The Good Plain Cook

by Bethan Roberts

‘Why?’

  ‘Operations are very dangerous—’

  ‘People don’t usually die of a broken ankle.’

  ‘Well, Jimmy did. The operation went wrong. Sometimes it happens.’ Ellen stood up and shook the towel out. She must get inside before the dog started howling again. ‘Jimmy was unlucky. We all were.’ She dressed quickly, being careful not to look directly at Geenie, who was staring at the house, her blank face steady and unblinking.

  Leaving her daughter on the lawn, Ellen walked to the writing studio. The door wasn’t locked, and she went straight inside and managed to close it before the tears came. The afternoon sun had made the studio like a glass house, and she leant back on the door and wept and sweated silently, one hand across her mouth, the other clenched tight across her belly.

  When she’d managed to stop, she sat in Crane’s armchair and steadied her breathing by telling herself, over and over: he will be back. She could smell the muddiness of the stream on her hands. Her nails were full of it. He will come back. He’d sit here again and look at her while she scolded him for not getting on with his novel. He would have to come back, and when he did, she would make it all right. After all, hadn’t she been thinking of him, of their first time together, even when Robin had been inside her yesterday? It was amazing how one man could seem like another during the sexual act, how you could almost forget who the man was entirely, and become lost in the act itself. Robin had been a sure-touched and attentive lover, but hadn’t she been thinking of Crane’s trembling hands? It was outside the bedroom that men were so very different.

  Perhaps if she waited long enough, Crane would arrive and find her in the chair, and she could say she’d been sitting there, waiting, all the time he’d been gone. Then he’d call her his Cleopatra, and they’d make love on his desk. Perhaps there was still some hope for a pregnancy.

  Wiping her wet cheeks with the heel of her hand, she stood and, telling herself that she didn’t mean to, opened his top desk drawer. She didn’t think about what she was doing, or of what she was about to do; she just clasped the brass handle and pulled. Inside were several photographs of Diana as an infant (one in a knitted bonnet on her mother’s slim lap); a couple of pens with broken nibs; a letter from the publishing house saying they would always welcome him back; and a dirty handkerchief. Ellen pulled the second drawer open. Apart from a clutch of rubber bands and a few pencil shavings, it was empty. The final drawer was the deepest, and felt heavy as she pulled. She knew this was it: the manuscript. And sure enough, there was a pile of paper, the top leaf of which read:

  LOVE ON THE DOWNS

  a novel

  by G. M. Crane

  What did that M stand for? He’d never used a middle name before. She stepped back from the paper and swallowed, becoming aware of how very quiet it was in the studio. Briefly she remembered Geenie, still sitting outside, staring blankly at the house, and thought that she should push the drawer back into place and go into the house to fetch them both some barley lemonade. Or maybe a gin and it. But instead she reached in, dragged the pile of paper from the drawer and placed it on top of the mess of papers on his desk. Then she stood a moment, looking at the top sheet, the rush of her blood making her feel light-headed. She gave a small laugh – how bad could it be? It was only the story of their love affair. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what had happened. What was happening.

  She turned over the title page. The second page was blank, apart from an inscription typed halfway down the sheet: For my dear Diana. Ellen stared at the words for a full minute, not quite believing it wasn’t her own name there, before turning two more blank pages and coming to the heading: CHAPTER ONE: The Arrival. Turning another page, she finally found a whole typed paragraph, which she held before her and read.

  It was going to be an endless summer. Georgina Chance had arrived at the Sussex cottage with her family two days ago. As soon as she set foot in the place, she’d left the crashing of teacups and the clatter of servants carrying goodness knows what up and down the stairs behind, and had climbed to the top of the green hill which rose up from the end of their long garden. For she was a young woman with scant respect for the oppressive gentility of her generation. Born into the aristocracy, she longed for one thing: escape from manners and money, and all that went with it.

  So it was about her, albeit in a roundabout way. Realising that her fingers were sweating, making the thin paper wilt, Ellen sat in the armchair, placed the page flat on her lap, and read on.

  No one could have been more relieved than she to be out of London. The Downs were there, wetly beckoning from every window.

  She’d have to challenge him on that. ‘Wetly beckoning’ wasn’t right at all.

  What bliss it had been to walk barefoot through the grass, with no care for convention, and no one to see her shapely white ankles!

  Yes, that was right. Although Ellen herself had yet to walk the full height of the hill.

  She’d allowed her thoughts to wander to her great love: poetry. Her father was against poetry, caring only for money and commerce, and her mother said it was ‘all right until you get married’. But for Georgina, poetry was the life force itself, and out there, on the green hills, she could feel its power in her very bones...

  Ellen rose and went to the desk to find the rest. But the next page was blank. She placed the typed page on top of the ones she’d already read and lifted another page. That was blank, too. And the one after that. And the one after that. She picked up the whole pile of paper and flicked through its corners with her thumb. But there was nothing. Not one more word. Just page after page of white, blank paper.

  Perhaps this was a false start. The rest of it would be somewhere else, hidden. She bent down and looked beneath the desk, lifting the edge of Blotto’s hair-matted old blanket. A ripe whiff like stewed meat came up, and she moved away, holding her nose. She looked around the room. Of course. The filing cabinet.

  On her knees, she wrenched up the wooden shutter. The top drawer was stuck; as she tugged it open it made a squealing sound which reminded her of the lorry she’d seen dragging that poor cow down Petersfield High Street. But she blinked that thought away. When she’d finally got the thing fully open and delved her hand to the back, it was empty. The next drawer opened easily, but there was nothing in there apart from a copy of The Socialist Sixth of the World. Ellen threw it on the floor in disgust. The other drawers yielded only dog-eared envelopes and stray photo-corners. Then she looked beneath the low table with the wireless on top; all she found was the wastepaper basket, so she rummaged in there, too, fingering a drying apple core and a screwed-up piece of paper. She was about to move on when she noticed that the paper had something typed on it, so she smoothed it flat and read the words: Sunlight. Shadow. The girl brings him cakes on a tray. His blood is heavy with wanting.

  She almost screwed it back up and threw it away – she was thinking about looking behind the filing cabinet now – but something made her read it again. Sunlight. Shadow. The girl brings him cakes on a tray. His blood is heavy with wanting.

  Ellen stood, holding the page in her damp fingers. She smoothed it out once more, trying to get rid of all the creases this time, to make it completely flat, thinking that perhaps she’d missed something. She read it again. The girl brings him cakes on a tray.

  There was no mistake, no hidden word, nothing missing in the creases of the paper. Sunlight. Shadow.Who else could it be? Who else could it be, this girl with cakes who made his blood heavy? Her stomach squeezed tight, and she felt a hot liquid at the back of her throat. She leant on the desk to steady herself until the nausea had passed.The girl brings him cakes on a tray. How had she not seen it before? His novel was nothing, the story over before it had begun, the heroine ridiculous, and nothing like her – apart from those ankles; it was clear to Ellen now that Crane had been sitting in this place for months doing absolutely damn all; but who was this? She heard herself saying it aloud. ‘Who is this?’ Her voice was small, strangle
d. ‘Who is this?’ she repeated, knowing the answer full well.

  · · · Twenty-nine · · ·

  They came back in the middle of the night. Geenie was twisted in her bed, waiting for sleep, when she heard the front door open, the low sound of George’s voice, and Diana’s quick footsteps up the stairs. She sat up and listened. The clack-click of Diana’s door closing was louder than usual, and was followed by several bangs and crashes. Then there was George’s even tread along the landing. A rumble – that would be him putting his case down. A couple of thumps – taking his shoes off. The squeak of her mother’s bedsprings. And then – silence.

  She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Tiptoeing to the door, she listened. Not a sound. Keeping close to the wall, she edged along the landing to Diana’s room. Once inside, she could make out Diana’s suitcase, still buckled, sitting by the window. There was also a large lump beneath the bedclothes. A large lump which didn’t move when Geenie hissed, ‘Diana!’ So she sat on the edge of the bed, flicked on the lamp, and poked the lump. It twitched. ‘You’re back!’ she whispered.

  ‘Go away,’ said a muffled voice, and the lump shifted.

  Geenie sat a while longer, looking at the lump, wondering whether to leave it alone. Then she thought of the saggy centre of her own bed, and how lonely it was there, and she said, ‘Something exciting happened, while you were away.’ She stretched out a hand and tried to find the edge of the sheet so she could peel it back. Grabbing a piece of smooth cotton, she pulled, but a hand appeared and gripped the sheet hard, preventing it from moving.

  ‘Please come out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Again, Geenie tugged at the bedclothes. This time she caught Diana off guard, and the sheet came away suddenly, revealing Diana’s back. The girl was curled in a cramped ball, and was still wearing her blouse and skirt. Her hair was pulled into a tight plait so intricate in design, and so securely knotted, that it must hurt to wear it. ‘What happened to your hair?’ Geenie whispered.

  ‘My mother did it.’

  Geenie tapped Diana’s tense shoulder. ‘Look at mine! Look at my hair, Diana!’ She crawled around the bed, trying to see her friend’s eyes. But Diana remained scrunched tight, her face pressed to the mattress.

  ‘Please look.’

  Diana covered the back of her head with both hands, as if ducking a blow, and curled into an even smaller ball.

  Geenie sat on her heels and sighed. Deciding she may as well wait, she stretched out along what was available of the bed, and tried to stay as still as possible. Her friend couldn’t remain in that position forever, she reasoned, and, in the end, her curiosity about the exciting thing that had happened would surely get the better of her.

  Eventually, Diana stirred. Very slowly, she removed her hands from her head and caught hold of Geenie’s wrist. Geenie waited a moment before whispering, ‘I’m glad you came back.’

  ‘Daddy said we had to. I could’ve stayed with Mummy.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  Diana lifted her head. ‘It just wasn’t the right time. Mummy’s got a very important show on and it wasn’t the right time for her. Any other time, I could’ve stayed.’

  Geenie put her other hand on top of Diana’s. ‘I’m glad you came back,’ she repeated.

  After a while, Diana uncurled herself and knelt next to Geenie on the bed. ‘What happened to your—’

  ‘I cut it,’ said Geenie, sitting up.

  Diana clamped her fingers around the top of Geenie’s scalp and twisted her head this way and that so she could examine the bob fully. Finally, she nodded her approval. ‘Was it awful here without me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Geenie, without thinking. ‘Quite awful. Apart from the haircut. And Ellen and I bathed in the stream and I soaked her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Diana, yawning, ‘I don’t mean to stay long.’

  ‘What does your father say?’

  ‘You know Daddy. He hardly says anything. Unless it’s about the workers.’ She looked Geenie in the face. ‘We have to carry out the plan, so I can get home.’

  Geenie had almost forgotten about the plan.

  ‘We have to start as soon as possible,’ continued Diana, lying flat on the bed, stretching her arms and closing her eyes. ‘We’ll begin first thing in the morning.’

  Geenie remained sitting upright, watching over her friend until Diana’s plump bottom lip fell away from her teeth and she began to snore, softly.

  . . . .

  ‘Keep still, Miss.’

  Kitty looked peculiar with all those pins in her mouth. Her face was set, her voice louder than usual.

  ‘Now turn around, please.’ She pressed the cool steel tip of the inch tape into the nape of Geenie’s neck and ran the length of it down her spine. ‘Two pompoms, was it?’

  ‘Yes. And they must be black,’ interjected Diana, who was sitting on a kitchen chair, watching, having already been measured for her costume.

  ‘You said, Miss.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ asked Geenie.

  ‘That depends.’ The tape was now around Geenie’s waist. Kitty held the ends together for a moment, then let it go and began spinning it around her hand, winding it back into a ball.

  ‘On what?’ asked Diana, swinging her legs and scuffing the tiles.

  ‘That’s you done, Miss,’ Kitty said to Geenie. When she’d finished winding the tape, and had written some numbers down on a little pad, she turned to Diana. ‘It depends on how busy I am, Miss.’

  ‘Can you hurry?’ Geenie pressed her palms together and gazed up at Kitty from under her brows. ‘Please, Kitty? Can you?’

  Kitty laughed. ‘Well. I suppose it shouldn’t take me so very long…’

  Geenie hopped on the spot.

  ‘Especially if I borrow my sister’s machine.’

  Diana stood and, with her hands behind her back, aimed a dazzling smile directly at Kitty. ‘That would be really super of you.’

  Kitty took a step back. ‘Yes, well. I’ll see what I can do.’ She turned to the table and picked up one of the long white cotton nightdresses Geenie had dumped in her lap that morning. ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to use these, Miss?’ She held one up to the light from the window. ‘They’re very nice stuff.’

  ‘They’re old,’ said Geenie, standing at her side and gazing at the fine cotton.

  ‘But your mother said we could use them?’

  Geenie nodded. ‘She hasn’t worn them in years.’ One was from Geenie’s dressing-up pile, the other she’d pinched from her mother’s drawer this morning. But she hadn’t told even Diana about that.

  Kitty looked from Geenie to Diana and back again. ‘Well, if you’re sure—’

  ‘When can you do them?’ asked Diana.

  Kitty gathered up the fabric, her notebook and her workbox. ‘We’ll see.’

  Diana shot a look at Geenie. ‘When?’ asked Geenie, standing in front of Diana and grasping Kitty’s hand. It was smaller than her mother’s, and much rougher to touch, but she squeezed it as tenderly as she could. ‘When do you think you might?’

  Kitty looked down at her fingers, and Geenie gave another squeeze.

  ‘I’m going to my sister’s tomorrow, so I might be able to make a start then—’

  ‘Oh, please do!’ said Diana.

  ‘But I can’t promise anything, Miss. Now, I really must get on.’

  Geenie could tell by the little flush rising in Kitty’s cheeks that they would have the costumes soon enough.

  . . . .

  They began rehearsals right away in Geenie’s bedroom, wearing just their knickers and vests (because no other costume would have been right), and with their faces painted white. Diana had appointed herself writer/director, and Geenie was in charge of costumes and set.

  ‘First of all,’ said Diana, standing on the bed with her hands on her hips, ‘we’ll both do a song.’

  Geenie was sitting cross-legged on the paint-stained ru
g. ‘I can’t sing.’

  ‘You can do a dance, then.’

  But Geenie didn’t think she could do a dance, either. ‘Can I do Cleopatra?’

  ‘You want to do Shakespeare?’

  ‘No – just Cleopatra.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  Geenie thought. ‘I’ll die on stage. I’ll collapse in a swoon, and I’ll die. I’ll wear my white robe.’

  ‘But we’ll be in Pierrot costumes. That’s the point.’

  Geenie was silent. From here, Diana looked rather frightening: her hair, now released from its complicated plait, had gone kinky and wild.

  ‘I’ll do a dance,’ said Diana, kicking up one leg and managing to keep her balance perfectly whilst the earrings wound around Geenie’s headboard rattled in a mad dance. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Anyway. That’s just the prelude.’

  ‘What’s a prelude?’

  ‘It’s like an introduction. Something to whet the audience’s appetite.’ Diana strutted from one side of the bed to the other then launched herself to the floor, landing before Geenie with a quiet thud, her hair shuddering around her bare shoulders. ‘What’s important is the Main Act.’ She licked her lips. ‘Now. It’s a one-act play called What the Gardener Saw. You’ll be the housemaid, Ruby, and I’ll be the great poet, John Cross.’

  ‘Can’t I be the great poet?’

  ‘No. My father’s a poet and I know much more about it.’

  Geenie lay on the floor and looked at the ceiling. ‘Can’t we do another play?’

  Diana slowly walked around her friend before leaning over and looking into her face. ‘You get to kiss me.’

  Geenie sat up and the two girls’ noses almost touched. ‘What happens?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Diana giggled and pulled the other girl to her feet. ‘It’s hopelessly romantic. We open with me.’ She jumped into position, sitting at the end of the bed. ‘I’m at my desk, composing, like this.’ She crossed her legs and, resting an elbow on one knee, put a fist to her forehead. ‘Then you come in with your duster—’