The Good Plain Cook (2 page)

‘Yes, Madam. I mean, no, Madam.’

‘Stop calling me that. It makes me sound like a brothel-keeper. You can call me Mrs Steinberg.’ The woman’s long fingers rummaged
at her scalp as she spoke. ‘Now. Would you like to ask me anything?’ She perched on the edge of the armchair and held the
wave of her hair back from her forehead with both hands. ‘Anything at all.’

Kitty looked at the woman’s clear forehead for a moment.

‘Anything at all, Kitty.’

‘Are there any other staff here, Mrs Steinberg?’

‘Just Arthur, the gardener and… handyman, I suppose you’d call him. He doesn’t live with us, but he’s here most days.’

Kitty shifted in her seat. ‘There’s no housemaid or parlour-maid?’

‘You won’t be expected to wait on us, Kitty, if that’s what you’re worrying about. We don’t go in for all that.’

‘No, Madam.’

There was a pause. Kitty squeezed the green shoe in her hands.

‘Are we settled, then? Could you start next week?’

She must ask it. ‘Will I be expected to – what you said about when you’re not here… your daughter…’ She mustn’t be the nanny.
That was not what the notice said. ‘What I mean is, what will I be doing, exactly?’

‘Kitty, I’m probably the only bohemian in the country who likes order.’ Mrs Steinberg smiled and widened her eyes. ‘Let’s
see. Start with the bedrooms. There are four rooms, one for myself, one for And one for Geenie… Mr Crane, of course.’ She
paused. ‘Then a guest room. And, downstairs, sitting and dining room – soon to be one – bathroom, a cubby-hole that’s supposed
to be a library, but you don’t have to bother with that: only I go in there. So it’s not very much. A little cleaning and
polishing, fires swept and laid when it’s cold, which it is all the damn time, isn’t it? And the cooking, of course, but we
quite often have a cold plate for lunch, and only two courses for dinner, unless we’ve got company. Geenie eats with us; we
don’t believe in that nonsense of hiding children away for meals. And we don’t go in for any fuss at breakfast time, either.
Toast will do for me, but Mr Crane does like his porridge.’

Kitty blinked.

‘He has a little writing studio in the garden, you probably noticed – it’s where he works. But, if you’ll take my advice,
you won’t go in there. The place is always a mess, anyway, and he hates to be disturbed. He’s a poet, but at the moment he’s
working on a novel.’ Here she paused and smiled so brilliantly that Kitty had to smile back. ‘I’m encouraging him all I can.
That’s why he’s living here, you see; it’s a vocational thing, really; if one has artistic friends, one must help them out.’

Kitty looked about the room for a clock but couldn’t find one. How long had she been here? Her stomach felt hollow. She thought
of sausage rolls, of biting into the greasy pastry, the deep salty taste of the meat.

‘And then there’s Geenie. Well, of course, I would really appreciate it if you could keep an eye on her occasionally but she’s
my responsibility now.’

If Kitty didn’t move, her stomach might not growl.

‘Children need their mothers first and foremost, don’t they?’

Kitty nodded, relieved. ‘Oh yes, Mrs Steinberg.’

There was a pause. The growl was building in Kitty’s stomach, pressing against her insides as if some creature were crawling
around the pit of her.

‘So. Can you start next week?’

As she nodded, Kitty’s stomach gave a long, loud rumble. Mrs Steinberg raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘It’s lunchtime, isn’t
it? Yes. I must let you go.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Kitty, I think you’ll do nicely. Forty pounds a year, and two
afternoons off a week, all right?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Steinberg.’

The woman stood, and Kitty followed.

‘Are you still holding that shoe?’ Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘Why don’t you keep it? As a welcome gift. We might even be able
to find the other.’

Kitty looked at the sodden shoe. It was at least two sizes too big for her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Steinberg,’ she repeated.

· · ·  Two   · · ·

Her palms were still smarting from gripping the willow tree in the back garden. It was a new game: holding on to the ridged
bark with all her strength, digging her nails in, seeing how much matter would lodge beneath her fingertips, then going in
the house and telling Ellen that she’d fallen. Showing the marks on her palms, she usually got a frown from her mother. Just
occasionally, though, she was rewarded with a short spell on her lap, which, although not wide, was always warm, and she could
run her hands along the smooth skin of Ellen’s knees and listen as she breathed close to her ear. ‘You’re too old for this
sort of thing,’ her mother would say. ‘Girls of eleven shouldn’t be sitting in their mothers’ laps.’

Blotto trotted behind as she walked into the sitting room. ‘Ellen!’ she yelled. ‘Ellen!’

The dust fell. Blotto sniffed the air.

Then she saw it. A hole right through to the next room. Pressing her palms together, she approached, and Blotto followed.
She stood for a minute, examining the gap where wall had once been. The dog sniffed the pile of rubble at her feet and gave
an interested half-bark. Geenie ignored him and pushed a finger into the damaged brick. A few crumbs fell on her shoes and
she smiled. Now they would be scuffed, but it wasn’t really her fault, because there was a hole in the wall. She pulled a
loose bit of plaster away and a cascade of brick dust covered both shoes. Again, not her fault, and more interesting, even,
than the willow tree game. Brick made a greater imprint than bark, and the sound of it falling around her bare legs distracted
her from the familiar afternoon noises that had begun to seep from her mother’s bedroom.

Blotto sniffed at the new pile of debris, whimpered, then retreated.

After a bit more working, her knuckles scraping on the rough brick until they were peppered with blood, the hole was big enough
for Geenie to put a leg through, so one patent T-bar shoe touched the floorboards in the dining room, whilst the other remained
in the sitting room. The broken brick dug into her inner thigh as she shifted her leg until her foot was planted firmly on
the floor. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live between two rooms like this: one foot always in the sitting
room, the other in the dining room. If the hole were large enough to walk through, they could have their dinner and Blotto
need not be shut in the other room, because there would be no other room. That would be good. But it would also be bad, because
she wouldn’t be able to shut herself in the dining room as tightly as she liked. There was a particularly useful cupboard
in the corner of the dining room, which smelled of sherry and dust, whose door made a lovely clunkety-click noise when opened
or closed. The bottom shelf was big enough for Geenie to curl into, and if she hooked her finger round the knot of wood by
the handle in the right way, she could hold the door almost closed and breathe its dark sherry air and no one would know she
was there. Then she could listen to George and Ellen as they argued or kissed, and she could think of the times when Jimmy,
who was gone now, had read to her whilst they sat together in the cupboard under the stairs in their London house, eating
sherbet.

The familiar noises from her mother’s bedroom had become more drawn out. Geenie called for Blotto. If the dog came back, they
could howl together, and then she wouldn’t have to listen to the bedroom noises. She called him again, and waited for the
tick-tick of his claws on the floor. But the dog did not come.

She looked at the pile of rubble by her sitting-room foot and noticed the wooden handle of the lump hammer amongst the destroyed
brick. She reached down, her dining-room leg catching on the teeth of the hole, and ran a finger along the hammer’s cool head.
Bringing her finger to her face, she considered the dust there. It had lodged in all the ridges of her skin. If she were to
pick the hammer up and then drop it on her shoe, she would probably break her toes, like the Chinese women who had their feet
smashed and bound so they could wear small shoes. Ellen often said she wished a kindly aunt had broken and bound her own nose
when she was younger than Geenie, so that one marvellous day she might have unravelled the bandages to reveal a tiny nose,
tip-tilted like a flower
, which is what it said in the Tennyson poem, and what Geenie’s nose was like.

If she dropped the hammer, it would make a noise so loud that Ellen and George might run downstairs. They might stop kissing,
or arguing, and rush to her aid, because they would hear a loud noise and not know what it was, and a loud noise meant trouble.

Geenie twisted her body so that she faced the sitting room. She picked up the hammer and held it in both hands. She lifted
her arms above her head. Breathing out, feeling the stretch in her muscles as her dining-room leg struggled to remain planted
on the floorboards, she stayed still for at least a minute, focusing on the middle pane of the front window. This was necessary
in order to concentrate on the banging coming from above. It was becoming more insistent, and there was now a low grunt accompanying
every bang. Still Geenie held the hammer above her head and waited. Her arms began to ache. Then it came, familiar and awful:
her mother’s long ‘yes’.

As the ‘yes’ grew louder, Geenie swung her body round and slammed the hammer to the wall with all her strength.

· · ·  Three  · · ·

Mrs Steinberg had been very generous, though, Kitty reminded herself as she looked around her new room: forty pounds a year
was more than she’d ever been paid before, and the room wasn’t bad, either. There were a couple of small multi-coloured woollen
rugs for the tiled floor; a chest of drawers; and a wardrobe, so Kitty didn’t have to hang her clothes on the back of the
door. Mrs Steinberg had also provided a picture above Kitty’s bed of a naked woman beside a waterfall, at which Kitty now
stood and stared. She hadn’t liked to look at it too closely when the other woman was in the room, but her initial impression
had been right: the woman’s flesh had a greenish tint, and was full to bursting. Her neck seemed unnaturally long, and her
head twisted to the side as if she’d just heard a stranger approaching through the ferns. Kitty imagined the woman was thinking
about plunging in, but had first to pluck up enough courage to submerge herself in cold water.

The first thing Kitty did was place the framed photograph of her mother and father, sitting very upright, on the chest of
drawers. Her mother’s gaze was steady, her mouth fixed; her father looked off to the side, as if he were about to move. They
must have been quite young when it was taken, as her father had died in his early thirties, when Kitty was five, but to Kitty
they already looked unreachably old. Perhaps it was something to do with her mother’s high lace collars, which she would sew
on to make an old dress new. Kitty had mended those collars herself during her mother’s illness, spending hours darning them
with her finest needle.

Opening the wardrobe, she was surprised to smell not mothballs but perfume: something powdery and sweet, like cinnamon. Onto
the top shelf she bundled her cloth bag of scraps. Then she took up her wooden work-box, sat on the narrow bed, and opened
the lid.

Now she was going to live in this new place, it was important to see that everything was there, all the things she’d carefully
collected together over the years. She brought out the odd pink suspender clasp (had it been Mother’s?); the paper packets
of sharp and between needles; the dirty lump of beeswax, deeply scored; the scissors with the tortoiseshell handles which
she saved for her embroidery; her other, sharper scissors, for cutting out; her star-shaped cushion, studded with steel and
ribbon pins; her woollen strawberry, for cleaning needles; several reels of cotton of differing thicknesses; a card of hooks
and eyes; a smooth copper thimble, which she hated using but kept anyway; and buttons of various shapes and sizes. The buttons
were the most precious items in Kitty’s work-box. Her favourite had always been the large lilac one with the wooden surround,
but she’d recently come into a set of four tiny mother-of-pearl buttons which Lou had cut from a nightie before shredding
it for dusters, and it was one of these that she now rubbed along her bottom lip, relishing its smoothness.

There was a knock on the door.

It was too late to put the sewing things away in the workbox, so she stood in front of the bed, hoping to conceal them.

‘Come in.’

Geenie loomed in the doorway. She was wearing a long white cotton robe with wide sleeves and a square neck, together with
a thick gold necklace. Her large eyes were rimmed with black kohl. ‘What’s for lunch today?’

Kitty stared at the girl, trying to make sense of her appearance. The girl stared back.

‘I – don’t know, Miss.’

‘I hope it’s not salad.’

The kohl had left a black smudge in the corner of the girl’s eye, like a piece of soot. Why was the child dressed like that,
at half past ten on a Monday morning?

‘I need to speak with your mother,’ said Kitty. ‘It’s up to her, Miss.’

‘Dora used to decide for herself, and she always made me plain omelettes.’

‘Well. I’ll ask your mother what she thinks…’

Why wasn’t that girl at school?

Geenie stepped into the room. Pointing to the bed, she asked, ‘What’s that?’

‘It’s my work-box. I was just looking at it. Sorting it, I mean.’ Kitty started gathering up the sewing things and putting
them back in the box.

‘Let me see.’

The girl was close to her now; she had an earthy scent. It was what Kitty had noticed about the children at the school where
she’d cleaned – the smell of them, warm and yeasty, like the scent of excited terriers. But this girl smelled fresher than
that.

Geenie sat on the bed. Her white robe rustled as she bent over the box and peered inside. She picked out a large cardigan
button. ‘What sort of wood is this?’

‘I don’t know, Miss.’

The girl tossed the button back into the box. Then she rummaged again and found the cut-glass button from Lou’s wedding dress.
Bob had paid for everything, even tea at the White Hart Hotel, and he hadn’t allowed his bride to have a home-made dress run
up by her sister.

‘This one’s pretty.’

‘Yes.’ Kitty smiled. ‘It’s from my sister’s wedding dress.’

Geenie ignored this. ‘Is it the kind of thing Cleopatra would wear?’

‘I don’t know, Miss. Possibly.’

‘I’m Cleopatra today.’

‘Are you, Miss?’

‘Do you think I make a good one?’

Kitty hesitated. She knew she should say yes, but she wasn’t really sure what a good Cleopatra should look like.

‘You look very pretty, Miss.’

Geenie looked at Kitty. ‘Do you like pretty things?’

‘Yes Miss,’ said Kitty. ‘Everybody likes pretty things, don’t they?’

The girl lay back on the bed. ‘My mother says pretty’s not enough. Things ought to be beautiful.’

There was another knock at the door. Before she could answer, Mrs Steinberg was standing on the rug.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Geenie.

The girl did not sit up or reply.

Mrs Steinberg straightened her navy blue jacket and stepped towards the bed. ‘I suggest you stop bothering the cook. She’s
got a lot to get on with.’ She pulled her daughter up by one arm. Geenie dangled before Kitty, her feet hardly touching the
floor.

‘May I show you to Mr Crane before lunch, Kitty? He’s got a gap in his writing schedule and has asked to meet you.’

Kitty closed the work-box.

. . . .

‘The writing studio,’ said Mrs Steinberg, opening the door to the little house at the bottom of the garden. ‘Kitty, this is
Mr Crane.’

The room smelled of flowers, gas and dog. On the windowsill, a row of hyacinths bloomed in glass bowls, their flowers stiff
and bright, like the coral Kitty had seen once, in the aquarium at Bognor. The curtains were flame yellow, and in the corner
of the room a gas burner sputtered. Beneath the window, there was a desk strewn with papers, amongst which was an old typewriter.
Under the desk was a pile of dirty blankets.

‘Pleased to meet you, Kitty.’

He was tall and his nose was long and straight, but his left eye drooped a bit, making his face seem slightly lopsided. His
clothes were too large for him, his long green cardigan patched at the elbows. As Lou had said, he didn’t look like a poet.
Not that Kitty knew what poets were supposed to look like. The only picture she’d seen was a painting of Byron in a schoolbook,
and he wore a very white shirt and had lots of unruly hair. Mr Crane’s hair was dark and quite neat.

For a brief moment, Kitty thought she should bob, but Mr Crane’s firm handshake kept her upright.

‘Kitty’s going to be our new help, George. She’s a plain cook.’

He touched his forehead, as if considering the situation. His sleeves were pushed up his forearms and Kitty saw lines of flat
dark hair and an ink stain on his wrist. It was an elegant wrist, with a prominent, rounded bone.

‘Isn’t it wonderful? She’s been cleaning at the school until now, but she loves music and she’s got a broad outlook, haven’t
you, Kitty?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

‘I’ve told her not to call me that, George. And I’ve told her there’s no need to come in here.’ Mrs Steinberg walked across
to the desk, trailed her fingers along the typewriter keys and leaned back on Mr Crane’s chair, one leg crossed over the other.
‘He
hates
to be disturbed, don’t you, George?’

Mr Crane didn’t reply. He was still holding his forehead and looking at Kitty.

‘He loathes it. Particularly if he’s reading Karl Marx.’

Mr Crane gave a short laugh. ‘Welcome to Willow Cottage, Kitty. I hope you’ll be happy here.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ She did bob, then, without meaning to; her knees bent and she cast her eyes to the floor.

He touched her elbow as she came back up. ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Don’t do that, there’s really no earthly need ever to do that,
and please don’t call me Sir.’

She looked at the place where his long fingers had been on her arm.

‘Please. You can call me—’

‘Mr Crane,’ said Mrs Steinberg, showing Kitty the door.

. . . .

The kitchen smelled of coffee and Blotto, who was snoozing under the large table. She slipped the apron that was hanging on
the back of the door over her head and buttoned the straps. She was already late getting on with the lunch, and she’d have
to work fast if she was going to have anything ready on time.

Geenie skipped ahead and sat at the table to watch with her blackened eyes.

‘Excuse me, Miss, but don’t you go to school?’ asked Kitty.

The girl shook her head. ‘George says he could teach me at home but Ellen says he should be working on his book.’

She seemed to draw her lips inward as she gazed at Kitty, as if keeping something close.

‘Your mother doesn’t mind?’

The girl shook her head again. ‘What are we having for lunch?’

Kitty walked to the larder without replying. Perhaps it would become clear what she was to prepare once she was inside. Mrs
Steinberg may have left a note, or a particular set of ingredients might have been set aside. There was no need, no need at
all, to panic. She closed the door behind her so the girl couldn’t follow.

In the larder, she was greeted by bottles and bottles of wine, stacked all around the walls, beneath the lowest shelf. At
least a quarter of them were empty. She brought one to her nose and sniffed. Vinegar. Raspberries. Something burny, like medicine.
On the shelves were three bags of sugar, a sack of flour, and at least a dozen bottles of oil, all with labels that seemed
to be in French; there were jars of lobster and cockle paste, and jam. One was open and had crumbs in it. There were two jars
of something black that looked like Bovril but wasn’t. In the corner, a refrigerator – bigger than the one Bob had recently
bought for Lou – hummed. Kitty opened the door: a dozen eggs, a packet of butter and bottle of milk, but no cheese.

The larder door opened.

‘Can I have an omelette?’

Kitty could scramble, poach and boil eggs with confidence, but her omelettes were always flat.

‘Just a minute, Miss.’

She closed the door and stood biting the skin around her nails. What could she make from eggs and quarter of a loaf? Was Mrs
Steinberg expecting her to go into Petersfield to fetch some groceries? Kitty hadn’t asked about the time of the deliveries.
It was already eleven o’clock, and even if she managed the eleven-thirty bus she wouldn’t be back before one.

She did another circuit of the larder, opened a jar of the black stuff that looked like Bovril and sniffed. Sardines and mud.

If Lou were here, she’d have asked Mrs Steinberg outright, first thing.
What should I make for lunch, Madam?
It would have been easy to ask the question when the woman was showing Kitty her room; it would have been easy, if she hadn’t
been too busy not looking at the awful painting of the naked woman to think straight. Why hadn’t she spoken up, then and there,
and got it over with?

She opened the larder door, took a step back into the kitchen, and almost walked into him.

‘Sorry to startle you,’ the man said, looking her up and down. He stood firm, with his legs apart and his feet planted evenly
on the floor, as if he’d been rooted there all the time she’d been in the larder. His mouth was set in a peculiar shape. Was
he chewing on something?

Kitty held on to the door handle and tried to arrange her smile in the right way. She looked around the kitchen: no sign of
the girl. She must have got bored of waiting and gone outside.