Maggie took her cup of tea outside where she could take gulps of clean air, away from the dust and fumes of the building work and the heat of the ovens.
The yard was crowded with building tools and debris, and she could only just keep track of who all the workmen were that came and went, so was relieved when she saw a familiar face. She had only seen Janek fleetingly since Robbie had taken her to the railyard allotment and there had not been that many occasions for them to speak over the busy weeks of demolition, so now he somehow looked different. Perhaps it was the daylight; the contours of his face appeared less sharp, features softer than the hard lines that she remembered from when they first met.
‘That’s it—the last piece of equipment, Malgorzata,’ he said as he rolled and butted a huge cylinder towards the back door.
‘So there’s no going back now?’ she said, only half joking.
‘You don’t need to, Malgorzata. You are ready for this.’
She looked up at the heavy skies, memories of the last few weeks scuttling as fast as the clouds; there had been leaking pipes and badly burnt hands, cooks that she’d had to let go after first shifts, sacks of ingredients ruined by weevils. Mr Boyle had been scrupulous about approving every stage and there had been enough paperwork to sink a battleship—but Janek was right: it felt like time.
‘Yes, Janek. I think I am.’
Chapter Thirteen
Two classes of people will suffer if we make
full use of our vegetable crops. First, the
vendors of patent medicines, whose wares will
be less in demand. Second, the makers of too
highly-seasoned sauces, because our palates, once
accustomed to good eating, will be content with
the delicate flavour of well-cooked vegetables.
Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 6
Plumes of smoke billowed skywards and drifted east on a bitter morning wind, spreading the smell of freshly baked bread across the streets and avenues of the north London suburb. The industrial chimneys had been difficult to install but now they sat atop the squat brick building like candles on a giant birthday cake.
Maggie leaned forward to peer through the newly polished windowpanes into the restaurant, the room stretching away to the vast kitchen at the back, broad skylights allowing the summer sun to drench the long benches and tables of the dining room below. Rose appeared at the kitchen doorway then walked quickly through into the dining hall, the tray she held releasing a coronet of steam. Two more cooks followed behind her, also in kitchen whites with arms bent under the strain of their heavy loads, their slow progress reflected in the chrome servery, making the dining space appear even larger than it already was.
Maggie’s chest heaved and she instinctively brought up her hand, swallowing hard; there was something about seeing her cousin carrying their first meal that took her by surprise. It had been the same earlier, when they had unpacked the crockery the customers would eat from and arranged the furniture at which they would dine. So much had changed, her life was so completely altered, and now it felt as if her insides had been rearranged too; her heart beating much higher up than it should, her stomach as if it had shifted to a different place as well.
As she pulled back from the window she noticed a woman standing next to her, smartly dressed in a navy crepe suit and hat, her gaze fixed on the dresser inside. Its four shelves were stacked with the cakes and desserts that Eliza had made: stands of pale crumbly shortbread, a sticky ginger sponge, chocolate puddings still plump from steam and individual bright yellow tarts, sweet with the tang of homemade lemon curd. They looked good and she knew they tasted far better than any of the cakes at the Marks and Spencer cafe where her friends and neighbours were already using their ration tokens to buy food.
‘They look delicious!’ the woman said.
‘Yes, I think we’ll be able to give Lyons a run for its money,’ Maggie replied, admiring Eliza’s handiwork.
The cakes were not on the list of recommended recipes that Mr Boyle had given her but she hadn’t wanted to waste the chance to feed the hungry trade between breakfast and lunchtime, or the skills that Eliza had to offer.
‘Are you open yet?’
‘Not quite, but if you come back in half an hour you can be my first customer.’
‘Oh dear, I’m going to meet my friend Pam up the road.’ The woman looked disappointed.
‘Never mind, maybe next time.’ Maggie extended her hand. ‘I’m Maggie.’
‘Mary—Mary Bevan. Pleased to meet you.’
They shook hands.
‘I’ll tell you what, Maggie,’ the woman said, brightening, ‘I’m going to meet Pam and bring her straight back here.’
‘Well, you know, Mrs Bevan, the first customer gets a free pot of tea.’
‘You don’t have to do that, dear.’
‘I know, but today is a bit of a practice run for us anyway.’
‘Well, thank you. I’ll see you soon then, Maggie. And don’t forget to save us one of those cakes.’
As Mrs Bevan strolled away Maggie followed her progress across the road as she turned the corner into Gaskin Street and disappeared. It wasn’t yet seven o’clock and the streets were already filling with people on their way to work so she knew they had to hurry to be ready for the busy breakfast trade.
Eliza came outside to find her. ‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘I think so . . .’
Eliza put her arm around Maggie’s waist and gave her a squeeze. ‘You got opening-night nerves?’
‘Yes, I think I have,’ Maggie confessed.
Eliza pulled a face. ‘You’re serious?’
Maggie nodded vigorously.
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Don’t be. Everyone gets nervous, Liza—even you.’
‘No, not me. Never been nervous before in my life!’
‘Really? Not even before your first date with Johnny Wilkins?’
‘No, not even then.’ Eliza smirked. ‘Anyway, we’re not talking about me. Look—’ she said, pointing up to where the sign-writer was painting the sign. ‘It says “Maggie’s Kitchen”, not “Eliza’s Kitchen”.’
‘Alright, yes, I am nervous, but can we stop talking about it? You’re only making me feel worse.’
‘Sure,’ Eliza said, stepping away. ‘Although I fail to see how you can feel nervous. Everything looks, well . . . everything looks perfect.’
Maggie took in the newly cleaned brickwork, the fresh black paint of the windowframes and door. It wasn’t quite what she and Peter had envisaged for their place; the outside wasn’t painted white because of the blackout and the inside had to be painted with pale enamel paint because of the condensation from the cookers, but it looked appealing nonetheless.
‘Well, are you going to stand here all day or are we going to get this place open?’
Maggie looked at her friend’s face; there wasn’t even a flicker of the doubt and nerves that she felt and she was overwhelmingly grateful for it.
She grasped Eliza’s hand. ‘Thank you, Liza. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘You could do anything you set your mind to, Maggie Johnson,’ her friend remonstrated.
‘I mean it,’ said Maggie. ‘And look here,’ she sniffed, as tears welled in her eyes. ‘Now I’m making a fool of myself!’
‘So, are you going to turn the sign or just stand here blubbing?’
‘No, we should wait until exactly seven—it might be bad luck otherwise,’ she said, walking backwards and into a ladder.
The sign-writer, six feet off the ground, wobbled slightly and the two women grabbed the ladder.
Eliza giggled. ‘That wasn’t very clever.’
‘I’m so sorry, are you alright?’ Maggie asked, looking up at him.
His paintbrush was poised just above the ‘e’ of Kitchen and he waited until the ladder ceased to shake.
‘Yes, fine, thank you, miss.’
‘Oh, look . . .
’ Maggie had noticed a dark speck of paint on the glass. She took out the duster from where it was loosely tucked in the top of her apron and rubbed hard at the mark. She would never get rid of the city’s constant blanket of grime but at least for her opening day she would like to see the windows clean.
There was a pull on her sleeve as Eliza grabbed her arm.
‘Come on, let’s get inside. Everybody’s waiting for you.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I can do this later.’
‘What time did you say that Mr Boyle was coming?’
‘I didn’t, he could be here any moment.’ She moved her face close to Eliza’s and spoke very slowly. ‘With the cook adviser for the whole of the London region!’
Inside, Rose was kneeling down, hurriedly writing the day’s meals on the blackboard, Tom was giving instructions to two of the girls on how the customers needed to queue and pay, and the serving staff were checking the equipment and filling the bains-marie with boiling water. It was five minutes to seven.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention, please?’
Her voice sounded small in the cavernous dining hall. She waited a few moments as the rest of the staff came to join the dozen cooks and kitchen hands that waited on benches. The group looked more like nurses in their white smocks and aprons, hair tucked neatly beneath their snoods. She had wanted to thank them all for their hard work, talk to them about the important role they would be playing in the war effort, give a rousing and inspirational speech—but now, faced with the vastness of the room and the challenges that lay ahead, she had forgotten what she intended to say.
‘Thank you, this won’t take long. We’ve got a lot to get through this morning but I just wanted to say welcome aboard to everyone—’ she glanced around to see them all listening intently ‘—and thank you for getting everything ready in time. The restaurant looks . . . well, it looks amazing.’
Tom and Eliza began clapping and the others joined in. It took Maggie by surprise, but, buoyed by their enthusiasm, she carried on more confidently than before.
‘We’ve got a few challenges ahead—some that most of you probably know about—but we’ve also got some aces up our sleeve. Our wonderful pastry chef, Eliza . . .’
There was another round of applause.
‘And our talented new cashier, Tom.’
The gathering turned towards the only male in the room and Tom bowed theatrically, bending his right arm under his waist as he tilted forward, the empty sleeve of his left arm pinned into his jacket’s left pocket. The applause subsided and he turned and smiled at Maggie.
‘I’m pleased to say we also have a new server, too.’
She looked to where Gillian sat, slightly away from the rest of the group.
With the girls now billeted in the countryside, Maggie had been sure Gillian would jump at the chance of a job, knowing how unhappy she was at the factory where she worked. As she continued to look round at the other familiar faces—some friends, others people she had recruited from the factory canteen—she realised how great her responsibility had become. She was used to managing a team but this was very different; they were all relying on her now.
Then she noticed Robbie leaning against a pillar to one side; he had been a great help over recent weeks too, making tea, doing small jobs and lightening the mood with his continual good humour. He deserved to be sitting up here with them now instead of hiding away in the shadows.
Maggie waited for the clapping to subside before taking a step towards Robbie, motioning with her hand for him to come closer. He grinned and shook his head, staying firmly rooted to the spot, trying to conceal Spoke who hid between his legs.
‘You will also have got used to seeing Robbie and his dog in recent weeks. We owe a big thank you to Robbie for the endless supply of tea and jokes—and we are looking forward to seeing more of him but, unfortunately, Spoke will have to remain outside.’
Tom gave a good-natured groan.
‘Well, we had better get on with business; just a quick recap in case any of you missed anything—I know there’s been a lot to learn. The day’s meals are all on the blackboard until our printed signs come in.’ She pointed to the board on the wall where Rose had written the dishes of the day in chalk.
‘The hot breakfast with bread or toast and tea is two shillings and six, but you don’t need to worry about the prices—either Tom or the cashier that is covering for him will take the money.’
‘What about lunch?’
‘There are always two choices daily. Today’s is lentil or pea soup to start, then Lancashire hotpot or fish and tomato bake with cabbage and boiled potatoes. Our desserts are steamed rice and apple pudding or date pudding. All meals are three and sixpence and include a mug of tea. Any questions?’
‘Do the desserts come with anything?’
‘They are all served with custard.’
She waited for another question but there weren’t any.
‘Okay, if that’s all, let’s get on with it. And good luck, everyone.’
The women began to move away, most through into the kitchen, a domestic regiment falling out, Gillian and Rose taking up their positions.
Maggie followed them over.
‘Have you checked the temperature of the bains-marie?’
‘Yes, they’re nearly there,’ Gillian answered, nudging the dial a little higher.
‘Good, the scrambled eggs will be ready soon so you keep on number one and shout through when the tray gets to less than a quarter full.’
‘Right you are, Maggie.’
‘And both of you remember to use the right serving spoons. We need the portions to be exact; we’ll run out if the servings are too large.’
‘Do you want us to try and give a bit less then?’
‘No, Rose, we serve a square honest meal. If we run out, they’ll have to have something else.’
‘Alright,’ Rose replied.
‘And it’s half a pint of porridge per person—less for children but more for the men. You’ll have to use your judgment to make sure it balances out.’
Maggie smiled reassuringly and was quickly on the move again.
The morning passed quickly and the lunchtime rush came and went with surprisingly few hiccups; they managed to keep the food hot, the portion control worked out and even Mr Boyle’s visit went without a hitch. All that was left for the afternoon was to get the cooking and prep ready for the following day.
Maggie strode through the kitchen, already accustomed to the rich woody nose of the meat stock and the rattle and clack of utensils, but despite the large wall grilles that ventilated the area and the air ducts over the cookers, the hot cooking fog still hit her. Their cotton dresses and aprons were warm enough for the cooler months, but it had been a scorching August day and she already knew that the conditions were too hot. Two six-foot-long hot closets and salamanders directly in front of her shielded her from the intense heat of the roasting ovens as their doors were opened and trays of fruit cobbler were loaded in, the apples and cinnamon giving off a tantalising syrupy tang. The industrial steamers weren’t turned off yet and a cloud of condensation lingered over Maeve where she stood stirring a copper pot at the central stove.
Maggie turned to survey the blackboard on the wall just inside the kitchen, examining the lists of the next day’s meals and the preparation checklist. The board had been divided into two columns showing morning duties and afternoon duties so she could easily look around and see what had been done and where extra help was required. The whole week’s menus hung on a bulldog clip underneath with the staff schedules and delivery charts, easily accessible in case she wasn’t there. She didn’t intend to run her kitchen like Mr Ferguson, never giving any of her staff the chance to learn and grow.
Taking the papers off the hook, she walked through the kitchen towards Eliza, past the noisy clatter of the peeling machines.
‘Have you measured out the ingredients for the rissoles tomorrow?’
Yes, Mags, and the g
ravy—but do you really think we’re going to do this many covers every day?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told. Besides, we didn’t have any left today.’
‘But how? It’s not like anyone even knows we’re here yet.’
‘Remember those other feeding centres that I told you about?’
Eliza wrinkled her nose, uncertain.
‘You know—there’s one on Hanover Street, and one at Canonbury Road School up near Highbury Corner.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well, they’re run by the Londoners’ Meals Service and Mr Boyle says they sell out every day.’
‘Blimey.’
‘We need enough for one hundred covers for breakfast and two hundred and fifty for lunch.’
‘It does seem like rather a lot.’
‘Well, he said he was going to put an advert in the Highbury & Islington Gazette so we’ll see. I have to say, though, I’m a bit disappointed with the menus.’
‘Why?’
‘Listen to this: Monday, minced meat, cabbage or meat pudding and boiled potatoes; Tuesday, rissoles and gravy; Wednesday, shepherd’s pie; Thursday, Lancashire hotpot . . . Friday looks a bit better: toad-in-the-hole. Honestly, I think we were making better meals at the factory. And you’ll have had a gutful of roly-polys by the end of the week, too, by the look of this.’
Eliza groaned. ‘Do we really have to stick to the ministry’s menus?’
‘We’ve got no choice,’ Maggie said, pressing her lips together and looking over the sheets again. ‘It’s all centralised: all the ordering, the allocations . . . We get the same ingredients as the other British Restaurants and the exact amount to make each dish.’
‘I suppose you are officially stuck then, Mags.’
‘What’s wrong with a bit of imagination? Fish casserole, steak and kidney pudding—stuffed marrow even!’
‘Come to think of it, a bit of marmalade for the toast in the morning would be nice.’
‘Are you saying something’s wrong with my carrot jam?’ Maggie asked in mock alarm.
‘Well, don’t be too hard on yourself,’ Eliza counselled. ‘The poor buggers are going to be pleased with whatever they get.’
Maggie’s Kitchen Page 14