Read The Good Plain Cook Online
Authors: Bethan Roberts
The Good Plain Cook (7 page)
W
hen they reached the landing, Geenie said, ‘This is my room. And that’s Ellen’s. Your father sleeps in there, but he has his
own room, too. And that one will be yours.’
‘Aren’t there any other rooms?’ asked Diana.
‘Only downstairs.’
‘Hasn’t your mother got an awful lot of money?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Then why hasn’t she got a bigger house?’
The question had never occurred to Geenie, who’d lived in all sorts of houses, big and small, all over Europe. She’d presumed
that most houses in the English countryside were cottages, which meant they were small.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does she like it here?’
‘Not much.’
‘Do you like it?’
Geenie didn’t know the answer until the word came out of her mouth. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I like it.’
. . . .
George had chosen the glazed chintz curtains with the peacock pattern and the eiderdown in matching greens and blues for her
bedroom. Ellen had brought her old French furniture from their house in Paris. But Geenie herself had chosen the picture on
the wall above her bed. It was an illustration from one of Jimmy’s favourite books:
Jack the Giant
Killer
. It showed the moment when Jack came upon the three princesses imprisoned by the giant, each one hanging from the ceiling
by her own hair. Jimmy had always taken great pleasure in reading this scene aloud to Geenie, particularly the part about
the ladies being kept for many days without food in order to encourage them to
feed upon the
flesh of their murdered husbands
.
The two girls looked at the picture. The princesses looked quite happy to be hung up by their hair. Great swirls of it twirled
and curled around metal hooks, as though the princesses’ bondage were merely a matter of hair-styling. Their dainty shoes
pointed downwards, like ballerinas’ feet. George had some postcards on the wall of his writer’s studio of the
Soviet People Enjoying a Healthy Lifestyle
, which he’d brought back from Russia. They all wore gym knickers and little cotton vests with belts and pointed their feet
downwards in a manner similar to these princesses.
‘That one looks like you,’ said Diana, pointing to the fair-haired princess at the front of the picture. ‘A helpless blonde.’
Geenie didn’t say anything, but she’d always thought the blonde princess
was
a bit like her. Her face was round and her lips made a little red cross. Her nose was a mere line down the centre of her face
– quite unlike Ellen’s
dog-nose
, as Jimmy had once called it. She swung from her hook with grace and charm, unruffled by her fate. She was the only princess
who looked the least bit impressed by Jack’s appearance. A handbag dangled from her fingertips. Geenie made a silent vow to
get one like it, with a jewelled clasp and the thinnest of straps.
‘Do you think Jack marries one of them?’ asked Diana.
‘No,’ said Geenie. ‘It says in the story that he gives them their liberty then continues on his journey into Wales.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t want to marry him.’
‘Why not?’ said Geenie. ‘He rescued them, didn’t he?’
‘They could have got off those hooks easily enough by themselves. All they had to do was untangle their hair. Or cut it off.’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to cut their hair. When my mother cut her hair off Jimmy cried.’
Diana shrugged. ‘Let’s dress up,’ she said.
Geenie pulled the dressing-up things from the bottom of her wardrobe, where she kept them in a tangled heap. Plunging her
wrists into the twists of fabric on the floor, she wrenched each item from the muddle. There was a long sable coat with gathered
cuffs (once Jimmy’s); a brocade waistcoat with tortoiseshell buttons; a blue French sailor’s jacket; a slightly squashed hat
made entirely of kittiwake feathers; and a long white nightie trimmed with pink lace. There was a short silk dress with a
dropped waist, turquoise blue in the bodice, green in the skirt; a huge corset, camomile-lotion pink, which had once belonged
to Geenie’s grandmother; a pair of silk stockings, laddered; a fez; and an ivory fan showing scenes from Venice. There was
a white Egyptian robe with gold trim and boxy neck, in the Tutankhamen style, which Ellen had bought on her honeymoon. There
was a red and white checked Arab headdress; an electric blue feather boa; and a huge hooped petti-coat, which had been Ellen’s
when she was a little girl in New York. And there was a pair of jade Turkish slippers, studded with glass and turned up at
the end like gondolas (which Geenie was forbidden to wear, in case she tripped over them on the stairs), and a matching long
jade necklace.
Diana picked the necklace from the top of the pile. ‘I’ll have this,’ she said. She ran the beads across her face, rubbing
each one on her cheek.
‘Then you’ll have to wear the slippers.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they match.’
Diana frowned. ‘I want to wear the white thing, though.’
‘But that’s Egyptian. It’s what I wear when I’m being Cleopatra. And the beads aren’t Egyptian.’ Geenie twisted the feather
boa around her neck. It was hot and scratchy against her skin.
‘Show me, then,’ said Diana. ‘Show me your favourite outfit.’
Geenie thought for a moment. The corset was one of her favourites, but she didn’t think that she should tell Diana that.
Just as she was reaching into the pile of clothes to find something more suitable, Diana caught her elbow. ‘Tell you what!’
she said, ‘Let me guess what it is.’
‘You won’t guess.’
‘I will.’ Her eyes flashed and she clasped her hands together. ‘I will guess.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Geenie, straightening up.
Diana’s hand hovered over the bundle of silk and cotton, feathers and lace. ‘Let’s see. It’s a process of deduction, like
in a detective story.’
‘I don’t like those.’
‘Nor do I. But my mother loves them. Dorothy Sayers.’
‘My mother loves Dostoyevsky.’
Diana pulled out the ripped silk stockings. Pulling one taut over her face, she breathed heavily and leant close to Geenie.
‘Now I’m a robber.’
‘That’s not my favourite.’
‘I know that.’
Diana dropped the stocking and picked up the brocade waistcoat. ‘It’s not this.’
‘No.’
Diana held out the white nightie with the pink lace. ‘Or this.’
‘Of course not.’
Diana heaved the sable coat from the heap and hung it from her head, like a hooded cape. ‘This smells,’ she said, ‘like a
dead animal.’
‘That’s because it is a dead animal,’ said Geenie, throwing herself back on her bed and stretching her arms above her head.
‘It was Jimmy’s.’
‘Who’s Jimmy?’
‘He lived with us for ages after my father left. I don’t remember my father, but I remember everything about Jimmy. He was
a true bohemian.’
Diana peered out from her dark cave of fur. ‘My Aunt Laura’s one of them. But my father’s a Communist.’
The girls looked at one another.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Geenie.
‘He thinks the working classes should be – equal with us. Or like us. Something like that. He went to Russia a couple of years
ago.’
‘What for?’
‘To see how they do communism there. He said the ballet was very good, and everything was clean and the people were happy.’
‘Did
you
go with him?’
‘No.’
Diana sat on the bed beside Geenie and let the coat drop to her shoulders. ‘Did Jimmy really wear this?’
‘He wore it on car journeys. He drove from our house in Paris to Nice in one go.’
‘Did you go with him?’
Geenie shook her head.
‘Where is he now?’
Geenie sat up. ‘He’s dead.’
Diana pulled the fur coat tighter around her and said nothing.
After a while, Geenie said, ‘Can I wear it now?’ and Diana shrugged the coat from her own shoulders and placed it around Geenie’s.
Then she stood back and frowned, as if concentrating very hard. ‘It suits you,’ she said, nodding.
Geenie wrapped the coat tightly around herself and smiled.
A
lthough Willow was a large cottage, the corridors were narrow. In the downstairs hallway, Kitty had to turn sideways to get
along from the kitchen to the sitting room with the tray, due to a narrow bend that could catch elbows and was already covered
in ancient dents and nicks where other trays and limbs had made their mark. It wasn’t much better upstairs; by far the easiest
way to fold sheets, as Kitty was doing now, was to hang them over the banister like sails and gather the corners together,
tucking the sheet under her chin and widening her arms to their furthest stretch as she did so. You had to be a bit careful
with this method, because Mrs Steinberg’s sheets were surprisingly old. The cotton was thick and smooth, like the icing on
Lou’s Christmas cakes (her sister was marvellous at baking, and even understood the intricacies of icing), but there was the
odd rip here and there which someone, probably Dora, had darned. The stitches were uneven, and they formed bumps on the sheets,
like scar tissue. Kitty worried that these vulnerable points might catch on a picture hook or a sharp corner of banister as
she flapped, and then the sheet would tear and she’d have to explain; she might even have to mention that Dora’s darning really
wasn’t up to much in the first place, which would be awkward.
As she drew up the corners of the sheet, the scent of Lysol caught in her nostrils. Mrs Steinberg insisted a few drops were
included with all the bedding when it was laundered by the woman in Petersfield. She came once a week to collect all their
linen, and always rolled her eyes at the sight of the bottle of bleach.
Kitty had just got the last sheet tucked into a decent shape and was about to transport the whole pile into the airing cupboard
when Mrs Steinberg called her name. She hadn’t realised anyone else was upstairs. At this time in the afternoon, Mrs Steinberg
was usually typing in the library, or sleeping. Once Kitty had walked into the sitting room at half past three and found her
mistress splayed over the cushions, mouth open, eyes half closed. A long snort like a glugging sink came from her nose, and
the whites of her eyes flickered.
‘Kitty. I’m in the bedroom. Can you come in?’
What was she doing in there at this time of day? A cold queasiness crawled through Kitty’s stomach. She had a sudden vision
of Mrs Steinberg in bed with Mr Crane, both of them sitting up, naked to the waist. There could be no other explanation for
the woman being in her bedroom in the middle of the afternoon.
‘Kitty? That is you out there?’
Mrs Steinberg’s breasts would probably be quite flat and long, what with childbearing, and three husbands, if you counted
Mr Crane and the last man, who no one ever talked about, except the girl; Jimmy, that was his name—
‘Kitty?’
And Mr Crane was very keen on tea in the afternoon; in fact, that was the next task on her list. Surely they wouldn’t dare
to ask for a tray to be brought up after
that
?
Kitty straightened her apron and faced the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. A slit of light was all that was visible
of the room beyond. ‘Yes, Mrs Steinberg?’
‘Come in here, please.’
Kitty’s mouth jolted into a smile. ‘What is it, Mrs Stein-berg?’
‘Come in here.’
That woman’s voice had metal in it.
‘I’m just folding the sheets—’
‘Damn it, why won’t you come in here?’
Kitty pushed open the door a little, being careful to keep her eyes focused on the doorframe. ‘What is it, Mrs Stein-berg?’
The curtains – green silk, decorated with Chinese boatmen in large hats with long poles, which Kitty had often admired – were
open, she could tell that much by the light. Mr Crane’s shoes weren’t anywhere near the door. But perhaps he’d removed them
and left them in his room before going to her. He had a room at the other end of the corridor, complete with a wardrobe full
of clothes and a bed covered in a sea-blue eiderdown. But Kitty knew he never slept in there. His cream cotton pyjamas (she’d
expected a poet to have silk, and was surprised by the practical choice of fabric) were never dirty. They were bundled under
his pillow each morning. Kitty sent them off with the rest of the laundry, but she knew they hadn’t been worn. They smelled
too fresh.
‘Come and sit down, Kitty.’
She didn’t sound as if she’d just had relations, which was what Lou called it. ‘You’ll learn, Kitty, when you’re married,’
she’d said to her one day as they were sitting by Lou’s fiery orange azaleas. ‘Relations aren’t always what you think. And
a woman has to be flexible.’ A little smile on her face and a flush on her cheek. The words rushing out in the warm spring
afternoon.
‘Kitty!’
She’d have to go in.
She took a step forward and let her eyes settle on the edge of the bed where Mrs Steinberg was sitting, fully clothed, holding
a handkerchief in one hand. Her face
was
a little flushed. But her eyes were slightly pink, and there was no smile. And no Mr Crane.
‘What is it, Mrs Steinberg?’
The woman seemed to be breathing oddly, unevenly, taking a little breath in and letting a big one out.
‘Sit with me, Kitty.’
There was a notebook and a cardboard folder on the bed, full of what appeared to be letters.
‘I was just doing the sheets—’
‘They can wait.’
Kitty sat on the bed, being careful not to touch the folder or any of the papers. It was a wide bed – the widest she’d seen
– with large acorn-shaped brass knobs on each corner of the frame. Sleeping alone in such a bed would be like having a whole
house to yourself.
Mrs Steinberg placed her long fingers on Kitty’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to ask your advice.’
‘My advice?’
Kitty couldn’t remember anyone asking her for advice before. Certainly not Lou or her mother. Looking at Mrs Steinberg, she
saw that the other woman’s hair was even coarser than her own. It never stayed where it was put, and she always had her hands
in it, pushing it this way and that. She ran her fingers through her fringe now, rubbing at it as vigorously as Blotto scratched
his ear. Blotches of freckle the colour of toffee covered her large nose and her orange lipstick had dried out around the
edges of her mouth.
‘I hope you don’t mind me speaking frankly to you, Kitty.’
Kitty shook her head.
‘As you’ve no doubt gathered by now, I’ve lived a rather strange life. I’ve had so much fun, and I’ve seen lots of things.
And I’ve tried to learn.’
In order to avoid the other woman’s eyes, Kitty gazed at the silver ring which flashed on Mrs Steinberg’s finger as she spoke.
The woman had a habit of staring at you very intently whenever she said anything, as if she wanted to hold you in place with
her cool eyes. Kitty wished this conversation were taking place somewhere else, somewhere away from the bed where Mrs Steinberg
had relations with Mr Crane, and with something in the room to distract her, like Blotto, or even Geenie.
‘And I’ve always chosen men who might teach me something. If you know what I mean. I’ve always thought that any fun must also
be about learning something… James, my second and dearest husband – which he was in all but name – used to say that a life
without learning was a wasted existence. I hope I’ve honoured that sentiment.’ She stretched her legs in front of her. No
stockings again, and sandals with the thinnest ankle straps. Her toenails were painted green, but, Kitty noticed, the colour
didn’t quite reach the ends of each nail. ‘And I so want to learn. But I’ve never been very good on the domestic side of things.’
There was a pause. Kitty filled it by nodding.
Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘So you agree.’
‘Agree with what, Mrs Steinberg?’
‘Never mind.’ She pressed her fingers into Kitty’s shoulder. ‘What I want to ask you, Kitty is… I want to ask for your help.’
Kitty couldn’t think of any correct response to this statement.
‘I’d like you to help me become a domesticated woman.’
‘Domesticated?’
Kitty hadn’t thought herself particularly domesticated. She wasn’t like Lou, who their mother called a
tidy little
homemaker
. At home Kitty had thrown her dirty clothes in a pile, never baked a cake and left the washing up to her mother. Domesticated
was just her job. Before she came to Willow, she’d never made even rough-puff pastry.
‘You see, the thing with Mr Crane is that he’s really rather old fashioned, despite all his communist sympathies. And I think
that’s what he’d really like me to do, in his heart of hearts. Become a housewife. A really good one. His own mother’s an
absolute angel. And he adores you, of course, Kitty.’
Kitty felt a heat rise up her throat and spread across her cheeks. She looked down at Mrs Steinberg’s ankles.
‘You must have noticed it. I have. He really admires the work you do, for us and the girls. You’ve taken it all on, the cooking,
the cleaning – the
domestic science
– with such aplomb.’
The metal had returned to her voice.
‘Thank you, Mrs Steinberg.’
‘So all I’m asking is that you show me, Kitty. Show me how to keep house.’
Kitty nodded, still staring at the brittle ankles.
‘When you’re ready, you could give me a few lessons in cookery. We could go through a book together.’ She paused. ‘And, from
now on, I am going to take full responsibility for
both
girls. Diana will be a daughter to me.’ Mrs Steinberg gripped her handkerchief and smiled. ‘This is the beginning of my life
as a true wife and mother.’
Kitty smiled back, wondering what the woman had thought herself to be up to this moment.