The Kitchen Front Read online

  Fenley Factory’s Curried Salt Cod

  Serves 6 to 8

  1 pound salt cod, very well soaked

  ½ teaspoon sugar

  1 tablespoon oil or cooking fat

  1 onion or leek, chopped

  1 tomato, chopped

  1 apple, chopped

  ½ tablespoon curry powder

  1 tablespoon flour

  Pepper

  2 cups fish stock or vegetable stock

  1 pound root vegetables (potatoes, parsnips, turnips, carrots, beetroots), peeled and chopped into ½-inch chunks

  Using a sharp knife, take the skin off the salt cod, then wash it. Place it in a pan, skinned side down, and just cover with cold water then sprinkle over with sugar. Bring to a boil and simmer for 3 minutes. Drain off the water, then slice the fish into ½-inch chunks.

  Heat the oil or fat in a pan and add the onion or leek and fry until cooked. Add the tomato, apple, curry powder, and flour and stir. Bring to a boil and add pepper (but not salt). Add the stock gradually to make a thick sauce. Add the fish and vegetables and cover. Cook for 45 to 60 minutes. Serve with potatoes or rice, if available.

  Audrey

  The evening was chilly for June, but Audrey didn’t bother with a cardigan as she strode down to Ambrose Hart’s house. Perhaps she’d become hardier with her daily outdoor weeding and pruning, or maybe she was simply too nervous to worry about something as niggling as the cold. If one thing was clear to her, it was that this contest was going to be hard fought by all concerned.

  Audrey had heard about it from Alexander when he came home from school the previous Thursday.

  “It’s the talk of the village!” he said excitedly. “Ambrose is claiming it was his idea, but rumor has it the chaps at the BBC are pressuring him to have a female voice on the program. He wants a local woman.” He raised an eyebrow. “Probably so that he can control who it is.”

  She let out a chuckle. “It’s a shame I don’t have the time. I bet it’ll be fiercely competitive with all the WVS ladies.”

  “That’s the thing. He only wants contestants with professional cooking or catering experience, which counts out the village matrons. They’re jolly cross about it. The Women’s Institute ladies are saying they should be allowed to join as they’ve been selling their jams and running their preservation centers for years. They think canning and jam making makes them into professional chefs.” He laughed. “Oh, do join, Mum. You’ve got a splendid chance of winning.”

  “Look at all this!” She spread both arms out to encompass the unwashed pie dishes and the floury tabletop now covered in carrot peelings. “I don’t have the time.”

  “I can help out at home. Ambrose is holding a meeting in his house on Tuesday evening at eight, so at least go to that. You can see what you think.”

  She looked down at her hands, her grubby trousers and work boots. “Alexander, darling, can’t you see that I need to focus on my work?”

  But later that night, as she lay down after her long, exhausting day, she began to think about how winning a cooking contest could change everything.

  “Me, on a radio program?” she whispered to herself. She certainly had a lot of rationing tips and ideas to share. If she won, it would mean proper work, real money. If she were Ambrose’s co-presenter, she would be able to stop running. She could stop spending her every minute baking, looking after the vegetables, dealing with the chickens. She could pay the debts, mend the roof. They would be able to stay in Willow Lodge forever.

  She took a deep breath at the thought of it. “What a life that would be!” If Matthew were still alive, he would be so proud of her. He always adored her cooking, savoring every mouthful—telling her that she put a little of her warmth and love into everything she baked.

  Now she could share that spirit with the nation.

  It was still light out as she walked toward Ambrose’s house for the meeting. The government had put the clocks forward another hour—“double daylight savings” they called it—so that workers could keep going for longer, especially on farms. For Audrey it was a godsend, enabling her to weed and prune well into the night. It also meant that the blackout didn’t start until later.

  A military truck hurtled toward her, and she stood aside in time to see that it was a full troop truck, packed with young recruits singing “Roll Out the Barrel” in the back.

  “They don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for,” she murmured.

  Every time she saw a man in uniform, Audrey couldn’t help thinking of her husband, how cavalier he’d been as he left. How proud he was to be wearing the uniform, to be joining the fight.

  No one mentioned that he might never come home.

  In the new silence, she walked on, her footsteps slower.

  The residence of Ambrose Hart was a generous Georgian country house, bejeweled with unrestrained lilac wisteria. Set back from the street by a private lane, the front lawn was dotted with croquet hoops in readiness for an impromptu game.

  It was a large house for a single man. Lavishly styled as the quintessential English village residence, it bespoke his taste for fine living and extravagant—some would say flamboyant—style. An antique brass bell hung beside the oval front door.

  “Let’s see what this is all about, then.” Audrey pulled the bell, and his spindly old maid, wearing the traditional black dress with a white apron, showed her inside.

  It had been years since she was last there. She’d forgotten how opulent it was. Burgundy silk wallpaper hung on the walls. Full-length drapes in ivory and gold fell luxuriously to the floor. Milky white statues of ancient Greeks were perched on plinths, overseeing the proceedings. A blaze of candles and table lamps threw flickering beams of amber and rose over the much-adorned rooms. It appeared random, but Audrey knew that Ambrose must have spent hours arranging his trophies, artworks, and photographs of himself with the likes of Vera Lynn, the king, and even Winston Churchill himself.

  Knowing she was late, she glanced around for a clock. There was none. She sighed. Ambrose Hart was clearly the kind of man who felt that time should wait for him, not vice versa. How different from the frenetic exhaustion she always felt.

  The first person she saw as she was shown into the drawing room was Ambrose, clearly imagining he was the height of sophistication in a purple velvet smoking jacket, a paisley cravat cleverly tied to conceal the beginnings of a double chin. In a practiced pose, he leaned against the mantelpiece smoking a cigar. A few people were dotted around the capacious room, looking uncomfortably out of place on various sofas and chaise longues.

  “Ah, Audrey, do take a seat.”

  A few faces turned toward her. The first person she recognized was her sister, Lady Gwendoline, making a shrewd little nod from her seat, which was closest to Ambrose.

  Then there was the old cook from Fenley Hall, Mrs. Quince. She was seated precariously on a piano stool in front of a polished grand, which had an unlikely copy of one of the more challenging Chopin études open as if Ambrose had spent the early evening tinkling away. The Fenley Hall kitchen maid, Nell, stood quivering behind Mrs. Quince, just in front of a wall-high bookshelf. Audrey went to stand beside her.

  “Are you entering the contest, too?” Audrey whispered to the girl.

  “Well, me and Mrs. Quince are entering together.” She had a twinkle in her eye, excited. “Lady Gwendoline said Mrs. Quince could join, but she doesn’t have the time what with all Sir Strickland’s dinner parties, so she said that we should join as a team. That way I can do all the cooking. I-I’m not much of a speaker, so she can do the talking if need be.”

  Putting a hand on Nell’s shoulder, Audrey whispered, “Make sure you get the accolades, though, since you’ll be doing the cooking. Will it be you on the radio if you win?”

  Nell went white. “Well, I-I’m no
t very g-good at s-speaking…”

  Ambrose Hart gave a practiced cough, and the muffled conversations fell silent.

  “Welcome every one of you to The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest. What a splendid way for our community to come together. I can’t wait to see your marvelous new recipe ideas.” Ambrose’s hands opened and folded in a much-practiced gesture of goodwill.

  A noise at the door made everyone turn to see another arrival. A startlingly attractive woman stood at the threshold, her blond hair almost white from peroxide. In her early thirties, her face was rather square, with a smooth yet determined jawbone. Her eyes were wide and sensual beneath heavy mascara, and her straight, even nose sat perfectly above a full mouth. Her beauty and poise were only marred by the fact that her blond hair clashed horridly with a large maroon hat and a lot of bright red lipstick. Donned in a peacock-blue dress, she posed at the door as if she’d walked into a cocktail party. As she looked around, her smile dropped to reveal a look of hardened resolve, a presence that took up half the room. She grimaced as she looked at Audrey, taking in Matthew’s old trousers and boots.

  “Who’s she?” Audrey whispered to Nell.

  But Nell just shrugged and muttered in a small voice, “I-I think she must be from London.”

  With a practiced mince, the woman crossed into the very center of the room, looked around for somewhere to sit, and then perched primly on a silver velvet chaise longue, gazing up at Ambrose with practiced admiration, obviously trying to impress him.

  “Zelda, Zelda Dupont,” she purred. “Cordon Bleu–trained restaurant chef.”

  “Welcome.” Ambrose’s calm façade was cracking. It was plain to see that he wasn’t happy about having to host a cooking contest. His world of celebrity brought him into the type of cultured circles that he enjoyed—he boasted Noël Coward and E. M. Forster as good friends. Dealing with a band of competitive local ladies—one of whom he’d be forced to humor on his precious program—must have filled him with utter dread.

  “Can we get on with it?” Lady Gwendoline snapped.

  Ambrose promptly recomposed himself and resumed his speech.

  “Without more ado, I wish to set out the rules. There will be three rounds of the competition: Round One a starter, Round Two a main course, and Round Three a dessert, pudding, or cake. Each person may use only their own rations and should strive to keep the cost down. She should speak coherently about each dish, as if she were presenting on The Kitchen Front. Extra points will be given for the ingenious use of the rations.”

  “How will you decide the winner?” Lady Gwendoline was being especially forthright.

  “After every round I will award a score out of ten to each competitor, and then at the end we will simply add them up. The person with the top mark will be the winner, who will become a regular presenter on The Kitchen Front.” His eyes flickered over to Mrs. Quince, but it seemed impossible to read them.

  A murmur buzzed around the room and Lady Gwendoline took the opportunity to remind Ambrose that she naturally had a superior speaking voice.

  Zelda Dupont watched them contemptuously. Audrey was certain she’d never laid eyes on the woman in her life. What was she doing there?

  Ambrose continued. “The winner will enjoy plenty of press attention and undoubtedly an array of new opportunities in addition to the BBC offer.” He looked eagerly around the room. “This could be the moment to make your mark, as well as doing your very special bit for the war effort.”

  Audrey felt her heart miss a beat. She had never registered how much she yearned for validation, for her cooking, for her hard work, for losing her husband to this horrific war. How much she needed a boost! A win might very well keep her going.

  Ambrose continued. “The first round will be held on the second Saturday next month, in the hall at seven o’clock—unless there’s an air raid, in which case we will need to reschedule. The rounds will be a month apart: one in July, one in August, and one in September. You must prepare your dish at home and then bring it along under a silver dome to keep it hot.”

  The door opened, and Ambrose’s elderly maid shuffled into the room bearing a platter with a number of small sherry glasses, each with approximately one thimbleful of sherry. Ambrose stepped forward, and instead of taking the trembling tray from the old woman, relieving her of her burden, he simply took a glass and gestured for the others to do likewise.

  He then raised his glass to make a toast, announcing grandly, “To The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest!”

  Everyone stood in a circle, dutifully repeated his toast, and raised their glasses before taking a sip of the sherry, which was just about all there was in each glass.

  Lady Gwendoline sidled up to Ambrose with an alarming attempt to smile.

  “How marvelous, Ambrose, of you to share your radio success with us.”

  He eyed her with suspicion. Lady Gwendoline was notorious in the village for two things. The first was roping people into doing things they didn’t want to do, like helping at her cooking demonstrations or giving up their spare rooms to evacuees and war workers. The second was concluding every conversation she had with some kind of gossipy criticism, such as Mrs. Quince’s ever-increasing girth or the vicar’s drink problem.

  “Lovely.” Ambrose’s smile wavered. “Lovely.”

  Not to be outdone, Zelda Dupont was on the other side of him, evidently also trying to impress. “Did you know that, in France, every chef concocts his or her own blend of herbs? With my French background…”

  Lady Gwendoline, deciding that she’d rather not be a party to this, peeled away and then, to Audrey’s dismay, made her way across the room to her and Nell.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Audrey.” The sarcasm was thinly veiled. “Do you have time for a cooking competition?” Lady Gwendoline slowly looked down at some dirt at the hem of her slacks. “Oh, my goodness, don’t you have running water anymore?”

  Audrey let out a laugh at the sheer audacity of the comment. “I wear this to scare the crows away from my berries. I’m clean underneath, I assure you!”

  A wrinkle creased Lady Gwendoline’s long nose. “I’m surprised that Ambrose concluded you have enough professional experience to enter.”

  “I’ve been selling my pies and cakes for over two years. I have every right to be in the competition.”

  “But it would be such a shame if you had to pull out, should life become a little busier.”

  “What do you mean?” Audrey was starting to feel as if the ground beneath her were pulling away. She had known Lady Gwendoline all her life. She knew what she was capable of if she put her mind to it.

  “Wouldn’t it be difficult if your lender demanded that you settle up?” Lady Gwendoline let out a little bray of a laugh as Audrey’s face fell.

  Could Gwendoline—her own sister—call in the loan to force her out of the contest?

  She knew it had been a mistake to borrow money from her sister, but this?

  They were interrupted by the approach of Zelda, her smile not reaching her eyes.

  “Zelda Dupont, pleased to meet my fellow competitors.” She put a hand out to Lady Gwendoline, who looked incredibly frumpy beside her.

  “I haven’t seen you around the village,” Lady Gwendoline said crossly.

  Zelda’s eyes glinted. “I moved here last month. The hotel where I worked was bombed, so I’ve been conscripted here as head chef in the pie factory. Doing my bit for the war.”

  Lady Gwendoline sneered. “Did you know that my husband owns the factory?” It was a rhetorical question: Everyone knew that Sir Strickland ran the factory.

  But Zelda ignored the question, making a small sniff and saying, “Fenley is frightfully out in the sticks, isn’t it?”

  Lady Gwendoline, now determined to put her in her place, declared, “We have some of the finest cooks in the country here. I h
appen to be one of the foremost home economists for the Ministry of Food. My cooking demonstrations have inspired women all around the county.” Her mouth contorted into a haughty pout.

  “Housewives need plenty of basic dishes, don’t they?” Zelda said, and with a final smug smile, she turned her attention back to Ambrose.

  As Lady Gwendoline looked set to resume her inquisition, Audrey went to rescue Mrs. Quince, stranded as she was in the center of the room. But as she had a quiet chat about the old lady’s health, she managed to overhear Lady Gwendoline approach Nell.

  “I’m so pleased that you and Mrs. Quince are joining the competition. I’m very hopeful that you will be in the top two, with me—wouldn’t that be terrific news for Fenley Hall?”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “You see, if the contest is between us, we can decide among ourselves who should win, can’t we?” She paused, and there was a smile on her face that reminded Audrey of a wolf on the verge of eating a grandmother. “And with my Ministry of Food job so crucial to the war effort, so central to our victory over the enemy…whereas your work is, well, less important really, isn’t it?”

  “What you’re saying is that we would have to let you win?” Nell mumbled.

  “You don’t have to, of course. I’ll probably win anyway.” Gwendoline chuckled as if the whole thing were a foregone conclusion. “But, as an estate employee, it would certainly be seen as loyal.”

  Nell nodded. “It would be a privilege to assist in any way n-necessary,” she said in a taut little voice, laying special emphasis on the word “privilege,” as if it were utterly ludicrous.

  Lady Gwendoline, not entirely sure of this response, gave her a fixed smile, and said, “I’m so glad that we understand each other,” and stalked off to find another victim.

  When Audrey returned to Nell, she muttered, “How dare she?”

  “She can do whatever she likes, I suppose,” Nell mumbled. “Sir Strickland always rewards us well for these little favors.”