Read The Good Plain Cook Online
Authors: Bethan Roberts
The Good Plain Cook (23 page)
K
itty woke early on Thursday, the morning of her birthday, still wearing Lou’s pink organdie frock. The skirt was pressed against
her thighs, as if something were pulling it back. She reached behind and smiled to herself as she felt Mr Crane’s knee there,
pinning her frock to the bed. It wasn’t much past dawn: the birds were raucous outside her window, their songs clambering
into the air. And he was still here. He was still here. She tried to stay unmoving on the edge of the bed so as not to disturb
him. He was still here. She closed her eyes again. All night the feeling of his kiss was there, even when she’d turned from
him and eventually reached something like sleep. They’d kissed until her lips were dry and her neck tired. Sometimes the kisses
had been long and light; at other times he’d kissed her so hard she’d felt his teeth on hers. His hands were in her hair,
on her throat, then his arms were crushing her to him and she thought, this is what they mean when they say
breathless
. He’d kept murmuring ‘lovely’, and she wasn’t sure if he meant her or the kisses. Eventually he’d lain back on the counterpane
and said ‘come to bed now’, and she’d frozen, thinking that he must want her to undress and not knowing how she could possibly
start. But instead he pulled her to his side and cradled her head on his chest, and then he’d slept. Kitty stayed awake for
hours, listening to his breath, inhaling the scent of him and staring at his chin, at all the little ticks of stubble there,
so close to her face. And here he still was. She still had him. In her small room, on her small bed.
She opened her eyes again. It was already light and warm in the room. The Pierrot costumes were on the floor, where she’d
dropped them last night. She wished the picture of her parents wasn’t so visible from the bed. Her mother’s face stared directly
down at her, and she shifted her eyes away. The clock on the chest of drawers said six. She closed her eyes again and inched
a little closer to him. No one would be up before nine. There were hours to go. Hours of just lying here, knowing he was next
to her. If she could move slowly enough, she might even be able to turn over and watch his face while he slept.
Then the thought hit her hard and she sprang upright: Mrs Steinberg.
Fucking incinerated fish
would be nothing compared to this. She stole a look over her shoulder at the sleeping man on her sheets, taking in the length
of his legs, the way one hand was thrown over his head, the muscle of his upper arm filling his shirt sleeve, the shapely
wrist resting on her pillow. Just one more kiss, she thought, and then I’ll tell him he has to go. She bent close and studied
his face: the long nose, the black lashes, the slightly sunken cheeks. She was just about to touch his forehead with her lips
when his eyes flicked open.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
Kitty drew back.
He gave a huge yawn and stretched his arms. ‘I slept so well. I haven’t slept so well in ages.’
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Kitty fixed her eyes on the door and waited for him to move from her bed. It would all
be over soon: he’d get up, stretch again, say something about what a night of madness it had been, he didn’t know what he’d
been thinking, it was an unforgivable intrusion and could she forgive him, could she? Then he’d walk out without waiting for
her answer, and she’d have to pretend nothing had happened, put his tea down without glancing at him, watch Mrs Steinberg
casually touch his thigh beneath the table, listen to them laughing together in the sitting room, picture her dancing for
him while that man’s sweet, rasping voice unravelled from the gramophone. She didn’t think she could do it. There was nothing
else for it: she’d have to go back to Lou’s.
‘Kitty? Did you – ah – sleep well?’
‘I think you should go.’
‘What time is it?’
‘After six. I think you should go.’ It wouldn’t be so bad at Woodbury Avenue, without Bob there to rattle the newspaper in
her direction.
Mr Crane sat up.
‘You should go,’ she said again, keeping her voice low.
He rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You should go. You should go, otherwise – she’ll know.’
He came to the edge of the bed, placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him. One collar was dented, striking
him in the chin, and his shirt was badly creased. His eye gave a twitch. ‘Listen to me. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters,
not really.’
She twisted away from him. ‘Not to you, maybe—’
He reached for her again. ‘Kitty. Ellen – Mrs Steinberg – didn’t come home last night.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She telephoned me. She stayed at my sister’s house last night. And she’ll have the most dreadful hangover this morning, so
I’d be surprised if she came back before lunchtime.’
‘Oh.’ Kitty stared at the floor. ‘You should still go though, shouldn’t you?’
He smiled. ‘Let’s go for a bicycle ride.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘I don’t have a bicycle.’
‘You can borrow Geenie’s. She’s almost as tall as you. I’ll adjust the saddle.’
Kitty let out a laugh. ‘At six in the morning?’
‘Why not? You told me, didn’t you, that time I met you on the road. Don’t you remember? You said you liked riding bicycles.’
‘What about the girls? The breakfast…’
‘We’ll be back before then,’ he said, springing from the bed and and holding out his hands to her. ‘I promise.’
. . . .
It was exactly as she remembered: the breeze on your cheeks as you pedalled, the way the saddle made you sit upright and almost
proud, the wheels throwing the road carelessly behind. Even now, the hedgerows were drying out in the early morning sun and
heat was beginning to rise from the asphalt. Yellow wheat danced in the fields on either side of them, but the hills in front
were a flat, grey green, yet to be touched by the sun. Mr Crane, still in his creased shirt and with his slick of dark hair
splayed on the crown of his head, cycled on while Kitty kept a short way behind, in case anyone should see them. Not that
she could think of any reason she should be cycling at this time in the morning at all, let alone so close behind Mr Crane,
who was, to outsiders’ eyes at least, her master. What was he in her eyes, then? Was he – she dared hardly think the word
– her lover? Her lover, who was also a poet, although he didn’t look like one. She smiled to herself at that.
When they came into the village, she saw it was deserted, the High Street stretching emptily ahead and the windows of the
houses utterly blind, and she pushed down hard on the pedals to overtake him, calling quietly over her shoulder, ‘Follow me.’
As she opened the gate to the churchyard, it seemed smaller than she remembered. She didn’t look at him as they abandoned
their bicycles by the wall and walked through the damp grass, past the Fetherstonhaughs’ private enclosure, towards the back
of the church. It was very cool here, just as Kitty remembered it had been on her picnics with Lou years ago. She gave a shiver,
partly because of the cold dampness of the place, and partly because she knew what would happen if she kept walking deeper
amongst the graves, away from the road and the church, to the stones in the back corner, by the flint wall. He was close behind
her, and she knew he was watching her body move in the crumpled organdie frock, and he’d seen that place behind her ear which
no one else – not even she – had seen; but she was going to follow through.
She stopped when she found what she was looking for, a long headstone beneath a large yew tree. Mary Belcher, who had died
young and been alone underground all this time. There it was, the grave where she and Lou used to sit, still lying flat in
the grass, splattered with lichen.
‘This place,’ she began, ‘I used to think it was haunted.’
He was approaching her, a smile on his lips.
‘I used to think,’ she said, ‘that the devil might hide here.’
‘And does he?’
‘Perhaps.’
He looked behind him in mock fear. ‘Well. It’s – ah – just you and me at the moment.’
She moved closer to the grave. The ivy and moss were thicker now, but the place had that same stillness, that same smell of
mould.
‘Today’s my birthday,’ she said, quietly.
Mr Crane stopped smiling, and for a moment she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing, but then he stepped forward, took hold
of her waist and kissed her, pulling her in so close she could feel all the buttons on his shirt pressing through the bib
front of her frock. Inching her hands down his straight spine, she felt for that dimple of flesh she’d seen when she’d spied
on him getting dressed, and, feeling the indent, she tugged his shirt from his trousers, reached behind his braces and found
his soft place. He gave a little moan as her fingers touched his naked skin. Thinking of Lou stretching out with her knees
showing, waiting for someone to come along, Kitty broke away from him. ‘Wait,’ she said.
Mr Crane watched as she lay down on Mary Belcher’s grave. The cold stone sent a shocking jolt through her skin, but she hitched
up the hem of her frock and extended a hand to him. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Here.’
I
t was past seven o’clock when Ellen returned with half a dozen bunches of canna lilies on the back seat of the car, a gnawing
hunger in her stomach, having skipped lunch, and a buzz in her thighs from her hour with Robin. Getting out of the car, she
groaned to herself as she noticed Crane waiting in the front porch. She gathered up the lilies so he wouldn’t be able to see
her face and pushed past him without a word.
He followed her into the sitting room and closed the door behind them. ‘I need to speak with you.’
Ellen stood in the middle of the room, her arms still full of flowers. ‘
I
need to put these in water.’
She made for the door, but he blocked the way and clutched her arm. ‘Ellen. Please.’ His voice was low, his face grey.
She laughed. ‘You haven’t needed to speak to me for the last few days, Crane; I don’t see why you should start now.’
‘It has to be now. But not here.’
‘You’re hurting my elbow.’
‘Come for a walk.’
‘Don’t you think these will look sublime in here, darling?’ She pushed the lilies into his face. The over-rich scent rose
between them.
‘Come for a walk, Ellen.’
‘You know I loathe walks.’
He looked at her through the petals. ‘Do you? You never said.’
She sighed. ‘Does it have to be now?’
He pulled the lilies from her arms, dumped them on the dining table and held the door open.
. . . .
They crossed the field. Broken ears of wheat poked at Ellen’s feet through her peep-toe shoes – there’d been no time to change.
Crane walked ahead, saying nothing. His shirt was very creased, and was sticking to his back in streaks.
‘Is that a grass stain on your shoulder?’
His hand leapt to the place. ‘I was – lying on the lawn, earlier.’
A smear of swallows flew over them, circling and screeching across the field. Ahead, Harting Down was still brightly lit.
Its chalk paths, gnarled bushes and scrubby grass glowed in the evening sun.
‘When are we going to talk?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was urgent.’
‘When we get to the top.’
She stopped walking then, put her hands on her hips, and was about to refuse, loudly, to climb to the top of that hill. But
he ignored her actions and kept walking ahead, and she had a feeling that if she didn’t follow him he would simply continue
on his own. Then this thing, whatever it was, would never be said. So she trudged behind him, watching the sweat grow on his
back, her feet swelling, her head beginning to pound heavily. Picking another sharp stone from her shoe, she wished she’d
had time to wash the smell of Robin from her hands.
When they’d passed the little patch of woodland and gone through the gate, they reached the narrow chalk track. But instead
of following it, taking the gentler route up the hill, Crane broke from the path and began climbing straight up the grassy
slope, using his hands to help him.
‘Crane!’ shouted Ellen. ‘This is ridiculous!’ But he continued his ascent, almost leaping up the hill with irritating sprightliness.
Puffing with the effort, she followed. Her fingers clutched at dry grass, her feet slipped on stones. Once she fell, scraped
both knees on the dirt and cried out for him. But he did not look back. Her head began to feel heavy and light at the same
time: the blood still pulsed in her temples, but there was also a pressure in her nose which made her vision swim a little.
Her throat was dry (she’d had nothing since those gin and its earlier on), her stomach empty, and the buzz in her thighs had
become a dull ache. ‘Crane!’ she croaked, but still he pressed ahead.
When the hill had levelled out a little, she stopped to rest, sitting on the grass and gazing down at the village. She’d never
seen the cottage from this high up before; from here it looked compact and insignificant: no more than a brown lump in the
landscape. Inside, she thought, Kitty would be in the kitchen, fretting over potatoes; Arthur would be dozing in his shed
(she knew he spent a lot of time doing this, but she’d never objected, since she only paid him for a few hours a day anyway);
and Geenie – where would Geenie be? She realised that she had no idea. Her daughter might be anywhere at all.
‘Crane!’ Ellen shouted up to his disappearing legs. ‘No further! Do you hear me? No further!’
She waited. She wouldn’t allow herself to fully imagine what he might be about to say, when he’d worked himself up sufficiently;
but she told herself that if it looked as though he were about to break it off, she would do so first by pointing out that
she knew all about him lusting after the cook, and she, Ellen Steinberg, was not a woman to tolerate such betrayal.
She heard him stepping carefully down the slope towards her, and knew he would be avoiding treading on any flowers.
‘It’s really unforgivably dramatic of you to drag me all the way up here,’ she said.
He sat down next to her, breathing hard.
To her surprise, he didn’t pause long to catch his breath. Instead, he began to speak almost immediately. ‘I’m glad you’ve
typed James’s letters,’ he said, taking little gulps of air between words, staring all the time at the village below. ‘Thank
you for letting me see them. They’re exceptionally interesting and I’m sure they’ll be published.’
‘Yes—’
‘And I think the dedication you’ve added is wholly apt, and absolutely right.’
‘Yes – I wanted to talk to
you
about that—’
‘There’s no baby, Ellen, is there?’
The possibility of lying to him flashed into her mind. But how much time would that buy her?
‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no baby.’
‘Then I think we should part.’
She tried to speak but he continued in the same quiet tone, his eyes still fixed on the village below. ‘It’s been over a year
now, hasn’t it, since James died, and I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think now is a good time to end it. We both need
to move on. I’m going to leave as soon as I can.’ Then he added, in a warmer tone, ‘I’m sorry, Ellen.’
He was so decisive, so calm, and he’d stolen her thunder so completely, that she almost laughed. She’d never heard him sound
so resolute. It was as if he were reading out a letter he’d carefully composed weeks before.
Ellen gripped a handful of grass, pulled it from its roots and tossed it into the air. ‘What have you been doing all summer?’
His head drooped a little. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. You certainly haven’t been writing a novel.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t…’
‘Any poetry?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s that, then.’
‘That’s what?’
‘It’s all been a waste of time, hasn’t it? Being here, I mean. It’s been a colossal waste of time for you.’
‘Of course it hasn’t.’ He was looking at her now, but she refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’ve been with you—’
She snorted.
‘And I’ve been – ah – reading. Getting ready. Preparing myself for more important work. For the Party…’
She pounced. ‘So
that’s
where my money’s been going. The development of the damned Bolsheviks. And there was me thinking I was a patron of the arts.’
‘Ellen—’ he reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.
There was a pause before she said, ‘I meant what I wrote, you know, in the dedication.’
‘I know you did. I know James was the love of your life—’
‘Not that. I meant what I wrote about forgiveness. About asking for forgiveness.’
He sighed. ‘Ellen, you shouldn’t waste time with guilt. After all, we didn’t do much, did we, until after his death – no one
could blame you for getting on with life.’
She turned to him. ‘I knew he was still drunk,’ she said. ‘I knew it, and I let them operate.’
Crane stared at her.
‘Do you understand? It was my fault, George.’ Her voice had become high and shaky. ‘James’s death was my fault, and Geenie
knows it.’
He shook his head and put his hand over hers, gripping her fingers tightly. ‘Geenie loves you,’ he said. ‘She loves you, Ellen.’
Suddenly there was an immense pealing of church bells. Thursday practice had begun. The chimes rose and fell, scattering sound
over the village and echoing around the valley. Ellen had always hated the clanging racket of those bells, which went on for
hours, drowning out her records and prohibiting any decent conversation.
‘Damn those bells to hell,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You already apologised.’
They sat together, listening to the chimes racing up and down the scales, never quite making a tune.
After a few minutes, she said, ‘I’d better get back. It’s dinnertime. The girls will be waiting for me.’
He lay on the grass and squinted at the sky. ‘I think I’ll stay here a bit.’
Running a finger along his cheek, she looked at him, this slim and elegant man who was leaving her. Then she left him there
and stumbled down the hill, sprinting in places, slipping on the grass but righting herself before she fell, her face blasted
by the last rays of the sun, her stomach groaning for the food that was waiting for her.