Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

‘I’m not sure how he expects us to operate on thin air! What am I to tell everyone?’

  ‘It’ll be alright, you’ll see . . .’

  He recognised Eliza’s voice and could see a strip of her uniform through the crack in the door.

  ‘Really? Are you going to tell them we won’t be opening, then? That there’s not enough for the regular meal service?’

  ‘It’s not come to that, has it? It’s going to look bad on him . . .’

  Eliza seemed to be trying to calm Maggie down, but it didn’t appear to be working.

  ‘It has come to that, Eliza. I’ve got to go close the doors again!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I just wish I could look him in the eye and ask how this has happened again.’

  ‘Is it anything to do with the Private Caterers Association? I’ve seen them in the papers, complaining we get allocations that they don’t.’

  ‘I know; it doesn’t help. . . Perhaps he has been giving them our rations to keep them happy and persuade them to stay out of the news? Goodness knows, Eliza—but we need to do something . . .’

  ‘Maybe we’re going about it the wrong way,’ Eliza suggested. ‘Rather than keep telling him why it’s a problem, you should just show him why we need more supplies. Why don’t you invite him for lunch so he can see for himself?’

  Robbie heard Maggie sigh.

  ‘I just don’t want to let everyone down,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know, Mags, I know.’

  Robbie knew it too, and he wished there was something he could do to help.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dishes using cooked vegetables should, as far

  as possible, be served with a fresh salad, or a

  serving of freshly-cooked greens to make up for

  the vitamin C lost in cooking and re-heating.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 11

  When she arrived at the restaurant a few days later, Maggie was greeted by an unfamiliar scraping noise coming from the backyard—not the light scratching that Spoke often made, but the sound of metal hitting against a stony surface. It was still too early for deliveries so she cautiously tiptoed towards the back door and stretched to peer out the window.

  Although they were only silhouettes in the dim morning light, she recognised the solid outline of Janek gracefully bending and hoeing, and the smaller figure of Robbie, quick and jerky alongside.

  The metal bolts on the back door screeched as she pulled them across and they both looked up.

  ‘Morning, Maggie,’ Robbie smiled cheerily.

  ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be staying away?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I couldn’t.’

  Janek put down his hoe and came towards her, the dull fingers of light creeping across his face, accentuating the hollows and contours. She could see how handsome he must have been as a younger man; how impressive his features still were despite the lines that stress and loss had etched onto his skin.

  ‘Robbie said that you needed some help.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, still surprised, ‘but I never expected him to do anything about it—especially something like this!’

  ‘This is the best way—now you will have your own supply.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we will.’

  She stepped forward, taking care not to tread on any of the freshly turned grooves and paced to the fence and back, exploring their work. With two small hoes they had managed to turn most of the yard, transforming the pale stony soil into a rich deep brown earth. There were trays of seedlings on the ground, huge logs and piles of wood stacked against the wall, and a newly rigged-up outside tap and hose.

  ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’ she said, glancing fondly at Robbie.

  ‘Don’t say anything then,’ Janek offered.

  ‘Bit of breakfast wouldn’t go amiss,’ Robbie interrupted.

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ she said, ruffling his hair. ‘What can I get you, Janek?’

  ‘Nothing, I will eat when I finish.’

  It seemed such an obvious thing to do that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought about doing it herself—although this way was much better; she would get to see more of Janek. The unexpected direction of her thoughts surprised her and she turned her face away.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ she asked. ‘You must have started when it was still dark.’

  ‘We have been working quickly. You will be the one who needs patience while it grows.’

  ‘What have you planted?’

  ‘Just carrots and potatoes for now, but you will be able to grow most things—sprouts, kale, beetroot.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ Maggie had seen enough potatoes to last a lifetime and had learned entirely new things to do with carrots—she had created pies and pasties, cobblers and casseroles, she had made war-and-peace pudding, croquettes and curries. Some different dishes would be a real treat.

  Mr Boyle wouldn’t like it, and she wasn’t sure how she would deal with him, but he had praised her resourcefulness, so it was time she put that quality to good use!

  It was late in the afternoon by the time Janek and Robbie had prepared the soil, built the supporting beds and established the seedlings. Janek offered to return after work for a few days to help with watering, and said he had showed Robbie how to rig up a device that would scare away the birds. He told Maggie an amusing story of how he had designed one back home but, far from discouraging the birds, they seemed to like the light musical sound it made when the wind lifted the tins and banged them against the wooden posts. The one he designed for her was different though; it had to be dark, for a start, and non-reflective. He was far more talkative than usual, buoyed by news of the Atlantic Charter and the joint proclamation that Roosevelt and Churchill had made, declaring that they were fighting to ‘ensure life, liberty, independence and religious freedom and to preserve the rights of man and justice’. Maggie wasn’t sure exactly how this was going to change things, but Janek seemed to think it was a breakthrough, and one in the eye for Hitler.

  Back in her office afterwards she found a basket full of black-painted tin cans and a length of string on the floor, a hand-drawn sketch of Janek’s apparatus lying discarded beside it. Not much of it had been completed and Robbie lay open-mouthed and snoring on a mattress inside the Morrison shelter with Spoke, one of the cans modelled into a cylindrical engine ready for his next aircraft resting by his side.

  Maggie kneeled down and gently shook him awake. ‘You can’t sleep here. You know that.’

  He blinked at her sleepily. ‘Just this once,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Come on, Robbie, I mean it. You know what’ll happen if Mr Boyle finds out.’

  ‘You’re just like Ma,’ he grumbled. ‘You worry too much.’

  There he went again, talking about his ma. Maggie had intentionally avoided asking about his mother for fear of upsetting him, but he had brought her up in conversation several times recently and not with any appearance of grief. She was about to pursue the subject when she heard Janek calling his farewells, his voice echoing through the empty kitchen. By the time she reached the back door, he had finished packing his tools and was about to leave.

  ‘I was hoping to catch you,’ she said, resting her hand on his arm, her eyes now level with his. ‘I want to thank you properly. I’ve been meaning to say something to you all day . . .’

  The intensity of his gaze was so distracting that she wanted to look away but she needed to say what she had planned.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for this. And even though I can’t pay you for it now, I will, sometime soon.’

  ‘I told you, there is no charge.’

  ‘I insist. Why should you do this for me?’

  ‘It is for the community, Malgorzata; it is what we do for each other in Poland.’

  ‘Well, it’s very generous. You must eat here, whenever you want.’

  ‘That is kind, but the money you gave
me for the seeds is more than enough.’

  ‘Even so, your time . . .’

  ‘That is one thing I do have to spare.’

  There was a note of sadness in his voice and she wanted to ask him what he meant, but he was already hauling the large canvas tool bags across his body, the straps crisscrossing his torso and making him look every bit the soldier she knew he wished he could be.

  ‘Goodbye, Malgorzata.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She watched as he went through the gate into the back lane, listening to his footsteps as they took him away towards the canal and his shortcut back home. Perhaps if she could find out more about where he went and what he did, she could help him just as he had helped her.

  In the shadows she hadn’t been able to make out if his expression held the same anticipation she felt, or whether it had been altered by a sense of duty. Whatever it was, as she turned back into the yard her body felt charged, a sensation that was at once familiar and unknown; and with it came a nervous tremor, as if something new and exciting had been set in motion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  SALADS:

  There is hardly a root or green vegetable that

  does not deserve a place in a salad. Use them

  raw whenever you can. A good mixed salad

  with wheatmeal bread and a little grated cheese

  makes a complete meal. So serve and enjoy a

  salad or raw vegetable sandwich every day.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 5

  Although it had been Eliza’s idea to invite Mr Boyle for a special luncheon, Maggie insisted that some of the locals should be there too, so he could meet those whose lives were most directly affected by the shortages. Maggie had made Woolton pie as a special—it had been named after the Minister of Food himself—and she had managed to broach the disruptions in supply and felt quietly confident at his response. In fact, the whole luncheon was proving to be quite a success.

  Mrs Foster was wearing her Sunday best, and Mr and Mrs Cross and the warden Bill Drummond and his wife Janey had all mingled well, but Mr Boyle had talked with Mrs Bevan for most of the lunch. Maggie really couldn’t imagine how they could have so much in common and was trying hard to listen in on their conversation.

  ‘What a clever man you are,’ Mrs Bevan said with a sigh. ‘And what a splendid job you are doing under such difficult circumstances.’

  Maggie could hardly believe her ears; she couldn’t have wished for more sincere flattery if she had given Mrs Bevan the script herself, and she had never seen him looking so relaxed. It was hardly surprising that they remained fixed where they were and requested more Pathfinder pudding, but she had to refuse simply because there wasn’t any left.

  At quarter past two, Maggie rose from her seat and, murmuring her excuses, left the table.

  Rose was filling in as cashier for Tom and browsing through the Daily Express when Maggie approached.

  ‘I’ve got to go out for a while, Rose; there’s another mobile canteen I need to check on. But I want you to make sure he leaves here happy. It’s really important.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rose replied, still scanning the pages for the horoscopes. ‘I’ll make sure he has everything he needs—although maybe just leaving him with Mrs Bevan would be a better idea . . .’

  ‘I know, quite the surprise, isn’t she?’ Maggie looked over her shoulder at the pair. Mrs Bevan had evidently said something amusing and they were both laughing. ‘She seems to have quite charmed him.’

  ‘Dark horse,’ Rose said.

  ‘She’s certainly one to cherish,’ Maggie replied.

  When Maggie had left, Rose turned her attention back to her horoscope.

  A day to assert yourself. Make up your own mind.

  When she next glanced up, Mr Boyle was standing over Mrs Bevan and offering her his hand.

  Rose had always seen him buttoned-up and officious, giving out orders, but now his disposition seemed completely changed; there was a chink in his armour.

  Staring again at the words from the horoscope, an idea took hold.

  She didn’t know exactly what she was going to say, but she had overheard Maggie and Eliza talking about how he might be diverting their supplies, giving them to private establishments because of all the fuss in the newspapers about British Restaurants having an unfair advantage. She knew that it was her chance to help Maggie; an opportunity to repay her cousin’s faith in her. She would open Mr Boyle’s eyes to how important Maggie’s Kitchen really was.

  Mr Boyle was shaking Mrs Bevan’s hand.

  Rose made her move, reaching the door just ahead of him.

  ‘Must you leave now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so; work beckons,’ he said, wriggling fingers into black gloves, his other hand stretching the leather firmly as he teased out the wrinkles. ‘Please thank Miss Johnson, though, it has been a very pleasant afternoon.’

  ‘Maggie—surely you can call her Maggie by now.’

  ‘Where is your sense of propriety? Should I address all my work colleagues by their first name? And you . . .’

  ‘I am Rose Barnard, but you can call me Rose.’

  ‘And I’m sure many people do; you are well-named, Miss Barnard.’ He gave her an insincere smile. ‘But if you don’t mind, I really need to go now.’

  The dining hall was hushed, the lunchtime diners trickling back to offices and factories nearby, and it felt as if the few who remained were watching them. And then she heard the words again: A day to assert yourself. Make up your own mind.

  She clasped her hands together and stepped closer. ‘Mr Boyle, I know that you and Maggie haven’t always seen eye to eye . . .’

  He looked up at her briefly and then returned his attention to his gloves.

  ‘It won’t be the same, if we have to keep closing,’ she continued. ‘People won’t come back, and Maggie can’t bear to let them down. Why can’t you make sure we get the supplies we need?’

  ‘I appreciate your loyalty, Miss Barnard, and your idealism, but unfortunately I am merely an instrument of the government and our government works in its own way, particularly in wartime. Miss Johnson knew this when she took on the restaurant, and may I remind you that she applied to us; we did not recruit her.’

  Maggie was right—the man was maddening. She had said once that he was a man of rigid principles and a harsh disposition; that he would not be tolerant of kindness shown to others that he could not dispense himself. Rose had seen his weakness, though; had caught a glimpse of the man he could be. She was sure there must be some way of appealing to him.

  ‘What will you do when the war is over, Mr Boyle?’

  His eyes flickered but gave nothing away.

  ‘Do you know, Miss Barnard, I really haven’t given it much thought. I am far too busy concerning myself with living from one day to the next.’

  ‘You are an unusual man, Mr Boyle. Most folk that come in here, well, that’s all they ever talk of—what they are going to do when the war is over. They are full of plans of where they will go when their family is back together and their loved ones are home again.’

  His eyes were cold now; whatever emotion he felt was masked.

  ‘Is there no one waiting for you, Mr Boyle?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’ he snapped.

  ‘Have you ever lost anyone?’

  ‘You are either very naive or unaware that your questions are quite impertinent, Miss Barnard.’

  He moved towards the door.

  Rose walked ahead of him, stopping in front of him so that he was forced to look at her.

  ‘I imagine that it might not be so easy for you to lay these conditions on others if you had someone waiting for you. Someone you had made plans with.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand your point,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Maggie had someone and they had plans. Nothing can come of those plans now, but look at what she has still managed to do, Mr Boyle. Look at all that she�
��s achieved . . .’

  Rose raised her arms, gesturing around her.

  ‘How can you risk all this? Think about what you are taking from everyone; it’s not the food from their plates—it’s hope. That’s what people come here for, Mr Boyle; the chance to talk about their futures. Because unlike you, they have dreams of one.’

  But if Mr Boyle was moved by her words, he gave no sign of it. His face was stony as he stalked past her to the door.

  As it closed behind him, Rose considered Maggie’s parting words: I want you to make sure he leaves here happy. It’s very important. It was possible, she thought with a sinking feeling, that she had gone too far.

  Chapter Twenty

  YOUR CHILDREN’S FOOD IN WARTIME:

  You want your children to be healthy and

  happy, of course; and to grow up strong and

  sturdy. Do you know that all depends very

  largely upon the food you give them now, and

  the food habits you help them to form?

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 10

  Maggie had been distracted for days but Robbie thought he knew what was wrong. He had overheard her telling Eliza that she had seen the woman again, the same one who had stared at her and then slipped out of the restaurant before she could find out who she was or what she wanted. Surely that wasn’t why Maggie was still behaving so oddly, though, the reason that she hadn’t even noticed him come in. Or maybe she had found out about his mum? He knew he had to tell her about his family before she found out from anyone else. It was on the tip of his tongue each and every time he saw her, but then he just chickened out. He didn’t want to leave London yet; he liked being around Maggie and the restaurant. Then again, he didn’t like lying either, especially after all she had done for him. He clutched the paper bag tighter. So this was it: he would tell her today, and hopefully she would accept the peace offering he had brought her.

  ‘Boo!’ he said, jumping out, thinking she would laugh.

  ‘Blimey, Robbie, you nearly gave me a heart attack!’