The Good Plain Cook Page 19
‘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.’
‘Sunday,’ Kitty repeated, ignoring his offer. ‘Three o’clock. The Crown and Thistle. I’ll see you there.’
She turned and walked back to her room, knowing his eyes were following her.
· · · Twenty-six · · ·
Ellen’s face was closed. Geenie knew the signs: chin tucked tight to her chest, eyes unblinking.
‘I’ve got a hairdresser’s appointment and you’re coming with me.’
‘Kitty could look after me.’
‘I’m not leaving you with that girl.’ Ellen pressed her lips together. She was wearing orange lipstick, which made her look as though she’d been sucking on a lolly, a green shiny dress, and a string of orange glass beads. Geenie could see where the powder had settled in the pores of her mother’s large nose. Something important was going to happen in town. Her mother’s orange handbag and matching shoes with heels and straps – rather than laces – confirmed it.
Alone with Ellen. All summer Geenie had wished she and her mother could be alone together, but now it was just the two of them, she wanted Diana and George back. This morning they’d caught the train to London; George had stated over breakfast that he’d some urgent work to attend to and was taking Diana to stay at her mother’s for a few days. Ellen, still wearing her dressing gown, had stood at the window, looking out and saying nothing. Geenie had groped for Diana’s hand, but her friend had jumped from the table, knocking her toast to the floor. Then she’d run straight upstairs to pack, leaving Geenie gazing at her mother’s back.
‘Go and put something decent on.’ Ellen stared down at her daughter. ‘And wash your knees.’
‘It’s too hot for something decent.’
‘Just hurry up.’ Ellen snapped her handbag closed. ‘Please, darling. We don’t want people to think we’re completely hopeless.’
. . . .
Geenie lay on the back seat of the car and let herself roll around as her mother drove. Instead of looking out of the window – she knew the sky was white with heat and the fields would be crisped and dusty – she stared at the stitching on the inside of the roof. If she counted each stitch, they might get there quicker, and whatever was going to happen would be over, and Diana would be back.
Ellen held her by the upper arm as they slogged through the market place. Smells of old cabbage and rabbit cages rose up from the Saturday stalls. No one was buying much in this heat. Outside the pub on the square, men were sitting on the steps in their shirtsleeves, fanning themselves with their hats, sipping from pint jugs. They watched Geenie and her mother as the two of them walked by. Geenie stared back, and one of the men, wearing thick glasses and no tie, nodded to her.
Ellen quickened her pace. ‘Don’t stare.’
‘Why not? It’s interesting.’
‘English people don’t like it.’
‘Can we stop for a lemonade?’
‘Later.’
The front door of the shop was open and an electric fan was groaning in the corner. The air, heavy with a chemical smell, seemed thicker, coarser, inside the shop.
A man in a white coat came to greet them, holding out a strong-looking hand.
‘Hello, Robin,’ said Ellen, smiling and touching his fingertips. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to bring my daughter with me.’
The man glanced down at Geenie. The skin on his face looked like cheese.
‘That’s quite all right, Madam.’ He narrowed his eyes but did not smile. Instead, he knelt on the green tiles beside Geenie and whispered, ‘How would you like to look like Garbo?’
His breath reeked of milky tea. Geenie kept a tight hold on her mother’s hand.
‘She’d love it,’ said Ellen. ‘What girl wouldn’t?’
‘Then I shall arrange it,’ said the man, still kneeling, still breathing tea. ‘Hilda will take off all the excess weight…’here he plunged a hand into Geenie’s hair and lifted it away from her face – ‘and then set it for you. How about that?’
Geenie snatched a long strand of her hair away from Robin’s fingers, placed it in her mouth, and began to chew.
Between chews, she said, ‘Cut it off, do you mean?’
‘I mean, lick it into shape.’ He winked. ‘Hilda will make you look very sophisticated. It’s her speciality.’ Straightening up and facing Ellen, he added, ‘It will take about an hour. Enough time for a special treatment for yourself, Madam.’
Ellen pulled her hand free of Geenie’s and gave her a little shove forwards. ‘You’ll look beautiful, darling,’ she said, her eyes still on Robin. ‘Think how jealous Diana will be when she comes home.’
. . . .
Hilda held out a pink paisley gown. ‘Slip this on love, and we’ll get you washed.’
Pushing her arms into the scratchy material, Geenie asked, ‘Are you going to make me look like Garbo?’
Hilda gave a short laugh. ‘You and all the others.’
The basin was cold against her neck. Hilda’s fingers sprung about Geenie’s scalp as she rubbed in the shampoo. She wore very red lipstick and had a splodge of freckles on her nose. Her hair was shiny yellow and her curls bounced as she rinsed the soap away. ‘What a lot of hair,’ she said.
‘Some people call me Flossy, because it looks like candy-floss.’
‘Do they now? Come over to the mirror, then, and we’ll see what we can do about that.’
It had been a while since Geenie had studied her own reflection. Sitting in the curtained cubicle, she looked in the large round mirror before her. Her hair now reached her waist and her face looked darker than before.
Hilda pulled a metal comb through the ends of Geenie’s hair, making her yelp.
‘This is a right old tangle. Doesn’t your mother brush it for you?’
Geenie shook her head.
Hilda frowned as she tugged the comb through. ‘We might have to cut some of these out I’m afraid, love.’
The metal teeth sang as Hilda tackled another knot.
‘Cut it all off.’ Geenie stared at her own mouth as she formed the phrase.
Hilda stopped combing. ‘All of it?’
‘Really short.’
Hilda ran her fingers through the thick mass. ‘It would be a shame to lose all of it…’
‘I don’t want it any more. Get rid of it.’
‘Are you sure, Miss? What’ll your mother say?’
‘She won’t say anything.’
Hilda hesitated. She put one hand on her hip and held the comb in the air. ‘How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking, Miss?’
‘Thirteen,’ Geenie lied.
Hilda sighed. ‘And you’re sure you want it short?’
‘Yes. Quite sure.’
‘Right.’ Hilda reached for the scissors. ‘Put your head forward.’
And she began to cut.
The hair sprayed down to the floor. Once cut, it twisted helplessly to the ground. It was like when Kitty lifted the pie dish to trim the edge of the pastry. The stuff fell cleanly from the knife, as if relieved to be set free.
Hilda’s bosom pressed against Geenie’s shoulder as she angled the girl’s head. Geenie closed her eyes, breathed in Hilda’s currant-bun scent, and stayed absolutely still in the chair, waiting to be transformed. It would be like the dancing princesses being set free by Jack. Everything would be different, after this; once the yellow curtain was drawn back and she stepped out into the shop, everything would change. When Jimmy was alive, she’d been Flossy. But Jimmy wasn’t coming back.
‘Short enough?’
Geenie opened her eyes. Her hair brushed the tops of her shoulders.
‘Shorter,’ she said, closing her eyes again.
Throughout the cutting, Geenie heard only one noise from the back room: it was a familiar, long ‘yes’.
. . . .
After an hour, it was done. Hilda had cut a bob so short that the lobes of Geenie’s ears were partly exposed. She felt her hair prickling the skin there. Turning her head to the side, she saw how white her neck was, and reached up to touch it.
Hilda laughed. ‘Nothing there any more, is there?’
Geenie looked in the mirror again. She wasn’t sure who was staring back at her. The reflection didn’t seem to be one she quite recognised. Instead of a mass of hair, there was her face: her pale blue eyes, her receding chin, her small mouth, all looking strangely prominent.
Hilda swept the blonde strands into an enormous pile. ‘Do you want to take it home?’ She swished the curtains back so Geenie was exposed. Geenie looked around, expecting to hear her mother’s shocked response to her new look. But there was no sign of Ellen.
‘Miss? I can put it in a bag for you, if you like.’
Geenie looked at the mound of dead hair. ‘My mother might want it,’ she said.
. . . .
When Ellen eventually emerged from the back room, she was no longer wearing orange lipstick, and her hair looked exactly the same as before, but the green shiny dress was creased across her thighs and bottom.
Geenie sat in the chair by the reception desk with a paper bag full of hair on her lap, and waited for her mother to notice.
‘Robin said my daughter’s hair would be included in the price.’ Ellen leaned across the desk and spoke to the top of Hilda’s head.
Hilda glanced at Geenie, and Ellen’s eyes followed.
There was a tiny silence, during which Geenie listened to the groaning of the electric fan. Her head felt light and cool. Gripping the bag tightly, she knew she was ready for whatever happened.
‘What have you done?’ There was a tremble in Ellen’s voice which Geenie hadn’t heard for a very long time.
‘What,’ Ellen repeated, staring at her daughter’s head, ‘have you done?’
Holding out the open bag, Geenie shook it in her mother’s direction. Then she watched as Ellen closed her eyes very slowly, put a hand to her mouth and shook her head. ‘Your beautiful hair!’ she whispered.
Geenie placed the bag back on her lap, expecting Ellen to take a swipe at it, but instead Ellen came and knelt on the floor before her. It was a moment before she spoke, and, when she did, her voice was so quiet Geenie had to lean forward to make out what she was saying. ‘Jimmy loved your hair! You were his Flossy.’
Geenie studied her mother’s eyes. They were smaller, greyer, than her own. They looked, she thought, washed out.
‘Don’t you remember, Geenie?’
Slowly, Geenie put the bag of dead hair on the floor. ‘Of course I remember,’ she said. ‘I remember everything about Jimmy.’ Her voice sounded loud in the empty shop.
Ellen reached out and touched the new, blunt ends of her daughter’s hair. She took a strand between her finger and thumb and rubbed at it, as though it were a fine fabric.
Then Geenie said, ‘But he’s gone, hasn’t he?’
Ellen pulled Geenie into her arms and held her. Geenie pressed her cheek into her mother’s shoulder and felt her shuddering breath on the back of her own naked neck. They both held on tight.
When Ellen let go, she scooped up the bag of hair, carefully folded the top over, and tucked it under her arm. ‘I’ll keep this safe,’ she said.
· · · Twenty-seven · · ·
Arthur said they should have tea before dancing, and Kitty was relieved to have an excuse to put off the moment when he’d touch her, remembering the way he’d placed his hand on her backside at the beach. He led her through the quiet hotel and out into the tea garden. The Crown and Thistle wasn’t nearly as upmarket as the White Hart: there was no revolving door, the girl on the desk didn’t have a uniform, and it was a smaller place altogether, in the centre of town rather than out by the lake; but it was, Kitty thought, quite posh enough, and much better than the Drill Hall for dancing, even in the afternoon. Most people seemed to be sitting outside in the small garden, under the shade of the hotel’s blue umbrellas, and she’d been right: the place was full of young women – some of them probably worked at the Macklows’. She didn’t look too closely at individual faces in case there was one she recognised. Over the tinkle of ‘Tiptoe Through the Tulips’ there was the clatter of teaspoons on porcelain. As they crossed the lawn, there was a limp round of applause between numbers.
She was wearing her lily-print dress and a neat white tricorne hat, to the front of which she’d appliquéd a violet. It was her only hat besides the beret, and she was fond of it, even though Lou always said it looked like a boat washed up on her head. She’d pinned the hat so tightly to her hair that she could feel it pull every time she nodded to Arthur as they tried to find a table.