hung loosely from her hips and the jacket made her look small and childlike, almost lost inside, so she had borrowed an outfit from a friend.

  ‘Have you got your letter?’

  ‘Yes, here you are . . .’

  Maggie pulled the letter from her bundle of papers and handed it to the secretary, watching as she scanned the page.

  ‘That’s fine, come with me. Mr Boyle will be back shortly.’

  The office was exactly as Maggie had expected it to be, a stuffy room that felt as if the walls, floors and ceiling were all the same size. Once the woman left, Maggie settled back into the chair and looked around for a family photo or a trophy, hoping to see something that would help break the ice, but there was nothing personal anywhere. The loud tick of a wall clock reminded her how long she had waited and butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. She had felt fine when she first arrived, ready to tell Mr Boyle why she would do a good job, that making supplies stretch further was already second nature to her. But now, sitting among all these folders marked CAPITAL EXPENDITURE, CONSUMABLES and MONTHLY ACCOUNTS, she realised that even though she had read every piece of paper she’d been sent, they didn’t mean anything to her; all that really mattered was what ended up on the plate.

  She could still hear the clicking of typewriters from the other end of the corridor and the intermittent whine of bus engines as they droned past. The office wa
s airless and becoming even smaller and she was starting to feel breathless. She stood to leave but before she reached the doorway a man strode through.

  ‘Miss Johnson?’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘I’m so sorry to be late. Got held up on one of our new projects, school up on Canonbury. Anyway, please have a seat.’

  He strode over to his side of the desk and Maggie lowered herself slowly into the chair opposite, clutching the folder in her lap.

  ‘Well, Miss Johnson . . .’ He glanced over the top of his spectacles, eyes flashing across her as if able to make an instant summation. Then he searched around his desk until he found the manila folder, flipped it open and spent a few minutes reading the information.

  There was no wedding ring on his finger, even though he looked at least thirty, his dark hair smoothed down with Brylcream camouflaging grey whiskers at the sides. His skin was rough and flaky, a prominent nose underlined by a pencil-straight moustache and small beard, his most distinguishing feature.

  He abruptly closed the file and leaned forward. ‘I don’t have long, Miss Johnson, so let’s get straight to it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘So, what is it that appeals to you about running a British Restaurant?’

  Maggie cleared her throat, straightening in the chair. ‘It’s like I said in my letter, Mr Boyle: I love cooking and I’ve been involved in mass catering for a few years now. I think I have the organisational skills required to run my own kitchen.’

  ‘And you feel you have enough experience for this role?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Boyle. Otherwise I wouldn’t have applied. I’ve worked in catering since I left school, worked my way up the ladder.’

  She waited nervously for him to reply, hoping that he wouldn’t quiz her on her time in Devon. Even though she had put assistant cook on her curriculum vitae, she had exaggerated the role; it had only been when the chef was away or they were really busy or short-staffed.

  ‘I see you have worked as deputy supervisor for the last six months. Have you ever been fully in charge?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Our supervisor has been on maternity leave during that time so I’ve had sole responsibility for the kitchen.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve never killed anyone,’ she said, laughing nervously. ‘What I mean is that people seem to like what I cook . . .’

  ‘Health and hygiene are a serious matter, Miss Johnson. It is one of the most important parts of the job—probably the most important.’

  ‘Yes, I know . . .’

  ‘Did you read the memorandums on safety procedures that were sent to you?’

  ‘I was joking; I didn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘I am not worried, Miss Johnson; it is your suitability for the position that we are trying to ascertain.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I did read the memorandums and we have the same procedures at work. It’s very familiar to me—second nature, in fact.’

  ‘Really?’

  What a fool she had been, trying to be light-hearted; she should never have listened to Eliza. They had role-played a practice interview the day before, since she had not had one in such a long time and Eliza had been full of good ideas—at least they’d seemed so at the time. Make a few jokes, her friend had suggested, put him at ease—and don’t be afraid to use your feminine charms if you need to.

  ‘Yes, really,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘As you can see from my work history, I’ve learned about every aspect of running a kitchen . . .’ She paused, waiting for a question, but none were forthcoming, so she continued: ‘. . . from cleanliness and hygiene through to food production and procurement.’

  ‘And how have you coped with the rationed goods?’

  ‘We have learned how to make do, make a tasty meal out of the trimmings, nettle soup instead of spinach, that sort of thing.’

  He kept his gaze fixed on her mouth as she talked, as if he were lip-reading, then he picked up a piece of paper and handed it to her. ‘Are you familiar with this?’

  The letterhead was from the Ministry of Food: Food Supplies, Rationed Commodities.

  ‘It doesn’t look familiar,’ she replied, even though all the memorandums had started to look the same by the time she had reached the twentieth one.

  ‘That is because it’s a new memorandum. Read it, please.’

  She glanced down at the next paragraph:

  THE PRIME MINISTER again desires to draw the attention of all Departments to the importance of brevity in all official minutes, memoranda, letters and telegrams. If more thought is given, very great savings of time will result to all concerned.

  ‘Do you want me to read all of it?’

  He nodded.

  She took in the contents of the rationed commodities, the few ounces of bacon, the milk, sugar and butter they were allowed.

  ‘We are working on similar rations at the moment, sir,’ she commented.

  ‘And what about the weekly accounts—are you familiar with those that require you to complete income and expenditure?’

  His manner had become fiercer, his questions more officious.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie replied and continued to read.

  It is desired that accounts should be prepared monthly and should comprise (a) an Income and Expenditure Account and (b) a Balance sheet showing the amounts advanced by the Ministry and the manner in which they have been expended. Details of the number of meals served and other appropriate statistical information should also be kept.

  ‘Will there be some accountancy training?’ she enquired.

  ‘Some, Miss Johnson. Do you envisage a problem?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said, scanning the rest of the page, her heart rate quickening.

  And that these monthly accounts, certified by a competent official, together with such statistical information as is required should be sent to the Secretary, Ministry of Food, Neville House, London S.W.1., marked ‘Communal Feeding’ as soon as possible, and in any case within 28 days, after the end of the month to which they relate.

  But she was struggling to breathe; she had anticipated the accounts issue and even rehearsed an answer, but now she couldn’t remember it. Her mind was a blank and all she could think about was the delicate rhythm of the raindrops outside and the spray of water from a bus as it whooshed past, and wished she were on it.

  ‘Would you find this area difficult then, Miss Johnson?’

  It felt as if her opportunity was slipping away, all the hard work and reading and hoping vanishing. Then she thought about Gillian and Robbie and her newly homeless neighbours, and what Peter would say if he were here, and she realised how much she wanted it, that she knew how to do it—and that she needed to prove it now.

  ‘Not at all. I understand that there will be some training involved for the role beforehand, and I am sure that with a bit of guidance and support I will be able to cope with the additional responsibilities and paperwork very well. You have my references there.’

  ‘Yes, I have. And you are aware of the number of staff you will be responsible for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the organisation of the kitchen, as mentioned in the earlier communication regarding the British Restaurant scheme? In addition, the capital expenditure will be reimbursed but you will be responsible for the organisation of the kitchen and adhering to the ministry’s suggested layout and the daily menus.’

  ‘I think the layouts they have suggested make perfect sense, Mr Boyle. I couldn’t have designed them better myself.’

  He regarded her for a moment, finger stroking his moustache, and then he closed the folder.

  ‘Very well, I think that will be all for today, Miss Johnson. We will be in touch.’

  He rose and came around the desk, but Maggie stayed seated.

  ‘I have several other candidates to see . . .’ he said pointedly.

  ‘But did you want to see any of my menu plans?’ she said, standing.

&
nbsp; ‘Miss Johnson, you don’t make menu plans; you cook what the ministry tells you to. We are feeding a nation of workers here, not catering a garden party.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  As he drew closer and shook her hand she noticed that he had no smell, not even the musty smell of other bachelors she had known: of damp clothes, homes where windows were never opened, of beds that were rarely made—it was the smell of emptiness, of rooms where flowers were never placed, gifts of cologne never given or clothes warm from sun-dried washing ever worn.

  Chapter Seven

  Reflect, whenever you indulge

  It is not beautiful to bulge

  A large, untidy corporation

  Is far from helpful to the Nation

  Marguerite Patten OBE, Victory Cookbook:

  Nostalgic Food and Facts from 1940–1954

  Rose’s shared rooms on Upper Street were only a few streets away from Maggie’s, and by the time she had been home to change, and made her way through the noisy evening traffic, she had already imagined the first day and all that it would entail. It had been two days since the interview but a formal letter from Mr Boyle had already arrived from the ministry that morning. Ignoring his remonstrations about only cooking food from the ministry’s menus, she had spent the whole day contemplating the meals she could make and thinking about her inventory of classics; the intense creamy aroma of her special leek and potato soup, then a pigeon pie—but what about dessert? Fruit crumble and custard? Perhaps she would have to offer a set menu that changed each week, so there would be some variety, with a daily special; she knew from the factory that there was no knowing from one day to the next what ingredients they would be given.

  She hurried past the closed shopfronts of Upper Street and closer to the tower and spire of St Mary’s; it was all that remained of the church, its ancient walls now lying around it like the headstones in the graveyard where they had fallen. Sutton Dwellings was just past the church so Maggie always used it to guide her way and the clock on the tower to tell her how punctual she was. It was nearly seven and she was sure that Rose would be in, but when she rang the bell of the Art Deco apartment block there was no reply.