The Good Plain Cook

by Bethan Roberts

Kitty stood and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘You’d better show me.’

  Outside, the sculpture of the naked bottom glared in the sunshine as Kitty followed Geenie to the end of the garden. Where was Arthur? Wasn’t it a man’s job to get children out of trees? If he really wanted her to go dancing with him, shouldn’t he be coming to the rescue?

  Geenie pointed to the sprawling willow by the stream. Blotto was racing around the base, barking.

  ‘She’s stuck,’ the girl said again.

  Shooing the dog away, Kitty stood looking up at a pair of bare feet. Inside the cavern of the tree’s branches, the sunlight was fractured with green. Everything seemed to flicker as Diana’s feet swayed high above.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

  ‘She should jump, shouldn’t she?’ said Geenie.

  ‘No!’ Kitty covered her mouth with a hand. ‘I mean, I don’t think so, Miss.’

  Geenie sauntered around the trunk, digging her toes into the soft dirt of the bank. ‘She might fall in the stream.’

  Kitty suddenly thought of the woman in the awful painting above her bed, summoning up the courage to plunge into the waterfall. The water would be deliciously cold on such a sunny day. It was really too hot for a vest. She should’ve gone without.

  ‘Should I go up and fetch her?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Miss.’

  ‘What shall we do then?’

  Kitty looked around the garden, hoping to see the red streak of Arthur’s moustache. ‘When will your mother be back?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Geenie was hanging on a low branch, her feet skimming the dirt below.

  ‘It’d probably be better if you didn’t do that, Miss. It’s making the branches move.’

  Kitty looked up into the tree. Surely if the girl got up there she could get down again.

  ‘Do you think you could come down, Miss Diana?’

  There was no reply.

  Kitty glanced at Geenie, who was still hanging on the branch. ‘How did she get up there?’

  Geenie rolled her eyes. ‘I told you. She climbed. She’s like a cat. Her mother’s a ballerina.’

  Kitty touched her hair. So he’d been married to a dancer. She hadn’t imagined that.

  She cleared her throat and called again. ‘Won’t you try to come down, Miss? Please?’

  There was a long silence. They watched the girl’s feet swaying above.

  Then there was a voice, surprisingly flat and calm. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  Geenie grinned. ‘What shall we do?’ She skipped around the base of the tree, and began to chant. ‘What shall we do? What shall we do? What shall we do?’

  Kitty’s hands were greasy with sweat as she ran them down the front of her apron. Where the devil was Arthur? Reading in his shed, probably. She knew that’s what he did when Mr Crane and Mrs Steinberg weren’t about. He stood his spade in the earth and disappeared, emerging only when a long farting sound announced the arrival of Mrs Steinberg’s car.

  Kitty took off her apron, folded it, and placed it on the ground. As a girl, she’d never climbed trees. Lou had been the one who came home with holes in her stockings and grit in her knees. Once Kitty had managed to scale a slippery log in the school yard, but towards the end she’d fallen and twisted her wrist, and that was the end of that.

  ‘What shall we do? What shall we do?’ Geenie chanted.

  Taking hold of the nearest branch with both hands, Kitty pulled herself upwards. The whole tree seemed to shake. She attempted to grip the trunk with her feet, but the soles of her shoes were slippery and she was soon back on the ground.

  She unlaced her shoes and kicked them to one side. Reaching up beneath her skirt, she unhooked her stockings, rolled them down and folded them on top of her apron. Then she started again.

  Geenie stopped chanting, sat on the bank, and watched.

  Every time she reached for another branch, bark grazed Kitty’s skin, but she was off the ground now and Diana’s feet were dangling above, pale and arched. Is that what her mother’s, what a ballerina’s, feet looked like? She heaved herself up to another branch, clinging to a spindly twig that was piercing her side. Kitty knew she must not, at any point, look down.

  Probably Mr Crane would return to find two females stuck in a tree, instead of one. She hadn’t thought that poets would like dancers. It didn’t seem very likely, somehow, that people who spent all day with words would like people who spent all day jigging about. She tried to grasp the trunk with her bare knees and hauled herself up another level. A piece of bark broke off under the pressure of her foot and fell to the ground. She mustn’t think about the slipperiness of her hands in this heat. It was good, at any rate, to have her shoes and stockings off, even if it was up a willow tree in search of a silly girl.

  Then she thought: what am I to do when I reach her? A child of eleven would be too heavy to carry even on the flat, and Kitty herself was small and slight. Diana was almost at her height already.

  She reached for Diana’s foot, but her fingers came just short. ‘Do you think you can come down with me, Miss Diana?’ She couldn’t yet see the girl’s face, only the long stretch of her legs and the mushroom-shape of her gathered skirt. ‘Can you just get to where I am?’ Kitty could feel the warm air on the backs of her knees. She must be at least twelve feet above the ground now. She peered through the branches over the garden. The cottage seemed a long way off.

  ‘Is my father back yet?’ asked Diana.

  ‘No, Miss.’ Kitty tried to grasp the girl’s foot again, and wobbled so severely that her stomach leapt towards her lungs.

  ‘He’s not back?’

  Kitty took a breath. ‘Not yet, Miss.’

  ‘I think I might stay here. Until he comes.’

  Diana swung her foot away from Kitty’s reaching hand.

  ‘Is she coming down?’ called Geenie.

  Kitty tried to steady herself. Her fingers were beginning to feel numb from gripping the branch so hard. ‘I think you should come down now, Miss Diana, please.’

  ‘But my father might be here in a minute.’

  The leaves flickered in the breeze.

  ‘Please, Miss. He might be hours, mightn’t he?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Kitty closed her eyes. She must not look down. ‘It will be all right, Miss.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘I’ll help you.’

  The branches shuddered again as Diana kicked out her foot. ‘But he might come! Don’t you understand? My daddy might come!’

  Kitty was sure she could hear her own knees creaking in time with the branches. She licked a bead of sweat from her lip. Then she reached for Diana’s ankle again, caught it, and held fast. The girl let out a little yelp.

  ‘You’ve got to come down.’

  To her surprise, the girl gave a loud sob.

  ‘Come on now,’ said Kitty, softening her voice.

  ‘You won’t tell him I got stuck, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Diana sniffed. ‘You’re hurting my ankle.’

  As Kitty let go of Diana’s foot, the girl slipped from her branch and hung before Kitty for a moment, her plump lips open, her eyes wide and slightly red, her limbs stretched at impossible angles; then, before Kitty could say anything, Diana swung herself to a low branch, then a lower one, and finally launched to the ground, where she landed with a whump.

  ‘Is she hurt?’ Kitty called.

  There was no reply, just the sound of running, and Blotto’s high-pitched bark.

  Kitty looked down. It didn’t seem so far, after all. The dog was still standing there, yapping at her. For a moment she considered what would happen if she stayed in the tree. How long would it be before anyone noticed? Then she thought: Arthur would come. In the end. But she couldn’t wait for that.

  Her fingers seemed jammed with heat and her knees were shaking, but somehow her feet found their hold. Slowly, she lowered herself through the branches and to the ground. The girls had disappeare
d and there was still no sign of Arthur. The bloody floor could wait. Who would notice, anyway? Leaving her apron, stockings and shoes on the dirt, Kitty sat on the bank, dipped her bare toes into the stream and wondered if her cooling feet were anything like a ballerina’s.

  · · · Sixteen · · ·

  After Diana slid from the tree so gracefully – Geenie didn’t hear a sound until the other girl’s feet were on the ground – the two girls ran into the cottage together, stifling giggles. Geenie wasn’t entirely sure what they were laughing about, but the sight of Diana’s puffed-up cheeks and bunched lips was enough to build a laugh in her own belly. Once they reached the kitchen, they looked at one another and let go; Diana opened her mouth and howled, grabbing the handle of the stove to steady herself. Geenie collapsed on the damp tiles and, catching sight of Kitty’s abandoned bucket, laughed harder. It wasn’t until her ribs were aching and her cheeks felt as if they’d been stretched behind her ears that she noticed Diana had stopped laughing and was sitting at the table, staring at her own hands.

  Geenie swallowed another giggle and got up from the floor. ‘Are you all right?’

  Diana’s dark hair fell over her eyes as her head drooped forward.

  ‘How did you manage it?’ asked Geenie. ‘You slipped right past her.’ She stepped closer to her friend. ‘Diana?’

  ‘He didn’t come.’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  Diana didn’t reply, but Geenie knew the answer.

  Then there was a rattle and a cough, and Arthur appeared. He stooped in the doorway, removing his boots. ‘Hello there,’ he said, heading for the tea kettle, not looking at the girls. ‘Where’s Kitty?’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ said Geenie.

  . . . .

  The box of watercolours was still open on the floor, the brushes stuffed in the jam jar of water. Geenie ignored the splodge of cobalt blue that had now dried on her bedroom rug.

  Geenie’s room felt damp with heat and was always gloomy, even in summer. Diana lay back on the bed, holding a copy of The Arabian Nights above her head.

  Geenie frowned at the other girl’s foot. ‘Flowers?’

  ‘We had flowers this morning,’ said Diana, without looking up.

  ‘How about swirls?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  Geenie licked her thumb and rubbed it along Diana’s sole before beginning. It was good to have a slightly damp surface. Then she sucked on the end of her paintbrush. The wood was beginning to flake and tiny strips of it caught between her teeth.

  ‘Burnt sienna?’

  Diana shifted on the bed but said nothing.

  ‘Or vermilion?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Vermilion, then.’ Geenie wetted her brush and loaded it with so much paint that it dripped down the sides and trailed across her fingers.

  ‘Hold still.’ She clasped Diana’s foot and brought the brush to her skin.

  ‘That tickles.’

  Geenie flicked the brush between Diana’s toes.

  ‘Stop it!’ Diana threw her book to the floor.

  Red paint had speckled the bedclothes. Both girls looked at the drops in silence.

  ‘I’m sure George would have come, eventually,’ said Geenie. ‘And the way you leapt from your branch was absolutely amazing. Like a gazelle, or something.’

  Diana laid her head on the pillow and sighed. Geenie waited, brush in hand. Should she begin again? A pattern of swirls was all worked out in her head. They would start small, right in the centre of Diana’s foot, then get larger, spreading out to lasso each of her toes.

  After a while, Diana said, ‘Did I tell you about my mother’s feet?’

  Geenie had already heard all about Diana’s mother’s toes, and how Mrs Crane had found it hard to walk on normal shoes since she’d become a ballerina, but she said, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Her toes are like claws. She has special muscles in them. She can stand on pointe for ages. When my father saw her in Pulcinella he was intoxicated.’

  Geenie decided her swirls would have to wait for another day. She held out her brush. ‘Do you want to do me instead? You can do whatever you like.’

  ‘All right.’ Diana sat up. ‘Take off your blouse.’

  Geenie did as she was asked, glad to be rid of the blue, heavily embroidered garment, which was slightly too small for her and was clinging to her armpits in the heat. Her nipples prickled in the air. She stood before Diana, who looked her up and down without smiling.

  ‘Turn around.’

  Geenie faced the door, scooping her hair away from her back with one hand. She could hear Diana rubbing the brush in the paint. Then she was jabbed, hard, between the shoulders, and Diana splurged paint right across her cooling skin.

  ‘Don’t get it everywhere. Ellen won’t like it.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’

  The brush was prickly, and Diana pressed so hard that Geenie almost lost her balance. But she said nothing. She heard the other girl’s breathing become heavier, and felt the outward rush of warm air on her left shoulder as Diana concentrated on covering her back with paint.

  ‘You’ll be like a Red Indian.’

  Geenie’s arm started to ache from holding her hair, and her skin felt tight where the paint was beginning to dry.

  Diana’s brush reached the bottom of her back. ‘I’m going right down,’ she said.

  ‘That tickles.’

  ‘Keep still.’

  Geenie closed her eyes to keep from squirming. Cold paint was dribbling into her knickers.

  Diana sat back on the bed. ‘It’s perfect. Look.’

  Looking over her shoulder, Geenie saw her own reflection in the hand mirror Diana was holding up. The paint was already cracking as she moved. There were streaks of orange in the hair at the back of her neck, and the strokes on her lower back were sketchier than those on her shoulders, but the effect was dramatic.

  ‘You look wild,’ said Diana. ‘We could do all of you. Like in a show. My mother wore an all-over sheath once. The newspapers said it was shocking and degenerate.’

  Geenie studied her red back, thinking she looked like she had some kind of disease. Then she said, ‘I don’t think we’ve got enough paint.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Diana dropped her brush into the jam jar and went back to her book.

  . . . .

  That night, after listening to the soft whoas for a while, Geenie let herself into Diana’s bedroom, closed the door, and tried to still her breathing. The other girl wasn’t rolling around, but a low whimper came from her lips, as if she were trying to speak.

  Geenie sat on the end of the bed and watched. She thought of Diana sliding through the willow, of how the branches would have caught her arms and legs, grazed her knees and elbows. When she’d landed on the ground, had she turned an ankle, or bashed her toes? Was she hurting? Were there bruises she hadn’t shown to anyone? All through dinner, she’d been silent. Geenie had known she shouldn’t mention the tree incident, no matter how much she longed to blurt out the details to Ellen, especially the bit about Kitty taking off her stockings and climbing into the branches. So she’d been quiet too, occasionally scratching at the flaking paint on her back until her mother had snapped, ‘Have you caught fleas from that dog?’

  She moved up the bed, flicked on the bedside lamp, and looked into Diana’s face. It was glowing, despite the crease between her eyebrows; her cheeks were plump and flushed, and saliva glistened on her open bottom lip. Geenie put a hand to Diana’s forehead and held it there for a moment. Then, when she’d found the courage, she moved her fingers gently back and forth across Diana’s brow. Her own feet were heavy with cold and her legs were beginning to go to sleep, but she kept stroking the other girl’s skin.

  Suddenly Diana took a big breath and opened her eyes wide. She stared at Geenie for a second, her pupils huge and black. ‘I thought you were my mother.’

  Geenie said nothing.

  ‘I thought I was at home.’ Groan
ing, Diana turned over in the bed.

  The blankets muffled her movement, but Geenie could see Diana’s shoulders heaving.

  ‘Do you miss her?’ Geenie whispered.

  The blankets heaved again.

  Standing up, Geenie pulled Diana’s sheets back and climbed into bed beside her.

  It was awkward at first: Diana’s bed wasn’t as large as Geenie’s, and it was a squash just getting all her limbs onto the mattress. Their knees clashed, and she didn’t know where to put her hands. ‘I’m cold,’ she said, moving closer, trying to burrow into Diana’s warm fug.

  When Diana opened her arms, Geenie was surprised by how small she was, despite her height; up close like this, the other girl’s body seemed wispy, full of angles and protruding bones; even her chin was tiny and hard as she dug her face into Geenie’s chest and wept. But eventually the two of them closed their eyes and found sleep.

  · · · Seventeen · · ·

  There was the snap of cotton being shaken out before she saw anything. The snap of cotton, followed by Geenie’s voice: ‘You be Clark Gable. I’m being Claudette Colbert.’

  Kitty was on her way downstairs to clear away the breakfast things, having finished sweeping the landing, when she heard the sound, and noticed Mrs Steinberg’s bedroom door was ajar.

  ‘Draw a moustache on me, then.’ Diana’s voice came from Geenie’s bedroom, and Kitty stopped, her soft broom in her hand, and glanced through the crack from where the snapping sound had come.

  The blood seemed to thicken and slow in her veins as she stood in the gloom of the landing, holding her broom and watching Mr Crane dressing.

  He was standing with his back to her, looking at himself in the mirror, his green shirt in his hand. He was naked to the waist. His shoulders were wider than they appeared when clothed, his waist slim, his spine straight, and at the very bottom of his back there was what looked like a large dimple, an indent of pale flesh just above where his braces hung down to his thighs. A soft place.

  As he moved to slip an arm into a sleeve, the muscle on his shoulder jumped and stretched. He swung the shirt across his back, the fabric billowing out, and pushed the other arm in. With several shrugs, he eased himself into the shirt, smoothing it over his chest and belly with one hand, tucking it into his trousers with the other.