The Good Plain Cook (25 page)

· · ·  Thirty-six  · · ·

Taking a deep breath, she laid her hands flat on the table, trying to steady her trembling 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 day 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.

· · ·  Thirty-seven  · · ·

In the morning, she rose early. Sitting at the dining table, rubbing sleep from her eyes, she watched Diana bring in a plate
of toast, a pot of tea and two cups.

‘Where’s Kitty?’ Geenie yawned.

Diana spread the toast with butter, being careful to get it in all the corners. ‘There’s no baby, you know,’ she said, taking
a bite.

Geenie had almost forgotten about her mother’s announcement. The day on the beach seemed long ago, now. ‘Isn’t there?’

‘Daddy told me yesterday.’

Geenie nodded. Then she asked again, ‘Where’s Kitty?’

‘Haven’t seen her. Daddy made me toast, and I made the tea.’ Diana sipped her drink.

‘You can make tea?’

‘It’s far better, actually. Not so strong. Want a cup?’

Geenie shook her head and watched in silence as Diana ate two more slices of toast, thickly smeared with raspberry jam.

The door opened. ‘Five minutes, darling. We’ve got to catch the eight-forty.’ Spotting Geenie, George stepped into the room.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said, giving her a pat on the head. ‘You two will see each other again. You’ll have to visit Diana
at her mother’s. Won’t she, Diana?’

Pushing past George, Geenie ran from the room and took the stairs two at a time. Dragging all her dressing-up things from
the bottom of the wardrobe, she plunged her arms into the pile and threw stockings, hats, shoes, dresses and waistcoats over
her shoulder until her fingers touched the cool sleekness of fur.

Diana was standing in the hallway with her suitcase by her feet when Geenie made it back downstairs. Geenie thrust the coat
towards her friend. ‘If you’re going,’ she panted, ‘you’d better have this.’ It weighed down her arms and draped on the floor
about the two of them, like a king’s cloak.

Diana hooked her hair behind one ear. ‘But it’s yours.’

‘Take it.’

From the driveway, George was calling his daughter.

‘It’s Jimmy’s,’ said Diana. ‘You have to keep it.’ She stroked the fur collar. ‘It suits you best, anyway.’

When the front door had closed, Geenie wrapped herself tightly in the coat and went in search of her mother.

. . . .

As far as Ellen was concerned, they’d already said their goodbyes on Harting Down, and there was little point in getting up
this early in the morning. She burrowed beneath the bedclothes and closed her eyes. What she really couldn’t stand was the
thought of another drama. She’d spent all yesterday avoiding it. After the play, Crane had gone to Laura’s to meet with Lillian
and make the necessary arrangements for Diana, who was going to stay with her mother while he went on his lecture tour, and
Ellen had gone to the hairdressers’. She’d actually had an appointment this time, and Robin had spent hours dyeing her hair
jet black and then styling it in the same Hollywood wave as before. While she was sitting in the chair, watching his steady
fingers move around her face, she’d thought again of Crane’s scrap of poetry.
His blood is heavy with wanting.
Ridiculous. It had to be make-believe, Ellen decided, just like that amusing little play the girls had put on. Geenie had
shown a lot of nerve, barking back at Diana like that, and almost pushing her over. It was actually very promising.

Once she was polished and set, Ellen couldn’t quite face going back to the cottage in case he’d returned, so she went for
tea at the White Hart before meeting Robin again, this time in the back room. It had been, as always, vigorous and refreshing,
but she meant to make it her last visit. Since she’d decided her daughter should go to the local school in September, she
should make the most of the few remaining weeks of summer with Geenie. Perhaps she could teach her to dance. Besides, Robin
was getting to be an awfully expensive habit.

Ellen shifted in the bed. Crane had come up late last night, but she hadn’t pretended to sleep. Instead, she’d opened her
eyes and said, ‘In the morning, will you just go? I don’t think I can stand it, otherwise.’ He’d brushed her hand with his,
and she’d caught it and held fast. But now, as she lay between the sheets, looking at the little boatmen on her curtains,
she did think about going downstairs and blocking the doorway. Forbidding him to leave. Begging him to stay. She covered her
head with the pillow, but still she could hear the muffled sound of his careful tread on the hallway boards, the click and
shudder as he pulled open the front door. She put her hands to her ears and closed her eyes, as she’d done as a girl when
her father was leaving the house to visit his mistress. It was surprisingly comforting, especially with the pillow draped
over your head and shoulders and your body curled in on itself. Almost like someone was holding you.

When she unfurled her arms and legs, the cottage was quiet. She lifted the pillow from her head. The sun was warming the sheets,
and her daughter was opening the door and throwing herself on the bed beside her, wearing a beautiful fur that Ellen hadn’t
seen or touched for a long time. With a laugh, she recognised it: Jimmy’s sable coat. Accepting it from the girl’s hands,
Ellen draped it across the bed, and she and Geenie lay down together and slept on top of the coat until lunchtime.

. . . .

Kitty was too exhausted to cry any more, but she wasn’t refusing to get out of bed. It was just that she didn’t see why she
should. George (she thought of him as George for the first time, and it was less painful:
George
was not the man who’d kissed her goodbye last night) had said Mrs Steinberg knew nothing of their love affair (was that what
it had been?), but Kitty couldn’t believe him. The woman was sure to throw her out. She may as well try to sleep for another
hour, and then, when she was stronger, she could face it.

But it was no good. Although her body was heavy, her mind was still alert. She peeped over the sheets. The green silk frock
was sprawled on the floor, where she’d kicked it off last night. The best thing to do would be to give it back to Lou and
tell her it could be altered after all. With enough determination, you could make anything fit.

Rolling over, Kitty covered her eyes against the sun, which was glaring through a gap in the curtains, and gave a little groan.
Sounds were coming from the kitchen, quiet ones at first: shoes on the flags, the larder door creaking. Then louder: drawers
opening, cutlery chiming. Pots being clashed together. Kitty turned over again, trying to ignore the row. Let the woman get
on with it, she thought. She wouldn’t know butter from margarine, or a skillet from a saucepan. Let her pull the kitchen apart,
if that’s what she wants. See how she fares.

Then she noticed something poking between the wall and the mattress. She reached for the corner of the material and tugged.
Her embroidery. Sitting up, she spread it across her lap, flattening out the creases with her hands and remembering the day
at the beach, how she’d felt the embroidered scene was so much better than the real one. Running a finger along its surface,
she felt the thickness of the rocks, the pinched knobbles of the crab’s eyes, the fine filigree of the girls’ fishing nets.
She’d had a thought that she might give it to George – Mr Crane – as a gift. But now she was glad she hadn’t. Perhaps it was
good enough to put on the wall. She could use it to replace the awful painting of the woman at the waterfall.

Then she remembered that by the end of the day she’d be back at Lou’s, among her sister’s things, where anything homemade
was not tolerated.

There was a knock at the door. Kitty gathered the embroidery to her chest and turned her face to the wall.

‘Kitty.’ It was Geenie’s voice. ‘Kitty?’

She waited for the girl to go away.

‘Ellen says, will you have lunch with us?’

So that was it. Even now, they couldn’t make themselves a meal. Kitty threw off the bedclothes and, still in her nightgown,
pulled open the door. ‘Can’t you get your own lunch, just for once?’ She was almost shouting. Geenie stepped backwards, and
Kitty looked beyond her into the kitchen. Mrs Steinberg was standing at the stove, stirring something. Her hair had changed
colour: it was glossy and black, like oil, and it made her nose stand out even further. There was a smell of burnt toast,
and a pot of tea was steaming on the table.

‘It’s only scrambled egg,’ the woman said, frowning at the stove, ploughing her wooden spoon into the pan. ‘Well, you can
make up for it tomorrow, Kitty, I’m sure. But for now, we’ll have to put up with my effort.’

‘I helped,’ added Geenie, hopping on one foot. ‘I cracked the eggs.’

Kitty folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m not – dressed.’

‘What does that matter?’ Mrs Steinberg was dolloping mounds of egg onto plates. ‘Sit down and eat.’

Kitty could tell by the way the egg fell with a heavy splat that it would be rubbery. The toast in the rack looked limp and
cold. But her mouth filled with water.

Taking a chair, she sat at the table.

‘Just a minute.’ Mrs Steinberg disappeared from the room. Kitty looked at Geenie. ‘The costumes were lovely,’ the girl said.
Then the cottage was filled with the thump and soar of music, and a man’s sweet, rasping voice began to sing.

Mrs Steinberg returned. ‘Much better,’ she said. Pushing a plate of egg over to Kitty, she sat with Geenie at her side. Kitty
took up her knife and fork. Together, the three of them began to eat.