The Good Plain Cook

by Bethan Roberts

  ‘Here?’ He looked around.

  Leaning back on the gnarled trunk, she untied her dressing gown. There was the sour smell of stream water, and the click-click-click of leaves in the breeze. Here was as good a place as any, although her feet were tingling with cold and Crane’s eyebrows seemed to have been raised since she’d made her suggestion in the bedroom.

  Ellen closed her eyes and waited.

  To her relief, he stepped forward and kissed her. It was a dry, rather precise kiss, and she pulled him closer, trying to soften his lips with hers. When his mouth had warmed, she tugged down his braces and, twisting her arm between their two bodies, began to unbutton him. Her fingers knew exactly where to go, and she could feel the tautness in his stomach as she slid her hand into place.

  Immediately his lips went to her neck, but, as she took him in her hand, she found he was still small and soft.

  ‘George?’

  He was sucking at her neck as though it were a segment of orange. Trying to squeeze out all the juice.

  ‘George.’

  He lifted his head but did not look at her. They were both breathing hard.

  She mustn’t say anything, she suddenly realised. If she wanted this baby she’d have to pretend it was her fault.

  Giving a little shiver, she offered, ‘Sorry, darling, it’s just I’m feeling a bit cold all of a sudden. Shall we go inside, after all?’

  She was about to step away from him, but he said her name, caught her by the shoulders and shoved her against the tree. His eyes were fierce, and when he began kissing her again, his lips and tongue were so forceful that her head was driven back into the trunk and the bark dug into her scalp. He pressed his whole body against hers, and for a moment she panicked, thinking he was going to push the breath right out of her, flatten her into nothing against the willow. But then she reached up and felt the dampness of the night in his hair, and she remembered who they were: Ellen Steinberg and her lover, outside, not caring who knew or who disapproved, and she let herself go with it.

  Crane gathered her thighs in his hands and lifted her until she was in the right position. Ellen closed her eyes and told herself to hold on, to hold on and feel nothing but the pressure of her lover’s body.

  · · · Nineteen · · ·

  After some confusion over which button fastened to which strap, Mrs Steinberg had finally got her apron on the right way round. The sight of the woman clad in starched white cotton made Kitty take a step back. She looked strangely like the angel in the painting above the altar of her old Sunday School church in Petersfield: shining, determined, and stiff as a ship’s sail.

  ‘What are we starting with, Kitty? I’m terribly excited about this, aren’t you?’

  Kitty hadn’t slept all night. On Sunday she’d asked Lou’s advice about what to cook for the first ‘lesson’ with her mistress, and Lou had been very clear: ‘Mutton cutlets. You can’t go wrong. It’s all in the presentation.’ She’d presented Kitty with a set of cutlet frills – little paper collars for the bones – which would make the dish look ‘just like it does in the White Hart Hotel’. The meat should be bread-crumbed, deep-fried, and served standing upright around a mound of peas, on top of a layer of piped mashed potato. Last night, every time she’d closed her eyes, Kitty had seen sheep wearing frilly white cuffs.

  ‘Cutlets, Mrs Steinberg.’

  It was eleven o’clock and they were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen table, a pile of meat and the basin of breadcrumbs, which Kitty had risen at half past six this morning to make, between them. Kitty had been careful to place them away from the reach of the lantern’s greasy tassel.

  Mrs Steinberg put her hands on her hips. ‘Cutlets?’

  ‘Mutton cutlets, Mrs Steinberg. Mr Gander’s boy brought them this morning. Best end of neck.’ Kitty gestured towards the package on the table.

  Mrs Steinberg peeled back the paper wrapper and peered at the red flesh. With her forefinger, she prodded each piece in the meatiest part. ‘Just cutlets?’

  ‘Oh no. There’s a special way of serving them, you see, on a layer of mashed potato…’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Kitty dear,’ Mrs Stein-berg flashed a half smile, ‘but don’t you think we could attempt something a little more, well, adventurous?’

  Kitty felt her lips tighten. She glanced towards the window. Outside, Mr Crane was doing his exercises, swaying his arms back and forth, his elegant hands white in the sun.

  ‘What about something French, for example?’

  Kitty made herself look back at her mistress. The woman’s cheeks had a greyish tinge, and her eyes were a little bloodshot. But despite appearing tired, she was still constantly moving: touching her hair, tapping her foot, licking her bottom lip, which she did now, as if in a hurry to get somewhere.

  ‘I’ve got a book,’ Kitty ventured, knowing she could always cook the cutlets by herself, without Mrs Steinberg interfering. And if the woman chose the recipe, well, then it would be her responsibility.

  She fetched Silvester’s Sensible Cookery from the shelf by the sink, noticing that he was still striding about outside, his arms waving. Remembering the jump of his muscle as he’d pulled on his shirt, she held the book tightly to her chest.

  ‘Let me see,’ Mrs Steinberg snatched the book and thumbed through its pages, muttering under her breath. ‘Oyster patties – why mess with perfection? – Beef à la Mode – not more beef – Kromesques of Veal – have we any veal?’

  Kitty shook her head.

  ‘Omelette Soufflé Well, that’s French, I suppose. And I am very good at scrambled eggs, Kitty; did I ever tell you that? Now, let’s see.’ Mrs Steinberg tapped her foot and nodded to herself as she read the recipe through. ‘Sounds simple enough. Take six eggs—’ She looked up.

  ‘In the larder, Madam.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Mrs Steinberg closed the book.

  Whilst her mistress was in the larder, Kitty sat at the table and waited. Outside, there was a clunk as the door to the writing studio closed. That meant he wouldn’t come out again for a while.

  A voice floated through the larder door. ‘Where, exactly?’

  ‘Second shelf. On the left.’

  ‘Damn.’ Mrs Steinberg came back into the kitchen and circled the table. ‘There’s only four. Why have we only four eggs, Kitty?’

  ‘I’ve ordered more for tomorrow morning, Mrs Stein-berg.’

  Then Kitty heard a stifled sound, something like a chirp, or a giggle. Behind her mistress, she saw Geenie and Diana peering through the doorway, hands over their mouths.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Mrs Steinberg, turning.

  The girls ran off.

  ‘I – don’t know, Madam.’

  Mrs Steinberg was tapping her foot and holding her hair away from her face, stretching her forehead in the most peculiar way. ‘Right. Well. It looks like it’ll have to be cutlets, then.’

  Kitty looked at the clock. Half past eleven already, and no sign of Arthur. It would probably be better if he didn’t come in for his morning tea today, what with the lesson and the invitation to the dance still hanging in the air. She still wasn’t sure why she’d said yes, and had been trying to think of ways to take her answer back. It had been such a relief to hear him ask again, that the ‘yes’ had just popped out. Now she’d have to face a whole evening with him, and she’d have to try her hardest not to lead, like she had with Frank. Unless she could think of some excuse not to go.

  ‘Where shall we start?’

  ‘First we have to do the potatoes.’

  ‘What do we have to do with them?’

  ‘Peel them, Mrs Steinberg.’

  ‘Right. Yes.’

  ‘I can do it, though.’ Kitty began spreading an old copy of the Herald on the table. ‘The potatoes are in the shed—’

  ‘I’ll get them.’

  Before she could protest, the woman had disappeared again, leaving Kitty standing, chewing on her forefinger, staring at the newsprint. T
his was going to take even longer than she’d imagined.

  ‘Look,’ said Mrs Steinberg, ‘I carried them in on my apron! Isn’t that what you do?’ She tipped four small potatoes onto the newspaper, scattering the table, and Kitty’s shoes, with dirt.

  ‘Yes. That’s what you do. Only—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We might need a few more, eventually, for all of you…’

  Mrs Steinberg looked at the vegetables. ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought.’ The woman’s hands dropped by her sides and she looked so downcast that, for a moment, Kitty considered consoling her. But then her mistress clapped her hands together. ‘I know what we need! Music! Let’s have some music!’ And once more she disappeared.

  Whilst the woman was out of the room, Kitty carried the potatoes to the sink and began to scrub them clean, staring through the window at the writing studio as she rubbed at the dirt. He’d opened and propped the door ajar, which was unusual. It must get warm in there, though, in this sunshine. He’d have to take his jacket off, and perhaps roll up his shirt sleeves. His bare wrists would be resting against the desk, rubbing against white paper.

  ‘I thought you might need these.’

  Kitty dropped her potato. She hadn’t heard Arthur come in.

  ‘I tried to tell her she’d need more but it was too late,’ he said, standing close behind her and emptying a basin of potatoes into the sink. Muddy water splashed up her arms. ‘Fetched you some peas, too.’ There was the smell of aniseed and his breath warmed her ear as he whispered, ‘You will come, won’t you? On Friday.’

  She squeezed a clump of mud between her fingers. ‘I— I’ve got to see about the time off. Wednesdays and Sundays are my usual evenings.’

  ‘Ask her today, then. Now’s a good time.’

  ‘Oh! Arthur! Duke Ellington or Glen Gray?’ Mrs Stein-berg was leaning on the doorframe.

  ‘Duke Ellington, definitely, Mrs Steinberg.’

  There were those yellow sparks in his eyes again, and he stroked at his moustache.

  ‘I knew you’d be a fan of the Duke, Arthur, I just knew it!’

  Arthur rolled his sweet around his mouth and grinned.

  ‘Didn’t you think so, Kitty? That Arthur would be a Duke man?’

  Kitty said nothing.

  ‘Best get on,’ said Arthur, opening the back door.

  ‘Don’t you want your tea?’ Kitty wiped her hair away from her brow.

  Mrs Steinberg looked from Arthur to Kitty and back again.

  ‘Later, maybe.’

  ‘Music!’ said Mrs Steinberg, heading back to the living room.

  Kitty turned to the sink and watched Arthur walk to his shed.

  ‘Don’t you love this one, Kitty?’ Mrs Steinberg was clicking her fingers in time with the beat. She twirled, her apron drawing a tight circle in the air. ‘Divine. Hot and sweet.’

  Kitty began to peel the potatoes while her mistress spun around the kitchen. ‘Ah do-wap, do-wap, do-wap, do-wap – dah!’ Her body, usually twitching and pulling this way and that, seemed loosened. There was no pattern to her movements – you couldn’t say she’d mastered any particular dance – but Kitty couldn’t stop watching her. The woman seemed changed by the music into a dipping, gliding thing.

  ‘Hot and sweet.’

  Kitty piled the potatoes into the pan and went to the sink to cover them with water, narrowly avoiding a collision with Mrs Steinberg.

  ‘I danced on the tabletops in the Dôme, you know, Kitty. That’s in Paris. Quite regularly. My first husband had to pull me to the floor to stop me.’ She spun around, flinging her arms above her head and letting out a long hoot like an owl.

  Kitty put the pan on the stove and started to smile.

  ‘How can you stand there when there’s music, Kitty? Dance with me.’

  ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘Come on.’ Mrs Steinberg grabbed Kitty’s wrists and pulled her away from the stove.

  ‘The potatoes—’

  Although she was smiling, the woman had a determined look on her face, and Kitty thought again of the angel in the church, its wings stretching and carrying it into the sky, and she started to move. She was suddenly sharply aware of her own body, of how the limbs joined together and creaked into life. If she wanted it to, would her left leg kick as high as Mrs Steinberg’s? Would her bottom sway back and forth in that way?

  ‘From the hips, Kitty dear, from the hips.’ Mrs Steinberg grasped Kitty’s waist and swung her from side to side. Laughing, Kitty allowed herself to move with her mistress. Mrs Steinberg pressed her thighs into the backs of Kitty’s own and leaned back, taking Kitty with her.

  ‘Now forward.’

  With the other woman’s arm around her waist, Kitty bent forward.

  ‘Now hop.’ They hopped on the spot. ‘Now back. Now hop. You’ve got it!’

  ‘Haven’t you made lunch yet?’ Geenie was standing in the doorway, her arms folded. ‘It’s almost twelve o’clock. Diana and I are hungry.’

  The two women were panting; Kitty could feel Mrs Steinberg’s chest rising and falling at her own back. Once her mistress had let her go, Kitty wiped her moist neck with her hankie, turned, and immediately fired the stove so she wouldn’t have to look at Geenie while she was so flushed. Her fingers slipped on the pan, causing it to crash onto the burner.

  Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘Oh, Regina, you look so cross. How can you be cross when there’s such music, darling?’ She spun over to her daughter. The woman’s face, Kitty noticed, was shining with perspiration, and her nose looked bigger than ever.

  Geenie folded her arms across her chest. ‘Where’s lunch?’

  ‘Honestly, darling, sometimes you’re so conventional. Will the world end if we don’t sit down for lunch at half past twelve on the dot?’

  The record had finished, but Mrs Steinberg was still dancing, swaying back and forth before her daughter, bobbing at the knee and reaching up into the air.

  ‘The potatoes aren’t even boiling, are they?’ Geenie tapped her foot.

  Her mother stopped dancing. ‘And what do you know about potatoes?’

  The girl looked directly at Kitty. ‘I watch Kitty. When you’re not here. She lets me watch.’

  Mrs Steinberg took Geenie by the shoulders. ‘You can watch me now, then. You can watch your mother do it.’ Her high voice was dangerously even and clear. Marching the girl to the stove, she pushed Kitty aside. ‘I’ll show you how to get them boiling.’ With a flick of her wrist, she turned the gas as high as it would go. The flame sprung around the pan.

  ‘What are we having with it?’

  ‘Cutlets.’

  Geenie pulled a face.

  Kitty tried to make herself as invisible as possible by sliding past mother and daughter, sitting at the table and beginning to shell the peas.

  ‘Look, Geenie, I’m doing it. Your mother’s doing it.’ Mrs Steinberg reached across Kitty, picked up a cutlet by the bone, and held it in front of her daughter’s face. A drip of moisture fell through the air, landing on Geenie’s bare toe.

  ‘Ugh.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly. It’s just meat. You want it juicy. Tell her, Kitty. You want meat juicy. It’s got no flavour, no life, in it otherwise.’

  ‘If it’s dead, how can it have life?’

  Eyes flashing, Mrs Steinberg held the meat out to her daughter. ‘Why don’t you touch it and see?’

  Geenie stepped back.

  Kitty had never liked touching meat herself, but she’d become used to it. Pulling the skin from anything was still a job she feared. She hated the way white fat would stick to the pink flesh beneath, trails of membrane stretching between the two parts of the animal like lengths of spittle.

  ‘Go on. Touch it.’

  With her eyes half closed, the girl held out her fingers.

  ‘You’ll have to come closer than that.’

  But Geenie seemed to have frozen in position, her mouth skewed in disgust. Her bottom lip began to tremble.

  Kitty
stood up. ‘I should get on—’

  Mrs Steinberg was still staring at her daughter. ‘Can’t you even touch it?’

  Kitty raised her voice. ‘I should really get on with those now, Mrs Steinberg.’

  The woman let out a long breath. Then she dropped the meat back onto the paper. ‘You’ll have to be more daring than that, Regina, if you’re going to get on in life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to take a risk.’ She turned on her heel and faced Kitty. ‘We’ll have lunch at half past one today.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Steinberg.’

  ‘Our lesson has been ruined by my daughter, I’m afraid. We’ll have to do it another time.’ She unbuttoned her apron and hung it on the door.

  ‘Mrs Steinberg?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Kitty hesitated. Her mistress’s nose was inflamed, her mouth pulled tight, and Geenie was still standing by the stove, staring at the floor. But if she said it now, she might get the answer that would give her an excuse. ‘Could I have my evening off on Friday this week?’

  ‘Friday?’ The woman sighed. ‘I really need your help on Friday, dear. Mr Crane’s sister is coming for dinner and I can’t cope by myself.’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t anything important?’

  Kitty forced the last pea from its pod. ‘Oh no. Nothing important.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled then.’ Mrs Steinberg swept from the room with Geenie following close behind, her blonde head still drooping.

  · · · Twenty · · ·

  It was the middle of the afternoon and the girls were bored. Geenie lay on the grass in the sun and Diana sat behind her in the shade of a willow. Bees droned in the air around them. Diana didn’t flinch, but, no matter how hard she tried to remain calm, Geenie had to squeal when a bee seemed close enough to enter her ear. She was sure she could feel its prickly woolliness against her lobe.