Maggie’s Kitchen

by Caroline Beecham

  Maggie shook her head.

  ‘Come on,’ Eliza said, taking her arm again. ‘We’ll go to Marks and Spencer. If we’re going to find anything suitable, it’ll be there.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time—they’ll only have utility clothes. I don’t want something with big pockets and buttons; I want to be able to take my coat off!’

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Maggie. I hope all this press attention hasn’t gone to your head. The Maggie Johnson I knew would have been grateful for hand-me-downs!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why shouldn’t I want to look like I fit in with the people around me? Anyway, you know better than most that I can find a nice outfit at a fraction of the cost of one from Marks and Spencer.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The charity shop, of course—not the same one you got my lovely outfit from, I suspect, but it’s one that I’ve found some good bargains before!’

  A cheer went up as a wedding party stepped out onto the steps of the town hall and a photographer set about arranging the group, lowering the bride’s hands, instructing the soldier to stand taller, separating the two young fidgeting bridesmaids. At last they were all in position, framed between the columns of the entrance, only for the bride’s veil to be swept away by the wind. The groom took off after it.

  Eliza and Maggie looked at each other and giggled.

  ‘Come on, it’s just up here,’ Maggie said, pulling her friend along.

  Inside, she began flicking through a rail of ladies’ suits.

  ‘Hey, Maggie,’ Eliza shouted from the other side of the shop. ‘Look at this . . .’

  She stepped out from behind a rack holding up a dark grey double-breasted suit jacket, the trousers dangling beneath.

  ‘I said I wanted to fit in, not look like I was there to do the cabaret!’

  ‘It’s not for you, silly—it’s for Janek.’

  Maggie thought she must have misheard her for a moment, then it registered.

  ‘Oh, Eliza. Why didn’t I think of that? What a marvellous idea.’

  She took the hanger and flipped the jacket open; the lining was still intact and the buttons all attached. Only the sleeves looked a little worn but that wouldn’t be noticed once it was on.

  ‘Do you think it’s the right size?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Eliza said, tilting her head to one side.

  By the time they left the shop half an hour later, they’d found a white dress shirt with a patch under the arm (they decided this wouldn’t be noticed if he didn’t take his jacket off), and a grey-and-red striped tie. Maggie had tried on three outfits: a brown wool suit that fitted well but, as her friend pointed out, was the colour of wet moss; a pretty silk dress with a small floral print that they both liked; and a red silk dress that set off the rich chestnut tone of her hair. It not only looked the best, but it had the smallest price tag too, at only ten shillings, so she allowed herself to look through the small basket of jewellery and trinkets on the counter, where she found a leaf-shaped brooch that completed the outfit perfectly.

  As she stepped out onto the busy main road, shopping bag in hand, Maggie felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of an evening out with Janek. It had been a long time since she’d anticipated anything so much.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  HERRINGS . . .

  “Of all the fish that swim in the sea” runs

  the old saying, “the herring is the king.”

  Certainly whether it is a question of flavour,

  food value or cheapness, we have to agree

  that the herring is worthy of his crown.

  Ministry of Food, War Cookery Leaflet No. 9

  She had only been past The Savoy before during daytime and hadn’t expected it to have such a startling effect on her, but as they turned off the Strand and Maggie saw its gleaming steel facade and the black-and-white swirl of the marbled Art Deco entrance, it quite took her breath away. And the doorman displayed all the theatricality that she had expected too, from his top hat and tails right down to the way he bowed his head as he gripped the elaborate gilt scroll of the door handle. Once inside she instantly forgot about the dreary wet streets and her problems with the notice period. Eight majestic chandeliers, at least as large as any of her kitchen stoves, created a waterfall of coloured light in the entrance. A bellboy pushed a shiny brass trolley past them in one direction while porters guided a group of guests in the other, and behind the carved wooden reception desk well-groomed personnel attended to the exquisitely dressed patrons with practised efficiency. She was still staring when she felt Janek’s hand take hers and guide her across the lobby.

  She was used to seeing him in his work clothes and was surprised at how different he looked—and at how differently she felt. The suit fitted him well, the jacket stretching across his broad chest, the trousers tapering down so that they sat at just the right place on his shoes, the white shirt snug but not too tight around his neck; if only he would stop fiddling with his shirt cuffs.

  The atmosphere in the Grill was subdued compared to the bustling lobby they had left behind, even though there were many diners at the white linen-covered tables.

  The maître d’ stepped out from behind the chrome podium and swooped to greet them.

  ‘Good evening, madam, sir.’

  Maggie inclined her head. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘May I take your coat, madam?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’

  She felt Janek’s eyes on her as she unbuttoned her coat and handed it to the maître d’.

  He leaned forward to whisper, ‘You look very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered back. ‘So do you.’

  She had known as soon as she tried the dress on that it flattered her slim build; the skirt covered her knees but showed off the curve of her legs, the low scoop of the V-neck revealing just a little of her perfumed skin. Her face was bare except for the smallest dab of lipstick that she had also quickly applied to her cheeks after noticing their paleness.

  ‘The name, sir?’

  ‘Raczynski.’

  ‘Sir, madam, would you like to come this way?’

  They followed him to a small round table, cocooned by a black velvet booth where they could sit side by side, just close enough to the piano to hear the music without their conversation being drowned out. It was all Maggie could do to stop herself from burying her fingers in the soft fabric of the seat as she leaned back. Everything was so luxurious, right down to the exquisitely embroidered napkins and the intricate pattern of the cutlery; it seemed extravagant but she felt a spark of satisfaction that even in wartime The Savoy had managed to keep its silverware.

  Most of the other diners were men in uniform and women in fine clothes and furs, well-off sorts who probably made a habit of dining here. But there were a few tables of people she guessed were just like them—in their Sunday best, here for a special occasion, a birthday or perhaps even a marriage proposal. The wall nearest to them was hung with black-and-white framed photographs: Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn, Marlene Dietrich and other distinguished faces she couldn’t put a name to but reminded her of the esteemed company that had dined here. Noel Coward and Oscar Wilde were once regulars, she knew, and Winston Churchill frequently brought his cabinet here for lunch. The closest she had come to meeting anyone famous was when the mayor had stopped by the restaurant for a cup of tea after attending a local funeral.

  Three waiters with white jackets and bow ties stood with their backs to the wood-panelled walls, but a dozen of them were reflected back in the bevelled mirrors that hung between the columns and windows.

  ‘It’s such an elegant room,’ Maggie said, awed.

  ‘Yes. It reminds me of a hotel in Warsaw.’

  ‘You miss it?’

  ‘I do, but as you keep telling me, I am lucky to be here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that must sound so terribly flippant. I don’t mean to be.’

  ‘I know.’


  He had that distant look she had seen many times before.

  ‘Tell me about Warsaw. What’s it like?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, can we talk about something else?’

  ‘Of course, whatever you want.’

  ‘I want to just enjoy being here, with you . . .’

  A woman at the next table surveyed the two of them, smiling as if she approved, and Maggie felt a jolt of exhilaration as she realised that the woman probably thought they were a couple.

  She glanced up at Janek; he looked perfectly at ease, as if he dined here all the time. Perhaps, like her, he felt that being out together tonight seemed completely natural.

  ‘Is it true that the chef here invented Peach Melba?

  ‘It is one of Bartek’s favourite stories, how Escoffier created Peach Melba for the famous Australian.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘She—Nellie Melba. She was an opera singer.’

  ‘Tell me about Bartek. He’s one of the chefs here, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, one of many, but we are his guests today. Lucky for us you impressed him.’

  ‘Really? I thought you were joking.’

  ‘No, not all, he has told many people about Maggie’s Kitchen, so many that you will soon have to move to bigger premises.’

  His smile spread across his face and she knew that she had to trust her own instincts rather than Eliza’s stories. How could she feel anything other than grateful for the friendship of a man who always had her best interests at heart, who spent so much time helping others? When he arrived he had nothing, no possessions of any kind, and she had been suspicious because of it. Now she knew it wasn’t because he was a man who had run away, but because he had fled with all that he needed, and the only thing of value to him—his life.

  ‘Madam, may I?’

  The waiter hovered, white linen napkin in hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, lifting her arms so he could lay it across her lap with a flourish.

  ‘Would madam care for an aperitif?’

  It had been so long since she had been out for a meal that she had quite forgotten what drink she should order.

  As if sensing her hesitance, the waiter suggested, ‘Perhaps the house cocktail, the Kir Royal?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That would be lovely.’

  ‘And sir?’

  ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Certainly. With . . . ?’

  ‘Ice.’

  ‘Very good. The salmon has been replaced with a lemon sole,’ he informed them. ‘Do you have any questions about the menu?’

  ‘Can we have a few minutes?’

  ‘Certainly, madam.’

  Her eyes flicked across gold lettering and she couldn’t help but think of Robbie, scouring the hotel’s vast kitchens for ingredients he could forage.

  BILL OF FARE FOR THE DAY

  Empire port

  Muscat wine

  *

  Hors d’oeuvres

  Turtle soup

  *

  Jugged hare

  Stewed tripe with peas and onion

  Salmon with boiled potatoes and salad

  *

  Peach Melba

  Stewed cherries and custard

  *

  Tea or Coffee

  ‘Oh look, they’ve got Peach Melba! What are you going to have?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided. What about you?’

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ she replied.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘We are supposed to be here, remember.’

  ‘I know . . .’

  She looked away, embarrassed; she could hardly believe they were there, and despite their second-hand clothes, she certainly felt the part.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to this,’ she said. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a meal that somebody else has cooked?’

  ‘Let’s hurry up and choose then.’

  ‘I’ll guess what you are going to have. You tell me if I’m right.’

  ‘If you like . . .’

  ‘You think it’s foolish?’

  ‘Of course not. Go ahead.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, looking back at the menu. ‘You are going to have the turtle soup—no, make it the hors d’oeuvres—and then . . . the jugged hare. Am I right?’

  ‘What about dessert?’

  ‘The Peach Melba of course!’

  ‘Two out of three isn’t bad.’

  ‘Which one did I get wrong?’

  ‘The dessert. Stewed cherries are a favourite.’

  ‘Never mind—it’s your turn now.’

  ‘Definitely the hors d’oeuvres, then the lemon sole . . . and of course, the Peach Melba.’

  ‘Very good, you win—although you did have a bit of help on the last one.’

  ‘It’s a draw then. Is that fair?’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m not a sore loser.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. I’d hate to have to leave before we have even begun the meal, that would be an awful waste.’

  ‘Of the evening or the food?’

  ‘Both.’

  As Janek placed their order with the waiter, she looked at him, at his thick blond hair and the strong curve of his nose, and she realised why she had been so nervous about coming tonight. It wasn’t because of Eliza’s suspicions or her fear of upsetting Rose; it was because of her own feelings. Until now she hadn’t admitted how she watched out for him at the end of each day, how she listened for the click of the gate to signal his arrival and how her heart sank when she saw he had gone. She had recently taken to creating small jobs for him to do and questioned him on things she already knew the answers to, just to keep him around.

  The meal was served at just the right pace, the starter coming soon enough to satisfy their hunger but leaving enough time between the main course and the dessert to ensure they were not too full and had plenty of time to talk. And she was surprised by how much they had to talk about; they spoke of the food and how they would make things differently (he insisted her stewed cherries were superior). She secretly wished she could hold each mouthful longer, relishing the taste and texture; the fresh snap of asparagus, the rich velvety lemon butter which coated and refreshed her tongue at the same time, the sweet tartness of the raspberries with the cold smoothness of the ice-cream. After the years of austerity and rationing, she wanted the flavours to linger on her palate, to smell and feel each morsel.

  As well as discussing the meal, they speculated about the origins of the other diners, which prompted them to talk about the places they one day hoped to visit. They paid little attention to the war and the limits it placed on them, behaving as if it were merely a temporary situation and any day now the borders would disappear and they would be free to travel wherever they pleased. Maggie journeyed by boat from Paris down to the French Riviera and then by train up to the Italian Lakes, visiting famous churches and palaces she had read about in magazines. Janek was drawn to the wild savannahs of Africa and the animals he would see there.

  It was ten thirty by the time the pianist retired and they looked up to see that they were the only ones left in the dining room.

  ‘Are we able to see Bartek?’ Maggie asked when the waiter approached with her coat. ‘I’d like to say thank you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, he sends his apologies but there is a matter he is attending to. He hopes that you have enjoyed your evening.’

  It had been wonderful, but it was a world away from the stress and shortages of living one day to the next; it wasn’t a world that she was part of, or Janek.

  ‘We did, thank you very much. Please tell him that he must come into Maggie’s any time; he is most welcome there.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As the waiter helped her into her coat and she slipped her hand inside the pocket, it brushed against the pocket watch and she realised that her thoughts had not turned to Peter all
night.

  Janek watched from the end of the path until the light flickered off in the hallway and Maggie closed the front door behind her. He hadn’t expected to be invited in but he would have had to refuse anyway; during dinner the waiter had slipped him a message from Bartek asking Janek to meet him at the Polish Club. It was the first time he had received such a request. Ognisko Polskie had barely been open a year but it had become a primary meeting point for Polish officers and exiled Poles. An invitation to meet there could only mean one thing—that the Union for Armed Struggle wanted him to do something.

  He was able to get the bus most of the way and walk the last part through the near-deserted streets of South Kensington, barely noticing the empty shopfronts and offices, pausing only to look at a corner block dominated by a giant billboard with Churchill pointing at him and demanding that he DESERVE VICTORY and LEND TO DEFEND. He picked up his pace and hurried past the white stucco-fronted buildings towards 55 Exhibition Road.

  Two Polish guards standing on either side of the imposing columns took his papers and left him alone for several minutes, so he shrank back into the shadows of the portico watching uniformed officers as they entered, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

  At last they waved him inside and he was greeted by the raucous conversation of his native tongue. It was just as well he was wearing a suit, he realised, otherwise he would have drawn attention among the uniformed officers as he looked for Bartek.

  The crowded room led through to a much larger main salon that looked strangely shabby for such a stately house. He hadn’t been into any of these residences before but had expected the interiors to be as elegant as the outsides. Here, though, only the marble fireplaces and the cornicing of the ceiling and doors hinted at its grand Georgian origins. The rest of the decoration was more akin to the clubs back home; a mix of worn sofas and tables partnered with an assortment of chairs and stools. The walls were hung with muted oils of rural landscapes and portraits of prominent Polish military men and politicians, so that even the room, hazy with smoke and noisy with heated discussion, felt rousingly familiar.