‘I don’t know, darling. I’m not going bathing.’
George’s frown deepened. ‘It’s still only April…’
‘Almost May. You should get some sun on those marvellous legs of yours,’ said Ellen. ‘It does the skin tone no end of good.’
He looked about. ‘Won’t the neighbours—’
‘There are no neighbours. We’re miles from anyone. We’re practically in the wilderness. And you’re still wearing that infernal cardigan.’
‘I’d hardly call Harting a wilderness.’
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Ellen sat up and thrust her arms out towards him. ‘Nudity,’ she said in a loud voice, ‘is the magician of the genders.’
George let out a laugh.
‘It’s not funny, darling. It’s poetic. James told me.’
‘What does it mean, I wonder?’ asked George, walking towards her.
‘It means,’ said Ellen, settling back down on her towel, ‘that you should get undressed immediately.’
George looked about again.
‘It is rather hot, isn’t it?’
‘Blistering.’
He started to remove his cardigan. ‘And no one’s about.’
‘Not a soul.’
From behind the back door, Geenie watched as George slipped his braces from his shoulders and began to unbutton his shirt.
‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.’
‘How could your magnificent body possibly inflict pain on anyone or anything?’
George’s chest was speckled with patches of black curly hair. He folded his shirt carefully and placed it on the grass. Then he removed his shoes and socks, unbuttoned his trousers and bent over to step out of them.
Geenie made her decision. With Blotto trotting behind, she strolled into the garden and stood before them with her hands on her naked hips. ‘Is there room for me?’
‘Good grief—’
Ellen sat up. ‘Flossy! How wonderful! Now we can all be magicians together.’
George hopped about on one leg, trying to get his braces in place and his socks on at the same time.
‘Don’t be shy, darling. Lie down next to me. George is sunbathing, too.’ Ellen held out a hand and her daughter took it. The sun was fierce on Geenie’s shoulders, and her neck was hot beneath her pile of heavy hair. But Ellen was right: it was wonderful, the sun on every part of you: back, bottom, legs, belly.
‘I’ve got rather a mound of work to get through, actually,’ said George, still hopping. His sock seemed to have jammed on his toes. ‘I think I’d better get back to it.’
‘What’s the hurry, darling?’
He gave up on the socks and finally snapped his braces into place. ‘I’ve got to finish something. Lots to do before Diana arrives.’
‘But you said—’
‘Second thoughts. You girls carry on.’
‘Please stay,’ said Geenie.
But he wouldn’t look at her. He’d fixed his gaze over their heads, on the door of his studio. Plucking his shirt from the grass, he walked back inside and closed the door firmly behind him.
Geenie looked at her mother. Ellen’s cheeks had swelled with laughter, which she managed to hold for half a minute before letting it out in a long, loud rush. Geenie flung herself down on the towel and laughed too. Their bodies shook together, Geenie curling her legs to her chest and rolling from side to side, Ellen clutching her own elbows and rocking back and forth. They laughed and laughed until they ran out of air and had to calm down. Then they laughed again. When they were exhausted, Geenie slotted into Ellen’s side, her small hipbone curving into her mother’s waist, and Ellen put an arm around her shoulders. Geenie closed her eyes and stayed still for as long as she could, savouring the warmth of her mother’s flesh.
Eventually, Ellen sat up. ‘Poor Crane,’ she said, laughing again.
‘Who’s Diana?’ asked Geenie.
‘She’s George’s daughter, darling. She’s coming to live here for a bit. Didn’t I mention it?’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
Geenie tried to nudge herself back into her mother’s side, but Ellen gave a shiver and stood up, looking at the sky. The clouds were thickening.
‘What’s she like?’
‘I don’t know, darling. A bit like George, probably. But a girl, and eleven years old.’
‘Will she like me?’ asked Geenie.
‘What a ridiculous question.’ Ellen frowned, still gazing upwards. ‘Maybe I was a bit optimistic. We’d better go in.’
Geenie watched her mother’s naked bottom wobble towards the house and wondered if Diana knocked holes in walls, too.
· · · Five · · ·
It was her second go at rolling out. Mrs Steinberg had asked for a savoury tart, ‘a quiche – like the French eat, you know the sort of thing.’
Kitty did not know the sort of thing. She’d spent most of the morning looking for something like it in Silvester’s Sensible Cookery. Egg and bacon pie sounded nearly right, an open flan with a cheesy filling, although Mrs Steinberg had mentioned artichokes, not knowing, probably, that the season hadn’t yet begun. There were certainly no artichokes at the greengrocers’ in Petersfield, and if she’d have telephoned to ask if she could add them to the order, Mr Bailey would have laughed. Cabbages aplenty, Kitty, he would have said, but whoever heard of artichokes in April? What’s the matter with that American woman? Doesn’t she even know the seasons?
Kitty wondered if she did. She had yet to see her in stockings, even though it had been a cold spring until now, the air licking around your calves and shrinking your feet inside your shoes. And there had been only one occasion on which she’d seen her in a hat, a terrible woollen beret that covered half her face, when it had suddenly hailed a week ago. You could just see that great nose sticking out, like a fat coat hook.
The marble rolling pin was heavy and Kitty was careful to place it behind the sugar jar so it wouldn’t roll off the table and onto her foot. It was an awful rolling pin – flour slipped from its shiny surface, and now the pastry was sticking and tearing as she rolled. Mrs Steinberg had told her it had been Dora’s pride and joy, and was quite the best thing for pastry. Kitty wondered how Mrs Steinberg would know this. She’d never seen her so much as put the kettle on to boil, let alone roll out shortcrust.
She gathered up the pieces of dough and pressed them together. She’d roll out one more time, then she’d have to start again. The sun glared through the kitchen window and sweat was blooming along her top lip. It was typical that the first really warm day should come while she was making shortcrust. Everyone knew heat was bad for pastry, and Kitty’s hands were, for once, very warm.
She raised the rolling pin and smashed it down on the lump of pastry to get it going. It was easy, now, to flatten the greying wodge. She managed to roll it out into a ragged circle, almost thin enough, then a corner stuck on the pin and a flap ripped up, like a hangnail. Bugger. It would have to be patched up in the dish. She could force a lump of pastry into the hole and press it with her thumb. With a bit of egg it might stick.
Looking out of the window, she saw Mr Crane sitting on the step of his studio, rubbing his eye. He was handsome, with his slick of dark hair and strong chin, and younger than Mrs Steinberg, Kitty guessed, by at least five years. When Lou had caught a glimpse of him in town, she’d said he looked intense. It was a shame about his eye.
‘Can I have a biscuit?’
That child had a habit of sneaking up on you. You’d just be dusting the mantelpiece or scrubbing the rim of the lavatory, and there she’d be, asking for something. Now she was leaning on the stove, her chin tucked into her chest in the same way as her mother, sucking on a long strand of hair that looked like a wet worm hanging from her mouth.
‘Go on, then,’ said Kitty.
Here was the queer thing, though: Geenie took the Garibaldi from the barrel, but never seemed to eat it. Kitty knew this because she’d begun to find slightly ch
ewed biscuits hidden behind cushions. Once she found three, all of them nibbled at the corners, stacked side by side in the sitting-room cupboard. It was a shocking waste, but Kitty told herself that she was not responsible for the child. It was her mother’s look-out.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making a French tart for your lunch. Bacon and egg.’
‘A quiche.’
‘That’s it.’
Geenie pretended to examine her biscuit for a few moments. Then she said, ‘Can I help?’
This was another thing the child did: offer to help and then get in the way.
‘No. Thank you, Miss.’
‘Please.’
‘There’s nothing for you to do, Miss.’
‘I’m bored.’
Kitty sighed. ‘You can grate the cheese, if you like.’
Geenie screwed up her nose. ‘I hate cheese.’
‘You could measure out the milk, then.’
‘Cheese smells like sick.’
Kitty floured the pastry dish. ‘You’re a rum sort of a girl, aren’t you?’
‘What are you doing that for?’
‘So it won’t stick, Miss.’
‘It always sticks, doesn’t it?’
She mustn’t blush, not in front of the child.
Kitty gathered the pastry around the pin and prepared to lift. She’d have to be careful not to let anything brush the tassel of that greasy lantern. If she could just transport the thing without a rip…
‘Can I have another biscuit?’
The pastry gave up; a large strip fell in folds on the table. ‘Bother!’
Geenie stuck a finger into the crumpled mess. ‘Can’t you roll it out again?’
Kitty stared at the table. ‘It’s too far gone. It’s got too warm.’
‘What difference does that make?’
Now Kitty felt the blood stinging her cheeks. ‘I don’t know, Miss; it’s just ruined, is all. I’ll have to start over.’ It would be impossible with the child here, asking questions, and she only had – what? an hour left, at most.
‘Here.’ She held out the grey ball to Geenie. ‘Have this to play with. It’s yours.’
Geenie pressed a finger into it with such force that Kitty’s hand dipped.
‘You could make something with it, couldn’t you, Miss?’
Geenie prodded the dough again, gently this time. ‘I could try,’ she said.
Kitty placed the tacky pastry firmly in the girl’s hand. ‘I’m sure you could make something out of that, with all your talents,’ she said. Geenie was always drawing something, or drawing on something. Last week she’d done a scribble which she claimed was a map of the world on the kitchen table. Luckily it was only in pencil, and Kitty had been able to scrub the thing off. She thought Geenie’s efforts a bit slow for a girl of eleven, but she said nothing.
‘I could try,’ Geenie said again, smiling.
‘I’m sure you could, Miss. You could make something lovely. A real work of art.’
The child took the pastry and walked out of the kitchen, swinging her blonde hair.
‘Or you could hide it somewhere,’ Kitty muttered under her breath.
. . . .
Arthur was batting at a wasp. With the patched-up egg and bacon pie in the oven at last, Kitty watched him from the sitting-room window. His arms windmilled around his head. The movement had caught her eye whilst she was dusting and she’d nearly dropped Mrs Steinberg’s African mask, the one that looked a bit like Bob. Of all the things in the room, she sensed this would be the worst to drop. She held it tight in both arms now as she watched Arthur jogging on the spot, his limbs bouncing like those of a puppet jolted from above. He seemed to be moving to the rhythm of the thumping noise coming from the library: Mrs Steinberg’s typewriter. The woman was always in there, banging out something or other on those keys. Arthur swatted the air again, his mouth opening in horror. But he made no sound. He simply danced on the grass, batting the air around him.
Later she could say to him, the still, controlled Arthur with the straight moustache: I know your weakness.
She wouldn’t say that, of course. It was the sort of thing Mae West would say, with a hearty wink. Kitty would ask, instead, if he had room in his bag for the piece of egg and bacon pie she’d put by. She’d ask him if he could squeeze it in, this piece of pie so carefully cut, and wrapped in waxed paper, twice, so the grease wouldn’t leak, because she knew Arthur worried about things being clean and neat: when she went to his shed to fetch vegetables, she’d seen the numbered rows of tools, the swept corners of his tool box. And she worried about the pie being crushed in his bag by his flask and his book as he cycled home.
Arthur always had a Western with him. At the kitchen table he held it with one hand and ate with the other, keeping the book at arm’s length, as though frightened of smearing the pages. His eyes rarely strayed from the words, making her wonder how the bread arrived at his mouth, how he bit into his boiled egg without chomping his fingers. He’d a different book every week. Kitty guessed he got them from the twopenny library in town. Or perhaps he had someone who bought them for him? He’d yet to mention any girl. She’d seen him at the Savoy on his own last week, which must mean there was no girl. She’d been there with Lou, and had spotted Arthur leaning by the ticket booth, scrutinising the poster for next week’s performance of Come Out of the Pantry. It was strange, seeing him away from Willow Cottage, in his smart clothes. She’d noticed how white his collar was. They stood under the lights of the foyer, and he’d looked at her and said, ‘Lovely here, isn’t it?’
Kitty gazed through the window again. Arthur had stopped windmilling his arms. The child was talking to him, holding the lump of dough in the air. Arthur crouched down and took the dough in his hands. He rolled the lump around his palm, weighing it as though it were something precious.
That was her dough and the child had given it away. And now Arthur would know that she, Kitty, had ruined the pastry and wasted a whole batch.
She opened the kitchen window. ‘Miss Geenie!’
She hadn’t meant to shout, but now they were both looking towards her. She’d have to follow through, as Lou would put it. That’s the trouble with you, Kitty, her sister always said.You never follow through.
‘Lunch is almost ready, Miss. Come in and wash your hands.’
The girl stared at Kitty in silence, her mouth slightly open. Arthur straightened up and nodded to Kitty. ‘You’d best go in, Miss.’ He gestured towards the door.
‘It’s too early for lunch,’ grumbled Geenie. ‘Where’s Ellen?’
Kitty couldn’t lie. ‘I’m not sure. But lunch is nearly ready.’
‘Can’t I come in when Ellen says?’
Kitty couldn’t get used to Geenie calling Mrs Steinberg by her first name; it gave her a start every time she heard it.
Ellen. It just wasn’t who she was, just as Mary was not who her own mother had been.
‘I – I think you should come in now, please, Miss.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d have liked.
Arthur was looking at the ground, the lump of dough still in his hand.
Geenie folded her arms. ‘In a minute,’ she said.
‘I should get on,’ said Arthur, with a half wave at Kitty. ‘Lots to do.’
She tried a smile, but he was already walking back to his shed, gripping the dough in his fist.
· · · Six · · ·
It was red, with white handle grips and chipped lettering on the crossbar. George wheeled it through the back garden, whistling.
Geenie had never heard him whistle before. It reminded her of Dora, who’d whistled though it was unladylike. When she was washing up, or ironing, Dora had whistled, and Geenie had tried to whistle, too, but her lips were too soft to get the shape, somehow.
They watched him from the library window, mother and daughter leaning together on Ellen’s desk, stretching their necks. George’s shirt sleeves were folded up close to his armpits, the way
Arthur’s often were.
‘It’s broken,’ said Ellen. ‘He’s brought a broken bicycle home.’
The brake cables clattered against the spokes, raining ticks across the garden.
Ellen marched out of the house, and, after giving it a second or two, Geenie followed behind, quietly. She knew that if she stayed in the shadow of her mother’s skirt, she wouldn’t get in much trouble. There was a certain position she could take behind her mother which usually meant that people didn’t seem to notice her.
‘What are you doing with that?’
George had leant the bike against the wall of his studio and stepped back to admire it. He didn’t look at Ellen. Instead, he ran a hand over the saddle.
‘Lovely, isn’t she?’
‘Broken, Crane. It is broken.’
Geenie noticed that her mother was pronouncing all her words very clearly.
He shrugged. ‘Not for long.’
Geenie grabbed one of the trailing cables in her fist and gave it a tug. ‘What’s this, George?’
‘That’s a broken bit,’ muttered her mother, prising the cable from her.
George took the cable from Ellen. ‘It’s fixable, though.’ He crouched down and held the end of the cable before Geenie’s face. ‘Perfectly fixable.’
‘Really, Crane, you look quite proletarian.’
George bit his lip. ‘Ellen—’
‘I’m joking. You couldn’t look proletarian if you tried.’
He bit his lip again. Then he said, ‘I happen to like bikes.’
‘How many do you need? You already have one, which you never use, and I’ve offered you a car of your own. Besides which, there’s the Lanchester, which you’re free to use any time.’
George smiled at Geenie. ‘But I like bikes,’ he said again, sending a pedal spinning with one hand. ‘And anyway. It’s not for me.’
He looked up at Ellen, who was standing with her hands on her hips. ‘Can Geenie ride?’ he asked. ‘Diana can. And since she’ll be here soon, I thought it only fair that Geenie has her own bicycle. Then they can ride together.’
The Good Plain Cook Page 4