The Good Plain Cook (17 page)

· · ·  Twenty-five  · · ·

The embroidery was heavier in her hands now. She brought it close to the paraffin lamp she’d placed by the bed. The sky and
the sea, the crabs, starfish, pebbles and rocks were done. She’d unpicked and corrected the wonky claw, and the crabs looked
almost solid, she’d been so careful to keep her satin stitches absolutely even and close together. Each one was snug up against
the next. Kitty was particularly pleased with the contrast of the burnt orange thread she’d used for the shells with the black
French knots of the creature’s eyes. She was now halfway through the girl stooping with her net in the foreground. The outline
of the girl’s face, which Kitty had begun in stem stitch, was tricky: she knew that if she got it wrong, the whole thing would
be skewed. With hair a few extra stitches were all right, but you had to be careful with faces. One stitch too many and a
face could turn into a shapeless blot.

She put the embroidery down on the counterpane beside her, stood up and went to the wardrobe. Opening it, she smelled cinnamon
and decided she must scrub the whole thing clean. There was something wrong with having another woman’s perfume in your wardrobe.
The emerald frock was still hanging there, unworn, above the single green shoe given to her by Mrs Steinberg on her first
day. What had the woman been thinking? No one could do anything with one shoe. She should have refused it straight away.

It was no good. She was thinking again of them all sitting round their dinner table, watching her. Of Diana with her little
smile. Of Geenie with her worried eyes. Of that strange woman with the purple hair who looked like a lovely boy; she’d been
the only one who hadn’t stared. Of Mrs Stein-berg’s face, like Lou’s was when Kitty had told her just before Mother died that
she should’ve come sooner. Like a child who’d been smacked. Knowing they’re in the wrong, but willing you to be the one to
blame.

After Mrs Steinberg had shouted, Kitty went into the kitchen and, still feeling the touch of Mr Crane’s fingers on her arm,
removed her apron and hung it on the door. The generator hadn’t yet got going again, so she’d lit a paraffin lamp she’d found
in the larder and washed the soup bowls he’d brought through for her earlier, thinking
he carried these
for me
, not thinking of Mrs Steinberg’s face, of her voice, of
fucking incinerated fish
. It was almost funny, wasn’t it? Getting that annoyed over a bit of salmon. Mrs Steinberg had told her she wasn’t to spend
more than two shillings a week on the MacFisheries order – so what did she expect? She wasn’t a miracle worker. Lou would
have pointed that out to her employer, quick as you like.
Well, what do you
want? Bloody miracles?
And Arthur would have laughed. Shrugged his shoulders.
Whatever you say, Mrs S
. Walked away. Neither of them would have stood there trembling, only managing to squeak something about doing it like the
book said.

When she’d finished washing the bowls, she’d fetched her sharp scissors from her work-box. Back in the kitchen, she’d sliced
straight through the Chinese lantern’s tassel and thrown it in the bucket she kept by the door for the compost peelings.

Now she glanced at the clock on her chest of drawers. Only nine. He might be out there, in his shed, even now.

She peeled off her old work frock and changed into the blue lily print. Looking in the glass, she noticed that her hair had
lightened in the sun, and her cheeks were still flushed from the incident. That wasn’t a bad thing. She bit down, hard, on
her bottom lip, to bring the colour up, dipped her finger into her pot of Vaseline and ran it round her mouth. It was a trick
Lou had shown her, years ago: not quite lipstick, but almost as good. Should Arthur ask her again, she decided, she would
miss tea at her sister’s on Sunday afternoon in favour of the dance she knew they held at the Crown and Thistle Hotel in Petersfield.
It was mostly girls dancing with one another, of course, and only tea to drink, but maybe that would be for the best.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Kitty stood very still. If the woman was coming to start on again about the bloody fish—

Another knock. Quite a light knock. A bit of hesitation in it.

She held her breath, wondering how long it would take for Mrs Steinberg to retreat.

Then there was a voice – ‘Kitty. It’s Mr Crane. May I come in, please?’

She looked around. Her room wasn’t untidy – it never was – but the embroidery was on the crumpled counterpane and her work-box
was open on the floor. Hurriedly, she stuck her old frock on a hanger and closed the wardrobe.

‘Kitty? Are you in there?’

Taking a breath, she pulled the door open. He was holding a candle. As soon as she saw his face – lined and a bit startled
looking in the wavering light, as if he hadn’t expected her to actually open up – she turned away and sat on the bed, trying
to hide the work-box under her feet.

‘Sorry to disturb – may I come in?’

She nodded.

‘Thanks.’ He stood for a moment, looking around. ‘I thought you might need this,’ he said, pointing at the candle. ‘But I
see you’ve sorted yourself out.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

He put the candle on her chest of drawers. ‘Look here,’ he began. ‘I – ah – sorry it’s a bit late – but I thought…’ he trailed
off.

She waited.

‘Are those your parents?’ he gestured towards the framed photograph.

‘Yes.’

‘May I?’ Picking up the photograph, he held it at arm’s length, inclining his head first this way, then that, as if studying
some exquisite object he might be about to buy.

‘Your father has a very fine look about him.’

Kitty glanced up. ‘Does he?’

‘He appears – full of humour. Doesn’t he?’

Kitty thought about her father going up the passage to fart.
Don’t tell, Kitty-Cat
.

‘And what a smart jacket.’

‘Oh, that’s not his.’

Mr Crane raised his eyebrows.

‘He didn’t have a suit. I expect he hired it, from the photographer.’

‘Quite. Yes, I see.’

He put the photograph down and dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I’m so awfully sorry, about earlier.’

She focused on the place where his grey flannel trousers were going thin at the knees. There would be a hole in the left one
soon. What would it take to make him a new pair? She’d never made a pair of men’s trousers before, but she estimated three
yards of a light gabardine – perhaps navy blue, it would go with his dark hair – and a high waist, with a slimmer fit. She
could run them up for him on Lou’s machine in no time.

‘You see, Ellen – Mrs Steinberg – is a bit out of sorts at the moment. Not that that’s any excuse. But I’m sure you’ll – ah
– understand.’

Had she sent him here, to apologise on her behalf? Kitty knew she should say
it’s all right
, but couldn’t bring the words into her mouth.

He sat down heavily then, right next to her on the bed. ‘I want you to know that I’m very pleased with your work, Kitty. Very
pleased indeed.’

It didn’t seem to get cooler any more, even at this time in the evening. She could smell the sweetness of his sweat. There
was still that pulse of blood in her neck and shoulders, making her body warm, making her want to move, to lash out. She swallowed
it down.

‘Is this your work?’ He was looking at the embroidery she’d left on the counterpane.

She nodded.

He picked it up and held it close to the candle to examine it, just as he’d examined the photograph. ‘It’s the most accomplished
craftsmanship, Kitty. It really is.’

‘It’s just a bit of sewing, Mr Crane. Something to pass the time.’

‘It’s much more than that, surely! Look at the detail in it!’ His voice had become hushed, urgent. ‘It’s, well, it’s remarkable.’

She fixed her eyes on his hands as they held the cloth, but she knew he was looking at her face now.

‘Kitty…’ His fingers were stroking the Cretan stitches she’d made for the clouds. Then he ran the flat of his hand over the
surface of the rocks and the sand. He brushed the French knots of the crab’s eyes, the gentle zigzag chain she’d sewn for
the surf of the sea. ‘You really care about your work, don’t you?’

‘About the house and the cooking, Mr Crane?’

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean this. Your craft.’

She looked into his face. His eyes were so bright that she had to look away. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I do.’

‘That’s a gift, Kitty. You know that, don’t you?’

His voice was soft, and she was sure he would touch her now. He would touch her arm again, that would be how it would start.
She moved her elbow closer to his hand. All along her forearm, her skin seemed to prickle, despite the heat. She steadied
her breathing. If she could just wait a moment longer – if her skin could just move a little closer to his – surely he would
respond to that pulse in her – surely they would move together—

He stood up, making the bed springs creak.

‘Are you going?’ As soon as she’d said it, she put her hand to her mouth.

‘I’d better get back, see what the others are up to.’ He smiled faintly from above. ‘I’m glad we had this talk, Kitty.’

Once more, she fixed her eyes on the worn place at his knees.

‘Keep up the good work, won’t you?’

He left the room. Kitty listened to his footsteps over the kitchen flags, followed by the sound of voices in the sitting room.
He’d gone back to them, then. Telling Mrs Steinberg, no doubt, that it was all sorted out. Probably the others had forgotten
about it by now, anyway. She continued to sit, staring at her open work-box. There was the slap of bare feet on the flags,
and the clink of bottles. Mrs Steinberg fetching more wine. Eventually, the electric light came back on, laughter started,
and there was a woman’s voice wailing a song. The girl who looked like a lovely boy must be singing. Kitty listened to the
song for a few minutes – it wasn’t one she recognised, and the girl’s voice was too cracked to be really beautiful – then
she stood, opened her door, walked through the kitchen and, without even a glance at the washing-up piled in the sink and
sprawled over the table, went outside into the night.

It was cooler in the garden, and she was suddenly aware that she should have washed. She’d been cooking most of the afternoon,
and she could smell the tang of salmon grease as well as her own sweat. But at least now she was moving, the blood in her
head thinning, her limbs growing lighter as she walked towards the shed.

A line of light leaked onto the grass from the open door. She decided not to knock. Instead, she stood in the doorway and
said his name.

Arthur looked up from where he was sitting, a book on his knee. He didn’t appear to have been sleeping this time.

‘Do you sit here every night?’ she asked.

He spread his hands on his lap and yawned. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Your lamp’s often burning.’

‘Have you been watching, then?’

‘Don’t you want to go home?’

‘Not especially.’

There was a pause.

‘What’s for me at home?’ he asked. ‘Empty chair on the other side of the table. Tin of Skipper’s. Nothing on the wireless.’

‘But you have to go home, eventually.’

‘Eventually,’ he agreed. ‘But here there’s folk about. And they needed me tonight, didn’t they? The beast needed a kick.’

She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Arthur—’

‘Are you coming in or not?’ He dragged a camp stool out from behind his deckchair and patted the top to show her where she
should sit.

‘Why have you got that shoe?’ She pointed at the green high-heeled shoe, which was still beneath Arthur’s deckchair.

He narrowed his eyes. Then he took his pipe from his top pocket and began tapping it on the frame of the deckchair and brushing
away the debris.

When he’d re-loaded his pipe with fresh tobacco, placed it in the side of his mouth and got it lit, he reached beneath the
chair and brought the shoe out. ‘I was keeping it for you,’ he said. ‘I thought I might find the other, one day, but it hasn’t
turned up.’ He knocked the heel on the floor and mud flaked from its sides. ‘Don’t suppose one shoe’s much good to you, is
it?’

‘Let’s go to the tea-dance Sunday,’ she said.

He gave a short laugh. ‘This Sunday afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure you want to?’

She let out a sigh. ‘I said, didn’t I?’

He replaced the shoe beneath the deckchair and patted the stool again. ‘Come and sit, then. Sit with me for a bit.’