The Good Plain Cook

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘Why would Geenie want to ride a bike? She doesn’t need to. She can ride a horse. What good’s a bike on the Downs? A bike’s only any good on a road, where a car’s much better.’

  George straightened up and folded his arms. He looked into Ellen’s face and she looked back at him.

  ‘And that thing is far too big for her. Really, Crane. For an intellectual you’re awfully slow sometimes.’

  ‘Why are you so set against this?’

  Ellen shifted her gaze to the willows at the bottom of the garden. She tapped her foot. For a few moments, all three of them listened to the leaves swishing in the breeze, and waited.

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘I’m not against it.’

  ‘Oh?’ George laughed. ‘It sounded like you were. But if you’re not…’

  ‘Not entirely.’ She traced a semicircle in the wet grass with her shoe.

  ‘I could give you a backie.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’ Ellen smiled a little. ‘It sounds slightly obscene. I might like it.’

  ‘It means I cycle and you sit.’

  ‘I’d much rather have a horse between my thighs.’

  ‘Have you ever tried?’

  ‘A horse?’

  ‘A bicycle.’

  Geenie stepped out from behind her mother. This was her chance. ‘Ellen can’t ride a bicycle.’

  Ellen’s hand landed on her daughter’s shoulder and pressed down, hard. There was a long silence.

  Geenie persisted. ‘She’s never learned to ride a bicycle. Have you, Ellen?’

  George’s eyes flickered towards Ellen. ‘Really?’

  ‘You can give me a backie, George,’ said Geenie.

  ‘Shut up, Geenie. That’s enough.’ Through her thin cardigan, Geenie could feel her mother’s nails.

  George drew a hand slowly across his mouth. ‘You can’t ride a bike?’

  Ellen let go of her daughter and threw her hands in the air. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really? Can you, or not?’

  ‘No! All right? No! I cannot ride a bicycle. Who cares about riding a damn bicycle? There’s more to life than pedalling along roads. More to my life, anyway.’

  ‘I’m just a bit surprised. I thought everyone—’

  ‘Everyone what?’

  ‘Could cycle.’

  ‘Well, I can’t. It’s just one of those useless things I never learned, like ancient Greek and cricket.’

  ‘But, riding a bike. It’s, ah, well…’

  ‘It may have escaped your notice, Crane, but I was brought up by a family of New York millionaires. No one in my family rides a bicycle. NO ONE. It’s just not something you do if you’re a Steinberg.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away. Geenie wondered if she should step into that place behind her mother which would make her invisible again.

  ‘James never rode a bicycle.’

  George didn’t reply. Geenie tried to remember if she’d ever seen Jimmy on a bicycle. Cars were more his thing. She remembered him letting her rest her head on his thighs during long journeys, when she would gaze at his hands on the steering wheel, marvelling at how he could touch the sides quite lightly, it seemed, and the car would move this way or that.

  ‘He never rode a bicycle. Ever.’ Ellen’s eyes were very wide, and her chin was jutting forward.

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘Of course not.’

  There was another long silence.

  After a while, George said, ‘Look. None of that means that Geenie shouldn’t learn, does it?’

  ‘It’s not up for discussion.’ Ellen turned and began to walk back to the house.

  Geenie decided not to step into that place behind her mother. Instead, she stood beside George and watched Ellen stride away. George sighed and patted the saddle again, as if it were a faithful dog. Geenie gazed at his lopsided face, and saw that his cheeks had hollowed.

  ‘But I’m not a Steinberg.’

  Ellen stopped. Very slowly, she turned around. ‘What did you say?’

  George covered his eyes. Geenie looked at her mother. Ellen’s chin was tucked tightly into her chest, and she knew she may as well carry on. It would be as bad either way. ‘My name’s Floyd,’ she said. ‘Regina Eleanor Floyd and I want to ride a bike with Diana.’

  Ellen charged towards her daughter and grabbed her by the upper arm. ‘And where’s Charles Floyd now? Do you see him?’

  Geenie did what she always did when her mother got mad: she went silent.

  ‘Do you see him?’

  Geenie looked down at the grass and shook her head.

  ‘No. That’s because he’s not here. He left. Charles Floyd, your illustrious father, abandoned us before you were two years old. But I am here, Ellen Steinberg, your mother, is here. And that makes you a Steinberg too, do you hear me?’

  Geenie looked at George.

  ‘I said, do you hear me?’

  Geenie swallowed hard. If she kept her head completely still, if she concentrated on the individual blades of grass and the way some of them were curved and some of them were straight, the tears might not start.

  George cleared his throat. ‘Now then. Ah. Look. Might it not be a good thing if Geenie here were to have a little go? What harm can it do?’

  Ellen let go of Geenie’s arm.

  Geenie held her breath. Some of the blades were twisted right round, so they looked like tiny tubes of grass.

  ‘Come on, Ellen. It’s just a bicycle. Geenie didn’t mean what she said, did you, Geenie?’

  Like hollow green tubes. A few of the tubes had water in them.

  ‘She’s sorry. She’ll always be a Steinberg, won’t you, Geenie?’

  Geenie looked up at George. His eyes were brown and soft, and she knew she could say yes and not mean it, and it would still be all right.

  She nodded.

  After a minute, her mother said, ‘She could fall off.’

  ‘Ellen.’

  ‘She could fall off and break a leg. Or an ankle. And whose fault would it be? Who’d be responsible?’

  ‘I would,’ said George. He put a hand on Geenie’s hair, and breathed out. ‘I’d be responsible.’

  . . . .

  The first time was terrible. The saddle was much harder than it looked, with lumps in the wrong places, and, just when she thought she’d got a good grip on them, the pedals kept whipping round and banging Geenie’s ankles. Her socks would be stained with black, her shins stained with bruise. The handle grips were hard, too; they were cold beneath her fingers, and slippery to touch. Like the pedals they could escape without warning, causing the whole thing to swerve and topple beneath her.

  Her mother watched silently from the window as Geenie grappled with the bike and George tried to steady her. Geenie could see Ellen’s pale face beyond the glass. Her nose looked particularly large and pink that day. She said it reacted to the weather: any dampness caused a swell. The cottage was always damp, and the grass outside was wet after a thunderstorm in the night.

  The wheel slipped again, and Geenie’s feet skidded on the grass, but she managed to keep the thing upright by gripping the crossbar between her knees. She looked up at the window and caught her mother’s eye, but Ellen did not move from her ringside position. She just stared out, nose glowing slightly, mouth drawn in a tight line.

  Geenie realised her legs were shaking, and her fingers ached from gripping the handlebars. She stood still for a moment, allowing herself to breathe.

  ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said, looking at George, who was holding the back of the saddle.

  ‘You’ll get it. Right foot on pedal and push off. I’ve got you, so you won’t fall.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘No such word as can’t. Only won’t.’

  He wasn’t usually like this, his words coming fast and sounding like the truth. Normally he left gaps, sighed and hummed. But now he was telling her what to do, very clearly, and she found that she wante
d to follow his instructions.

  ‘Both hands on the handlebars?’

  She took hold of the tough white rubber again and squeezed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’ He paused. ‘Remember what I told you?’

  ‘Keep looking ahead.’

  ‘Good. And?’

  ‘Don’t look down.’

  ‘Good girl. And?’

  ‘Keep pedalling.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  There was sweat on his forehead, and he had his sleeves rolled up again. His hair, usually greased back in place in a short wave, was sticking up in a peak above his forehead.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She glanced at the library window, but her mother was gone.

  ‘Off we go, then. And push!’

  At his command, she pressed her right foot on the pedal and lifted her left from the floor. This was the worst moment: one foot in the air, the other groping for the flat surface of the pedal, the bicycle’s balance depending on finding it. Everything wobbled as her foot floundered madly.

  ‘Steady.’

  She found it. Pushed down. And the bicycle moved forward.

  ‘I’ve got you. Keep pedalling.’

  She pushed down again and the spokes rattled. The grass sighed. The breeze was suddenly loud in her ears.

  ‘Very good. Keep going.’

  His footsteps were behind her as she pedalled. She pedalled right across the grass and along the side of the house, past the garage and to the front gate.

  ‘Feel good?’

  He sounded breathless, but she kept pedalling. If she kept pedalling, she could be on the road and away from the house and no one could stop her. She could pedal across the village and up the Downs, and over the top to the sea. She could keep going, her feet pushing down, pushing down, pushing down, her hands light on the handlebars, the saddle warm between her thighs. All she had to do was keep looking ahead.

  She was out in the lane now. The may bushes were frothy with white and smelled of clean laundry. Cow parsley brushed her arms.

  She pushed down. She looked ahead.

  It wasn’t far to the end of the lane, where the road began. Geenie sat up straight and pedalled, letting her legs go light as the wheels gathered momentum and the pedals seemed to push themselves around. It was like swimming, only better: she was dry and warm, and she could go faster, right to the end. But there was that same feeling of weightlessness, of being borne up, held above the path by rubber and air.

  The end of the path was near now, and she looked back. Just to check if he was still there, because she’d have to turn the bicycle, or stop, and she wasn’t sure how you did either of those things.

  He was not holding on to the bike. He was not running behind her. Instead, he was standing at the beginning of the lane, and he was starting to clap. He was applauding her as if she had achieved this thing.

  Then the bike swerved and there was cow parsley in her face and a branch scratching her arm in a long sharp line, but she kept pushing her feet down and looking ahead and somehow the bike straightened again and she was back on the path.

  ‘Brake!’ George was shouting. ‘Brake, Geenie! Pull the brakes!’

  She squeezed the brakes and crashed her feet to the floor at the same time, so her shoes dragged along the stones and her bottom came right off the seat. She kept braking and dragging until the bicycle came to a stop, and only then was she able to unlock her fingers from the handlebars. The whole frame crashed to the side, and so did she.

  There were small stones in her cheek and the back wheel was on her leg.

  ‘Good girl,’ she heard him shout. ‘What a journey!’

  Geenie sat up. Brushing herself off, she gazed at the puffed clouds bubbling overhead, and she did not cry. When she got back to the cottage, she’d say nothing about this to her mother, she decided; she’d keep it all to herself.

  · · · Seven · · ·

  All week, Kitty longed for her bath. At Lou’s, she’d become used to taking a bath on whatever evening she liked, but here she had to take it on a Friday, between eight and ten o’clock. When the time finally came, she waited until nine, when Geenie was usually in bed, and Mrs Stein-berg and Mr Crane were in the sitting room together. Venturing out of her room at any other time was just too risky: Mrs Steinberg might be wandering the house, looking for Mr Crane, and Geenie might be anywhere at all.

  She gathered up her dressing gown, towel, and the copy of Garden and Home Lou had given her, and listened at the door. Kitty’s room was only reachable through the kitchen, and it was unlikely anyone would be in there at this time. Occasionally she heard Mr Crane’s steady footsteps on the flags at night; in the morning there would be crumbs on the table and butter left out by the sink.

  She opened her door, walked across the kitchen floor, and then listened again to check no one was in the corridor.

  In the kitchen, she could hear music coming from the sitting room: a man’s deep voice, but not Bing Crosby or even Al Bowlly. Lou loved Bing, but Kitty found his songs too sleepy. This voice was much raspier, younger. The things I do are never forgiven it sang. Then there was a bang, and Mr Crane’s laugh.

  Kitty imagined that Mrs Steinberg was dancing around that huge room. Now that the wall had come down, there was certainly plenty of space for it. Mr Crane would be sitting in his armchair, watching, perhaps with a book on his lap. The woman would be flinging her arms about, just like her daughter when she was dressed up and acting out those solo plays of hers on the lawn. And wearing no stockings.

  It was probably safe to make a dash for it.

  She opened the door. The hallway looked clear. It was impossible to see around that blasted corner, though, and she almost shrieked when she came across Blotto, sitting on the hall floorboards, waiting for some action. The dog looked up hopefully, then got down on his belly and shuffled along the floor like a huge hairy insect towards Kitty’s feet. Deciding it wasn’t safe to stop and pat, Kitty stepped past the creature and pressed along the hall, her stockinged feet rasping on the bare wood.

  There was Mr Crane’s laugh again: sudden and surprisingly loud.

  She didn’t run along the corridor, not exactly. But she must have taken the two steps up to the bathroom too fast, because now she was holding out her hands and the gown and towel were wrapping themselves around her legs as she went down. Her shin bone cracked against the step, but she didn’t yelp; she went down silently, still clutching the magazine in one hand, then sprang up again, grabbing the gown and the towel with the other hand as she leapt inside.

  Once in the bathroom, she leant against the door and tried to breathe normally. She couldn’t hear any footsteps. Perhaps no one had heard her fall. If Mr Crane had heard, would he have come to see what was wrong? Or would he have shrugged and continued to watch Mrs Steinberg dance without stockings?

  The bath was huge, with gnarled claw feet and brass taps which squealed as she twisted them. The geyser choked. It would take at least ten minutes to even half-fill the tub; sometimes she thought it would actually be simpler to use the public baths in Petersfield, as she’d done before Mother died. Whilst waiting, Kitty sat on the bath’s edge and opened her magazine.

  Are You the STAR in Your Husband’s Life? she read. Or have you allowed yourself to slide into a minor, supporting role? Wasn’t that what wives were supposed to do? Slide into supporting roles? Not that her own mother had done any of that. She was always the one who went to the pub whilst her father waited in. ‘Once he looked at the clock when I came home,’ she’d told her daughters. It was one of her many stories, meant to prove that they were all better off without him. ‘I told him, don’t you dare look at that clock.’ She’d gripped the arms of her chair as she spoke. ‘And he never did again.’

  Remember your husband is human. What he really expects of you is that you should continue to be the leading lady in his life, the heroine of the domestic drama, and that every now and then you should
spring on him a new act. In that light, look at the woman you see in the mirror and ask yourself today: ‘Is she slipping or is she still a star?’

  Had Mrs Steinberg read this? Kitty had never seen the woman with a magazine. She was always carting big books by authors with foreign names about. Not that Kitty had ever seen her actually reading. It would be easy, Kitty thought, for Mrs Steinberg to become a leading lady, if she put a bit of effort in; that was what money was for, wasn’t it? Money could put a shine on the ugliest of women, as Lou often pointed out, particularly when she saw a photograph of Mrs Sweeny in the Daily Mail.

  She dipped her fingers in the bath. Still warm enough, although the water had started to run cold.

  Unbuttoning her frock, she glimpsed her reflection in the full-length mirror which stood in the corner of the room, and she turned away to unhook her stays and roll down her stockings. Then she stepped in the bath quickly, so as not to catch sight of herself again. Kitty had yet to look at the whole of herself in that glass; it was the first full-length mirror she’d been confronted by. She’d seen parts of her body at Lou’s house, of course, in the dressing-table glass: her shoulders, small and yet fleshy; her belly-button, like a comma in her rounded stomach; her breasts, which seemed alarmingly blue. Once, she’d even peered at the dark nest between her legs with a compact, but had been unable to see much with just the bedside lamp, which had been a bit of a relief. But never the whole thing together.

  She slid into the water, turned over on her stomach, and rested her cheek on the enamel. It wasn’t very comfortable this way but if she balanced right, she could pretend she was floating in the sea. She could still hear music coming from the sitting room, and she began to rock back and forth, the water rippling over her hands and thighs and backside as she pushed herself along the bottom of the bath. It was like the time she’d gone to Bognor Regis on the Sunday School outing and had spent hours letting the tide wash her up and down the sand, the whole length of her brushing the beach as the sea moved beneath. She closed her eyes and listened to the raspy young voice coming from downstairs. I hear music, then I’m through! It was full of – what? Something like movement. Sweetness, too.