The Good Plain Cook (4 page)

· · ·  Five  · · ·

Kitty did not know the sort of thing. She’d spent most of the morning looking for something like it in
Silvester’s
Sensible Cookery
. Egg and bacon pie sounded nearly right, an open flan with a cheesy filling, although Mrs Steinberg had mentioned artichokes,
not knowing, probably, that the season hadn’t yet begun. There were certainly no artichokes at the greengrocers’ in Petersfield,
and if she’d have telephoned to ask if she could add them to the order, Mr Bailey would have laughed. Cabbages aplenty, Kitty,
he would have said, but whoever heard of artichokes in April? What’s the matter with that American woman? Doesn’t she even
know the seasons?

Kitty wondered if she did. She had yet to see her in stockings, even though it had been a cold spring until now, the air licking
around your calves and shrinking your feet inside your shoes. And there had been only one occasion on which she’d seen her
in a hat, a terrible woollen beret that covered half her face, when it had suddenly hailed a week ago. You could just see
that great nose sticking out, like a fat coat hook.

The marble rolling pin was heavy and Kitty was careful to place it behind the sugar jar so it wouldn’t roll off the table
and onto her foot. It was an awful rolling pin – flour slipped from its shiny surface, and now the pastry was sticking and
tearing as she rolled. Mrs Steinberg had told her it had been Dora’s pride and joy, and was quite the best thing for pastry.
Kitty wondered how Mrs Steinberg would know this. She’d never seen her so much as put the kettle on to boil, let alone roll
out shortcrust.

She gathered up the pieces of dough and pressed them together. She’d roll out one more time, then she’d have to start again.
The sun glared through the kitchen window and sweat was blooming along her top lip. It was typical that the first really warm
day should come while she was making shortcrust. Everyone knew heat was bad for pastry, and Kitty’s hands were, for once,
very warm.

She raised the rolling pin and smashed it down on the lump of pastry to get it going. It was easy, now, to flatten the greying
wodge. She managed to roll it out into a ragged circle, almost thin enough, then a corner stuck on the pin and a flap ripped
up, like a hangnail. Bugger. It would have to be patched up in the dish. She could force a lump of pastry into the hole and
press it with her thumb. With a bit of egg it might stick.

Looking out of the window, she saw Mr Crane sitting on the step of his studio, rubbing his eye. He was handsome, with his
slick of dark hair and strong chin, and younger than Mrs Steinberg, Kitty guessed, by at least five years. When Lou had caught
a glimpse of him in town, she’d said he looked
intense
. It was a shame about his eye.

‘Can I have a biscuit?’

That child had a habit of sneaking up on you. You’d just be dusting the mantelpiece or scrubbing the rim of the lavatory,
and there she’d be, asking for something. Now she was leaning on the stove, her chin tucked into her chest in the same way
as her mother, sucking on a long strand of hair that looked like a wet worm hanging from her mouth.

‘Go on, then,’ said Kitty.

Here was the queer thing, though: Geenie took the Garibaldi from the barrel, but never seemed to eat it. Kitty knew this because
she’d begun to find slightly chewed biscuits hidden behind cushions. Once she found three, all of them nibbled at the corners,
stacked side by side in the sitting-room cupboard. It was a shocking waste, but Kitty told herself that she was not responsible
for the child. It was her mother’s look-out.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Making a French tart for your lunch. Bacon and egg.’

‘A quiche.’

‘That’s it.’

Geenie pretended to examine her biscuit for a few moments. Then she said, ‘Can I help?’

This was another thing the child did: offer to help and then get in the way.

‘No. Thank you, Miss.’

‘Please.’

‘There’s nothing for you to do, Miss.’

‘I’m bored.’

Kitty sighed. ‘You can grate the cheese, if you like.’

Geenie screwed up her nose. ‘I hate cheese.’

‘You could measure out the milk, then.’

‘Cheese smells like sick.’

Kitty floured the pastry dish. ‘You’re a rum sort of a girl, aren’t you?’

‘What are you doing that for?’

‘So it won’t stick, Miss.’

‘It always sticks, doesn’t it?’

She mustn’t blush, not in front of the child.

Kitty gathered the pastry around the pin and prepared to lift. She’d have to be careful not to let anything brush the tassel
of that greasy lantern. If she could just transport the thing without a rip…

‘Can I have another biscuit?’

The pastry gave up; a large strip fell in folds on the table. ‘Bother!’

Geenie stuck a finger into the crumpled mess. ‘Can’t you roll it out again?’

Kitty stared at the table. ‘It’s too far gone. It’s got too warm.’

‘What difference does that make?’

Now Kitty felt the blood stinging her cheeks. ‘I don’t know, Miss; it’s just ruined, is all. I’ll have to start over.’ It
would be impossible with the child here, asking questions, and she only had – what? an hour left, at most.

‘Here.’ She held out the grey ball to Geenie. ‘Have this to play with. It’s yours.’

Geenie pressed a finger into it with such force that Kitty’s hand dipped.

‘You could make something with it, couldn’t you, Miss?’

Geenie prodded the dough again, gently this time. ‘I could try,’ she said.

Kitty placed the tacky pastry firmly in the girl’s hand. ‘I’m sure you could make something out of that, with all your talents,’
she said. Geenie was always drawing something, or drawing on something. Last week she’d done a scribble which she claimed
was a map of the world on the kitchen table. Luckily it was only in pencil, and Kitty had been able to scrub the thing off.
She thought Geenie’s efforts a bit slow for a girl of eleven, but she said nothing.

‘I could try,’ Geenie said again, smiling.

‘I’m sure you could, Miss. You could make something lovely. A real work of art.’

The child took the pastry and walked out of the kitchen, swinging her blonde hair.

‘Or you could hide it somewhere,’ Kitty muttered under her breath.

. . . .

Arthur was batting at a wasp. With the patched-up egg and bacon pie in the oven at last, Kitty watched him from the sitting-room
window. His arms windmilled around his head. The movement had caught her eye whilst she was dusting and she’d nearly dropped
Mrs Steinberg’s African mask, the one that looked a bit like Bob. Of all the things in the room, she sensed this would be
the worst to drop. She held it tight in both arms now as she watched Arthur jogging on the spot, his limbs bouncing like those
of a puppet jolted from above. He seemed to be moving to the rhythm of the thumping noise coming from the library: Mrs Steinberg’s
typewriter. The woman was always in there, banging out something or other on those keys. Arthur swatted the air again, his
mouth opening in horror. But he made no sound. He simply danced on the grass, batting the air around him.

Later she could say to him, the still, controlled Arthur with the straight moustache:
I know your weakness
.

She wouldn’t say that, of course. It was the sort of thing Mae West would say, with a hearty wink. Kitty would ask, instead,
if he had room in his bag for the piece of egg and bacon pie she’d put by. She’d ask him if he could squeeze it in, this piece
of pie so carefully cut, and wrapped in waxed paper, twice, so the grease wouldn’t leak, because she knew Arthur worried about
things being clean and neat: when she went to his shed to fetch vegetables, she’d seen the numbered rows of tools, the swept
corners of his tool box. And she worried about the pie being crushed in his bag by his flask and his book as he cycled home.

Arthur always had a Western with him. At the kitchen table he held it with one hand and ate with the other, keeping the book
at arm’s length, as though frightened of smearing the pages. His eyes rarely strayed from the words, making her wonder how
the bread arrived at his mouth, how he bit into his boiled egg without chomping his fingers. He’d a different book every week.
Kitty guessed he got them from the twopenny library in town. Or perhaps he had someone who bought them for him? He’d yet to
mention any girl. She’d seen him at the Savoy on his own last week, which must mean there was no girl. She’d been there with
Lou, and had spotted Arthur leaning by the ticket booth, scrutinising the poster for next week’s performance of
Come
Out of the Pantry
. It was strange, seeing him away from Willow Cottage, in his smart clothes. She’d noticed how white his collar was. They
stood under the lights of the foyer, and he’d looked at her and said, ‘Lovely here, isn’t it?’

Kitty gazed through the window again. Arthur had stopped windmilling his arms. The child was talking to him, holding the lump
of dough in the air. Arthur crouched down and took the dough in his hands. He rolled the lump around his palm, weighing it
as though it were something precious.

That was her dough and the child had given it away. And now Arthur would know that she, Kitty, had ruined the pastry and wasted
a whole batch.

She opened the kitchen window. ‘Miss Geenie!’

She hadn’t meant to shout, but now they were both looking towards her. She’d have to follow through, as Lou would put it.
That’s the trouble with you, Kitty
, her sister always said.
You never follow through
.

‘Lunch is almost ready, Miss. Come in and wash your hands.’

The girl stared at Kitty in silence, her mouth slightly open. Arthur straightened up and nodded to Kitty. ‘You’d best go in,
Miss.’ He gestured towards the door.

‘It’s too early for lunch,’ grumbled Geenie. ‘Where’s Ellen?’

Kitty couldn’t lie. ‘I’m not sure. But lunch is nearly ready.’

‘Can’t I come in when Ellen says?’

Kitty couldn’t get used to Geenie calling Mrs Steinberg by her first name; it gave her a start every time she heard it.

Ellen
. It just wasn’t who she was, just as
Mary
was not who her own mother had been.

‘I – I think you should come in now, please, Miss.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d have liked.

Arthur was looking at the ground, the lump of dough still in his hand.

Geenie folded her arms. ‘In a minute,’ she said.

‘I should get on,’ said Arthur, with a half wave at Kitty. ‘Lots to do.’

She tried a smile, but he was already walking back to his shed, gripping the dough in his fist.

· · ·  Six  · · ·

Geenie had never heard him whistle before. It reminded her of Dora, who’d whistled though it was unladylike. When she was
washing up, or ironing, Dora had whistled, and Geenie had tried to whistle, too, but her lips were too soft to get the shape,
somehow.

They watched him from the library window, mother and daughter leaning together on Ellen’s desk, stretching their necks. George’s
shirt sleeves were folded up close to his armpits, the way Arthur’s often were.

‘It’s broken,’ said Ellen. ‘He’s brought a broken bicycle home.’

The brake cables clattered against the spokes, raining ticks across the garden.

Ellen marched out of the house, and, after giving it a second or two, Geenie followed behind, quietly. She knew that if she
stayed in the shadow of her mother’s skirt, she wouldn’t get in much trouble. There was a certain position she could take
behind her mother which usually meant that people didn’t seem to notice her.

‘What are you doing with that?’

George had leant the bike against the wall of his studio and stepped back to admire it. He didn’t look at Ellen. Instead,
he ran a hand over the saddle.

‘Lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Broken, Crane.
It
is broken.’

Geenie noticed that her mother was pronouncing all her words very clearly.

He shrugged. ‘Not for long.’

Geenie grabbed one of the trailing cables in her fist and gave it a tug. ‘What’s this, George?’

‘That’s a broken bit,’ muttered her mother, prising the cable from her.

George took the cable from Ellen. ‘It’s fixable, though.’ He crouched down and held the end of the cable before Geenie’s face.
‘Perfectly fixable.’

‘Really, Crane, you look quite proletarian.’

George bit his lip. ‘Ellen—’

‘I’m joking. You couldn’t look proletarian if you tried.’

He bit his lip again. Then he said, ‘I happen to like bikes.’

‘How many do you need? You already have one, which you never use, and I’ve offered you a car of your own. Besides which, there’s
the Lanchester, which you’re free to use any time.’

George smiled at Geenie. ‘But I like bikes,’ he said again, sending a pedal spinning with one hand. ‘And anyway. It’s not
for me.’

He looked up at Ellen, who was standing with her hands on her hips. ‘Can Geenie ride?’ he asked. ‘Diana can. And since she’ll
be here soon, I thought it only fair that Geenie has her own bicycle. Then they can ride together.’

‘Why would Geenie want to ride a bike? She doesn’t need to. She can ride a horse. What good’s a bike on the Downs? A bike’s
only any good on a road, where a car’s much better.’

George straightened up and folded his arms. He looked into Ellen’s face and she looked back at him.

‘And that thing is far too big for her. Really, Crane. For an intellectual you’re awfully slow sometimes.’

‘Why are you so set against this?’

Ellen shifted her gaze to the willows at the bottom of the garden. She tapped her foot. For a few moments, all three of them
listened to the leaves swishing in the breeze, and waited.

‘Ellen?’

‘I’m not against it.’

‘Oh?’ George laughed. ‘It sounded like you were. But if you’re not…’

‘Not entirely.’ She traced a semicircle in the wet grass with her shoe.

‘I could give you a backie.’

‘What on earth is that?’ Ellen smiled a little. ‘It sounds slightly obscene. I might like it.’

‘It means I cycle and you sit.’

‘I’d much rather have a horse between my thighs.’

‘Have you ever tried?’

‘A horse?’

‘A bicycle.’

Geenie stepped out from behind her mother. This was her chance. ‘Ellen can’t ride a bicycle.’

Ellen’s hand landed on her daughter’s shoulder and pressed down, hard. There was a long silence.

Geenie persisted. ‘She’s never learned to ride a bicycle. Have you, Ellen?’

George’s eyes flickered towards Ellen. ‘Really?’

‘You can give
me
a backie, George,’ said Geenie.

‘Shut up, Geenie. That’s enough.’ Through her thin cardigan, Geenie could feel her mother’s nails.

George drew a hand slowly across his mouth. ‘You can’t ride a bike?’

Ellen let go of her daughter and threw her hands in the air. ‘Not really.’

‘Not really? Can you, or not?’

‘No! All right? No! I cannot ride a bicycle. Who cares about riding a damn bicycle? There’s more to life than pedalling along
roads. More to my life, anyway.’

‘I’m just a bit surprised. I thought everyone—’

‘Everyone what?’

‘Could cycle.’

‘Well, I can’t. It’s just one of those useless things I never learned, like ancient Greek and cricket.’

‘But, riding a bike. It’s, ah, well…’

‘It may have escaped your notice, Crane, but I was brought up by a family of New York millionaires. No one in my family rides
a bicycle. NO ONE. It’s just not something you do if you’re a Steinberg.’

‘All right, all right.’ He reached out to touch her hand, but she pulled away. Geenie wondered if she should step into that
place behind her mother which would make her invisible again.

‘James never rode a bicycle.’

George didn’t reply. Geenie tried to remember if she’d ever seen Jimmy on a bicycle. Cars were more his thing. She remembered
him letting her rest her head on his thighs during long journeys, when she would gaze at his hands on the steering wheel,
marvelling at how he could touch the sides quite lightly, it seemed, and the car would move this way or that.

‘He never rode a bicycle. Ever.’ Ellen’s eyes were very wide, and her chin was jutting forward.

‘No,’ said George. ‘Of course not.’

There was another long silence.

After a while, George said, ‘Look. None of that means that Geenie shouldn’t learn, does it?’

‘It’s not up for discussion.’ Ellen turned and began to walk back to the house.

Geenie decided not to step into that place behind her mother. Instead, she stood beside George and watched Ellen stride away.
George sighed and patted the saddle again, as if it were a faithful dog. Geenie gazed at his lopsided face, and saw that his
cheeks had hollowed.

‘But I’m not a Steinberg.’

Ellen stopped. Very slowly, she turned around. ‘What did you say?’

George covered his eyes. Geenie looked at her mother. Ellen’s chin was tucked tightly into her chest, and she knew she may
as well carry on. It would be as bad either way. ‘My name’s Floyd,’ she said. ‘Regina Eleanor Floyd and I want to ride a bike
with Diana.’

Ellen charged towards her daughter and grabbed her by the upper arm. ‘And where’s Charles Floyd now? Do you see him?’

Geenie did what she always did when her mother got mad: she went silent.

‘Do you see him?’

Geenie looked down at the grass and shook her head.

‘No. That’s because he’s not here. He left. Charles Floyd, your illustrious father, abandoned us before you were two years
old. But I am here, Ellen Steinberg, your mother, is here. And that makes you a Steinberg too, do you hear me?’

Geenie looked at George.

‘I said, do you hear me?’

Geenie swallowed hard. If she kept her head completely still, if she concentrated on the individual blades of grass and the
way some of them were curved and some of them were straight, the tears might not start.

George cleared his throat. ‘Now then. Ah. Look. Might it not be a good thing if Geenie here were to have a little go? What
harm can it do?’

Ellen let go of Geenie’s arm.

Geenie held her breath. Some of the blades were twisted right round, so they looked like tiny tubes of grass.

‘Come on, Ellen. It’s just a bicycle. Geenie didn’t mean what she said, did you, Geenie?’

Like hollow green tubes. A few of the tubes had water in them.

‘She’s sorry. She’ll always be a Steinberg, won’t you, Geenie?’

Geenie looked up at George. His eyes were brown and soft, and she knew she could say yes and not mean it, and it would still
be all right.

She nodded.

After a minute, her mother said, ‘She could fall off.’

‘Ellen.’

‘She could fall off and break a leg. Or an ankle. And whose fault would it be? Who’d be responsible?’

‘I would,’ said George. He put a hand on Geenie’s hair, and breathed out. ‘I’d be responsible.’

. . . .

The first time was terrible. The saddle was much harder than it looked, with lumps in the wrong places, and, just when she
thought she’d got a good grip on them, the pedals kept whipping round and banging Geenie’s ankles. Her socks would be stained
with black, her shins stained with bruise. The handle grips were hard, too; they were cold beneath her fingers, and slippery
to touch. Like the pedals they could escape without warning, causing the whole thing to swerve and topple beneath her.

Her mother watched silently from the window as Geenie grappled with the bike and George tried to steady her. Geenie could
see Ellen’s pale face beyond the glass. Her nose looked particularly large and pink that day. She said it reacted to the weather:
any dampness caused a swell. The cottage was always damp, and the grass outside was wet after a thunderstorm in the night.

The wheel slipped again, and Geenie’s feet skidded on the grass, but she managed to keep the thing upright by gripping the
crossbar between her knees. She looked up at the window and caught her mother’s eye, but Ellen did not move from her ringside
position. She just stared out, nose glowing slightly, mouth drawn in a tight line.

Geenie realised her legs were shaking, and her fingers ached from gripping the handlebars. She stood still for a moment, allowing
herself to breathe.

‘I don’t think I can,’ she said, looking at George, who was holding the back of the saddle.

‘You’ll get it. Right foot on pedal and push off. I’ve got you, so you won’t fall.’

‘I can’t.’

‘No such word as can’t. Only won’t.’

He wasn’t usually like this, his words coming fast and sounding like the truth. Normally he left gaps, sighed and hummed.
But now he was telling her what to do, very clearly, and she found that she wanted to follow his instructions.

‘Both hands on the handlebars?’

She took hold of the tough white rubber again and squeezed.

‘Yes.’

‘All right.’ He paused. ‘Remember what I told you?’

‘Keep looking ahead.’

‘Good. And?’

‘Don’t look down.’

‘Good girl. And?’

‘Keep pedalling.’

‘Exactly.’

There was sweat on his forehead, and he had his sleeves rolled up again. His hair, usually greased back in place in a short
wave, was sticking up in a peak above his forehead.

‘All right?’

‘Yes.’

She glanced at the library window, but her mother was gone.

‘Off we go, then. And push!’

At his command, she pressed her right foot on the pedal and lifted her left from the floor. This was the worst moment: one
foot in the air, the other groping for the flat surface of the pedal, the bicycle’s balance depending on finding it. Everything
wobbled as her foot floundered madly.

‘Steady.’

She found it. Pushed down. And the bicycle moved forward.

‘I’ve got you. Keep pedalling.’

She pushed down again and the spokes rattled. The grass sighed. The breeze was suddenly loud in her ears.

‘Very good. Keep going.’

His footsteps were behind her as she pedalled. She pedalled right across the grass and along the side of the house, past the
garage and to the front gate.

‘Feel good?’

He sounded breathless, but she kept pedalling. If she kept pedalling, she could be on the road and away from the house and
no one could stop her. She could pedal across the village and up the Downs, and over the top to the sea. She could keep going,
her feet pushing down, pushing down, pushing down, her hands light on the handlebars, the saddle warm between her thighs.
All she had to do was keep looking ahead.

She was out in the lane now. The may bushes were frothy with white and smelled of clean laundry. Cow parsley brushed her arms.

She pushed down. She looked ahead.

It wasn’t far to the end of the lane, where the road began. Geenie sat up straight and pedalled, letting her legs go light
as the wheels gathered momentum and the pedals seemed to push themselves around. It was like swimming, only better: she was
dry and warm, and she could go faster, right to the end. But there was that same feeling of weightlessness, of being borne
up, held above the path by rubber and air.

The end of the path was near now, and she looked back. Just to check if he was still there, because she’d have to turn the
bicycle, or stop, and she wasn’t sure how you did either of those things.

He was not holding on to the bike. He was not running behind her. Instead, he was standing at the beginning of the lane, and
he was starting to clap. He was applauding her as if she had achieved this thing.