The Good Plain Cook (18 page)

‘Sunday,’ Kitty repeated, ignoring his offer. ‘Three o’clock. The Crown and Thistle. I’ll see you there.’

She turned and walked back to her room, knowing his eyes were following her.

· · ·  Twenty-six  · · ·

‘I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment and you’re coming with me.’

‘Kitty could look after me.’

‘I’m not leaving you with that girl.’ Ellen pressed her lips together. She was wearing orange lipstick, which made her look
as though she’d been sucking on a lolly, a green shiny dress, and a string of orange glass beads. Geenie could see where the
powder had settled in the pores of her mother’s large nose. Something important was going to happen in town. Her mother’s
orange handbag and matching shoes with heels and straps – rather than laces – confirmed it.

Alone with Ellen. All summer Geenie had wished she and her mother could be alone together, but now it was just the two of
them, she wanted Diana and George back. This morning they’d caught the train to London; George had stated over breakfast that
he’d some urgent work to attend to and was taking Diana to stay at her mother’s for a few days. Ellen, still wearing her dressing
gown, had stood at the window, looking out and saying nothing. Geenie had groped for Diana’s hand, but her friend had jumped
from the table, knocking her toast to the floor. Then she’d run straight upstairs to pack, leaving Geenie gazing at her mother’s
back.

‘Go and put something decent on.’ Ellen stared down at her daughter. ‘And wash your knees.’

‘It’s too hot for something decent.’

‘Just hurry up.’ Ellen snapped her handbag closed. ‘Please, darling. We don’t want people to think we’re completely hopeless.’

. . . .

Geenie lay on the back seat of the car and let herself roll around as her mother drove. Instead of looking out of the window
– she knew the sky was white with heat and the fields would be crisped and dusty – she stared at the stitching on the inside
of the roof. If she counted each stitch, they might get there quicker, and whatever was going to happen would be over, and
Diana would be back.

Ellen held her by the upper arm as they slogged through the market place. Smells of old cabbage and rabbit cages rose up from
the Saturday stalls. No one was buying much in this heat. Outside the pub on the square, men were sitting on the steps in
their shirtsleeves, fanning themselves with their hats, sipping from pint jugs. They watched Geenie and her mother as the
two of them walked by. Geenie stared back, and one of the men, wearing thick glasses and no tie, nodded to her.

Ellen quickened her pace. ‘Don’t stare.’

‘Why not? It’s interesting.’

‘English people don’t like it.’

‘Can we stop for a lemonade?’

‘Later.’

They walked down the cobbled lane to the hairdressers’. Next door, flies were buzzing around the butcher’s chain-link curtain
and there was a solid, meaty smell. Geenie tried to peer through the gaps as her mother dragged her past. There was always
blood and sawdust in butcher’s shops, which was all right to look at, as long as you didn’t have to touch it. It was like
the Italian paintings Jimmy had taken her to see in the National Gallery. All flesh and blood. It looked strange and sort
of lovely, but you wouldn’t want it on your hands.

The front door of the shop was open and an electric fan was groaning in the corner. The air, heavy with a chemical smell,
seemed thicker, coarser, inside the shop.

A man in a white coat came to greet them, holding out a strong-looking hand.

‘Hello, Robin,’ said Ellen, smiling and touching his fingertips. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to bring my daughter with me.’

The man glanced down at Geenie. The skin on his face looked like cheese.

‘That’s quite all right, Madam.’ He narrowed his eyes but did not smile. Instead, he knelt on the green tiles beside Geenie
and whispered, ‘How would you like to look like Garbo?’

His breath reeked of milky tea. Geenie kept a tight hold on her mother’s hand.

‘She’d love it,’ said Ellen. ‘What girl wouldn’t?’

‘Then I shall arrange it,’ said the man, still kneeling, still breathing tea. ‘Hilda will take off all the excess weight…’here
he plunged a hand into Geenie’s hair and lifted it away from her face – ‘and then set it for you. How about that?’

Geenie snatched a long strand of her hair away from Robin’s fingers, placed it in her mouth, and began to chew.

Between chews, she said, ‘Cut it off, do you mean?’

‘I mean, lick it into shape.’ He winked. ‘Hilda will make you look very sophisticated. It’s her speciality.’ Straightening
up and facing Ellen, he added, ‘It will take about an hour. Enough time for a special treatment for yourself, Madam.’

Ellen pulled her hand free of Geenie’s and gave her a little shove forwards. ‘You’ll look beautiful, darling,’ she said, her
eyes still on Robin. ‘Think how jealous Diana will be when she comes home.’

. . . .

Hilda held out a pink paisley gown. ‘Slip this on love, and we’ll get you washed.’

Pushing her arms into the scratchy material, Geenie asked, ‘Are you going to make me look like Garbo?’

Hilda gave a short laugh. ‘You and all the others.’

The basin was cold against her neck. Hilda’s fingers sprung about Geenie’s scalp as she rubbed in the shampoo. She wore very
red lipstick and had a splodge of freckles on her nose. Her hair was shiny yellow and her curls bounced as she rinsed the
soap away. ‘What a lot of hair,’ she said.

‘Some people call me Flossy, because it looks like candy-floss.’

‘Do they now? Come over to the mirror, then, and we’ll see what we can do about that.’

It had been a while since Geenie had studied her own reflection. Sitting in the curtained cubicle, she looked in the large
round mirror before her. Her hair now reached her waist and her face looked darker than before.

Hilda pulled a metal comb through the ends of Geenie’s hair, making her yelp.

‘This is a right old tangle. Doesn’t your mother brush it for you?’

Geenie shook her head.

Hilda frowned as she tugged the comb through. ‘We might have to cut some of these out I’m afraid, love.’

The metal teeth sang as Hilda tackled another knot.

‘Cut it all off.’ Geenie stared at her own mouth as she formed the phrase.

Hilda stopped combing. ‘All of it?’

‘Really short.’

Hilda ran her fingers through the thick mass. ‘It would be a shame to lose
all
of it…’

‘I don’t want it any more. Get rid of it.’

‘Are you sure, Miss? What’ll your mother say?’

‘She won’t say anything.’

Hilda hesitated. She put one hand on her hip and held the comb in the air. ‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking,
Miss?’

‘Thirteen,’ Geenie lied.

Hilda sighed. ‘And you’re sure you want it short?’

‘Yes. Quite sure.’

‘Right.’ Hilda reached for the scissors. ‘Put your head forward.’

And she began to cut.

The hair sprayed down to the floor. Once cut, it twisted helplessly to the ground. It was like when Kitty lifted the pie dish
to trim the edge of the pastry. The stuff fell cleanly from the knife, as if relieved to be set free.

Hilda’s bosom pressed against Geenie’s shoulder as she angled the girl’s head. Geenie closed her eyes, breathed in Hilda’s
currant-bun scent, and stayed absolutely still in the chair, waiting to be transformed. It would be like the dancing princesses
being set free by Jack. Everything would be different, after this; once the yellow curtain was drawn back and she stepped
out into the shop, everything would change. When Jimmy was alive, she’d been Flossy. But Jimmy wasn’t coming back.

‘Short enough?’

Geenie opened her eyes. Her hair brushed the tops of her shoulders.

‘Shorter,’ she said, closing her eyes again.

Throughout the cutting, Geenie heard only one noise from the back room: it was a familiar, long ‘yes’.

. . . .

After an hour, it was done. Hilda had cut a bob so short that the lobes of Geenie’s ears were partly exposed. She felt her
hair prickling the skin there. Turning her head to the side, she saw how white her neck was, and reached up to touch it.

Hilda laughed. ‘Nothing there any more, is there?’

Geenie looked in the mirror again. She wasn’t sure who was staring back at her. The reflection didn’t seem to be one she quite
recognised. Instead of a mass of hair, there was her face: her pale blue eyes, her receding chin, her small mouth, all looking
strangely prominent.

Hilda swept the blonde strands into an enormous pile. ‘Do you want to take it home?’ She swished the curtains back so Geenie
was exposed. Geenie looked around, expecting to hear her mother’s shocked response to her new look. But there was no sign
of Ellen.

‘Miss? I can put it in a bag for you, if you like.’

Geenie looked at the mound of dead hair. ‘My mother might want it,’ she said.

. . . .

When Ellen eventually emerged from the back room, she was no longer wearing orange lipstick, and her hair looked exactly the
same as before, but the green shiny dress was creased across her thighs and bottom.

Geenie sat in the chair by the reception desk with a paper bag full of hair on her lap, and waited for her mother to notice.

‘Robin said my daughter’s hair would be included in the price.’ Ellen leaned across the desk and spoke to the top of Hilda’s
head.

Hilda glanced at Geenie, and Ellen’s eyes followed.

There was a tiny silence, during which Geenie listened to the groaning of the electric fan. Her head felt light and cool.
Gripping the bag tightly, she knew she was ready for whatever happened.

‘What have you done?’ There was a tremble in Ellen’s voice which Geenie hadn’t heard for a very long time.

‘What,’ Ellen repeated, staring at her daughter’s head, ‘have you done?’

Holding out the open bag, Geenie shook it in her mother’s direction. Then she watched as Ellen closed her eyes very slowly,
put a hand to her mouth and shook her head. ‘Your beautiful hair!’ she whispered.

Geenie placed the bag back on her lap, expecting Ellen to take a swipe at it, but instead Ellen came and knelt on the floor
before her. It was a moment before she spoke, and, when she did, her voice was so quiet Geenie had to lean forward to make
out what she was saying. ‘Jimmy loved your hair! You were his Flossy.’

Geenie studied her mother’s eyes. They were smaller, greyer, than her own. They looked, she thought, washed out.

‘Don’t you remember, Geenie?’

Slowly, Geenie put the bag of dead hair on the floor. ‘Of course I remember,’ she said. ‘I remember everything about Jimmy.’
Her voice sounded loud in the empty shop.

Ellen reached out and touched the new, blunt ends of her daughter’s hair. She took a strand between her finger and thumb and
rubbed at it, as though it were a fine fabric.

Then Geenie said, ‘But he’s gone, hasn’t he?’

Ellen pulled Geenie into her arms and held her. Geenie pressed her cheek into her mother’s shoulder and felt her shuddering
breath on the back of her own naked neck. They both held on tight.

When Ellen let go, she scooped up the bag of hair, carefully folded the top over, and tucked it under her arm. ‘I’ll keep
this safe,’ she said.

· · ·  Twenty-seven  · · ·

She was wearing her lily-print dress and a neat white tricorne hat, to the front of which she’d appliquéd a violet. It was
her only hat besides the beret, and she was fond of it, even though Lou always said it looked like a boat washed up on her
head. She’d pinned the hat so tightly to her hair that she could feel it pull every time she nodded to Arthur as they tried
to find a table.

Arthur got out his hankie and wiped the lattice-work chair before Kitty sat. There was a blob of jam on the cloth and no parasol.
Kitty removed her hat and wondered if she should have worn gloves to hide the fact that the tips of her fingers were damp.

‘Well,’ said Arthur, squinting at her. ‘This is nice.’

He straightened his jacket sleeves. He was wearing the same suit she’d seen him in at the pictures, and she saw, now, that
the fabric was shiny with wear on the elbows. His face was ruddy and he’d put something on his hair to keep it down. What
with this, his flushed cheeks, and his damp brow, his whole head looked as though it had been covered in a film of grease.

Taking out his pipe, he twisted round, searching for the waiter. ‘I’m parched,’ he announced.

‘Have you been here before?’

‘Couple of times. In the evenings.’

Kitty was surprised but tried to hide it by looking down at the tablecloth.

‘It’s what you do, isn’t it? With women, I mean.’

She’d never heard him say that word,
women
, before. It sounded slightly obscene.

‘No doubt you’ve been here plenty, Kitty. Dancer like you.’

Kitty thought of the times she’d been to the Sunday tea-dance with Lou when she was younger: the two of them had clutched
at each other’s dresses, and Lou always hissed that Kitty should lead in case any boys were watching them.

She lifted her head. ‘What do you mean, with
women
?’

Arthur tucked some tobacco into his pipe and smiled. ‘You know. Girls and that.
Ladies
. A twirl around the floor in some hotel. It’s what they expect, isn’t it?’

Kitty wiped her palms on her skirt and raised her chin.

‘What do
you
expect, then?’

Arthur lit his pipe. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. Bit of company, I suppose.’ He paused before looking straight at her. ‘Someone
to share things with. Doesn’t really matter what they are, does it? As long as you do them together.’

Kitty looked across the lawn. The sun blazed down, bleaching everything in sight.

Arthur put his hand up for the waiter, but the boy didn’t seem to see them.

‘Do you want to stay in service, Kitty?’

The question caught her off guard. It wasn’t something she’d thought much about. She’d just been glad not to have to live
with Lou and Bob any more, and it didn’t seem like there was any choice other than to stay in service – at least until she
was married. Not that getting married seemed very likely to Kitty. She didn’t allow herself to picture that scenario very
often, and when she did, she always thought of the wedding photograph, with herself in a tidy marocain silk frock, perhaps,
and a feather in her hat, which would bear no resemblance to a boat. But she couldn’t imagine the man at her side at all.

‘It’s not a bad life, is it?’ she answered.

‘Well,’ said Arthur. ‘
I’m
all right. Come and go as I please really: do a bit of gardening, see to the beast. They don’t seem to mind, as long as I
show my face and things keep going. It’s better than slogging it down at the rubber factory, at any rate.’ He sucked on his
pipe. ‘But I don’t know about you. Seems to me you’re wasted, with them lot.’

The waiter was near them again, and Kitty raised her hand a fraction of an inch. But he swept straight past.

‘You could be cooking in some proper house,’ Arthur continued. ‘For proper gentry. Have some girl do the skivvying for you.
Those cakes of yours are smashing. Especially the – what is it? French sponge.’

‘French buns.’

‘That’s it. Smashing.’

She smiled. For a while now, she’d had an idea that perhaps she’d be able to move and get a position as a real cook somewhere
else, somewhere there’d be a kitchen maid to help her. But after the salmon incident, she knew she wouldn’t get anything like
a decent reference from Mrs Steinberg.

‘Or, of course…’ he licked his bottom lip. ‘Of course, you could decide to go off and get married to some lucky Joe.’

‘Didn’t we ought to dance?’ she said, standing up so she wouldn’t have to look at his shining eyes. ‘It’s getting on. The
band only plays until four.’

‘What about your tea?’

But she was already heading for the open patio doors.

. . . .

As they walked to the floor, Arthur let his hand rest on Kitty’s hip. In between the mopping of brows, the band was playing
a drowsy ‘Continental’. Kitty noticed that the lead trumpeter’s shirt was wet through; you could see the outline of his vest.
A few girl-couples limped through the dance, gazing over each other’s shoulders, but there were no men in sight, apart from
an old gentleman still wearing his jacket, who was guiding his wife slowly around the floor, his eyes half shut.

She let Arthur pull her quite close before they began to move to the music. His hand was warm and dry as it clasped her fingers.
He’d left his jacket on the chair outside, and his chest was against hers; she could feel its rise and fall. She thought again
of the movement of Mr Crane’s shoulders as he put on his shirt. The leap of his muscle.

Forwards, backwards, turn. Arthur wasn’t a bad dancer at all. His waist was stiff, but his feet knew where to go. The trumpets
let out a long blast in an attempt to get some life into the tune. No one here would dance on the tables, Kitty thought. She
tried to concentrate on following Arthur and not think of how she’d danced in the kitchen with Mrs Steinberg, how she’d let
her hips lead the way. Here she must sway, rather than swing. She mustn’t force him with any sudden movement. His breath was
on her forehead. He smelled slightly of his shed: warm mud and fraying string.

‘That girl’s very fond of you, you know.’

Kitty looked up.

‘She told me what happened the other night, with Mrs S. Damned liberty, if you ask me.’

Kitty stopped moving, but Arthur swung her round.

‘You should be careful, though. It’s never good to let them get too close.’ He was looking over her head. ‘Better to stick
with your own.’

‘How do you mean?’

He swung her round again. ‘I mean, they’re all right and that, but in the end they’ll always be them, and we’ll always be
us.’

The only reply Kitty could think of was, ‘Geenie’s just a girl.’

Arthur ignored this. ‘Take Crane. He’s on at me to join the Bolshies, but I know it’s not for me, it’s for them. I listen
to what he has to say, and I even agree with some of it, but I keep my distance.’

The music stopped for a moment. He released her and wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief.

‘It’s not as if I’m really close to – to any of them—’

‘Didn’t say you were. But the girl was gabbing about you making her some costume or other. Rang alarm bells, that’s all.’

The music started again. He took her hand and smiled. ‘Just looking out for you, Kitty. Seeing you’re all right.’

She said nothing.

‘Told you I could dance,’ he said, dropping his hand lower on her back and pulling her in closer.

‘I think it’s good,’ said Kitty, keeping her fingers taut in his, ‘the way Mr Crane stands up for the working classes.’

Arthur gave a loud laugh over her head. ‘He’s just playing at it. Underneath all that talk, the
Daily Worker
and all that claptrap, he’s like the rest. He’s one of them.’

‘At least he cares.’

Arthur pushed his hip into her body and moved his mouth close to her ear. ‘Crane doesn’t know anything about the working classes,
Kitty. Have you ever seen him do any actual
work
?’

She tried to move her face away from his breath. ‘He did that room, didn’t he? Knocked it through?’

‘I did that, with a mate who’s a brickie. Crane just handed us some tools now and then.’

‘He’s writing a book.’

‘That’s not work, is it? Sitting at a desk making up stories.’

Kitty didn’t reply. She didn’t mention Arthur’s love of Westerns. Instead she closed her eyes and remembered the feel of Mr
Crane’s fingers on her elbow, and was glad Arthur hadn’t touched her there.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to announce this will be the last dance of the afternoon. I thank you.’ The trumpeter made
a salute and let out a loud blast, and the band began a new tune with more vim. Yelping girls suddenly squeezed through the
patio doors and piled onto the dance floor. They began spinning each other around and laughing. Arthur kept his back straight
and squeezed Kitty’s hand.

But Kitty had decided to let her hips lead the way. Her thighs took the strain as she dipped, then straightened, taking Arthur
with her. She hardened her jaw and looked to the right, then the left, aware of Arthur watching her with a slight frown, his
feet stumbling in an attempt to keep up with hers. The floor itself seemed to be moving with the rhythm. Everything was much
too hot and fast, but the only thing to do was keep dancing. It was the last number and you had to keep dancing. The girls
bounced around them, giggling, overheated, swinging.

Arthur hooked his knee between her legs and swiped it to the side, almost causing her to topple. ‘You’re leading,’ he hissed.

Regaining her balance, Kitty continued to dance, gripping his fingers in hers and twirling him around. Their feet tangled
but she carried on.

‘Kitty!’ As he tugged his hand free of hers, she span out of his path; Arthur lunged forward, arms flailing, and she watched
him and thought,
he’s going to fall
, but she made no move to save him. He batted his arms in the air, as he’d done when trying to fend off that wasp in the garden,
and somehow, through this frantic windmilling action, managed to stop himself going down.

The music stopped and a great wave of chatter and applause broke over their heads. Immediately, waitresses appeared and began
to move through the crowd, pushing their way out into the tea garden with trays.

They stood apart in the bustle, staring at each other.

‘You were leading.’

She put a hand to her hair. ‘Was I?’ she said, panting slightly from the heat and the exercise. ‘I didn’t realise.’

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation, but she couldn’t think of anything to offer him.

‘We’d better go,’ he said eventually, starting for the doors.

Standing in the middle of the dance floor, she watched him leave. She was sure he would turn around when he reached the doors
and call for her to follow; he’d extend an arm, his trimmed moustache would twitch, and he’d say, ‘You coming?’ She waited,
her eyes fixed on his short back. But he stepped right through the doors without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

The room had emptied around her. Kitty looked up at the stage. The band was packing up, but the trumpeter was still sitting
back in his chair, his shirt soaked. Raising his hand to his brow, he saluted her.