The Good Plain Cook Page 15

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled. ‘You’ve got to stop!’ Her arms were up and waving, and she was stepping towards the truck. ‘For God’s sake! Stop!’

  But he didn’t stop. A hot blast of air hit her face as he drove past, finally getting the engine into gear. By now, the beast had stopped moaning. As the truck reached the end of the High Street, it spat the dead cow out behind, and roared away.

  She ran towards the crumpled body of the thing. ‘Bastard!’ she cried. ‘He must have seen it!’

  All around her, a crowd of people were gathering in silence, staring at the mangled cow. Its hide was ripped down one side and its guts had left a steaming trail along the road. Its legs were impossibly skewed, as if it had skidded and fallen on a frozen lake.

  ‘Bastard!’ she shouted again.

  A man took off his cap, stepped forward and held her elbow. ‘No need for language, love. Are you all right?’ He spoke gently.

  She looked around her. A woman in a hat like a flattened fruit basket was whispering to a young boy whose hand was jammed in a paper bag of sweets. A girl with a freckled face was picking her nose and studying Ellen’s hairstyle. No one seemed to be looking at the dead cow. Instead, everyone was staring at her. The man holding her arm cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to her stocking-less legs. ‘Can’t be helped, eh?’

  ‘Can’t be helped?’

  ‘It’s only an old cow. Nothing to fret yourself over.’ He smiled.

  ‘Why did no one stop that driver?’ She shook the man’s hand from her arm and turned to face him. ‘Couldn’t you see what was happening?’

  The man looked at the ground. She noticed that his hair was thinning and speckled with scurf.

  ‘Why didn’t someone stop him?’ She realised she was shouting, but she didn’t care. ‘Someone should have stopped him!’

  The woman with the fruit basket hat spoke up. ‘Nothing to be done, now, is there, missus? Best to leave it.’

  Ellen looked at the dead creature. Flies were already beginning to settle on its bloody head. It seemed to have sunk, somehow, into the road; its legs were limp, its neck lolled, its eye drooped. It was, she saw, utterly broken.

  ‘Someone could have stopped it,’ she said, but her voice was quiet now.

  She was still trembling as she walked back to the Lan-chester. Slumping into the car seat, she covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Bloody Yanks,’ she thought she heard someone say.

  · · · Twenty-two · · ·

  It didn’t look nearly sturdy enough. ‘Borrow it. You have just the figure for it, Kitty,’ Mrs Steinberg had said yesterday. ‘Petite. Compact.’ The top of the bathing suit was like a vest, but with thinner straps; the bottom had a tiny pleated skirt sewn onto a pair of shorts. It was pale blue cotton with white vertical stripes. Just the thing, her mistress had said, for a beach outing. Kitty stood in front of the small mirror propped up on her chest of drawers and held the garment to her body. Without even trying it, she could see it was far too big for her. When they’d gone to the beach at Bognor as girls, she and Lou had swum wearing just their bloomers and knitted vests, but Miss Weston, their Sunday School teacher, had never got past the paddling stage. Kitty found it hard to imagine a grown woman throwing herself into the sea, in full view of the beach, wearing just a bathing costume. It was all right in the films, where they wore makeup and didn’t have to actually get wet, but the reality was a different matter. She reached for her sewing bag and stuffed the bathing suit in with her embroidery. It was really the least of her worries, as she still hadn’t quite managed to tell Arthur that she couldn’t go dancing tomorrow night.

  ‘All in, all in,’ called Mrs Steinberg, waving to Kitty from the driveway. Her hair was, for once, settled in neat, shining waves around her head. In her halter-neck top and wide linen trousers, her shoulders broad and tanned, she actually looked quite handsome. Kitty smoothed her lily-print dress and climbed into the back of the car.

  Mr Crane, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, turned to face her. ‘Glad you could come, Kitty. Glorious sunshine, isn’t it? Perfect day for an outing.’

  Kitty hadn’t thought she’d any choice about coming, but she nodded and smiled, trying not to look at the exposed base of Mr Crane’s neck. He’d unbuttoned his collar and was not wearing a tie. Unlike her mistress, he still looked pale, although his nose, Kitty noticed, had caught the sun and was rather pink.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ he said, turning back to face the windscreen.

  Geenie and Diana clambered in beside her, forcing her up against the car door. Geenie had on the long white robe she’d worn on Kitty’s first day, and had drawn black lines around her eyes. Diana was wearing red shorts and a cream blouse, and was holding a book, but she also had lines drawn around her eyes. Both girls looked up at Kitty and blinked.

  ‘What’s in your bag?’ Geenie asked.

  ‘Embroidery, Miss.’

  ‘You mean sewing?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Except you sort of make pictures with it.’

  ‘Are you good at it?’

  Kitty gripped the sewing bag tighter. She was about to say ‘not bad’, but she saw Mr Crane incline his head slightly towards her, as if waiting to hear the answer, and she changed her mind. ‘Yes, Miss. I’m quite good. But mostly at dresses and that.’

  Geenie kicked her foot into the back of the driver’s seat but Mr Crane did not turn around.

  ‘Does that mean you could make outfits?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, Miss.’

  The girl grasped both her knees and sat up very straight. ‘Could you make me and Diana Pierrot outfits?’

  ‘I – suppose I might…’

  ‘Ellen!’ shouted Geenie. ‘Kitty’s going to make us Pierrot outfits so we can do a proper show!’

  ‘Where’s Arthur got to?’ Mrs Steinberg was standing outside the car on tiptoe, looking around.

  ‘It isn’t quite eleven yet,’ said Mr Crane. ‘Give the fellow a chance.’

  Mrs Steinberg got into the passenger seat and sighed.

  ‘Can we ride donkeys?’ asked Geenie.

  ‘If there are donkeys, you can ride them,’ said Mr Crane.

  ‘There are always donkeys on English beaches, aren’t there, Ellen? It’s because the British don’t know what to do with themselves by the sea.’

  Mr Crane gave a short laugh.

  ‘They’re for poor people who can’t afford horses,’ corrected Diana. ‘Aren’t they, Daddy?’

  Kitty remembered the donkeys at Bognor: stinking, insect-ridden animals that Miss Weston had warned all the children to stay well away from.

  Mr Crane looked round then, frowning. ‘They’re for anyone who wants to ride them, darling.’

  ‘There you are!’ Mrs Steinberg trilled. ‘Put the deck-chairs in the boot, would you, Arthur?’

  Arthur did as he was told, then sat beside Diana. The girls moved along the seat so Kitty was now crushed against the car door, and Geenie was almost in her lap. He was wearing a pair of twill shorts, boots, a soft shirt and tie, and a knitted tank-top. His knees were red and knobbled. When he glanced in her direction, Kitty looked out of her window.

  ‘We’re so glad you could come.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mrs Steinberg.’

  ‘Kitty’s going to make us Pierrot outfits,’ Geenie said to Arthur.

  ‘Is she now?’

  ‘You did promise, didn’t you, Kitty?’

  She could feel all three of them staring at her. Looking round, she smiled at the girl’s hopeful face. ‘I did, Miss,’ she said.

  ‘Blotto! Come on!’ The dog jumped onto Mrs Stein-berg’s lap. ‘Let’s go, then, Crane! To the beach!’

  . . . .

  Mrs Steinberg strode ahead with Blotto; Mr Crane carried the picnic basket; the two girls dawdled behind him. At the back of the line, Arthur was puffing with two deckchairs and the rug, and Kitty followed, cradling her sewing bag.

  A heat haze was distorting Wittering beach. A few familie
s were sitting on the sand, legs bared, heads under newspapers or handkerchiefs, their bodies seeming to bend and buckle. A greasy shine had settled on the sea, which swelled lazily forward, then back. It wasn’t at all like Bognor, where there was a narrow strip of gravelly sand, striped deckchairs for hire, Punch and Judy, fortune tellers and ice-cream parlours. Here it was all ridged sand and grassy dunes, no entertainment, and not a donkey in sight. And everything wobbling in the heat.

  Arthur stopped to wipe his brow and Kitty had no choice but to catch up with him. They walked a little way together in silence, Kitty sneaking sideways glances at Arthur, whose face was now brick red and sweating. His arms were covered in pale ginger freckles that seemed to get bigger the further up they went.

  ‘All set for Friday?’ he said, looking straight ahead. ‘I hear it’s going to be cracking. There’s a new band coming.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. I can’t get the time off.’

  He stopped, resting the deckchairs in the sand. ‘You can’t?’

  ‘She needs me Friday.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘His sister’s coming.’

  Arthur looked at his hands. ‘Well. That is a pity.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and began walking again.

  He caught her up. ‘You do want to come still, though?’

  Ahead, Mr Crane had stopped and was looking back. His hand was raised to his eyes, but she could tell he was looking directly at them.

  ‘We’d better catch up.’

  ‘Kitty. Wait.’ Arthur gripped her arm tightly and she almost gave a yelp. ‘I want you to come with me. Say you’ll come.’

  She glanced at Mr Crane, who was now sitting on the picnic basket, watching her, his image trembling in the heat.

  Arthur pulled her towards him. ‘Kitty…’ ‘ His hand was warm, and softer than she’d expected. ‘Say you’ll come. If not this Friday, then next.’

  His eyes were searching hers, his mouth, with its setback teeth, hung slightly open. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Then he put his other hand on her behind, and let it rest there. ‘We could dance together all night.’

  A hot pressure shot up her back.

  ‘What’s the hold-up?’ Mr Crane was standing now, shouting, his hands cupped around his mouth. ‘Get a move on, Arthur. We’ll need that rug.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ Kitty said, tugging free of Arthur’s grip and walking towards the rest of the group.

  . . . .

  Geenie pulled the white robe over her head, revealing an orange bathing costume with an anchor motif. With her smudged black eyes, gangly limbs and fuzz of blonde hair, the effect was pretty peculiar. A little like an overgrown doll, Kitty thought. Carrying Blotto in her arms, she ran down the sand. Diana followed, slowly, still wearing her shorts and blouse and holding her book, picking her way carefully through the seaweed and stones which edged the shore.

  Mrs Steinberg was also undressing, bending over and using Mr Crane’s shoulder as a balance as she stepped from her slacks.

  Kitty stood for a moment, watching the woman’s long legs appear.

  Arthur removed his empty pipe from his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘I’ll go and fetch the rest of the chairs,’ he announced, heading back for the car.

  ‘Sit down, Kitty,’ said Mr Crane, offering her a deckchair beside him.

  She did as she was told, trying not to stare at Mrs Stein-berg’s naked thighs. The woman was wearing a very small black-and-white spotted bathing costume with a thin red belt around the waist. In it, her body looked as though it had been flattened: her chest and hips were wide rather than full. But her legs, every inch of them now revealed, were astonishingly long and thin. Kitty thought of the emu she’d seen in a picture book at school.

  ‘Wonderful thing, isn’t it, to be near the sea?’ Mr Crane stared out at the water. ‘So refreshing.’

  She wasn’t sure if he was expecting an answer. Mrs Stein-berg, who was now lying on the rug, having placed a large pair of sunglasses on her face, was certainly ignoring him.

  Kitty shifted her feet. Her shoes were full of sand and her toes were cramped and hot, but she could not think of a way to remove them without drawing attention to herself.

  After a while, he said, ‘Have you been on any walks lately, Kitty?’

  ‘Not lately, Mr Crane.’

  ‘No. Well, you’ve been busy. Looking after us. That’s real work.’

  Mrs Steinberg lowered her sunglasses and shot him a look, but said nothing. Above them, gulls were screeching like knives on china. In the distance, Kitty could see Geenie throwing Blotto into the waves, and Diana sitting in the shallows, reading.

  ‘There’s a lovely one, you know, if you don’t mind hills. Straight out of the cottage, through the farmer’s gate on the left, cut across the wheat field. You know there’s a little patch of woodland there?’

  Kitty nodded, trying to picture it, but failing.

  ‘Well, there’s a path right through the trees and up to the top. First-rate views all round.’

  She said nothing. She was watching his bare wrists move as he gesticulated.

  ‘Kitty’s more interested in dancing, George.’ Mrs Stein-berg’s glasses flashed. ‘She’s got real swing.’

  Kitty brushed some imaginary sand from her lap.

  Mr Crane turned to her. ‘I didn’t know you were a dancer, Kitty.’

  Not in the way you think, she thought. Not like your ballerina wife.

  ‘She has what you might call natural rhythm.’ Mrs Stein-berg kicked a leg in the air, scattering sand over the rug. ‘Quite the showgirl,’ she said, pointing her toes and wiggling her lower leg back and forth.

  ‘Is that so?’ He was smiling now, his left eye almost winking at her.

  ‘Oh no, I—’

  ‘Don’t be modest, Kitty! Isn’t it infuriating, Crane, the modesty of the working classes?’ Mrs Steinberg’s leg waved frantically. ‘Why must they always bow their heads and mutter? Why do they never admit to anything? Take responsibility for themselves? In America, a working man’s just proud to be alive, and to hell with the rest of them.’

  Mr Crane ran a hand across his mouth. Kitty sat very still, staring at her mistress’s slim leg as it swung back and forth.

  ‘I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that, Ellen.’

  ‘What’s complicated about it? You either hold your head up, look the world in the eye, or you don’t.’

  Mr Crane shook his head and gave a short laugh. ‘You can’t compare the two in any level way. In America,’ he said, his voice becoming louder, ‘there isn’t a long history of oppression. There isn’t the same – ah – insidious class system, ingrained into the minds of the masses from birth...' He rubbed vigorously at his eye. ‘It’s not the same at all!’

  ‘But nothing will ever change, will it, if the workers can’t hold their heads up. They’ve got to do that, at least. They’ve got to say, I’ve got swing, and to hell with the rest of them!’

  She hitched herself up on her elbows and grinned widely, but Mr Crane was scowling. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  Mrs Steinberg looked at Kitty. ‘Why don’t we ask Kitty what she thinks? I’m sure she has an opinion.’

  Kitty had taken her embroidery out of her sewing bag, and now she sat, clutching the frame, staring at her stitches, thinking of the way her mother went to the pub every night and left her and Lou to put themselves to bed. To hell with the rest of them had certainly been her motto. And, thought Kitty, it was Lou’s too.

  ‘Kitty? Am I being ridiculous?’ Mrs Steinberg had taken off her sunglasses and was pointing them in Kitty’s direction.

  ‘Ellen…’ Mr Crane pulled on his collar, as if it were suddenly too tight. ‘Perhaps we should drop this—’

  ‘I think,’ said Kitty, surprised by the force of her own voice, ‘it’s not just about what class you are.’

  They waited for her to continue.

  She kept her eyes focused on the waves as s
he spoke. ‘What I mean is, it’s personality as well, isn’t it? What a person’s like.’

  Mr Crane nodded. Slowly at first, but then more vigorously. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. That’s – ah – one opinion. A good opinion.’

  Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘I agree with you, Kitty. In the end, it’s all about personality. What else is there?’ She stood and stretched her arms above her head. ‘Anyway. We’re wasting bathing time. I’m going in.’ She adjusted the straps of her costume. ‘Aren’t you two even going to take your shoes off? It must be a hundred degrees out here.’

  ‘I’d say that’s a slight exaggeration, wouldn’t you, Kitty?’ Mr Crane flicked a smile at Kitty, raising his eyebrows as though in apology. Then he started to remove his scuffed brogues, impatiently tugging at the laces. Kitty bent down and began to do the same, tipping the sand from her upturned shoe.

  Mrs Steinberg was watching her. ‘You can take those stockings off, you know. Mr Crane won’t watch, will you, George?’