The Good Plain Cook Read online

  When they came into the village, she saw it was deserted, the High Street stretching emptily ahead and the windows of the houses utterly blind, and she pushed down hard on the pedals to overtake him, calling quietly over her shoulder, ‘Follow me.’

  As she opened the gate to the churchyard, it seemed smaller than she remembered. She didn’t look at him as they abandoned their bicycles by the wall and walked through the damp grass, past the Fetherstonhaughs’ private enclosure, towards the back of the church. It was very cool here, just as Kitty remembered it had been on her picnics with Lou years ago. She gave a shiver, partly because of the cold dampness of the place, and partly because she knew what would happen if she kept walking deeper amongst the graves, away from the road and the church, to the stones in the back corner, by the flint wall. He was close behind her, and she knew he was watching her body move in the crumpled organdie frock, and he’d seen that place behind her ear which no one else – not even she – had seen; but she was going to follow through.

  She stopped when she found what she was looking for, a long headstone beneath a large yew tree. Mary Belcher, who had died young and been alone underground all this time. There it was, the grave where she and Lou used to sit, still lying flat in the grass, splattered with lichen.

  ‘This place,’ she began, ‘I used to think it was haunted.’

  He was approaching her, a smile on his lips.

  ‘I used to think,’ she said, ‘that the devil might hide here.’

  ‘And does he?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He looked behind him in mock fear. ‘Well. It’s – ah – just you and me at the moment.’

  She moved closer to the grave. The ivy and moss were thicker now, but the place had that same stillness, that same smell of mould.

  ‘Today’s my birthday,’ she said, quietly.

  Mr Crane stopped smiling, and for a moment she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing, but then he stepped forward, took hold of her waist and kissed her, pulling her in so close she could feel all the buttons on his shirt pressing through the bib front of her frock. Inching her hands down his straight spine, she felt for that dimple of flesh she’d seen when she’d spied on him getting dressed, and, feeling the indent, she tugged his shirt from his trousers, reached behind his braces and found his soft place. He gave a little moan as her fingers touched his naked skin. Thinking of Lou stretching out with her knees showing, waiting for someone to come along, Kitty broke away from him. ‘Wait,’ she said.

  Mr Crane watched as she lay down on Mary Belcher’s grave. The cold stone sent a shocking jolt through her skin, but she hitched up the hem of her frock and extended a hand to him. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Here.’

  · · · Thirty-three · · ·

  It was past seven o’clock when Ellen returned with half a dozen bunches of canna lilies on the back seat of the car, a gnawing hunger in her stomach, having skipped lunch, and a buzz in her thighs from her hour with Robin. Getting out of the car, she groaned to herself as she noticed Crane waiting in the front porch. She gathered up the lilies so he wouldn’t be able to see her face and pushed past him without a word.

  He followed her into the sitting room and closed the door behind them. ‘I need to speak with you.’

  Ellen stood in the middle of the room, her arms still full of flowers. ‘I need to put these in water.’

  She made for the door, but he blocked the way and clutched her arm. ‘Ellen. Please.’ His voice was low, his face grey.

  She laughed. ‘You haven’t needed to speak to me for the last few days, Crane; I don’t see why you should start now.’

  ‘It has to be now. But not here.’

  ‘You’re hurting my elbow.’

  ‘Come for a walk.’

  ‘Don’t you think these will look sublime in here, darling?’ She pushed the lilies into his face. The over-rich scent rose between them.

  ‘Come for a walk, Ellen.’

  ‘You know I loathe walks.’

  He looked at her through the petals. ‘Do you? You never said.’

  She sighed. ‘Does it have to be now?’

  He pulled the lilies from her arms, dumped them on the dining table and held the door open.

  . . . .

  They crossed the field. Broken ears of wheat poked at Ellen’s feet through her peep-toe shoes – there’d been no time to change. Crane walked ahead, saying nothing. His shirt was very creased, and was sticking to his back in streaks.

  ‘Is that a grass stain on your shoulder?’

  His hand leapt to the place. ‘I was – lying on the lawn, earlier.’

  A smear of swallows flew over them, circling and screeching across the field. Ahead, Harting Down was still brightly lit. Its chalk paths, gnarled bushes and scrubby grass glowed in the evening sun.

  ‘When are we going to talk?’ she asked. ‘I thought it was urgent.’

  ‘When we get to the top.’

  She stopped walking then, put her hands on her hips, and was about to refuse, loudly, to climb to the top of that hill. But he ignored her actions and kept walking ahead, and she had a feeling that if she didn’t follow him he would simply continue on his own. Then this thing, whatever it was, would never be said. So she trudged behind him, watching the sweat grow on his back, her feet swelling, her head beginning to pound heavily. Picking another sharp stone from her shoe, she wished she’d had time to wash the smell of Robin from her hands.

  When they’d passed the little patch of woodland and gone through the gate, they reached the narrow chalk track. But instead of following it, taking the gentler route up the hill, Crane broke from the path and began climbing straight up the grassy slope, using his hands to help him.

  ‘Crane!’ shouted Ellen. ‘This is ridiculous!’ But he continued his ascent, almost leaping up the hill with irritating sprightliness.

  Puffing with the effort, she followed. Her fingers clutched at dry grass, her feet slipped on stones. Once she fell, scraped both knees on the dirt and cried out for him. But he did not look back. Her head began to feel heavy and light at the same time: the blood still pulsed in her temples, but there was also a pressure in her nose which made her vision swim a little. Her throat was dry (she’d had nothing since those gin and its earlier on), her stomach empty, and the buzz in her thighs had become a dull ache. ‘Crane!’ she croaked, but still he pressed ahead.

  When the hill had levelled out a little, she stopped to rest, sitting on the grass and gazing down at the village. She’d never seen the cottage from this high up before; from here it looked compact and insignificant: no more than a brown lump in the landscape. Inside, she thought, Kitty would be in the kitchen, fretting over potatoes; Arthur would be dozing in his shed (she knew he spent a lot of time doing this, but she’d never objected, since she only paid him for a few hours a day anyway); and Geenie – where would Geenie be? She realised that she had no idea. Her daughter might be anywhere at all.

  ‘Crane!’ Ellen shouted up to his disappearing legs. ‘No further! Do you hear me? No further!’

  She waited. She wouldn’t allow herself to fully imagine what he might be about to say, when he’d worked himself up sufficiently; but she told herself that if it looked as though he were about to break it off, she would do so first by pointing out that she knew all about him lusting after the cook, and she, Ellen Steinberg, was not a woman to tolerate such betrayal.

  She heard him stepping carefully down the slope towards her, and knew he would be avoiding treading on any flowers.

  ‘It’s really unforgivably dramatic of you to drag me all the way up here,’ she said.

  He sat down next to her, breathing hard.

  To her surprise, he didn’t pause long to catch his breath. Instead, he began to speak almost immediately. ‘I’m glad you’ve typed James’s letters,’ he said, taking little gulps of air between words, staring all the time at the village below. ‘Thank you for letting me see them. They’re exceptionally interesting and I’m sure they’ll be pu
blished.’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘And I think the dedication you’ve added is wholly apt, and absolutely right.’

  ‘Yes – I wanted to talk to you about that—’

  ‘There’s no baby, Ellen, is there?’

  The possibility of lying to him flashed into her mind. But how much time would that buy her?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s no baby.’

  ‘Then I think we should part.’

  She tried to speak but he continued in the same quiet tone, his eyes still fixed on the village below. ‘It’s been over a year now, hasn’t it, since James died, and I’ve given it a lot of thought and I think now is a good time to end it. We both need to move on. I’m going to leave as soon as I can.’ Then he added, in a warmer tone, ‘I’m sorry, Ellen.’

  He was so decisive, so calm, and he’d stolen her thunder so completely, that she almost laughed. She’d never heard him sound so resolute. It was as if he were reading out a letter he’d carefully composed weeks before.

  Ellen gripped a handful of grass, pulled it from its roots and tossed it into the air. ‘What have you been doing all summer?’

  His head drooped a little. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well. You certainly haven’t been writing a novel.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I haven’t…’

  ‘Any poetry?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That’s that, then.’

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘It’s all been a waste of time, hasn’t it? Being here, I mean. It’s been a colossal waste of time for you.’

  ‘Of course it hasn’t.’ He was looking at her now, but she refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’ve been with you—’

  She snorted.

  ‘And I’ve been – ah – reading. Getting ready. Preparing myself for more important work. For the Party…’

  She pounced. ‘So that’s where my money’s been going. The development of the damned Bolsheviks. And there was me thinking I was a patron of the arts.’

  ‘Ellen—’ he reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

  There was a pause before she said, ‘I meant what I wrote, you know, in the dedication.’

  ‘I know you did. I know James was the love of your life—’

  ‘Not that. I meant what I wrote about forgiveness. About asking for forgiveness.’

  He sighed. ‘Ellen, you shouldn’t waste time with guilt. After all, we didn’t do much, did we, until after his death – no one could blame you for getting on with life.’

  She turned to him. ‘I knew he was still drunk,’ she said. ‘I knew it, and I let them operate.’

  Crane stared at her.

  ‘Do you understand? It was my fault, George.’ Her voice had become high and shaky. ‘James’s death was my fault, and Geenie knows it.’

  He shook his head and put his hand over hers, gripping her fingers tightly. ‘Geenie loves you,’ he said. ‘She loves you, Ellen.’

  Suddenly there was an immense pealing of church bells. Thursday practice had begun. The chimes rose and fell, scattering sound over the village and echoing around the valley. Ellen had always hated the clanging racket of those bells, which went on for hours, drowning out her records and prohibiting any decent conversation.

  ‘Damn those bells to hell,’ she said.

  He squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You already apologised.’

  They sat together, listening to the chimes racing up and down the scales, never quite making a tune.

  After a few minutes, she said, ‘I’d better get back. It’s dinnertime. The girls will be waiting for me.’

  He lay on the grass and squinted at the sky. ‘I think I’ll stay here a bit.’

  Running a finger along his cheek, she looked at him, this slim and elegant man who was leaving her. Then she left him there and stumbled down the hill, sprinting in places, slipping on the grass but righting herself before she fell, her face blasted by the last rays of the sun, her stomach groaning for the food that was waiting for her.

  · · · Thirty-four · · ·

  That 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 · · ·

  On Friday morning, Geenie jumped from her bed to put her costume on again. She’d found both the outfits hanging on the back of her door yesterday afternoon, with a note from Kitty: Dear Miss Geenie and Miss Diana. Here are your costumes. I could not do the p
ompoms as I had no wool. Kitty Allen. She’d called Diana, who’d suggested they ‘run through a dress rehearsal’ immediately, so they’d clambered into the pyjama-like trousers and white tunics and, after a moment spent congratulating each other on the effect, Diana stood on the bed, declaiming the poem she’d now finished, which was very good and all about the turmoil of love. It was full of words like tranquil and tremulous, and also featured a unicorn. The odd thing was, now that Geenie was standing before the mirror in her costume, she couldn’t remember one word of the play; all she could picture was Diana closing her eyes as she moved in for the kiss.

  . . . .

  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.