The Good Plain Cook

by Bethan Roberts

  Ellen was silent. In the half-light, she was trying to make out how much Laura’s stomach had grown since she last saw her. Beneath her silk tunic, there was a sizeable bump.

  ‘Have you been in town lately, then?’

  ‘Heaps. I have to occupy myself. Can’t seem to get my mind off this damn pregnancy. Tabs has been an absolute tonic.’ Laura pushed her bowl away. ‘Sorry, darling, I can’t eat anything this green at the moment.’

  ‘You must be very excited,’ said George.

  ‘Must I?’

  Crane reached across the table for more bread.

  ‘Can’t you ask for that to be passed?’ flashed Ellen.

  There was a pause before Laura gave a little laugh and said, ‘Don’t mind me. I’m not the slightest bit bothered by manners. I’ve been teaching Tab: just because everyone else does these silly things – ladies first, endless apologising and all that – doesn’t mean we should. She was terribly polite when I first found her.’

  Tab grinned.

  Ellen filled her own glass with wine. ‘Your brother is usually such a stickler for manners, Laura. He’s really surprisingly bourgeois, for a Bolshevik.’

  There was a long silence, throughout which Diana continued to slurp her soup.

  ‘Has everyone finished?’ Crane stood and began to collect the bowls.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ demanded Ellen.

  ‘Clearing the table. Kitty’s had a lot to organise this evening, and we always said we didn’t want her waiting on us.’

  ‘How is the little thing coming on?’ asked Laura.

  ‘She’s coming on very well,’ said Crane, carrying the stack of bowls out of the door. ‘Very well indeed.’

  Ellen bit her lip. The lukewarm soup had left her stomach feeling bloated and oddly empty.

  ‘We must have some light,’ she said, suddenly pushing back her chair and squeezing herself free from the table. ‘It’s too damned dark in here.’

  She left the room and went into the library. Ignoring the bespectacled gaze of the stuffed fox (why had she allowed Crane to keep that thing?), she rummaged in her desk drawer for some matches. When she’d found them, she flung open the window, sat on the ledge and looked out into the evening. The sky was a deep pink, and the house martins were circling. There was no air, even here: just the smell of the baked earth after another boiling day. She told herself to concentrate on that. To breathe in the earth. To not think about the hot stink of cow. She glanced over at her typewriter and the folder of letters. She should get back, she knew, but first she had to re-read one part of Crane’s letter.

  But if, when the time is right, you decide to live again, to love again, please live with me.

  I can be patient. Who knows how two people should act, at a time like this? All we can know are our feelings for one another.

  She’d known her feelings, hadn’t she? It had seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. There must be some way to make it the right thing to have done.

  She placed the letter back in the folder, rubbed her scalp, and returned to the dining table, clutching the box of matches.

  Crane had brought the potatoes through, and provided everyone with a dinner plate. Ellen struck a match and leaned across to light the long candles in the centre of the table. Her fingers were trembling a little and she had some trouble getting the last one going.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Geenie, looking up at her mother.

  ‘I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘You do look a little odd, darling,’ said Laura.

  ‘It must be the heat.’

  ‘You were always complaining that it was cold before,’ said Crane.

  ‘But this heat – it’s too close, isn’t it? It gets under your skin.’

  ‘You ought to try carrying a damned baby around in your stomach,’ said Laura, lighting a cigarette. ‘That really warms things up.’

  Kitty came in with the salmon. She was still wearing her apron, and her face was round and pink about the cheeks. Ellen watched her as she placed the fish down. The girl really wasn’t bad looking: a tidy little figure and a neat waist. A shine on her lip. She seemed to be standing straighter, too, and her hands no longer shook when she put something on the dining table.

  Kitty made a small bob, then backed out of the room.

  ‘How many times must we tell that girl not to do that?’ asked Ellen, standing to dish up the salmon. It looked passable: its eye still firm, its skin lightly crisped, garnished with parsley and lemon. Using a fork and spoon, she peeled back a strip of silver to reveal the rose-coloured flesh beneath, thanking God it wasn’t beef.

  ‘Pass plates, please.’

  ‘Have you told Aunt Laura the good news, Daddy?’ Diana was looking at her father with a bright face.

  Crane’s eyes met Ellen’s. He looked very tired. She thought again of the wounded animal being dragged along the street.

  ‘We’ll tell Aunt Laura later, Diana dear,’ she said, firmly.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Laura had her elbows on the table and was leaning towards Diana, cupping a hand around her ear. ‘Whisper it to me. I love secrets.’

  Crane put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Yes, it is good news, actually. I’ve been offered some work. With the Party. Lecturing.’

  As soon as Ellen plunged the knife in, she knew the fish was overdone. There was no give to the flesh, no room. It was dry, and when she lifted a slice and dropped it on Crane’s plate, it stood absolutely still.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Laura said, blowing out a stream of smoke. ‘I’m a vegetarian now.’

  ‘Lecturing?’ said Ellen, slicing another piece of fish.

  ‘Don’t vegetarians eat fish?’ asked Geenie.

  ‘I don’t eat anything that’s drawn breath.’

  Tab held out her plate. ‘I’d love some. Salmon’s my favourite.’

  ‘She’s such a carnivore.’ Laura traced a line along Tab’s jaw with one finger. ‘Or should that be a pescivore? I’ve never met a girl with such a taste for the sea.’

  ‘Lecturing? Where?’

  ‘I want to be a vegetarian,’ said Geenie loudly, folding her arms across her plate.

  Ellen stuck a fork into the fish and let it stand there, stiffly upright. ‘Where will you be lecturing, Crane?’

  He was helping himself to potatoes. ‘All around the country.’

  ‘You’ll be travelling?’

  ‘Quite a bit, yes.’

  ‘And when were you going to mention it?’

  ‘I thought now might be a good time, seeing as Diana brought up the subject of good news. I’ll be speaking to the people about the importance of politics in great literature.’

  ‘Can I have some fish?’ asked Diana.

  Ellen ignored her. ‘The importance of politics in great literature.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And what’s happened to the great literature you’re supposed to be writing?’

  ‘Haven’t you finished that blasted novel yet, Georgie?’ Laura laughed. ‘What’s he been doing all this time in that studio of his, Ellen?’

  Crane began to dissect his fish. ‘The novel is not as important.’ His voice was low and steady. ‘This is real work. Work that can change people’s minds. Work that can change the way things are.’

  Ellen snatched Crane’s plate from the table. ‘Don’t eat that.’ She began clearing everyone’s plates and cutlery. ‘In fact, don’t eat any of it.’

  ‘Ellen—’

  ‘It’s awful. Ruined. I’m going to have to do something about that girl. She can’t cook anything. She never could.’

  Crashing the plates down on the table, she shouted, ‘Kitty!’

  Crane put his hand over his eyes.

  ‘Kitty! Come here please!’

  ‘Ellen, don’t—’

  ‘Kitty!’

  There was the sound of a door slamming and footsteps along the corridor. Kitty appeared in the doorway, her face flushed.

&
nbsp; ‘What have you done to that poor fish?’

  Kitty’s mouth moved but no sound came out. The sight of her downcast eyes made Ellen even more furious. ‘It’s ruined!’ She couldn’t help yelling. ‘Absolutely ruined! What did you think you were doing? Incinerating it? The point is to cook it, not kill it.’

  There was a loud bang as Crane smashed his fist on the table. ‘Ellen! Not here. Not now.’

  ‘Why not? It’s my house. I want to know what this stupid girl thinks she was doing. I want this explained.’ She stepped closer to Kitty. ‘Do you think I didn’t know you weren’t a cook when you first came here? Do you think I couldn’t see right through you? I gave you a chance, and this is what I get in return. Fucking incinerated fish.’

  Kitty was staring at the floor.

  Crane went to her. ‘Kitty,’ he said, softly, ‘you can go now. We’ll talk about this in the morning.’

  Ellen’s hands were shaking. She brought them to her scalp and rubbed at her hair to try and still them.

  ‘Leave the washing-up,’ added Crane. ‘We’ll do it.’

  Ellen looked at Laura. ‘Give me a cigarette.’

  Laura took one from her silver case, lit it against her own, and handed it to her.

  ‘I did it like it said in the book.’

  They all looked up. Kitty was staring at Ellen, her chin trembling but her eyes fierce. ‘Mrs Steinberg. Madam. I did it how it said.’

  Crane put his hand on her elbow. ‘You can go now, Kitty. Take the rest of the evening off.’

  But the girl was still staring directly at Ellen. Then there was a sudden crackle, and the room went dark.

  ‘Blasted generator,’ muttered Crane. ‘I’ll see if Arthur’s still about.’ He stepped from the room and held the door open for Kitty to follow him, but she remained where she was, staring at Ellen.

  ‘Nothing works in this damned house,’ said Ellen, sinking into a chair.

  ‘Just like it said in the book,’ Kitty said again before turning to go.

  The girl’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. Ellen’s cigarette smoke evaporated into the air.

  · · · Twenty-five · · ·

  Kitty had been sitting on her bed for the last hour, staring at her embroidery. It was no use, she knew, trying to tackle the girl’s face now. Without the electric light, she couldn’t see enough, and her fingers felt too large and hot for the work. It was partly that the blood was still thick in her head; she could feel it pumping down her neck, along her shoulders and through her arms. Anger made her body want to move, to lash out at something, but still she sat with the embroidery on her lap, her work-box open at her feet, and tried to concentrate on the stitches.

  The embroidery was heavier in her hands now. She brought it close to the paraffin lamp she’d placed by the bed. The sky and the sea, the crabs, starfish, pebbles and rocks were done. She’d unpicked and corrected the wonky claw, and the crabs looked almost solid, she’d been so careful to keep her satin stitches absolutely even and close together. Each one was snug up against the next. Kitty was particularly pleased with the contrast of the burnt orange thread she’d used for the shells with the black French knots of the creature’s eyes. She was now halfway through the girl stooping with her net in the foreground. The outline of the girl’s face, which Kitty had begun in stem stitch, was tricky: she knew that if she got it wrong, the whole thing would be skewed. With hair a few extra stitches were all right, but you had to be careful with faces. One stitch too many and a face could turn into a shapeless blot.

  She put the embroidery down on the counterpane beside her, stood up and went to the wardrobe. Opening it, she smelled cinnamon and decided she must scrub the whole thing clean. There was something wrong with having another woman’s perfume in your wardrobe. The emerald frock was still hanging there, unworn, above the single green shoe given to her by Mrs Steinberg on her first day. What had the woman been thinking? No one could do anything with one shoe. She should have refused it straight away.

  It was no good. She was thinking again of them all sitting round their dinner table, watching her. Of Diana with her little smile. Of Geenie with her worried eyes. Of that strange woman with the purple hair who looked like a lovely boy; she’d been the only one who hadn’t stared. Of Mrs Stein-berg’s face, like Lou’s was when Kitty had told her just before Mother died that she should’ve come sooner. Like a child who’d been smacked. Knowing they’re in the wrong, but willing you to be the one to blame.

  After Mrs Steinberg had shouted, Kitty went into the kitchen and, still feeling the touch of Mr Crane’s fingers on her arm, removed her apron and hung it on the door. The generator hadn’t yet got going again, so she’d lit a paraffin lamp she’d found in the larder and washed the soup bowls he’d brought through for her earlier, thinking he carried these for me, not thinking of Mrs Steinberg’s face, of her voice, of fucking incinerated fish. It was almost funny, wasn’t it? Getting that annoyed over a bit of salmon. Mrs Steinberg had told her she wasn’t to spend more than two shillings a week on the MacFisheries order – so what did she expect? She wasn’t a miracle worker. Lou would have pointed that out to her employer, quick as you like. Well, what do you want? Bloody miracles? And Arthur would have laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. Whatever you say, Mrs S. Walked away. Neither of them would have stood there trembling, only managing to squeak something about doing it like the book said.

  When she’d finished washing the bowls, she’d fetched her sharp scissors from her work-box. Back in the kitchen, she’d sliced straight through the Chinese lantern’s tassel and thrown it in the bucket she kept by the door for the compost peelings.

  Now she glanced at the clock on her chest of drawers. Only nine. He might be out there, in his shed, even now.

  She peeled off her old work frock and changed into the blue lily print. Looking in the glass, she noticed that her hair had lightened in the sun, and her cheeks were still flushed from the incident. That wasn’t a bad thing. She bit down, hard, on her bottom lip, to bring the colour up, dipped her finger into her pot of Vaseline and ran it round her mouth. It was a trick Lou had shown her, years ago: not quite lipstick, but almost as good. Should Arthur ask her again, she decided, she would miss tea at her sister’s on Sunday afternoon in favour of the dance she knew they held at the Crown and Thistle Hotel in Petersfield. It was mostly girls dancing with one another, of course, and only tea to drink, but maybe that would be for the best.

  Then there was a knock at the door.

  Kitty stood very still. If the woman was coming to start on again about the bloody fish—

  Another knock. Quite a light knock. A bit of hesitation in it.

  She held her breath, wondering how long it would take for Mrs Steinberg to retreat.

  Then there was a voice – ‘Kitty. It’s Mr Crane. May I come in, please?’

  She looked around. Her room wasn’t untidy – it never was – but the embroidery was on the crumpled counterpane and her work-box was open on the floor. Hurriedly, she stuck her old frock on a hanger and closed the wardrobe.

  ‘Kitty? Are you in there?’

  Taking a breath, she pulled the door open. He was holding a candle. As soon as she saw his face – lined and a bit startled looking in the wavering light, as if he hadn’t expected her to actually open up – she turned away and sat on the bed, trying to hide the work-box under her feet.

  ‘Sorry to disturb – may I come in?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Thanks.’ He stood for a moment, looking around. ‘I thought you might need this,’ he said, pointing at the candle. ‘But I see you’ve sorted yourself out.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  He put the candle on her chest of drawers. ‘Look here,’ he began. ‘I – ah – sorry it’s a bit late – but I thought…’ he trailed off.

  She waited.

  ‘Are those your parents?’ he gestured towards the framed photograph.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I?’ Picking up the photograph,
he held it at arm’s length, inclining his head first this way, then that, as if studying some exquisite object he might be about to buy.

  ‘Your father has a very fine look about him.’

  Kitty glanced up. ‘Does he?’

  ‘He appears – full of humour. Doesn’t he?’

  Kitty thought about her father going up the passage to fart. Don’t tell, Kitty-Cat.

  ‘And what a smart jacket.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not his.’

  Mr Crane raised his eyebrows.

  ‘He didn’t have a suit. I expect he hired it, from the photographer.’

  ‘Quite. Yes, I see.’

  He put the photograph down and dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, about earlier.’

  She focused on the place where his grey flannel trousers were going thin at the knees. There would be a hole in the left one soon. What would it take to make him a new pair? She’d never made a pair of men’s trousers before, but she estimated three yards of a light gabardine – perhaps navy blue, it would go with his dark hair – and a high waist, with a slimmer fit. She could run them up for him on Lou’s machine in no time.

  ‘You see, Ellen – Mrs Steinberg – is a bit out of sorts at the moment. Not that that’s any excuse. But I’m sure you’ll – ah – understand.’

  Had she sent him here, to apologise on her behalf? Kitty knew she should say it’s all right, but couldn’t bring the words into her mouth.

  He sat down heavily then, right next to her on the bed. ‘I want you to know that I’m very pleased with your work, Kitty. Very pleased indeed.’

  It didn’t seem to get cooler any more, even at this time in the evening. She could smell the sweetness of his sweat. There was still that pulse of blood in her neck and shoulders, making her body warm, making her want to move, to lash out. She swallowed it down.

  ‘Is this your work?’ He was looking at the embroidery she’d left on the counterpane.

  She nodded.

  He picked it up and held it close to the candle to examine it, just as he’d examined the photograph. ‘It’s the most accomplished craftsmanship, Kitty. It really is.’