Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  She tried to concentrate on Miss Barker’s instructions, but her mind kept drifting off. Anyway, she knew exactly how to make pastry and it was nearly lunchtime and she was hungry. They would already have to wait until the kitchen maids ate the pies they made earlier before she and her fellow pupils could eat. Then they would replicate the dish again and at last the moment Maggie had been waiting for would arrive, and they would serve their dishes to the general public at the busy college restaurant.

  ‘The perfect pie is one of the basics that all good cooks should have as part of their repertoire,’ Miss Barker continued in clipped notes.

  The kitchen was converted from a grand room in one of Westminster’s oldest buildings and at their introductory session at the start of the week the course director proudly told them that the facilities were equal to those of any of the larger London restaurants and hotels. Maggie had thought he looked rather out of place, like a giant summer pudding, skin all red and blotchy and with a peculiar habit of continually smoothing down his hair; it seemed rather undignified, not to mention unhygienic, for a man in his position. He was right though; the soaring windows would match those of any stately home, and there were solid brass doors that kept the draughts out and the moist heat from the ovens in. The cupboards were well equipped with every possible domestic appliance and a set of Kitway scales for each of them. The larders were stocked with rationed foods that Maggie hadn’t seen for months, including, much to their collective excitement, quantities of Bournville cocoa. Wide enamel-topped benches were evenly punctuated with marble slabs, one for each of the twelve pupil-cooks attending the course.

  ‘Right, now, one of you girls . . . Maggie, you show us how much water you need for this quantity.’

  ‘You need just sufficient to bind the mixture together, miss.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you use a knife . . .’

  ‘But what if you add too much water?’

  Maggie glanced around at the faces of the other pupils, growing crosser with herself by the minute. Oh, come on, Maggie, this is basic.

  When Mr Boyle had first told her she would need to attend the National Training College for formal training she had reminded him that she wasn’t a novice, but still he insisted. Maybe he had been right; if she knew so much, why couldn’t she think of the correct answer now?

  She stared at the group of ingredients on the counter but all she could think about was how the packets of Dyson’s self-raising flour looked so different; it was the same flour but the packaging had changed so much over recent months in order to save waste that they bore no resemblance to the ones she was used to. It wasn’t just the flour, either, it was everything: breakfast cereals, tinned goods—austerity measures affected all the food they ate and the clothes they wore; Hitler’s evil fingers stealing from every part of their lives.

  ‘It goes tough.’

  Her voice was a little too loud but she was so relieved to remember.

  ‘That’s right. Perhaps you would like to take us through the next stages.’

  As she moved around to where Miss Barker stood and took hold of the basin, Emily gave her an encouraging smile. They had got used to the hands-on approach this week and most of it had produced good results, except for when Emily had been asked to make a jelly and used insufficient gelatine. It took them ages to get the sticky syrup off the cupboards and floor after she had lifted the mould from the platter and the jelly collapsed, liquid rivers running like lava down the sides of the bench.

  The mixture in the basin was the consistency of breadcrumbs, and Maggie grasped the knife and stirred until it came together in a large ball of pale dough. Then she dusted the marble board and rolling pin with flour and began to press and roll.

  ‘What are the important things to remember at this point, does anybody know?’

  Maggie was surprised when Sally furtively raised her hand; the young woman from Tooting had lost her parents during the March blitz and had barely said a word.

  ‘You have to remember not to handle the dough too much.’

  ‘Why, Sally?’

  ‘Because overhandling can make it hard too.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. And when you gather the trimmings together after, you must roll these lightly too. Remember, nothing wasted.’

  ‘How do you know, though, if you’ve over-rolled it?’ Sally asked.

  ‘That’s a very good question. Does anyone know the answer?’

  They all looked back at her blankly.

  ‘It will become very elastic and springy. If that happens, you can put it aside for half an hour before baking and it will improve. Some things just take time.’

  Maggie thought that was the most sensible thing she had ever heard Miss Barker say.

  By the afternoon she knew their pies were a success; blind baking the cases had ensured the pastry stayed crisp when the filling was added and the pie was returned to the oven. And the salads they had created from the edible flowers and herbs complemented the devilled fish perfectly. Maggie had occasionally made lavender shortbread, but her salad was now dotted with red and yellow rose petals, violet buds and brightly coloured geraniums and she couldn’t wait to show Eliza. But first they would serve their dishes to the public and she would be able to experience what it was like to present food in a proper setting, just like she would in her own restaurant.

  Miss Barker was fussing around behind them as they loaded their trolleys, adding last-minute garnishes and forgotten serving spoons. Maggie looked at her own dishes: the crisp golden pastry of the offal pie topped with delicate vines of sweet pea, the bright red and orange of the turnip top salad, the steam rising from the glistening dark crown of her chocolate sponge pudding. And it all smelled so good! She knew that she didn’t need to add anything else; only the silver warmers that they had spent most of the afternoon polishing were missing.

  Miss Barker appeared behind her and placed the lids down over her dishes.

  ‘Ready then, girls? Remember, this is the paying public—we don’t want anything sent back . . .’ Then she smiled and pulled open the wide brass doors.

  For a moment Maggie was disorientated, blinded by the unexpected brightness pouring through the expansive windows and the light that reflected off the silver domes on her trolley.

  She took a deep breath—Alright, Peter, I can do this—and, bracing herself, she grasped hold of the trolley and pushed it into the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  A GOOD BREAKFAST EVERY DAY IS THE

  FIRST RULE IN THE BOOK OF GOOD HEALTH:

  Get up early enough to enjoy breakfast without

  hurry. A cup of tea and a morsel of toast gulped

  down with one eye on the clock is no use to

  anyone. Breakfast is an important meal for all

  of us, but especially important for growing

  school children and young factory workers.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 33

  AUGUST 1941

  A procession of trucks continued to arrive throughout the morning, clogging the streets and snaring the interest of curious locals and passers-by. Robbie sat cross-legged on the brick wall, intrigued by the trucks and the cargo being delivered. First, pipework and pots of paint were unloaded and quickly dispersed inside. Then a second, larger lorry with only one driver had arrived to offload kitchen equipment so big Robbie thought it would never fit through the doors. The driver took ages to manoeuvre the bulky machines along the path that ran up the side of the building, jimmying and shuffling it as he went.

  Robbie couldn’t believe his luck when Maggie told him where the new premises would be; not at her parents’ old shop, like she had hoped, but at the disused bicycle repair workshop on Essex Road—the workshop itself needing more repair than any bicycle. He had come with her to look around before the heavy work began, and had trawled the workbenches and floors, gathering a handful of discarded tools that he had already fixed and put to good use. It was a large space with windows t
he colour of plum jam and skylights blistered and uneven like pork crackling, but Maggie had explained how the offices at the back would be converted into kitchens and food storage as she had given him a special tour. The whole place had been filled with a heady mix of oil that reminded him of the dockyards, and grime so thick that he wasn’t sure how she was ever going to get the place clean enough to cook in, let alone have anyone eat there. But in the few weeks since he had last seen it, the place had been transformed. It was like when he found the housing for one of his models; he knew that with the right parts added, and some adjustments here and there, something incredible could take shape. Even so, he was surprised how quickly the inside of the workshop had changed and the walls had gone up to make the new kitchen and an office for Maggie.

  He was supposed to be cleaning the glass on the front door, removing the crust of dirt in exchange for some treacle tart that Eliza was testing out, when another truck pulled up. The driver jumped down and began loosening ties from around a giant cylinder, his overalls and hands as black as the rubber of the truck’s tyres. A long gash on his forearm glistened red and made him wince as he moved but still he smiled at Robbie.

  ‘Hey, kid. Anyone inside to give us a hand?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll get them.’

  Robbie dashed inside, scanning the room in search of the foreman and hearing his voice booming from the back. Spoke waited obediently as Robbie nimbly dodged past a team of carpenters sawing wood on trestle tables, ducking under stepladders where painters stretched their rollers skywards. When he reached the kitchen entrance, he found Janek was hauling planks, stacking them against the wall of the storage rooms. Robbie realised he wasn’t the only one watching him; Rose and three kitchen assistants were learning about some of the new cooking equipment, and while they watched Maggie’s demonstration, he noticed them darting glances at Janek. Robbie was proud he had introduced Maggie to Janek and had already overheard her telling the foreman how invaluable Janek’s help had been, that they would never have been able to come this far in only a few short weeks without him.

  ‘Janek, you got a minute?’ Robbie yelled over the noise of construction.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They need your help out front.’

  Janek propped up the plank he was holding and followed Robbie back through the dining hall, his face red from exertion and tiny beads of sweat visible on his brow.

  One of the cylinders was already off the truck by the time they reached the entrance and Janek made light work of hauling it up the alley and into the kitchen.

  ‘Come on, Robbie—don’t just stand there looking lazy,’ he teased.

  Robbie lifted lengths of pipework off the truck and shadowed Janek up the side of the building, pleased that the materials were light enough for him to carry and that he was able to help.

  Maggie grimaced at her distorted reflection in the side of the copper cylinder and took a step backwards. She couldn’t imagine the volume of water they needed to fill the cylinders, or the amount of gas to heat them, but at least they were here now and the last of the kitchen equipment to be installed. It was taking shape, although the painting of the dining hall was yet to be completed and the backyard was still a bulldozed mess. Still, the kitchen was just how she’d imagined it would be. And although most of the ovens and cookers were reconditioned or on loan, they had scrubbed and polished them until they were as good as new. The broilers shimmered, the worktops gleamed and the network of pipes and extraction fans seemed to form a lifeline connecting them with the outside world. There was a palpable buzz and it wasn’t just the bald-headed plumber and electrician’s apprentice talking constantly as they had all morning, but ruddy-faced cooks already producing quantities of food as they practised sample menus. The kitchens were well organised; ingredients placed systematically across counters, cooling racks and equipment emerging efficiently from cupboards, and a batch of bread pulled straight from the oven produced an inviting yeasty smell.

  Eliza’s head and shoulders suddenly appeared above the worktop as she brought out another tray between gloved hands, crusts perfectly baked, crowns like golden honeycomb.

  ‘I hope you’ve got enough butter to go with those,’ Maggie said, catching her eye. ‘You know that smell makes everyone hungry!’

  ‘Well, why don’t you go and have a look in cold storage then, Miss Bossy-boots!’ Eliza said, shaking her head as if she were talking to a five-year-old.

  Maggie laughed; there was an excitement in knowing they were nearly ready, but there was the exhaustion of the work and the trepidation of opening too. She was sure that if she hadn’t had Eliza to distract her, she would have gone quite mad by now. Especially with Mr Boyle here, pedantically running through everything with her, checking every condition was met and every directive adhered to, second-guessing her every decision when she hadn’t followed procedure to the letter. He had installed himself at one of the kitchen worktops earlier that morning and hadn’t moved since, beadily observing the cooks and kitchen hands, questioning the workmen, and eyeing Janek and Robbie suspiciously, even though they had every right to be there.

  Maggie rolled her eyes at Eliza as she went back to join him, reading over the latest memorandum and mentally ticking off the conditions they had completed.

  They had already been through the plans and the estimate of the costs had been approved along with the schedule, but the area that seemed to be giving them the most trouble was the staff list; they appeared to be understaffed and yet over budget already and couldn’t agree on where the changes should be made.

  Maggie wearily rubbed her eyes in an attempt to fend off an emerging headache. ‘We’ve been going over this for hours. Don’t you think it’s time for a tea break?’ she suggested.

  He looked at her as if she had just made an improper proposal.

  ‘You only have one week, Miss Johnson. Are you sure you have time for tea breaks?’

  ‘Time for tea breaks? Of course, Mr Boyle. It is why we are here, is it not? To provide refreshments for people—and I am desperately in need of some refreshing.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Johnson. I’m going to take a short stroll. I will see you back here in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Don’t you want to join me for some tea?’

  ‘I can go without until our work is complete. It’s what we are trained for, Miss Johnson: strength and vigour. I intend to maintain my strength for as long as my country needs me.’

  ‘I assure you, there is no question as to the robustness of my team,’ Maggie said, glancing around at Eliza, Maeve and the other cooks.

  ‘I hope so, Miss Johnson, but we shall see.’

  Maggie put down her papers and stood up. ‘Very well, Mr Boyle. Enjoy your stroll.’

  It was all she could do not to stomp through to the staffroom where Rose was pinning film posters across the bare walls. Not even Gracie Fields’s smile was enough to distract her from Mr Boyle’s maddening comments.

  ‘You know what it is, Rose?’ she said, banging the kettle down on the stovetop.

  ‘What what is?’

  Rose stepped back to admire the triptych of female heroines she had collected from Picturegoer Weekly—which was still called Weekly even though issues were only published fortnightly now.

  ‘Do you know what the problem is with Mr Boyle?’

  ‘No, although I’m sure you are going to tell me . . .’

  ‘He can’t bear the fact that I’m a woman,’ Maggie declared.

  ‘Don’t be silly. He probably loves the fact you are a woman!’

  ‘No, really—he’s one of those men who can’t accept that we are doing their jobs. We’re equals now; they’ve got to accept it and stop treating us as subordinates.’

  She really had Rose’s attention now.

  ‘I don’t know, Maggie, maybe. You think that’s why he talks the way he does?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I’ll bet that’s why we’re opening here. The grocery shop would have been far more suitable, but
he just didn’t like the fact that I suggested it. Or that I might be right!’

  ‘You sure you’re not just being paranoid? You know, with the pressure of opening and everything?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  It really would have been so much easier and quicker to take her parents’ old grocery shop. Yet Mr Boyle maintained that it wasn’t suitable: ‘Not enough room for safe evacuation,’ he’d insisted. But he was wrong; she had grown up there, and knew that there were two separate doors to the outside. There would have been no problem evacuating a large group of people, and the spacious storeroom at the back of the shop could easily have been converted into a kitchen. To this, Mr Boyle had said that the costs ‘were too prohibitive’, claiming that this disused bicycle workshop was ideal and had been empty for years. It certainly felt like it when Maggie first saw it; mould clung to the walls and decorated them with an irregular brown pattern. The paintwork was yellow and the ceiling sagged as if it had just lost the will to cling there any longer and no amount of paint or plinths could encourage it to.

  ‘I really think you need that cup of tea,’ Rose said, nibbling the edge of her fingernail.

  ‘I know. I’ve just about got time for one before he’s back.’

  ‘Would you mind if I head off soon? Mum’s having one of her neuralgia episodes so I said I’d pop in.’ Rose grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, I know you’re up to your eyes in it . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. Give her my love, tell her I hope she feels better.’