Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘I know. And maybe it will get better. You know, tomorrow’s delivery still hasn’t arrived yet. Do you think the driver has got lost or something?’

  ‘I doubt it, but I do hope it turns up soon. You know that I would do anything for you, Mags, but even I can’t conjure bread and cakes out of thin air!’

  ‘It will work it out,’ Maggie assured her.

  ‘How?’

  Maggie took her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Trust me, Liza, worse things have happened.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Eliza replied. ‘You can show off your culinary skills later and make Robbie and me something special for dinner.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Well, we should celebrate . . . first day and all.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Maggie conceded. She was satisfied by their first day but tired, too, and not sure she felt up to a celebration. ‘Where is Robbie?’ she asked.

  ‘He was in the yard last time I looked.’

  The late-afternoon light spilled through the crack of the half-open doors as Maggie slipped through.

  Outside, the ground was still covered with rubble, disused pipes and the tools needed for the unfinished work. Adjoining the back fence, broken gates were propped open leaving a clear view through to the lane behind, and just inside, Robbie sat on an upturned crate throwing a ball for Spoke. His shoulders were hunched and there was something about him that stopped her from disturbing him. His trousers and shirt were the same ones she had washed and ironed more than a week ago and it didn’t look as if he had changed them since. Even Spoke looked forlorn, half-heartedly retrieving the ball.

  She watched for a while as he threw the ball over and over, until he noticed her and forced a smile.

  ‘You okay?’ she said, walking over to sit beside him.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I said so, didn’t I? What about you? How was your first day?’

  ‘We sold out at lunchtime, had just about enough for the teatime rush and only one stove is broken. I think you would say pretty good all things considered.’ She nudged him playfully.

  He continued throwing the ball, looking straight ahead.

  ‘You hungry?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No? I’ve never known you turn down food before.’

  Robbie shrugged.

  ‘How was school?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong, then?’

  ‘Nothing . . .’

  ‘Robbie, nothing means something—and you not being hungry definitely means something.’

  ‘Okay, but if I tell you, you won’t tell me I have to go?’

  He carried on throwing the ball, not looking at her.

  ‘No, I won’t, but you can’t sleep here again. Last night was a one-off—there are so many other people around now, someone might see you.’

  ‘I know.’

  He continued passing the ball from hand to hand.

  ‘There’s been a letter from the navy,’ he said at last. ‘They finally replied.’

  ‘And?’

  He held the ball in one hand and inspected its torn dirty surface.

  ‘They say there’s nothing else they can do. They’ve “exhausted every avenue”.’

  ‘Oh, Robbie, I’m sorry . . .’

  Maggie knew what it felt like to lose hope, but she had to tell him that he shouldn’t, that there was always a chance; that he should never give up. But she couldn’t bring herself to say the words because she also knew that it meant he would have to leave. There was no reason for him to stay now; she had done what she promised and helped him look for his dad, but now she needed to contact the authorities so they could find him a foster home or a billet in the country. She needed to let him go.

  She reached out and took his hand and they sat for a while, listening to the sparrows chirruping and watching the clouds scatter their dreams across the skies.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Even if you have no garden, you can have

  fresh-picked parsley or mustard and cress,

  for these both grow well in window-boxes or

  flower-pots. Or mustard and cress can be grown

  on a damp flannel. Remember—the fresher the

  better for you—and the better the flavour!

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 14

  The silver blade sliced down through the flesh, carving tissue from the bone, sinew and skin pulling away in a long, lean pink strip. Maggie quickly looked away as Janek pushed the knife deeper into the tiny leg and there was a sickening crunch of bone.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the blade of the other metal tools leaning against the wooden fence—each one, she had discovered, with its own unique purpose in the business of slaughtering and dissecting bodies. She allowed her gaze to settle for a moment on the pile of wood stacked against the restaurant’s back wall before forcing her attention back to the animal.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to do this.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it . . . it just takes time.’

  ‘No.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I really don’t think I can.’

  ‘You do it for chickens.’

  ‘That’s only plucking, it’s different. Anyway—’ she grimaced at the rabbit’s fur lying on the ground like a discarded coat ‘—we didn’t have chickens when I was a child, but we had pet rabbits.’

  ‘You cannot afford to be cowardly.’

  She watched numbly as he picked the pelt up off the ground and hung it over the clothesline that stretched across the yard, already sagging under the weight of other skins.

  ‘None of us can.’

  Holding out the deep metal tray, she forced herself to look as he placed the small pink body inside, as gently as one would lay a newborn in a crib, and no different in size. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, hoping it might stop the burn of bile that rose in her throat.

  He was right, and she cursed herself for being so feeble, so squeamish, when hundreds of thousands were having to put up with much worse.

  ‘What should I do now?’

  ‘I’ll finish here. You go in.’

  Maggie went inside, relieved that she had been given a reprieve this time but knowing that next time when the rabbits were delivered freshly killed she would have to help skin and bone them herself.

  The other kitchen staff were arriving and she hurried through, looking forward to seeing Rose and Eliza, but their stations were empty, aprons still hanging on hooks on the back door. There would be no gossip for the time being, no talk of Mrs Harraday’s new grandson, or Mary Thomas taking in another infant. Maggie would have to wait to hear Eliza’s animated recount of her night out, as well as all the intoxicating details of the latest bar or club that she had gone to. She had grown used to the girls’ company in the past few weeks, finding it more difficult now to be alone than she ever had before; they might all travel the same scarred and shattered streets on their way to work, but once they entered Maggie’s Kitchen, it was somehow as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  Remembering that the rabbit stew would need dumplings, and that Eliza would be starting on the puddings as soon as she arrived, Maggie went through to the storeroom to get the ingredients they would need.

  She measured out four cups of flour and sieved them into a large bowl.

  By the time Janek appeared, she was rubbing lard into the flour with her fingertips. She watched as he slid the rabbit meat straight off the tray and into a pot standing ready on the stove.

  ‘I will have to go now,’ he said, rinsing his hands at the sink. ‘Do you need anything else?’

  She didn’t want him to leave yet, but she couldn’t think of a reason to keep him there.

  ‘I’ll be fine, thank you,’ she said. She hesitated, hands hovering over the mixing bowl. ‘Eliza and Rose are late. Do you think they’re okay?’

  ‘Of course, it’s probably closed roads.’

/>   ‘Yes. Perhaps. There was a closure last night on Holloway Road. Cars crashed at the crossroads. I wonder when people will realise it’s safer to walk than drive without lights?’

  She was aware of his closeness beside her, of the faint tinge of tobacco intermingled with his own scent.

  ‘Well, if you do really have another five minutes to spare . . .’ She paused for him to object, and when he didn’t she continued, ‘Do you know how to make croutons? Yesterday’s bread is just over there.’

  He selected a sharp knife from the block and began dicing the bread into small cubes.

  ‘Nothing goes to waste; stale bread is perfect for the croutons with today’s soup.’

  She was cross at herself for her pitiful performance earlier and was putting on a show to prove she knew what she was doing, but by the time she looked up he was already pushing neat squares onto a baking tray and spreading them out in an even layer. He caught her eye and she realised he was watching her closely too, following each movement, and his silent glances were unsettling.

  ‘What is it, Janek?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Why did you want to open a restaurant, Malgorzata’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she said, flushing. ‘You’ve seen the streets: there’s nowhere to eat. People don’t have time to wait in mile-long ration queues.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is, but is it the only reason?’

  ‘Well, no. It’s because I love to cook . . . that’s why I can do it.’

  ‘And would you eat those dumplings?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Well, no, but that’s because I don’t like them.’

  ‘Why?’ He was smiling now.

  ‘Because they don’t really taste of anything.’

  ‘Exactly, and that is what makes the difference between a good cook and a great cook.’

  She was surprised at the mischief on his face; she had never seen him like this before.

  ‘You should never expect other people to eat what you would not. Ask yourself what you can do to give them flavour.’

  He reached for the flour packet and measured some out into a bowl, then added a cupful of dark marbled fat. He plunged both hands into the bowl, his large fingers and thumbs moving nimbly. He sprinkled salt and poured water and the mixture began to take shape, the dry powder transforming into elastic dough.

  ‘Now, to eat like this would taste . . . urgh.’

  ‘It doesn’t look very appetising,’ Maggie agreed, smiling. ‘So what did you have in mind?’

  ‘In Poland we add herbs and spices to our dumplings that give extra flavour to the dish.’

  ‘So do we sometimes—but there aren’t many herb gardens left.’

  ‘Yes, but you must make room . . . in a window box, on a small scrap of land, even in an old bucket. Thyme, parsley, rosemary—any of these will do, and then you will want to eat the dumplings as well as the stew.’

  ‘Very well then.’ She bent down and plucked a spindly sprig of thyme from the shelf beneath the kitchen block. ‘I do have my secret supply, for very special occasions.’ She held it out.

  His hand brushed against hers as he took the sprig from her. Holding the stalk in one hand, he pulled the leaves back with the other so that the tiny fronds fell onto the board.

  ‘Thyme has one of the strongest flavours of all the herbs so you need only a small amount.’

  ‘Thank you, Janek, I do know that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He chopped the small leaves finely and pushed them into the bowl with the edge of his knife, then he worked them carefully into the mixture until they were distributed evenly throughout.

  ‘Shouldn’t you add the herbs to the mixture while it is still dry, before the water?’

  ‘Whichever you prefer . . . everyone has different methods.’

  He had made her cross at first, alerting her to her own failings, but the feeling ebbed as she recalled the pleasure of cooking with someone else.

  ‘Alright, what are you going to show me now?’

  A door banged and they both looked up as Eliza burst into the kitchen.

  ‘Is someone going to give me a hand? In case you two hadn’t noticed, there’s a huge queue out there!’

  Maggie looked at the clock; it was already eight! She had lost half the morning somehow.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. Where have you been?’

  ‘The bus broke down. I had to walk all the way from Farringdon. Seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re here now,’ Maggie said, throwing an apron at her. ‘You go and help on the serveries, I’ll get the hot food out.’

  Maggie had her head down carrying a heavy tray when she reached the doorway through to the restaurant, but she could hear the crowds before she saw them. Not just the regulars and local office workers who had become familiar faces over the past few weeks, but men in overalls and uniforms, women in finer clothes who probably lived in even finer houses in suburbs miles from here; a queue stretching from the servery all the way to the door. For a moment it didn’t seem real, as if she was really there in her very own restaurant, with a queue of people down the street. Then she was back in the room, making her way to the counter, unloading the trays into the heated bains-marie.

  On the other side of the dining hall, Rose had arrived and was looking pink and flustered as she squeezed her way through the customers.

  Even though Maggie was in a rush, she couldn’t help noticing a woman at the counter staring at her, and felt even more uncomfortable when she glanced up and the woman quickly looked away. Stranger still since she was next in line to get served that the woman should replace her tray and hurry towards the door. There was something about her, about the way she moved, and even though her hat cast a shadow across her face, its shape was familiar: the smallness of the nose, the deep hollow of her cheekbones . . .

  ‘Maggie? Maggie!’ It was Rose, summoning her to the registers.

  When Maggie turned back to look at the woman again, she had already closed the door behind her, disappearing onto the crowded street.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once upon a time cooks used to think a good

  soup needed 3 or 4 hours cooking, and that

  to be nourishing it must be made from meat

  and bones. Today we know better. We know

  that, although meat and bone stocks are tasty,

  they have very little food value because only

  the flavour of the meat comes out in the soup.

  We know, too, that tasty soups can be made

  quickly using vegetables and vegetable water or

  stock from meat cubes or vegetables extract.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 15

  By the end of the first month, Maggie had forgotten all about the jammed storeroom door and the spilled oil drum, or that some of the walls still hadn’t been painted. They had been forced to close early on one occasion when they had run out of food, which had made the customers most unhappy, but recently she noticed the same people returning day after day—not just the office and factory workers, but the local women too. And Tom was always there to greet them with his signature cheeriness.

  ‘How are you, Tom?’

  He looked up from the register where he was counting the change. ‘Twenty-four, twenty-five . . . I’m well, Maggie. How are you?’

  ‘Very well. So you’re managing then?’

  ‘Better . . . The arm’s a bit stiff of a morning, but it’s alright once I get going.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you need a break.’

  ‘It’s fine, I have a word with Rose and Gillian to slow things down if they send them through too quickly.’

  ‘Good—so we won’t need to get that second cashier after all!’

  ‘No,’ Tom agreed, ‘we’ll be just fine.’

  Once in the kitchen, she didn’t check on the cooks
individually like she usually did, making sure their stations were all cleared and prep for the next day complete, but went straight through to the storeroom.

  The metal shelves were nearly bare: only a few tins of Bird’s Custard Powder and a random selection of well-worn packets remained. She took the lid off one of the storage bins on the floor and found that was empty too. The refrigeration cupboards were just as bad, with barely enough cartons of bacon and dried eggs for the next few days. They wouldn’t be able to stick to Friday’s menu at this rate, let alone their meal of last resort: mutton stew and a spotted dick that you could play spot-the-sultana with. She couldn’t believe that it had come to this, but they might have to close the doors again.

  Threading her way back past the cooks, she hurried into the small room that had been converted into an office. It was barely large enough for her desk, which took up the whole of the back wall, but she had made good use of the space by putting shelving above it where a line of files and stacks of paperwork now sat. The wireless was in here, too, ready for mornings at 8.15am when The Kitchen Front was broadcast and they listened to the imaginative and hilarious recipes that were sent in.

  Hoping that she wouldn’t be interrupted, she sat down and pulled the chair in as far as it would go, jamming her legs up against the Morrison shelter that the desk has been fashioned from, complete with a rubber camping bed. It had been a good idea to make the shelter work as a desk, particularly as two of them could take refuge inside if there was a raid, three at a push. Any more, though, and they would have to take their chances with the diners, squeezing under the reinforced wooden tables in the dining hall. It was one of the things the authorities had insisted on—making sure all the furniture was capable of protecting the patrons in the event of an attack—but she had seen enough bombsites to know that a table with a metal surface wouldn’t do much to protect them from a five-pound bomb.

  Spread across her desk were documents and forms that she needed to complete, but after staring at them thoughtfully for several minutes, she made her decision and picked up the phone.

  After several shrill rings the secretary picked up and she waited while her call was transferred.