The Good Plain Cook (24 page)

· · ·  Thirty-four  · · ·

T
hat night, Kitty waited for Mr Crane to come again. She told herself that this was not what she was doing. What she was doing was finishing her embroidery, just as she would
have done if nothing had happened. She was sitting on her bed – where he’d held her head to his chest, where he’d kissed her
earlobe, and then her neck – with the embroidery in her lap, and she would finish it tonight. Looking towards the window,
she saw there was a light in his studio. Her ears strained for the sounds of his door opening, his footsteps along the gravel
path. It was half past eleven, and he hadn’t had any dinner. Surely he’d come in soon. She threaded her needle with red silk.
He hadn’t said he would come. He hadn’t said anything much as they’d lain in each other’s arms on the grave, looking up at
the patches of blue flickering between the yew’s needles. He’d stroked her hair and said
Kitty
.
Kitty
he’d said, as if it were a beautiful sound.

She would fill the stripes on the girl’s gown with fern stitch. Gripping the needle, she forced it through. The picture was
almost complete, and the cloth had stiffened. How could he come? He’d left her as soon as they’d got back to the cottage,
saying nothing about when he would see her again. He hadn’t been at the dinner table when she’d left the cutlets and retreated
without looking anyone in the face, not even Geenie, who’d kept thanking her for the Pierrot costumes. The thread creaked
as she made the last stitches on the girl’s sash. But how could he not come again? How could he not come, when he’d touched
her between her thighs, running his forefinger along that secret nub of skin, building a fierce heat low down in her, a pressure
that had to be released. It had been painful when he’d pushed himself into her, and she’d kept her eyes on his face and gripped
the sides of the grave as her lower back pressed against the uneven stone. But she wanted it to happen again, now that she
knew the pressure was possible, now that she suspected he would be able to release it.

She secured the stitch with another at the back of the calico, removed the frame, shook out the fabric and examined her work.
Everything was correct – she’d managed to pick out the faces and the rocks well; the French knots were all even; the loop
stitches of the fishing nets were almost perfect; the fern stitching was so close you could hardly see it was stitched at
all – but the work seemed flat and bland to Kitty now. What was it
for
? There was no life to it, and no purpose in it: she realised that she’d sewn the whole thing without knowing what its use
would be. She flung it down on the bed beside her, scooped her silks back into her workbox and slapped the lid shut.

The pink organdie frock was hanging on the door of her wardrobe. There was a long grass stain down the back of the skirt;
a few stitches at the waist were broken, and a button on the bib front had been lost, leaving a trailing thread. She thought
of that stray white button, buried somewhere in the grass and the fallen yew needles of the churchyard. Then she drew handfuls
of the material to her face, covering her nose and mouth with it, inhaling the dampness of the grave, the salt of his skin,
the musk of her own body.

Still holding the frock, she went to the open window and fixed her eyes on the light in the studio. If she concentrated hard
enough, he might come. That’s what lovers did, wasn’t it? Called each other up out of the night. She waited, but there was
no sign. There was just the gurgling sigh of the stream, and the willows, huge and quiet in the darkness. She would have to
send a signal. Gathering up the frock, she hooked a button hole over the window catch, and threw it out into the night like
a flag. For the next hour Kitty stood at her open window, touching the organdie and watching for him. But the light in the
studio remained constant.

· · ·  Thirty-five  · · ·

They were to perform in front of the rose bed, which was now in full bloom. They’d placed four kitchen chairs in a row on
the cracked lawn, adding cushions as an afterthought; Geenie had fetched a bucket, feather duster and scrubbing brush from
Kitty’s cupboard beneath the stairs, and now they were in Arthur’s shed, which they’d claimed as their dressing room, waiting
for the audience to arrive. Geenie had been wearing her costume since she’d got out of bed, and by ten o’clock they’d both
been fully made up, their faces sticky with white pan-stick, and two tears pencilled on each cheek. Geenie had drawn Diana’s
for her with a shaking hand.

‘Where is everyone?’ asked Diana, peeping round the shed door. ‘I hope they’re all coming, now we’ve gone to all this bloody
trouble.’

All morning, a large, round pebble had been growing heavier in Geenie’s stomach. Now it expanded a little and she gave a whine,
like Blotto did when teased with food. When she put a hand on her friend’s arm and tried to see past her huge white sleeve,
she noticed that her own fingers wouldn’t quite keep still. ‘We could just do it for Kitty and Arthur,’ she suggested, hopefully.

‘What would be the point of that?’

‘They might like it.’

Diana squealed. ‘They’re here!’ Slamming the door shut, she turned to Geenie. ‘Right. This is it. Plan into action.’

Geenie stared at Diana. With great clarity she suddenly saw that the costumes were all wrong. They should have pompoms. The
black circles Kitty had sewn on instead were not the same. And Pierrot clowns were supposed to wear black skull caps, weren’t
they? All they’d done was scrape their hair back and tried to keep it in place with soapy water. Their tears were smudged.
And their ruffs were really just wide, flat collars, not the stiffened pleats that real Pier-rots wore. ‘It’s not right,’
she said, clutching Diana’s arm. ‘I don’t think we can do it. It’s not right—’

‘I’m on,’ said Diana, pulling away and opening the door.

In the earthy gloom of the shed, Geenie looked at Arthur’s neat rows of tools. Perhaps no one would notice if she just stayed
in here. It was airless and hot, but she could stand it. It would be better than facing the four adult faces out there in
the bright sunshine. She sat on Arthur’s deckchair, twisted her hands together and sweated. Outside, Diana was singing
those charming, alarming, blonde
women!
in her best Dietrich voice. Geenie closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had to do. Was she supposed to scrub the
floor first, or pretend to be dusting?

As Diana was nearing the end of the song, Geenie gathered enough courage to crack open the shed door and take a peek. Her
friend was bobbing around on the lawn, kicking her legs in the air. She’d pulled her black hair into a bun and her head looked
small and determined on top of her baggy white costume. Ellen, George, Kitty and Arthur were sitting in a row. Her mother
looked rather bored, which cheered Geenie a little. George had his hands behind his head and a smile on his face, but his
eye was twitching. Kitty’s cheeks were very pink, and she was looking at her knees, which was where Arthur’s eyes were also
fixed.

Diana gave a twirl and a bow, and everyone clapped.

‘And now for our main attraction, which is a play written by me, Diana Crane. Ladies and gentlemen,
What the Gardener
Saw
.’ Diana bowed again and extended an arm towards the shed, her white sleeve gaping in Geenie’s direction.

It was too late, now, to escape, and impossible to hide. Geenie’s blood fluttered in her veins as she pulled open the door.
She knew she
was
walking – she could see her feet stepping across the lawn – but she felt as though she were swimming. Was it the lawn, or
the sky, that was wobbling? She stopped beside Diana and anchored her eyes on Kitty, who gave her a small smile.

‘Oh!’ said her mother. ‘You both look so theatrical!’

‘
What the Gardener Saw
,’ said Diana again in a more urgent tone, gesturing to Geenie. This was a cue, but for what? Everything wobbled again. There
was another small round of clapping, and Arthur began to chuckle.

The sun glared. Geenie stood and blinked. If she could just keep standing, things might stop moving around and glowing a ghastly
pink.

Diana gave a short sigh before announcing in a loud voice: ‘This is Ruby, the housemaid. And I am the great poet, John Cross.’

Arthur chuckled some more. Geenie stood very still, staring at Kitty’s flushed face and searching her mind for some sort of
command, some memory of the play, of the plan. What had it all been for? She could hardly recall.

Kitty nodded and smiled again, and Geenie let out a breath: she could see what she had to do now. Falling to her knees, she
began to scrub the grass, not caring that her props were still in the shed.

‘That’s not the start,’ Diana hissed from above. But Geenie continued rubbing her knuckles in the dirt.

‘You’ve missed out the whole of the first act!’

‘Just carry on, darlings,’ laughed Ellen. ‘The show must go on and all that.’

Geenie could hear Diana puffing out a series of snorts, but she continued to work at the grass with her invisible scrubbing
brush.

There was a long pause before Diana stepped behind Geenie, threw an arm over her own face and began to speak. ‘Who is this
wondrous creature? What beauty there is to be found in a lowly housemaid! I am inspired as never before – inspired by love!’

Geenie heard her mother’s high-pitched laugh again, but it was quieter this time.

‘You beautiful creature! I must have a kiss!’ Grabbing Geenie’s arms, Diana hauled her to her feet, pinching her flesh so
hard that Geenie winced. The pain seemed to reduce the size and weight of the pebble in her stomach, and stop everything from
wobbling quite so violently.

‘Kiss me now, and then I will declare my poem in your honour!’ Diana’s hot breath was on Geenie’s face as she lunged forward
for the kiss. ‘Do not resist me, maid! I am struck by the thunderbolt!’

Planting both feet firmly on the ground, Geenie pushed her hands into her friend’s chest. ‘No,’ she said.

Diana tried to hold her tighter, moving her hands to Geenie’s waist and pulling her in, but Geenie struggled and pushed harder.
The two of them almost toppled. ‘My beautiful darling, my muse!’ gasped Diana, closing her eyes and puckering her lips. ‘One
kiss is all I ask!’

Summoning all her strength, Geenie shoved Diana away. Just as the girl was regaining her balance and coming for her again,
Geenie dodged sideways. ‘Leave me alone!’ she shouted.

Diana stood, staring at Geenie, who was faintly aware of her words echoing round the garden. Before the other girl could speak,
Geenie turned to their audience. ‘The end,’ she panted, bobbing slightly.

There was no applause. George had his hand over his eyes. Kitty’s mouth was hanging open. Arthur was looking at the ground,
chewing his lip.

Ellen got to her feet and put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Well done, girls. I’m not quite sure what that was all
about, but I’m sure we all appreciated it.’ She began to clap, but no one else joined in.

‘I haven’t done my poem,’ said Diana in a small voice.

George stood and cleared his throat. ‘Well done, girls. Most – ah – inventive.’ He took Diana by the arm. ‘Come and tell your
poem to me,’ he whispered, leading her across the lawn to his studio.

Geenie glanced up at her mother. ‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be,’ she said.

‘Wasn’t it, darling? I’d never have guessed.’

‘It was better this way, though.’

‘You improvised, darling, which is very clever. And I like your costume.’

‘Kitty made it.’ She turned to the chair where Kitty had been sitting, but it was empty. Looking towards the house, Geenie
caught a glimpse of the cook running through the back door, one hand pressed across her mouth, the other frantically cutting
the air.