Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  If Maggie expected to see more broken equipment and a disused yard she was going to be surprised; here it was still a working track but there was also a flourishing garden, raised beds supported by old railway sleepers, wooden trellises trained with dark shoots and vines. Close by was a tub overflowing with new shrubs and boxes of seedlings on a low makeshift bench waiting to be planted. Robbie rubbed his gloved hands together and turned so he could see her reaction as she emerged from the tunnel.

  He saw the small cloud of expelled air just before she appeared, her expression changing when she saw the allotment ahead.

  ‘See, I told you it was a good surprise.’

  She bent down, touching the fragile green fronds of carrots that swayed back and forth in the wind, running her fingers across the tough grainy outer layers of cabbages and scraping the soil from deep roots that probed the earth so she could take a better look.

  ‘These are good quality . . . how did you find this place?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  He held out his hand, leading her on, past fractured pipes that sprouted weeds and through a path that widened to a laneway bordered with taller shrubs.

  As they got closer the tapping stopped and the figure leaned on the spade, watching their approach.

  ‘Janek,’ Robbie shouted, letting go of Maggie’s hand and running the rest of the way, Spoke trotting behind.

  It had been difficult to get away, having given her notice and with Mr Ferguson keeping an especially close eye on her, but Maggie hadn’t wanted to let Robbie down. It had been a real job getting through the barricades, too, and she’d had to hide from Bill Drummond when she saw him coming down Essex Road on his evening rounds. Whoever this person was that Robbie wanted her to meet, he was clearly very important to the boy.

  By the time she reached the pair, Robbie was already chatting away. Turning to her, he said, ‘Dobry wieczór . . . Janek’s teaching me Polish.’

  ‘Well, that’s jolly good. What did you just say?’

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Dob-ry wie-czór.’ She pronounced the words carefully, looking into the eyes of the mysterious gardener.

  The eyes weren’t set into a familiar oval or round face as she was used to seeing; instead it was angular, and appeared as strong and solid as the man’s body. Even in the dark she could see that the pale blue eyes didn’t seem at home in such a determined place; they were kind and uncertain.

  ‘Dobry wieczór, Malgorzata.’

  He offered her his right hand and so she extended hers, expecting him to shake it, but he bowed slightly, kissing her hand and clicking his heels together at the same time.

  She gave a surprised laugh and then, embarrassed, covered her mouth.

  ‘It is Polish custom. I am Janek. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

  The sodden and frayed bottoms of his grey twill trousers looked like part of a uniform, but they were mismatched with a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a thick brown knitted vest.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you too.’

  She pushed away the strands of hair that whipped against her face and then slid both hands deep into her coat pockets, watching intently as the man and boy resumed talking again, curious about Robbie’s unlikely new companion.

  ‘Jak sie masz? That’s “how do you do”, isn’t it?’ Robbie translated before turning his attention back to Janek. ‘I wanted to show Maggie the allotments. She has a special interest.’

  ‘That’s right, you told me—Malgorzata the cook. And who do you cook for?’

  ‘At the moment I run the canteen at the radio factory. There are more than two hundred workers so it’s like the radios themselves, more about assembly than cooking.’

  ‘See this?’ Robbie was pointing to the nearby beds. ‘Janek planted all of it, everything you see.’

  ‘It’s very impressive. Who’s it for?’

  ‘The railway takes most of it for their canteens. The rest I sell at markets.’

  It had started to rain and the wind stole the end off sentences that she was already struggling to understand. Raindrops stretched into long droplets as the shower grew heavier, splashing mud onto the lower leaves of plants and driving deep into the stalks and pockets of vines that wove around the nearby training frames.

  ‘We don’t have to stay here. Come.’ He gestured towards an old signal box and she followed as he climbed the narrow wooden staircase, noticing how unsteady his walk was, how heavily he dragged one of his heavy boots up each splintered stair.

  Once they were inside, Janek pulled the door closed behind them and struck a match, lighting an oil lamp before pulling the blackouts across two small windows. The meagre light flickered around the room, lengthening shadows and creating gigantic machines from small tools. An enormous elephant projected from the bulbous eyes and nosepiece of the gas mask that hung on its hook by the door. The inside of the building was the reverse of its outside; where the exterior walls were peeling paint and dirty splintered frames, the inside was clean and dry, its woodwork intact. The levers from the signals ran along the whole left side of the wall, a new workbench assembled directly over the top. A small table and folding chairs sat to the right, beneath a large station sign for Highbury & Islington. She could imagine Janek sitting here, planning what to plant next from the pile of trays that were stacked up on the bench, a few spread out in front with seedlings showing off their pale green shoots. There was a strong mix of mud and must, as if the old decaying plants were bound up with the new, like the tang of the earth when you first pitched your fork into it. It reminded her of weekends on her grandfather’s allotment; when it was wet they would stay in the shed and she would watch and listen carefully as her grandfather grafted stems or nurtured seedlings until they were ready to plant outside. If the weather was good, she would be given a small trowel and would dig and plant alongside him until her mother sent one of her brothers to fetch her home.

  Robbie was fidgeting excitedly. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s very cosy.’

  A camping stove sat in the corner and, after two failed attempts, Janek managed to get it to catch and the blue circle of flame flickered to life.

  ‘Not big enough for a three-course meal but we have some borscht. Will you take some?’

  Maggie looked at Robbie, who nodded, indicating that she should say yes.

  ‘Thank you.’

  It looked as if the original paraphernalia from the signal box had been pushed into the corner, creating a heap of corroded metal and wooden batons, and Robbie made his way over to take a look.

  ‘Is this the signaller?’ he asked, turning the rusted metal equipment over, inspecting it from different angles.

  ‘I think so. I have not looked properly.’

  Janek’s accent was thick, but he spoke in short sentences that Maggie found easy enough to understand. She took the mug he offered and squeezed into one of the frayed camping chairs placed either side of the door.

  ‘Where are you from in Poland?’

  ‘Mazovia . . . it is in the north-west of the country.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, warming her hands on the cup. ‘I have seen it on the maps in the newspaper. It’s close to Warsaw, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Janek nodded.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘In England—seventeen months and four days.’

  She was surprised by his accuracy.

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘Before that I was in France. We left through Romania, before the border closed.’

  She waited for him to say more but he turned and removed his coat, hanging it on a hook on the back of the door. He glanced back and caught her looking at him, so she quickly looked away.

  He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and brought out a small rectangular tin. Leaning back against the benchtop, he flipped off the lid and retrieved a paper and a small pinch of tobacco, rolling it expertly between his thumb and forefinger to p
roduce a miniature cigarette.

  ‘And so now you are here?’

  ‘I am one of the lucky ones, no?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Luckier than many of my countrymen.’

  Janek had seemed friendly at first but now she found him difficult to read, not sure if she had detected a note of resentment in his voice or just the intonation of a language that wasn’t her natural tongue.

  She sipped the purple liquid, savouring its warmth and the saltiness on her tongue. ‘Borscht?’

  ‘Yes, you have made this before?’

  ‘Only a couple of times, but I don’t add meat to mine. Is it hock?’

  ‘Yes, we use wild boar at home but I have not seen any here.’

  ‘No, I don’t think a Wiltshire pig would taste quite the same,’ she agreed.

  ‘We also use beetroot leaves and shoots in our soup, but you English are too soft—you feed the best bits to your pigs!’

  She laughed, relieved that he was proving to be friendlier than she had first thought. ‘Yes, but then we eat the pigs too. Anyway, you will have to show me how to make it the proper way.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She quickly took another sip, allowing the rich earthy tang to spread across her tongue.

  ‘Will you go back to Poland?’

  ‘Not yet, but it is my plan.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Eventually . . .’

  ‘As soon as it is safe.’

  ‘Are all your family there? I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t ask so many questions.’

  ‘It is fine. Robbie has spoken of you. You are not a stranger.’

  ‘All the same . . .’

  She noticed a small chess set on the crate nearby.

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘All Poles play chess.’

  ‘If the rain carries on for much longer, we shall have to have a game,’ she suggested.

  He looked surprised. ‘You play?’

  ‘Yes, I had three brothers—we played a lot of games.’

  ‘And they are all fighting?’

  She didn’t want to talk about Ernest with a stranger; not even her brothers spoke about him much anymore.

  ‘Ed joined the navy and John joined the army but he has bad asthma. He’s doing his bit for the Home Guard down in Portsmouth now. Recently married, too, so I think he’ll settle there.’

  ‘They are lucky then.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because they fight for their country; it is not so easy for everyone.’

  Maggie frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You cannot understand. You have not had to leave your country. Once again the Polish people have to relinquish power to an invading nation.’

  She didn’t know how to respond. Janek’s expression was serious again; clearly the time for jokes had passed.

  He reached into his jacket pocket to replace the tobacco tin and a single card fell onto the floor near her feet. It was a picture of the Black Madonna, an image of the Virgin Mary masked in black. As she handed it back she noticed a large amount of handwritten text on the reverse side, and as he took it between his fingers, their eyes locked for the briefest moment before he looked away.

  Robbie was still investigating the pile of junk when he came across a small piece of equipment at the back behind a tangle of cords and leads. It looked newer than the rest and more like a wireless or some kind of transmitter than a signaller, but when he turned to ask Janek what it was he was still talking.

  He put on the headphones and fiddled with the dial. The silence turned into voices but they were faint, as if coming from down a very long corridor somewhere, and were only just audible above the low hum of the machine’s own mechanics. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he could still hear Janek and Maggie’s muffled voices.

  He removed the headphones and placed the instrument at the front of the shelf where he wouldn’t forget it; it didn’t matter that the instrument wasn’t working properly because these metal rods at the base would make a great chassis for one of the new models he had just started, and the wooden outer shell could easily be fashioned into the deck of a miniature boat. He would ask Janek if he could spare it; he couldn’t imagine that there would be anything else that Janek might need it for.

  ‘What kind of farm was it?’

  He could hear the interest in Maggie’s voice so he went and sat on the folding chair next to hers.

  ‘Cereals and grain mostly, also some cows to supply dairy to the hotels and restaurants in Warsaw.’

  It was the opening Robbie had been waiting for. ‘Maggie’s going to open a restaurant,’ he announced proudly. ‘One of those ones the government are doing . . .’

  ‘When is this?’ Janek asked.

  ‘Soon,’ Robbie replied.

  ‘Not that soon, it’s not that straightforward,’ Maggie said, grimacing at Robbie; she hadn’t mentioned the issues with the site or that Mr Boyle had requested she attend a training course first.

  ‘Some more?’ Janek gestured towards the soup pot.

  Maggie nodded and Janek ladled more soup into her mug and then refilled his own, but before he could hand it back to her, the floor began to vibrate, a noisy rumble that steadily built, rattling the pots and trays on the shelves, the sound of a train growing closer. Janek stopped moving and waited, trying to balance against the bench. Just when it seemed as if it couldn’t get any louder, the room shook violently and the carriages thundered past, air thrust like spears through every crack and joint in the timber walls and floors, sending the air and dust spinning around them. Then it receded, clanking and clattering into the distance, and the dust settled, the coal smell dissipated and all was still again.

  ‘Whoa!’ Robbie looked at them both and laughed.

  ‘Not so funny in middle of the night,’ Janek said lightly as he finally handed the mug back to Maggie. He returned to the subject of the restaurant. ‘So, you will get there soon. There is nothing stopping you?’

  Robbie blew onto his soup, liking the way it made furrows across the surface, and then he brought the mug up to his lips. He couldn’t figure out what the sweet earthy smell reminded him of; it was like one of his dad’s outdoor cook-ups, when he mixed the charcoal with apple wood or cherry wood so that it flavoured the meat.

  ‘What is it?’ Robbie scowled.

  ‘Beetroot,’ Janek replied.

  ‘Never had beetroot soup before.’

  ‘It’s called “borscht” in Poland,’ Maggie said.

  ‘She’s got the jitters,’ Robbie told Janek. ‘About the restaurant. She’ll talk herself out of it if she’s not careful. She needs to just get on with it.’

  ‘No I won’t—and you don’t refer to people as she when they are in the same room with you!’

  ‘You are right though, Robbie,’ Janek said, his voice solemn. ‘You cannot afford to waste time in wartime.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘In crisis we focus on what is real. What can be more real than providing people with their most basic need?’

  Robbie knew that Janek was clever, he had felt it that first day they met and walked to Bloomsbury Square; he had shown Robbie things he had never noticed before, even though he had lived in London all his life. He looked at Maggie, wondering what she would say next.

  ‘Perhaps you are right. But what if you are afraid you won’t succeed?’

  ‘Guilt and worry are worthless emotions—they don’t help anyone. It is time to put your own thoughts of success and failure aside.’

  Robbie saw her look away; she probably wouldn’t approve of Janek’s directness but she couldn’t argue with plain good sense.

  ‘I suppose now you are going to tell me that none of us know what is going to happen anyway?’ she said.

  ‘No, you know that already.’

  Maybe it was because of the light but Janek’s eyes looked dark, not as bright and clear as they had first appeared.

  ‘Remind me: how did you
two meet?’ Maggie asked, looking at Robbie.

  ‘Janek sort of rescued me,’ he said, hoping that a white lie wouldn’t count as much as a big full-blown one.

  ‘Why, where were you?’

  ‘I went out of town for the day, got a bit lost—Janek helped me.’

  He could see how curious she still was so he started to explain how Janek had been coming back from the countryside, that he grew vegetables there too since there wasn’t nearly enough room in the city, and once he started talking he worked out that he couldn’t really stop as Maggie would ask him another question, one for which he might not have a ready lie, so he ended up gabbling for ages. When he couldn’t carry on any longer, he placed his mug on the bench and racked his brains for something to say to change the subject. He hadn’t been lying about Janek rescuing him, and the bit about Janek growing stuff in the country was true too, but he couldn’t bear it when people looked at him the way Maggie was looking at him now.

  ‘That still doesn’t explain what were you doing in the countryside.’

  He tugged at his sleeves, stretching them until his hands disappeared completely and the ends looked like giant fabric belly buttons. He did want to tell her about his ma and the huge house that they were staying in, how there was a whole room just for the toilet and another one just for the bath. And about the huge green dinner table that they didn’t even eat at, just kept for playing ball games on. Then he smiled as he remembered the hot-water bottles they took to bed at night that they were supposed to use to wash with the next morning, but how he emptied his out and weed in it because he got too scared to go to the bathroom.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  He looked at Maggie and feigned tiredness, stretching his arms and transforming his smirk into a wide yawn.

  ‘All this talk of the countryside is making the boy sleepy,’ Janek said.

  Robbie pulled himself up slowly. ‘You coming, Maggie?’

  Janek looked disappointed. ‘You cannot stay longer?’

  ‘No, I really must go. I’m on the breakfast shift tomorrow so I have to be up nice and early. Can’t afford to be late with Mr Ferguson.’