Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  ‘Let’s get you outside.’

  Greg escorted her through the crowd, which parted in front of them, faces turning to stare as they passed.

  Once downstairs and on the street, Maggie leaned against the wall.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Greg asked.

  She drew a deep breath and felt the oxygen flow through her body and her strength returning.

  ‘Much better,’ she said.

  ‘You still look a little out of it, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Greg observed. ‘Do you live far from here?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately. But I came with Eliza and Rose. They can help me home . . . if I can find them.’

  He bent closer, his face looking more mature as it took on a concerned expression. ‘Do you really think you’ll be able to make it back inside?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I could help you home if you like.’ His southern American drawl was soft and reassuring.

  ‘That’s kind of you, but it’s best if I go with them.’

  ‘Really? I’m leaving now anyway . . .’

  She had been glad of his help but now she just wanted to get home, sink into bed and feel the pillow beneath her head.

  ‘It’s fine. You’ve done enough. Do you remember what Eliza looks like?’

  ‘She’s the pretty blonde, the one dancing with Mike?’

  ‘Yes . . . would you mind fetching her for me?’

  ‘You’ll be okay on your own?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Okay then. Don’t go anywhere . . .’

  ‘No, I won’t—and thank you,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  He strode away, and for a moment she felt a twinge of regret; maybe she should have let him walk her to the bus or see her home. Part of her would have liked to talk with him some more; there was an easiness between them—or perhaps it was just the concern of a man in uniform that felt familiar. It reminded her of the times she and Peter had walked along the nearby embankment, stopping at the Star and Garter to have a drink and watch the rise or fall of the river. She considered walking to the end of the street on her own, standing on the bridge and looking down into the inky water, letting the gentle motion of the tide wash away her tiredness. Her legs were still a little shaky, though, so she opened her bag, took out a small compact and handkerchief, and pressed it to the sides of her nose where tiny beads of perspiration had formed.

  There was no clock to see what time it was, but it felt as if Greg had been gone for ages. What if he couldn’t find Eliza, or they decided they didn’t want to leave? she fretted. Then she heard her name being called and forced her eyes open as Eliza and Rose hurried towards her.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘I think so . . . I just need to get to bed.’

  ‘What happened?’ Rose said, taking off her jacket and placing it around Maggie’s shoulders.

  ‘One minute I was dancing with Greg, the next I was dizzy and passed out. Trust me to make a fool of myself on my first night out!’

  ‘See?’ Rose said, looking at Eliza. ‘I told you she wouldn’t have just gone outside with him.’

  Eliza had been trying to pair Maggie up ever since the restaurant opened, pointing out any handsome man who walked through the door, asking the other girls if they had any brothers and interrogating the poor unsuspecting delivery men. Even Mr Boyle had been under consideration until she realised what an annoying man he really was.

  ‘Well, at least he knows where to find you,’ Eliza said triumphantly.

  ‘What?’

  Eliza bit her lip and looked at Rose.

  ‘She told him where the restaurant is,’ Rose explained. ‘He said he wanted to call in on you tomorrow, to check that you’re okay.’

  ‘If we see you onto the bus, do you think you’ll be able to make it home on your own?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘Eliza!’ said Rose.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How can you even suggest it? We can’t leave her like this.’

  ‘But what about Mike?’ Eliza said.

  ‘She’s right, I’ll be fine,’ Maggie assured her cousin. ‘Just walk me to the bus stop.’

  Rose glared at Eliza. ‘So, were you planning on letting Mike take you home then?’

  ‘Why not? You know what they say.’ Eliza grinned.

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Never pass up an opportunity!’

  ‘What about you, Rose?’ Maggie asked. ‘You and Patrick seemed to be getting along quite well.’

  ‘He is nice, but I told you—there’s someone else.’

  But when they pressed her to reveal a name, she shook her head stubbornly and refused to answer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When tomatoes are available the wise housewife

  will preserve some for use in the winter. They

  are valuable then, not only for the colour and

  flavour they give to dishes, but also for the

  protective vitamins they contain. Don’t forget

  that you get more food value from bottled

  tomatoes if they are eaten ‘straight from the jar’,

  since further cooking destroys their vitamins.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 24

  Mr Boyle would be there at any moment to go over the accounts and Maggie wanted to be ready for him; there was a whole list of things she needed to sort out, including the supplies and reviewing the menus. She had been going over the paperwork for hours and according to Mr Boyle’s calculations, and the information in front of her, there should be more machinery. They were at least a dough machine and a mincer short, and Eliza never let her hear the end of the fact that she still had to mix most of the bread and cakes by hand. Meanwhile, six weeks after opening the deliveries were still erratic. Maggie had spent the whole morning trying to work out if there was anything she had missed, making sure she had entered the right amounts in the correct columns, checking and rechecking her sums. Maths had never been her strong point at school, arithmetic even less so, but Mr Boyle had told her that the sooner she showed a profit the sooner she would receive the capital expenditure grants. But she couldn’t see any way to make more cuts; surely Mr Boyle couldn’t expect the restaurant to operate with any less staff.

  Just as she was about to make the calculation a fourth time there was a light knock at the office door and Rose stuck her head round.

  ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Oh, blimey! Just offer him a cup of tea, will you? I’ll be there in a tick.’

  She needed to remember what Eliza had said; flatter him first, tell him what he wanted to hear, then go in hard with her requests. Their recent conversations had been fraught with tension because of the erratic food supplies and she couldn’t afford to let personal prejudice get in the way; the restaurant had to stay open.

  She closed the ledger, replaced the pen in the desk tidy and scanned the office. It was neat and clean, the accounts were in order—well as much as they were ever going to be—and they had thoroughly cleaned all the areas of the restaurant he would want to inspect.

  She was still worried as she left her office, but once in the kitchen she felt a sweep of pride at what she saw; an impressive range of equipment operated by a skilled team in smart kitchen whites. Having been drilled about the visit they had all responded positively, volunteering to stay back the night before and help with extra jobs. She wasn’t too worried about the restaurant; they had settled into a good rhythm, everyone seeming to work well together, functioning strongly as a team. There was a steady amount of customers and a growing number of regulars among the locals and workers from the nearby factories and dairies. Only last week they had held their first ‘knit and natter night’; her landlady, Mrs Foster, was a member of the local WVS and she had asked Maggie if they might use the restaurant as a venue for their monthly knit-in. She was overwhelmed by the response, and the one hundred squares they produced for the Red Cross blankets over multiple cups of tea and buttered br
azils. Thank goodness all remnants of the wool and laughter and gossip had now gone; somehow she didn’t think that Mr Boyle would approve. In fact, she had even told Robbie to keep a low profile today rather than playing in the backyard as he had taken to doing, popping his head in between gardening jobs for a chat and the chance of something to eat. No, she wasn’t concerned about the restaurant; it was the shortage of foodstuffs that she needed to address.

  She checked her hair in the small wall mirror, parted her lips to make sure there was no trace of lipstick on her teeth and strode confidently into the dining hall.

  Maggie couldn’t see him at first, scanning the tables for sight of his small dark bearded face, but then she saw Eliza showing him around, arms swinging enthusiastically as she pointed things out to him.

  Maggie went to join them.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Boyle.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Johnson. How are you?’

  He shook her hand vigorously and gave her what was surely his first genuine smile.

  ‘The restaurant looks very pleasant, Miss Johnson, very pleasant indeed. It is more than adequate.’ He nodded his head approvingly as he looked around, taking in the painted walls and the already significant queue of people that had built up since they had been standing there.

  ‘As you know, it was a bit of a challenge given the short timeframe,’ Maggie replied, ‘but the decorating has been completed since your last visit and I am very happy with the results.’

  ‘‘‘And for all this nature is never spent,’’’ Mr Boyle replied.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘God’s Grandeur . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘It’s Hopkins, you know, the poet. Gerald Manley Hopkins . . .’

  ‘No, I don’t actually. I’m more of a Wodehouse fan myself,’ she said, forcing herself to be polite. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you must be pressed for time so I’ll show you around and then we can go into the office.’

  She started towards the kitchen.

  ‘As you like.’

  ‘Well, everyone knows that’s Shakespeare,’ she said glancing back at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Very good, Miss Johnson. Oh touché.’

  Maggie grimaced; it was one of the irksome things about him that she had noticed during their meetings, his peculiar habit of making quotes. She knew why: he had dropped into conversation once that he had been a classics teacher at university before being seconded to the ministry. It became obvious to see then that he carried his snobbery around with him like a stuffy old briefcase, but his pretensions were quite wasted on her, she had no appreciation for the quotes and had a sneaking idea that they were his misguided way of impressing her. Or perhaps she was wrong and maybe it was just that he would rather be talking about anything other than flour deliveries and the shortage of bains-marie.

  After a brief inspection of the restaurant and kitchen, during which she patiently answered his pedantic questions, she showed him through to the small office, intending to raise the issue of the deliveries.

  ‘I see that you are doing the full two hundred and fifty covers a day,’ he said, glancing up from his own paperwork. ‘That’s quite impressive for a new establishment. Quite impressive indeed.’

  ‘Yes, we’re getting there, but I really do need to speak to you about the stock deliveries . . .’

  He glanced around for a chair to sit in.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a spare chair, but please, take mine and I can show you the accounts. There are a number of items that I haven’t been able to reconcile . . .’

  ‘I’m not here to go through accounts, Miss Johnson—I expect those to be sent to my office fortnightly as requested. I wish to talk to you about the mobile canteens, and I thought there were pressing matters you wanted to discuss?’

  ‘Yes, there are . . . the shortages. The last fortnight and the one before, we didn’t receive some of the items on the purchase orders. Items it says we have received.’

  He took a cursory glance at the forms.

  ‘If you’re not getting your requested proportion of stocks, it’s because you are already operating a deficit, Miss Johnson, and you aren’t able to pay for them yet.’

  ‘I thought you said it was because there wasn’t enough supply?’

  ‘That may be the case too, although there are the ministry’s emergency stores; those can be accessed in extreme circumstances, but you first need to demonstrate that you are able to balance the books, so to speak.’

  ‘But that’s not going to happen for weeks, maybe months what with the initial outlays—especially if we don’t have enough meals to sell because we can’t get the ingredients we need to make them!’

  ‘And therein lies the conundrum, Miss Johnson.’

  ‘Well, is there anything you can do?’

  ‘An allowance has been made for the adaptation of buildings and installation of equipment, and these costs are amortised over a specific period . . .’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘That hasn’t been determined yet.’

  ‘Then how do you know how well the restaurant is doing, if you haven’t set the time period for repayment?’

  ‘We have procedures, Miss Johnson; we have to follow them.’

  ‘So,’ Maggie said, taking a deep breath, a warm flush creeping up her neck to her cheeks, ‘are you saying that you can’t give me any more stock because I can’t afford to pay for it because I’m paying back costs?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple; you have a grant for capital and that can be repaid at a later date, but, yes, effectively the setup costs must be paid out of your first income.’

  ‘So in the meantime what—the restaurant closes and the community have nowhere to eat?’

  He took a deep breath and stood up, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far.

  ‘I know it seems frustrating, but it’s not going to come to that. And there’s no use getting cross—not with me, anyway.’

  ‘Well, who should I get cross with then, Mr Boyle? What do the other restaurants do? They must be facing the same problem.’

  ‘No, I’m certain that your situation is quite unique. The other restaurants have all been slow burners, so to speak, serving small numbers at first so they have not had such a high demand for ingredients.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, any of it, I would never have . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘You would never have what, Miss Johnson?’

  She didn’t want him to know that she would never have taken it on if she’d known how frustrating it would be dealing with his bureaucracy, and all the time she would spend stuck in her office dealing with his damned forms and circulars.

  ‘I’m sure you are doing your best,’ she said and smiled.

  ‘As soon as there’s an operating surplus, I’m sure you’ll find that there will be no problem getting the stock.’

  ‘That is rather ridiculous, though. How am I supposed to make a surplus when there’s not enough to sell?’

  ‘You have shown yourself to be a very resourceful young woman, I am sure your talents won’t let you down.’ He moved to the door, then turned back abruptly.

  ‘And about the boy, Miss Johnson?’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘You know very well which boy—the one who has been sleeping here. The authorities have been notified, so you would do well to warn him that it’s high time he went home. It would be better for everyone, especially you, if they didn’t find him here.’

  For the rest of the day, Maggie went over the conversation again and again in her mind. What had Mr Boyle meant by her ‘resourcefulness’? Was he suggesting that she should get supplies elsewhere—the black market even? Surely the uptight Mr Boyle would never consider such a proposition. And there was the matter of emergency training for the staff. She had called a staff meeting for that afternoon, and would explain to them what was going on. And then there was Robbie; ‘It’s high time he went home,’ Mr Boyle had said. If only he had a hom
e! But he didn’t, so she had to help find him one. But how? If she contacted the London County Council, who knew where he might be sent: hundreds of miles away, maybe even to Scotland or overseas. He would never forgive her if that happened, she knew.

  By the time she reached the dining hall for the staff meeting, everyone was already waiting for her.

  ‘The reason I have asked you to stay behind is because there has been a development: the ministry has requested that all British Restaurants and communal feeding staff should be trained to operate emergency meal centres and mobile canteens.’

  The women looked at each other and began to whisper, and Maeve’s hand shot up.

  ‘Is that as well as working here?’

  ‘Not for the time being, no, but it looks as though it could end up that way.’

  ‘How can we do that?’

  She took in the sea of worried faces and realised that getting them used to the idea of the emergency meals centres and mobile canteens, and trained in how to operate them, might be more difficult than she had thought.

  ‘Look, I know that many of you are already working with the Women’s Voluntary Services or the Auxiliary Fire Service, and this won’t affect you, but for everyone else there will be a requirement.’

  She waited for the murmuring to subside.

  ‘They are drawing up guidelines as we speak, so that could change, but in any event, emergency feeding will take priority over the restaurant so you will need to be prepared . . .’

  Gillian raised a hand. ‘Who’s going to train us?’

  ‘That’ll be the responsibility of the ministry. I’m not sure yet how they are organising it, but it will involve learning how to use the emergency cooking equipment.’

  ‘Like what?’ Eliza interrupted. ‘An invisible fire that Jerry won’t see?’

  A half-hearted ripple of laughter went through the room.

  ‘Not invisible, but fires, yes. Has anyone here used the trench system or braziers, maybe in the Girl Guides?’

  There was a small show of hands.

  ‘Well, those of you who haven’t will be taught how to set up a campfire for cooking with bricks to provide draught channels and a tripod to support a roasting spit.’