Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Hello, Mr Boyle? It’s Maggie Johnson here again. I said I’d call back today if we hadn’t received our allocation and we still haven’t.’

  Her statement was met with silence and she wasn’t sure if she had been disconnected.

  ‘Hello? Mr Boyle?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, but I don’t understand why you haven’t received your food stocks. Are you sure there’s not been some kind of mix-up?’ His voice sounded terse.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Maggie replied, struggling to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘All I know is that it’s the end of the day and we haven’t had the delivery. I know exactly what we’re expecting . . .’ She reached towards the pile of folders in front of her and pulled one out. ‘I have the form right here.’

  ‘Miss Johnson, I have five other establishments to visit tomorrow. Afterwards, I will look into it and get back to you.’

  ‘But can’t you do anything in the meantime?’

  ‘No, Miss Johnson, you were given your full allocation at the beginning of the week. Perhaps the supplies for this coming week are just not available yet.’

  ‘How can that be? We didn’t get our full allocation last week. It says here that we should get a penny’s worth of meat per main meal, a quarter of an ounce of bacon, a quarter of an ounce of butter per person . . .’ Her finger ran down the list on the signed memorandum.

  ‘I know what it says, Miss Johnson,’ he interrupted. ‘I helped draw up the document. But if it’s not available, it’s not available.’

  ‘So all we can do is wait?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was nothing for it; if their allocation didn’t arrive by morning, she wouldn’t be able to open the doors.

  When Maggie went through to the dining hall after her call, the last customer was just leaving.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Bevan.’

  ‘Mary, please,’ the other woman said, turning towards her.

  After returning with her friend on the first day, Mrs Bevan had been back every day since, choosing to sit at the exact same table and enjoy the same tea and scones with homemade rhubarb jam.

  ‘Alright. Goodnight, Mary.’

  ‘Goodnight, dear.’

  Maggie locked the door and leaned back against it; she could swear it was the first time she had stood still all day. Not that she would be able to stay still for long—the dining hall was a mess; chairs askew, cups and plates piled up on tables, and crumbs and spills everywhere. She would be lucky to get out of here within the hour again tonight, especially since everyone else seemed to have disappeared.

  She dragged herself back towards the kitchen, conscious of the heaviness of her limbs and the soreness of her feet; even her head felt foggy with tiredness. She had fallen into bed after eleven every night this week, reeking of food and cleaning products, and then been up again at five to start all over again.

  She would check the kitchen first, she decided, make sure the stations had been cleaned and restocked. But when she pushed open the double doors, she found the area was completely spotless, pots and pans all put away and the surfaces clear. Rose and Eliza had their backs to her but they had already changed into their own clothes and were jostling each other to get a look in the mirror.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going to celebrate,’ Eliza said as she turned, a piece of raw beetroot clenched in her hand, her lower lip a deeper shade of red.

  On the bench beside her stood an open tin of Bisto.

  Maggie glanced down at their blotchy brown legs. ‘Do you want me to give you a hand? You look like a couple of Jerseys!’

  ‘Thanks,’ Eliza muttered through tight lips as she continued rubbing beetroot across them, darkening her upper lip until it was also a deep maroon.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘You mean where are we going?’ Rose said.

  ‘We? Oh no.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m exhausted.’

  She slumped against the bench to emphasise her point.

  ‘You’ll be fine once you’re out. Come on, Maggie—you did it. You opened your restaurant. We need to celebrate!’

  Rose was wearing an outfit Maggie had last seen at a cousin’s wedding; clearly she meant business.

  ‘It’s a lovely idea and I think we should—but not tonight. Maybe next week, or the week after . . .’

  ‘Or the week after that. Exactly, that’s why we have to go tonight. If we don’t, we’ll never go.’

  ‘We will,’ Maggie promised weakly.

  Eliza narrowed her eyes. ‘Will not. When was the last time you went out for the evening?’

  Maggie couldn’t remember; not since Peter went away, she knew.

  ‘See?’ Rose said smugly. ‘You can’t remember.’

  Maggie sighed. She really wasn’t in the mood. It had been an exhausting month and she knew that she wouldn’t be good company with so much on her mind. But as she looked from her cousin to her friend, she didn’t have the heart to disappoint them.

  ‘Okay, but can I at least go home first and get changed?’

  ‘Absolutely not! If you do, you’ll never come back!’ Eliza turned and picked up a bag. ‘That’s why we bought you these . . .’

  Eliza indicated that Maggie should open it, so she reached inside. The fabric was liquid soft between her fingers and when she lifted it out, it was a silk dress in a delicate shade of teal.

  ‘You got this for me?’ she gasped.

  ‘Of course. You don’t think it would fit either of us, do you?’

  ‘But where did you get it? It’s beautiful . . .’

  ‘The charity shop. It’s Jaeger though. And it’s in perfect condition.’

  Maggie didn’t know what to say; she felt both guilty that she didn’t really want to go out and overwhelmed by their generosity. The bag still wasn’t empty and, reaching in again, she found a pair of nearly new black high-heeled shoes with grey suede edging and a bow.

  ‘Golly, they look expensive!’ Her smile faded. ‘You haven’t used your coupons, have you?’

  ‘It’s fine, we don’t need anything,’ Rose said proudly.

  ‘That’s right, we’re in whites all the time now anyway,’ Eliza added, smoothing down a crimson dress that was stretching at the seams. ‘Anyway, you wouldn’t catch me dead in those ugly utility clothes.’

  ‘Eliza!’ Rose gasped. ‘You can’t say that.’

  ‘Of course I can, you silly old thing—don’t be so pious!’

  Maggie was still admiring the clothes, holding on to the worktop as she slipped off her work shoes and pulled the new ones on.

  ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’ She kept her head down, hoping they wouldn’t notice, but it was too late.

  ‘Oh, Mags—you can’t cry,’ Eliza said. ‘It’s meant to be a celebration!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. It’s just been such a busy time, and I really haven’t been sleeping well . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Rose said, looking as if she might cry too. ‘We’ll open up tomorrow . . . you come in later.’

  Eliza interrupted to say, ‘Hurry, Mags, the bus is in ten minutes,’ and ushered her through to her office to change.

  Maggie knew there was no point objecting now. ‘So where are we going?’

  Eliza looked at Rose and then they chorused, ‘The Putney Palais, of course!’

  Once out of her stained work clothes Maggie didn’t have time to feel tired, because even though she was sure she must be trailing the smell of meat and boiled cabbage, she let them whisk her out the door and down to the bus stop just as the number 19 bus was pulling in. They settled in for the short ride to Piccadilly and then made a quick change to the number 14 for Putney.

  Maggie hadn’t been to the West End for months and was distracted by the changed streetscape; shops that were once familiar to her were now boarded up with oversized wooden planks. It wasn’t just the shopfronts that had borne the brunt of the damage but the upper levels too, the
higher storeys of once-elegant buildings singed and broken.

  As the bus made its way through the stream of early-evening traffic on Oxford Street, Eliza shared salacious gossip about one of their customers and the postman’s wife, and Rose surprised them both by revealing that there was someone she had a crush on; irritatingly, though, she wouldn’t say who. Maggie had noticed a change in her recently, she realised: a growing inner confidence, and a distractedness too.

  They passed a gothic mansion block on the corner of New Bond Street and Maggie glanced in at the window parallel to hers, coming face to face with a gargoyle that was missing its nose. It was as if someone had taken a chisel and used it to chip away at the intricate stone detail of the facades.

  ‘Don’t look now, Mags, you’ll want to cry,’ Rose said, squeezing her cousin’s forearm.

  Selfridges was just coming up on their right-hand side and Maggie had heard about the damage from a friend who had wept as she described how the great stone columns had fallen concertina-like onto the pavements.

  ‘Do you remember the fashion show we went to for your birthday?’

  Maggie instantly recalled the day they had watched models parading across the spectacular rooftop gardens and then had afternoon tea as they enjoyed the majestic views over the city. She shuddered to think what London would look like now if she were to stand in exactly the same place; the panorama would be completely changed, the nation’s capital disfigured.

  She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wanting to remember it how it had been.

  Maybe it was the dwindling light, or the memory of shopping trips with Peter, but now she wanted the journey to be over, to leave the naked mannequins and empty storefronts behind.

  It was completely dark by the time they arrived at Putney High Street, but it took only a short time to reach the corner of Putney Bridge Road and the parade of shops and milk bar above which the dance hall sat.

  The carpeted stairwell up to the grand double doors was teeming with young women, hair pinned perfectly, lips gleaming like strawberry jelly. As they joined the queue she looked at the two girls in front of her; they wore tight-fitting dresses and high heels, their hair in elaborate coils pinned back off their faces. Then she looked down at her own pale thin legs, and at the same time noticed Rose’s; her calves were now white, the gravy powder smudged by the bus ride and a rude contrast to the deep brown of her shins.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Rose frowned.

  ‘Nothing . . . I’m famished.’

  ‘Me too,’ Eliza said. ‘Don’t worry, you can have tea and cake between dances.’

  They reached the top of the stairs and were drawing closer to the entrance, the music becoming clearer, the ground vibrating.

  Rose and Eliza looked at each other, eyes widening as their excitement grew.

  ‘Who is that?’ Rose said, bouncing on her toes.

  ‘Not sure who the orchestra is but I know the song,’ Maggie replied recognising the lyrics. ‘It’s “All or Nothing at All”.’

  A few minutes later the suited doorman was opening the elegant brass doors and ushering them through. There was a squeal of excitement from behind and they felt the swell of the crowd as the surge forced them along a narrow red-carpeted corridor and out into the hall. Here the music was even louder, the thundering of hundreds of feet across the wooden floor sending vibrations from the soles of her feet, up through her body. Apart from those seated at small round tables around the dance floor, heads leaning close as they strained to listen and be heard, everyone was moving.

  Eliza grasped hold of Maggie’s wrist and pulled her into the crowd, weaving through the tangle of outstretched hands and tapping feet towards the longer tables pressed against the walls. They were laid with cups and saucers, tea urns and jugs of milk, and small plates of half-eaten cakes and broken biscuits.

  Rose screwed up her nose. ‘Looks like we are a bit late . . .’

  ‘I don’t care . . . I’m hungry,’ Eliza said, scooping up a handful of broken wafers and jamming them into her mouth.

  ‘Me too.’ Maggie reached for a slice of the crumbled fruitcake but Eliza put out a hand to stop her.

  ‘You can’t eat before you dance. Look around you . . . there’s six girls to every man here. You want to waste your time eating?’

  Maggie laughed. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Of course I am!’

  And before she had a chance to react Eliza grabbed the cake and ate it.

  ‘Ha! Had you then!’

  ‘Very funny!’ Maggie narrowed her eyes. ‘And I thought we were here to dance.’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk—have a conversation about something other than pig swill you said.’

  ‘That would be nice!’ Maggie replied.

  There were many more girls than men but they were taking it in turns to twirl each other around, hands gripping, bodies bumping, feet stamping.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone jive like that,’ Maggie said, leaning close to Eliza to make herself heard and pointing at a couple close by.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you going to have a go?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Maybe. Are you asking?’ Eliza smiled.

  ‘What—you and her, do that?’ Maggie laughed.

  Eliza placed her arms out in front of her in the dance position. ‘Why not? We’re on our feet all day. Pretty agile, I reckon. Come on, Rose. Let’s give it a try . . .’

  ‘You go, I fancy a cigarette,’ Rose said and tapped the end of the packet until one came out. She placed the soft tip between her lips.

  ‘Hang on to these then, will you?’ Eliza said, thrusting their gas masks at her. Then she grasped Maggie by the hand and pulled her onto the dance floor.

  The lights were low, only two grand chandeliers at either end of the dance hall and the small glass wall-sconces filtering a pale warm light, diffusing the clouds of smoke that twisted and swirled with the dancers.

  At first Maggie felt awkward, her muscles so tense that she couldn’t will her limbs to do as she wanted, making her movements feel jerky and forced. Then Eliza started mucking around, trying to catch the eye of an American GI who danced with another girl, batting her eyelids at him when he looked around. Maggie knew that Eliza’s talent for flirting was as notable as her talent for baking so it wasn’t long before he gave her a friendly wink and kept glancing back.

  As soon as the song ended he came over.

  ‘I’m Mike,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘You two make a fine pair of dancers.’

  ‘Thank you. Not the same though, is it?’ Eliza smiled brazenly as she took hold of his hand.

  ‘No, it certainly isn’t.’

  ‘I’m Eliza, this is my friend Maggie.’

  ‘I’d dance with both of you, but I don’t want to be greedy. How about I introduce Greg?’

  He let go of Eliza’s hand.

  ‘No, I’m fine—happy to watch, in fact,’ Maggie replied. ‘Besides, our friend is over there on her own.’

  ‘That’s swell, I’ll introduce you to Patrick too then.’

  And he raised his arms, trying to get their attention.

  ‘Don’t be so antisocial,’ Eliza whispered. ‘You can’t come here and not dance!’

  Maggie smiled at Mike. ‘You’re very thoughtful, thank you.’

  There was barely time for an introduction, just a quick exchange of pleasantries, of which she only heard brief snatches. Greg was from Minnesota and worked for the engineers, and was a corporal no less. His thick dark hair and broad features gave him a boyish air, so even though she hadn’t wanted to dance with him initially she couldn’t help but respond to his friendliness. And she needn’t have worried about not knowing the songs or being able to dance, either; as soon as she heard the orchestra playing ‘Lullaby of Broadway’, her movements became involuntarily: ‘Let There Be Love’ merged through to ‘Blue Champagne’ and more Jimmy Dorsey numbers followed. At first the six of them danced in a group but as the son
gs started to slow and the big band tunes gave way to soothing vocals, she found herself dancing slowly with Greg. He was a lot taller than her so she had to hold her hands uncomfortably high, his left hand lightly around hers, his right hand resting on her waist. But it was the closest she had come to relaxing in months, being swished gently around the dance floor, nestled against the warmth of another human being; an intimacy she hadn’t known in a long time.

  Rose and Patrick remained talking and smoking close by, while Mike and Eliza danced alongside, Mike’s hand pressing into the small of Eliza’s back, her arm encircling his neck. She looked graceful in a way that Maggie had never noticed before; she was always usually the practical one, ready to pitch in and get her hands dirty. It felt as if she was intruding so she looked away, her attention falling to the brass badges pinned to Greg’s lapel. If it had not been so loud, she would have asked him what they were for. There were quite a number of them for such a young man; perhaps there was more to Greg than met the eye.

  The room was now jammed with people, the crowd nearly doubled in size, and even the dancers were squeezed in, pushing up against the spectators’ tables and chairs. Subdued light and ribbons of smoke created a haze and screened the edges of the room so that she couldn’t even make out where the dancers ended anymore.

  Her breathing became uneven, her chest rising and falling as her heart worked faster. And then she began to feel dizzy.

  Fighting the instinct to close her eyes, she looked up to where the smoke curled towards the painted roses and cornices of the ceiling. Seeing the crowd pushing against the balustrades on the mezzanine above made her feel worse, as if the crush of people was closing in on her. The room started to spin. She needed to get outside . . . away from all these people . . . so many uniforms but none of them Peter . . . too hot and smoky . . . and she couldn’t see Rose anymore, only Eliza and Mike twirling around and around and around . . . and then she was falling . . . but there were hands there to catch her, holding her tightly.

  ‘Are you all right, Maggie? Are you okay?’

  But when her eyes blinked open it wasn’t Peter.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think so . . .’