Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  She was about to leave when the latch clicked and the door opened to reveal a woman a little older than herself whom Maggie recognised as one of her cousin’s neighbours—only her complexion was so altered, skin the texture of pale paper with blotches of red and a spider’s web of veins colouring her cheeks.

  ‘Hello, love,’ the woman said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maggie said, ‘I don’t remember your name.’

  ‘It’s Irene.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Rose have you?’

  ‘No, love, I haven’t. Here, you’re her cousin, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  Irene’s gas mask hung loosely around her neck and she took such great strides that it swung like a giant pendulum, even with the two heavy bags she carried weighing her down.

  Maggie followed her back down the path. ‘Can I give you a hand?’

  ‘No, it’s alright. Only going over to St Mary’s. We’ve got a card night . . . bit of a fundraiser. Come if you like.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I need to find Rose.’

  ‘Never mind. Another time maybe.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  ‘She’ll probably be at the Angel.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  ‘It’s where she usually goes these days. Not me, I’d rather save the money.’

  Maggie felt silly for not remembering; Rose had mentioned how she was happier to pay for the ticket for the Tube and queue to get in, not just for safety but because she liked the camaraderie of being there.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s safer to stay down there?’ Maggie asked as she held open the gate.

  Irene walked through and then swivelled, glancing back over her shoulder.

  ‘When your number’s up, love, your number’s up.’

  Making her way down Upper Street, Maggie was considering calling in to the school to check on Robbie when she found herself at the junction of Essex Road and across the street from her parents’ old grocery store. The black-and-gold sign had lost its lustre but she could still see the words Johnson & Sons through the thick layer of grime. It had been many things since they left—a clothing store, an ironmonger’s—but somehow the name had always stayed. The windows of the Victorian red-brick building wrapped around each side, affording a panorama of the street and of the people coming and going. There were only a few tonight; an elderly woman in a well-worn coat crossed the road towards her, another in a headscarf wrangled two small boys, one dragging a tricycle behind. Maggie and her brothers had used to race up and down this pavement on bikes or one of the contraptions that Ernest had fashioned from recycled parts, until she was called inside to help.

  She waited for a delivery truck to pass and then crossed the road, coming to stand outside the shop. Now she was closer, she could see that it was as scarred and dirty as the buildings around it, with its chipped brickwork, broken windows and missing slates. Leaning in close to the glass, she saw that not much had changed inside; the same long wooden counter stretched across the back of the shop, shelves reaching right up to the ceiling behind. They were empty now but had once been as well stocked as any department store. If anyone asked for something their father didn’t carry, he would order it in, and if there was a new product out, he would find it so he could offer it to his customers. Her mother had tempered him, reminding him that the days weren’t just for working and the evenings not just for eating and doing accounts, but once she had gone he gave up and threw himself completely into his work.

  ‘Shame it’s not still open—might at least be able to get somethin’ decent to eat round here.’

  There was something familiar about the middle-aged woman standing next to Maggie, her stout figure enveloped in a brown wool coat, narrowing to a collar of light fur from which her head sprung, grey-blonde curls neatly pinned beneath a matching hat.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I remember you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re little Maggie Johnson. I knew your mum and dad.’

  Maggie turned back to the window, seeing her own muddy reflection. She felt the instant prick of shame as if it were only yesterday. The people that came in and out of the store that day, speaking in whispers; the arrival of her aunt to ‘help out’. She even remembered the floral scent when they had finally closed that night, and she poured away the water that had kept the flowers alive as surely as her mother’s love should have kept her; she had willed every memory of her mother to wash away with it.

  Maggie had finished school and helped her father and brothers but then, as soon as she was able, she left and took a job in Devon. She was happy there, distracted by the small talk of old ladies and ramblers, and for three years she had served cream teas to tourists and discovered her passion for cooking. Then she met Peter and had returned with him to London, the beginning of their romance and her formal training.

  ‘I’m Margaret Evans from the dairy on Cross Street,’ the woman was saying.

  ‘I remember,’ said Maggie. ‘You delivered our milk.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, pet. Such a hard worker, your dad, God rest his soul.’

  Maggie smiled at her; an image of the horse and cart, their noisy rides bumping around with the pails in the back, came to her like a half-remembered dream. Yes, her father had worked hard to build up the business, even harder after their mother had left him and their three children, and a host of unpaid bills. He opened the shop at seven in the morning and didn’t close until nine at night, or when the last customer left. He’d tried to keep the rumours from them: that their mother had run away with the Canadian foreman from the local bread factory. In any event, Maggie had not wanted to know.

  ‘How are your brothers, dear? Was it Eric?’

  ‘Eddie . . . Edward and John. They’re coping as best they can—as most of the lads are. Ed’s in the navy and John joined the army.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your dad.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Maggie had been in Devon when he died but she had seen him during his short illness. He told her that forgiving Agnes, their mother, was the only way he had been able to enjoy any happiness, but she knew it had come too late.

  ‘Anyway, can’t stop now,’ Mrs Evans said, ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, but it was ever so nice seeing you again.’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  ‘And good luck, love—it’s a super site. Your old dad would’ve been so pleased.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘At you opening it again.’

  As Mrs Evans bustled away along the pavement towards the dairy, Maggie turned to gaze at the shop once more. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  The space was large enough, and it was empty, but it would be a big job; getting the shattered windows repaired as well as the plasterwork inside that she knew had been shaken from the walls. But, yes: the site would make a perfect restaurant.

  When her eyes had adjusted to the low light, Maggie could just make out the groups of people packed along the platform and on the track. If it wasn’t for the fact that the air tasted so thick and dank and the tunnel walls curved overhead, she imagined they could be in an entertainment hall or one of London’s prestige hotels. Three small square card tables were in use, while men and women crowded around heckling the players. Beyond that, there was a small makeshift library with a wooden bookshelf four rows deep, and a dozen or so readers poring over the pages of the books by lamplight.

  She continued past to where the crowds thinned and a few figures were seated at the furthest end of the platform. They had created a small oasis in the confined space; a narrow table with a plain white cloth and a large brass crucifix, modest gold candlesticks on either side and small wicker chairs placed around in a semicircle. Maggie found herself drawn towards the unexpected shrine, imagining as the others must that something might be achieved by observing the religion that she had long since let go.

  An older woman kneeled down in
front of the makeshift altar and crossed herself with her right hand, her tight tweed coat straining with each movement. Maggie watched the woman’s face as she murmured a prayer. She envied the woman’s piety and wondered at what personal cost it had come.

  Maggie looked away, turning back towards the swarm of people; Rose had to be here somewhere.

  It was the first time she had been to the underground in months and the gates and barricades had been ripped away. Of course, not all the metalwork could be removed; the vast supporting beams continued to hold the tunnel roof in place and plates and studs as large as apples still remained. So too did the ornate cast-iron pillars that supported the great archways and metal staircases, too important to be melted down.

  She had been a regular on the trains before the war, but it had been a long time since she had travelled by Tube; most of the stations had been closed for use as shelters. Back then the trains had pushed currents of air through the stations, but today the air was still and the odours from the mass of bodies mingled with the food smells that wafted from the mobile canteen.

  Up ahead, she caught a glimpse of Rose’s hair, golden pin curls still neatly in place, her cousin glancing around inquisitively as she often did, so that she looked lost even when she wasn’t, and remained unaware of the male attention she usually attracted.

  Maggie stretched her hand up to wave, and as soon as Rose saw her, she hurried through the crowd.

  ‘Maggie!’ Rose grasped both her hands.

  ‘Gosh, your hands are cold,’ Maggie said, pulling away.

  ‘I know, I’ve got Gran’s circulation. Need to eat more pepper.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Anyway, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘I thought we were meeting up tomorrow?’

  ‘We were—I mean we are—but I wanted to see you. I’ve got some news.’

  Rose gave Maggie the reaction she was hoping for, her eyes and mouth widening simultaneously. ‘What is it? Tell me!’

  Maggie’s hair fell across her eyes as she dug around in her bag, searching for the letter. Around them the evening mood was lightening as people joined in the singing, snatches of the lyrics from ‘You Are My Sunshine’ filling the air.

  ‘Come on, hurry up!’ Rose urged.

  Maggie gave up on her bag and reached into her coat pocket. ‘Here it is.’

  She opened the letter and handed it to Rose.

  Dear Miss Johnson,

  Following your interview relating to your application to open and operate a British Restaurant, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to run a premises in the Highbury and Islington area. You will be working directly with me on all matters relating to the setup and ongoing operation and supply of the establishment. I will be in touch with you shortly to arrange a meeting. Please do not hesitate to contact me in the meantime with any queries.

  I look forward to a productive working relationship with you.

  Yours sincerely,

  W. G. Boyle

  Regional Divisional Food Officer

  ‘That’s marvellous!’ Rose squealed. Then she said, ‘But why didn’t you tell me what you were doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to do it; I mean, I didn’t think I could.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ She avoided Rose’s gaze, instead turning to watch a young man as he climbed onto a low table nearby, preparing to sing to the enthusiastic crowd gathering around him.

  ‘Really?’ Rose prodded. ‘So what changed?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Maggie crossed her arms defensively; she had never been able to hide anything from her cousin.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Okay, Robbie happened, and Gillian and the girls. And Tom and Mr Ferguson . . . Well, it was a lot of things—and I just realised I could do something to help.’

  Her cousin narrowed her eyes at her, as if she wasn’t convinced. ‘I see.’

  ‘I thought I couldn’t do it before, but I know now . . . I can’t not do it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If Peter was here, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, I would have applied straight away. But then I started to believe I couldn’t do it without him. And that’s just it . . . I have to do it now because he can’t.’

  ‘So, when do you start?’

  ‘Well, I have to do training first—even though I’m already working as a cook!’

  The young man’s singing had reached its crescendo, his arm movements more exuberant as he stretched himself taller, wobbling precariously on the trestle table as he belted out the final chorus of ‘You Are My Sunshine’. Most of the crowd had joined in and Rose and Maggie were jostled as the spectators grew more and more boisterous.

  ‘And where will it be?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. What do you think—am I mad, Rose? Do you think I can even manage it?’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you can do it, Maggie—and you’ll be great! Think of the posters: USE SPADES NOT SHIPS, DIG FOR VICTORY—it’s marvellous that you would want to help.’

  ‘What?’ Maggie struggled to hear above the din.

  ‘I said it’s marvellous you want to help,’ her cousin repeated.

  Rose’s hands were clenched into fists by her sides and something in her tone made Maggie look at her more closely; Rose was on the verge of tears.

  The singer hit his final note and the crowd erupted into cheers.

  ‘I’ve not been engaged like you, Maggie,’ Rose said, tears springing to her eyes. She began to sob. ‘What if this is it? What if we go tomorrow? I’ll die never knowing what it’s like to be loved or to love someone as desperately as you loved Peter . . .’

  Maggie put her arms around Rose and gently stroked her hair, just as she had when she was a child, when they had shared beds and secrets like sisters. With Aunt Mary grieving the death of her husband, they had become even closer after Maggie’s mother disappeared, all of them feeling the bitterness of betrayal.

  ‘There, there, now, come on,’ she said, feeling the shoulder of her dress growing damp. ‘What’s brought all this on?’

  The man was lifted from the table by the cheering crowd and Rose waited for the noise to die down before continuing. ‘I’ll never meet anyone like Peter,’ she said, still sniffing, ‘because all the men are bloody well dying. There’s no chance of getting a husband or a family now.’

  ‘It’s no good talking like that, Rose. There are still lots of men around and this war isn’t going to go on forever. They’ll come back. And when they do, you’ll have the pick of the bunch.’

  She pushed the damp strands of hair out of Rose’s eyes. Her cousin didn’t realise the effect she had on people, how one flash of those sapphire eyes could hypnotise.

  ‘So what do you fancy then, a tall, dark handsome brute or one of those fair dashing types?’

  Rose’s crying ceased but she didn’t respond to Maggie’s teasing. ‘I just feel so alone,’ she said. ‘And now you’re leaving . . .’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Maggie protested. ‘I’ll still be here.’

  ‘I’m really happy for you, Maggie, really I am . . .’

  ‘Be happy for us,’ Maggie scolded. ‘You don’t think I’d do it without you?’

  ‘What?’ Rose dabbed at her eyes with her blouse cuffs. ‘But how can I help? I’m a shop assistant—I don’t even know how to cook!’

  ‘I’m going to teach you.’

  ‘I thought you gave up on me years ago?’

  ‘Well, I’ll need waitresses and cashiers too.’

  ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Of course. And Rose?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just think about all the men you’ll get to meet!’

  Chapter Eight

  Vegetables for you and your family

  every week of the year.

  Never a week without food from your garden

  or allotment. Vegetables all year round if
>
  you DIG WELL AND CROP WISELY.

  Dig For Victory Leaflet No. 1

  Robbie stepped lightly, his shadow sliding across the tunnel wall a few feet in front of Maggie’s, guiding her forward. All he could make out against the liquorice skies were the outlines of abandoned machinery and equipment where the steam engines had once stood: engines that he had sometimes sketched by day and modelled by night. The metal engines and cargo trucks were now long gone, recycled for munitions, leaving only broken wooden remains, splintered skeletons at the edge of the track.

  He glanced around to check that Maggie was still following and was relieved to see that she was. At first he thought she wasn’t coming and had paced up and down outside the station with Spoke, disappointed that she had let him down. Then he’d spotted her running towards him, all out of breath and apologetic. He didn’t care that she was late; he was just glad that she turned up and he quickly made her promise not to ask too many questions, just to trust him. It would be a good surprise, he assured her, not a bad one. But now, as they picked their way through the darkening tunnel, Maggie was unusually quiet, as if she was having second thoughts.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked. His voice echoed off the damp bricks.

  ‘Fine.’ Her reply was little more than a whisper.

  It was eerily quiet except for the intermittent whirr of engines as cars passed infrequently on the bridge overhead and he carried on the last few yards towards the tunnel’s end where the ground was swallowed by shadows.

  As he moved out into the open, the crunch of gravel underfoot changed as his boots met the thick grass, already heavy with the early-evening dew. He clutched his jacket with both hands, tugging the cloth tighter around him as the wind whipped his collar and he listened out for the familiar noise of the spade.

  There it was, the steady tapping, and up ahead the solid outline of a figure as it rhythmically bent, pressed and tipped, bent, pressed and tipped.