‘Where is everyone?’ asked Diana, peeping round the shed door. ‘I hope they’re all coming, now we’ve gone to all this bloody trouble.’
All morning, a large, round pebble had been growing heavier in Geenie’s stomach. Now it expanded a little and she gave a whine, like Blotto did when teased with food. When she put a hand on her friend’s arm and tried to see past her huge white sleeve, she noticed that her own fingers wouldn’t quite keep still. ‘We could just do it for Kitty and Arthur,’ she suggested, hopefully.
‘What would be the point of that?’
‘They might like it.’
Diana squealed. ‘They’re here!’ Slamming the door shut, she turned to Geenie. ‘Right. This is it. Plan into action.’
Geenie stared at Diana. With great clarity she suddenly saw that the costumes were all wrong. They should have pompoms. The black circles Kitty had sewn on instead were not the same. And Pierrot clowns were supposed to wear black skull caps, weren’t they? All they’d done was scrape their hair back and tried to keep it in place with soapy water. Their tears were smudged. And their ruffs were really just wide, flat collars, not the stiffened pleats that real Pier-rots wore. ‘It’s not right,’ she said, clutching Diana’s arm. ‘I don’t think we can do it. It’s not right—’
‘I’m on,’ said Diana, pulling away and opening the door.
In the earthy gloom of the shed, Geenie looked at Arthur’s neat rows of tools. Perhaps no one would notice if she just stayed in here. It was airless and hot, but she could stand it. It would be better than facing the four adult faces out there in the bright sunshine. She sat on Arthur’s deckchair, twisted her hands together and sweated. Outside, Diana was singing those charming, alarming, blonde women! in her best Dietrich voice. Geenie closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had to do. Was she supposed to scrub the floor first, or pretend to be dusting?
As Diana was nearing the end of the song, Geenie gathered enough courage to crack open the shed door and take a peek. Her friend was bobbing around on the lawn, kicking her legs in the air. She’d pulled her black hair into a bun and her head looked small and determined on top of her baggy white costume. Ellen, George, Kitty and Arthur were sitting in a row. Her mother looked rather bored, which cheered Geenie a little. George had his hands behind his head and a smile on his face, but his eye was twitching. Kitty’s cheeks were very pink, and she was looking at her knees, which was where Arthur’s eyes were also fixed.
Diana gave a twirl and a bow, and everyone clapped.
‘And now for our main attraction, which is a play written by me, Diana Crane. Ladies and gentlemen, What the Gardener Saw.’ Diana bowed again and extended an arm towards the shed, her white sleeve gaping in Geenie’s direction.
It was too late, now, to escape, and impossible to hide. Geenie’s blood fluttered in her veins as she pulled open the door. She knew she was walking – she could see her feet stepping across the lawn – but she felt as though she were swimming. Was it the lawn, or the sky, that was wobbling? She stopped beside Diana and anchored her eyes on Kitty, who gave her a small smile.
‘Oh!’ said her mother. ‘You both look so theatrical!’
‘What the Gardener Saw,’ said Diana again in a more urgent tone, gesturing to Geenie. This was a cue, but for what? Everything wobbled again. There was another small round of clapping, and Arthur began to chuckle.
The sun glared. Geenie stood and blinked. If she could just keep standing, things might stop moving around and glowing a ghastly pink.
Diana gave a short sigh before announcing in a loud voice: ‘This is Ruby, the housemaid. And I am the great poet, John Cross.’
Arthur chuckled some more. Geenie stood very still, staring at Kitty’s flushed face and searching her mind for some sort of command, some memory of the play, of the plan. What had it all been for? She could hardly recall.
Kitty nodded and smiled again, and Geenie let out a breath: she could see what she had to do now. Falling to her knees, she began to scrub the grass, not caring that her props were still in the shed.
‘That’s not the start,’ Diana hissed from above. But Geenie continued rubbing her knuckles in the dirt.
‘You’ve missed out the whole of the first act!’
‘Just carry on, darlings,’ laughed Ellen. ‘The show must go on and all that.’
Geenie could hear Diana puffing out a series of snorts, but she continued to work at the grass with her invisible scrubbing brush.
There was a long pause before Diana stepped behind Geenie, threw an arm over her own face and began to speak. ‘Who is this wondrous creature? What beauty there is to be found in a lowly housemaid! I am inspired as never before – inspired by love!’
Geenie heard her mother’s high-pitched laugh again, but it was quieter this time.
‘You beautiful creature! I must have a kiss!’ Grabbing Geenie’s arms, Diana hauled her to her feet, pinching her flesh so hard that Geenie winced. The pain seemed to reduce the size and weight of the pebble in her stomach, and stop everything from wobbling quite so violently.
‘Kiss me now, and then I will declare my poem in your honour!’ Diana’s hot breath was on Geenie’s face as she lunged forward for the kiss. ‘Do not resist me, maid! I am struck by the thunderbolt!’
Planting both feet firmly on the ground, Geenie pushed her hands into her friend’s chest. ‘No,’ she said.
Diana tried to hold her tighter, moving her hands to Geenie’s waist and pulling her in, but Geenie struggled and pushed harder. The two of them almost toppled. ‘My beautiful darling, my muse!’ gasped Diana, closing her eyes and puckering her lips. ‘One kiss is all I ask!’
Summoning all her strength, Geenie shoved Diana away. Just as the girl was regaining her balance and coming for her again, Geenie dodged sideways. ‘Leave me alone!’ she shouted.
Diana stood, staring at Geenie, who was faintly aware of her words echoing round the garden. Before the other girl could speak, Geenie turned to their audience. ‘The end,’ she panted, bobbing slightly.
There was no applause. George had his hand over his eyes. Kitty’s mouth was hanging open. Arthur was looking at the ground, chewing his lip.
Ellen got to her feet and put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Well done, girls. I’m not quite sure what that was all about, but I’m sure we all appreciated it.’ She began to clap, but no one else joined in.
‘I haven’t done my poem,’ said Diana in a small voice.
George stood and cleared his throat. ‘Well done, girls. Most – ah – inventive.’ He took Diana by the arm. ‘Come and tell your poem to me,’ he whispered, leading her across the lawn to his studio.
Geenie glanced up at her mother. ‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t it, darling? I’d never have guessed.’
‘It was better this way, though.’
‘You improvised, darling, which is very clever. And I like your costume.’
‘Kitty made it.’ She turned to the chair where Kitty had been sitting, but it was empty. Looking towards the house, Geenie caught a glimpse of the cook running through the back door, one hand pressed across her mouth, the other frantically cutting the air.
· · · Thirty-six · · ·
Kitty sat at the kitchen table, struggling to control her breathing. She’d been so preoccupied with the sensation of being next to Mr Crane on the lawn – once his knee had touched hers and the thudding in her chest had become so strong that she thought she would have to go inside – and with not looking at him, despite the burning in her face and the irritation in her fingers, that she hadn’t concentrated on what the girls were doing at all. It was only when Diana had declared What beauty there is to be found in a lowly housemaid! in that strange, hollow voice she’d adopted that Kitty had begun to pay attention to the play. And from that moment on, she’d prayed for the thing to be over.
Taking a deep breath, she laid her hands flat on the table, trying to steady her tr
embling fingers. The girls couldn’t know, she thought, what had really happened. They couldn’t. If they did, Geenie would never have pushed Diana away. But still. They must know something.
‘Tea?’
She swung round to see Arthur filling the kettle. He hadn’t come in for his late morning tea since they’d danced together that Sunday afternoon at the Crown and Thistle. As he measured out the leaves, tapping the spoon three times on the edge of the caddy, he whistled ‘The Continental’ under his breath. Setting the pot and two cups on the table, he pulled up a chair next to Kitty and sat down with a loud sigh.
‘Weather’s going to break soon,’ he predicted, taking the lid from the pot and stirring the tea with considerable force.
She tried to say something suitable, but her mind couldn’t settle on any one word. Arthur poured tea, then milk, into a cup and pushed it in her direction. ‘That was a proper spectacle, wasn’t it?’
She brought the cup to her face and blinked.
‘Those girls.’ He gave a laugh, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his eyes. ‘When Miss Geenie gave the other one a shove! It was all I could do not to laugh. I thought they were both going over. Splayed out on the lawn like a couple of wrestlers.’ He took a long slurp of his tea and ducked his head to catch Kitty’s eye. ‘You all right?’
She looked at her lap.
Then he said, in a low voice, ‘What the gardener didn’t see would’ve been more like it, eh?’
Kitty put her cup down. The china clattered and some liquid spilled into the saucer. She looked at Arthur, at his ridged brow, his neatly trimmed moustache. His eyes searched hers, and she knew he was waiting for her to deny it. But she could not.
A small smile passed over his lips. ‘Well, it’s like I said. It’s never good to get too close to them.’ He finished his drink and stood up. ‘Better get back to it. I’m a busy man.’
‘Arthur—’
He stopped, tea still glistening on his moustache.
Kitty swallowed. ‘Will she sack me, do you think?’
Arthur gave a loud laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn’t wait around to find out, if I were you. If I were you, I’d get it over, before she does.’ He laughed again, shaking his head. ‘Bloody women!’ he muttered, striding through the door.
. . . .
The weather did not break that day. Kitty spent most of it in the kitchen, her mind veering from one thought to the other. At first she’d vowed to find Mrs Steinberg right away and tell her she was leaving. Then she’d heard the crackle of tyres on the gravel, and looked out to see both cars disappearing down the drive. Going back to the kitchen, she decided she would wait just one more day – it was only a day, after all, since he’d kissed her, and she needed to see him again before making any firm decision. Standing in the larder, wondering why she’d gone in there in the first place, she decided she should disappear herself: just up and leave without a word. She imagined Mr Crane appearing at Lou’s gate, looking for her, his thin face drawn. Washing lettuce leaves for the girls’ lunch, she decided she’d pretend nothing had happened. If Mrs Steinberg tackled her about it, she’d deny everything.
In fact, the only decision she really managed to make was to bake a quiche, as she’d now learned to call it, after lunch. The bringing together of the pastry, having first run her fingers beneath the cold water tap, soothed her, and she found it was possible to concentrate on each small task. Then her heart would leap only when she heard what sounded like a car coming close to the cottage, rather than with every other breath. Leaving the pastry to rest in the larder, she scrubbed out the sink with Jeyes and wiped down all the shelves. She rolled out the pastry and put it in the oven to bake blind. Still only half past four, and no car in the drive. So she set to work on the kitchen and larder windows, rubbing them to a shine with a little vinegar. Whilst doing this, she noticed for the first time that the girls had been silent all day. Remembering Geenie’s face as she’d stood before her on the lawn, her features stiffened with fear, Kitty considered going upstairs to check on the girl when she’d finished her chores. But after she’d swept out all the downstairs rooms with the soft broom, it was time to scrape the potatoes and shell the peas. And her heart was still flipping in her chest with every noise from the road.
The girls came down at half past seven to feed themselves, and Kitty left them to it, sitting alone at the kitchen table to try to eat the slice she’d put aside for herself. Although the bacon was crisp, the pastry softly crumbling, and the cream and egg filling shivered on her fork, she didn’t swallow more than three bites. Going into the sitting room, she found the girls had left the table. She cleared the things away and washed up, running the water so hot that the geyser knocked against the wall and her fingers turned the colour of crabs in the sink.
It was past ten o’clock when she heard a car return, and by that time she’d decided what she would do. She even smiled to herself as she sat on her bed and listened to Mr Crane’s deliberate footsteps along the path to his studio. The lamp’s glow grew in his window. There was no time to waste. Unbuttoning her apron and taking off her dress, she changed into a clean pair of knickers, the ones with the lace trim that she’d sewn around the legs herself. Then she removed the emerald green Macclesfield silk dress that Lou had given her from its hanger. It was slippery and cool on her forearms as she lifted it and slipped it over her head. The heavy fabric rested on her hips and breasts and followed the curve of her thighs. It was a little long, but that didn’t matter now. She combed her hair, tucking it behind her ears, pinched her cheeks and smeared Vaseline over her lips. Then she realised she’d no shoes. The green shoe – if it had had a partner, and if it had fitted – would have matched, but one shoe was worse than no shoes, and she couldn’t very well ask Arthur for the other now. She’d have to cross the lawn barefoot. In a last-minute rush of daring, she left her stockings off, too.
She tiptoed through the kitchen and out into the night. The roses smelled their best at this time, but she didn’t think about that. The damp grass licked her toes as she headed straight across the lawn towards the studio, her dress swishing behind her.
Pausing before the door, she gulped several mouthfuls of cool air and pressed the dress down around her hips. Her heart was rushing, her palms moist, her throat dry, but she couldn’t stand here, exposed in her emerald silk dress and no shoes. She kept her eyes closed as she pushed on his door, and it was only when it was almost fully open that she thought: what if he’s not alone in there? But it was too late. She was standing on the threshold looking in, and he was sitting in his armchair, looking back at her.
‘Good grief,’ he said. They were both frozen for a moment, Kitty grinning at the sight of him – he was real, breathing, here – Mr Crane’s mouth gaping. Then he jumped to his feet, pulled her inside, and slammed the door closed. She came easily, stepping very close to him. He held her wrist and their hips pressed together, the dress crumpling between them as she looked into his face. Her hand reached for the back of his neck, but before she could kiss him, he said, ‘Wait.’
She hadn’t planned words. She’d planned only the dress, and the taking off of the dress, and their bodies moving together again.
He let go of her wrist and took a step back. ‘Kitty, I – ah – I’ve been meaning to talk with you.’ Then he looked her up and down and added, a smile growing, ‘I’m glad you came. And in such a dress.’
‘It’s the first time I’ve worn it,’ she said, wishing her voice didn’t sound so small.
‘It’s lovely.’ He touched her elbow.
‘I wanted to wear it for you.’
‘Did you?’ His eyes were following the curves of the dress, of her body in the dress.
She smiled, and had to stop herself from twirling in front of him. Instead, she moved towards him again and looked up.
He cleared his throat, then said, very quickly, ‘Look here. It’s the most awful timing, but I have to go away tomorrow.’ He held on to her elbow, as he had on that first d
ay when she’d stood in his studio and almost curtsied. His fingers were very white against the green silk.
‘It’s a lecture tour, you see, with the Communist Party. Up and down the whole country. Very important work. Damned awful timing. But I have to take this opportunity.’
She blinked, and swallowed hard, before managing to ask, ‘When will you be back?’
There was a silence. He dropped his hand to his side and looked away. ‘I’m not altogether sure. But when I am, I hope we’ll – ah – see one another again. Don’t you?’
She fixed her eyes on the pile of old blankets beneath his desk. Blotto’s bed. Picturing the dog curled up at his feet, warm and snoozing, she began to shake.
‘It’s important work,’ he said again. ‘And it’s really very exciting. This country is going to change. Everyone says so. The working classes are going to rise up—’
‘You should wash those,’ she said, staring at the blankets. ‘They smell.’
He drew a hand across his mouth. ‘Kitty. I’m so sorry.’
Clasping her fingers behind her back to stop them trembling, she glanced around the room. His desk was empty. The typewriter was in its carrying case, by the door. A pile of books was stacked on top of the filing cabinet, and there were no pictures anywhere. ‘How long have you known?’
He sat in the chair and patted the leather patch on its arm. ‘Sit with me.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Some weeks.’
The shaking became stronger, forcing its way from her knees to her stomach, then up her spine and out of her mouth in a short, audible gasp of air. She covered her face with her hands.
‘Kitty. Dear Kitty. Sit with me. Please.’
She didn’t move.
‘Kitty. Please.’ His hands were on her waist, pulling her towards the chair. ‘Lovely Kitty,’ he said, slowly drawing her hands from her eyes, ‘It was lovely, wasn’t it?’ He slipped his fingers up her naked forearm. ‘And this dress is – quite beautiful. You’re quite beautiful in it.’ He planted a kiss on her wrist, but she was looking over his head at her own reflection in the darkened window. The shaking had almost stopped now. The emerald dress flashed in the lamplight, her eyes were large and empty-looking, her mouth shining. She let him go on kissing the soft skin of her arm, all the way up to the elbow. He nudged the green silk sleeve higher. ‘Kitty,’ he said. ‘Kitty.’ He tried to rise from the chair, but she pushed him down again, grasping his hair and holding his head to her stomach so his cheek pressed against the heavy fabric. She gazed at her own reflection in the window, absorbing the image of herself with a man’s face buried in her waist, and she kept him there until she was ready to leave.
The Good Plain Cook Page 25