The Last Garden in England(16)

The four chickens that Mrs. Symonds had let her keep in a corner of the kitchen garden weren’t laying as much as they had just six months ago, and eggs were becoming more and more precious. And real milk that wasn’t powder in a can was practically liquid gold. Stella didn’t even want to think of the criminal acts she would commit for a taste of real cream in real coffee.

“This hospital doesn’t need your eggs and milk. We have our own rations,” said Mrs. George.

“And what about the time I caught you in my flour, red-handed?”

The woman dropped her eyes to the pile of carrots in front of her. “That was a biscuit-making emergency. I had every intention of replacing the flour I used.”

“A likely story,” Stella muttered.

“Excuse me, Miss Adderton,” said a meek voice from across the room.

Stella spun around on her heel to face Miss Grant, the diminutive junior cook who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. “What?” she demanded.

Miss Grant opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water.

“What is it, Miss Grant?” she prompted, trying to soften her tone.

“I broke the eggs this morning. I backed into the counter and I must have hit it just the wrong way because the bowl tipped over and two eggs rolled out and fell onto the floor, and I’m very sorry, miss.” The truth poured out of the young woman like a waterfall until at last she was spent and her shoulders slumped forward.

Mrs. George shot her a scathing look.

Oh, why doesn’t the bloody floor open up and swallow me whole?

Mrs. George said Stella scared her cooks more than the Germans frightened the wounded soldiers upstairs—and now Miss Grant would scurry away from her even faster. For as much as she disliked having her kitchen overrun by cooks from Voluntary Aid Detachment, she disliked it more when those cooks wouldn’t talk to her.

She touched a hand to the synthetic silk scarf she wrapped around her hair to keep it out of the way and straightened her shoulders, preparing to make amends as best she could. “Miss Grant, accidents happen.”

“I’ll replace the eggs. I’ll… I’ll find a way to do it,” promised Miss Grant.

But she couldn’t by that evening, when Stella needed them. They were to make a custard, which she would be serving Mrs. Symonds; Father Bilson, the vicar at Highbury; and his wife, Mrs. Bilson. Mr. Hyssop, a solicitor from one village over, would round out the party. This long into the war, few people had illusions that any dinner party would come close to the ones they’d had before 1939, but Mrs. Symonds was one of the few holdouts. To not serve pudding—even in wartime—was unthinkable.

“I’ll make do just fine with four eggs, Miss Grant,” said Stella.

The young woman nodded several times in quick succession and scooted off down the hallway.

“But, Miss Adderton, Mrs. Symonds ordered a custard specially because it the vicar’s favorite,” Mrs. Dibble said, her hands twisting before her.

“I’m afraid Father Bilson will just have to be happy with a different sweet,” said Stella, flipping through her mental list of recipes to try to figure out what she could make with four eggs, a bit of milk, and not much else.

“I’ll go tell Mrs. Symonds,” said Mrs. Dibble.

“Do that,” said Stella to the retreating housekeeper’s back, knowing that the news would incur her employer’s disapproval. Not that Stella received much else from Mrs. Symonds these days.

Mrs. George gestured to her other assistant. “Miss Parker, go see to Miss Grant.”

The taller girl set down her knife and half ran from the room.

When they were alone, Mrs. George began, “Miss Adderton.”

She put her hand up. “I’m sorry to have upset Miss Grant. I will apologize.”

“We must share these facilities, tight as the quarters might be,” said Mrs. George.

“They wouldn’t feel quite so tight if you would keep a tidier work space,” Stella said, sweeping her eyes over the countertop covered in carrot peelings.

Before she could continue her attack, a knock on the kitchen door cut her off. Stella marched over, wrenched it open, and froze. Standing in front of her was her sister, Joan, with her nephew, Bobby, in tow.

“Hello, Estrella,” said Joan, deploying the pet name Joan always used when she wanted something.

“What are you doing here, Joanie?” she asked, taking in Joan’s deep blue wool coat with a wide black felt lapel, which showed off her creamy skin and rich auburn hair to their best advantage. A smart little black hat Stella had last seen her sister wear to Joan’s husband’s funeral sat perched at a rakish angle on the crown of her head. The lipstick smeared across her lips was a brilliant vermilion—just a shade too bright to be respectable.

“Aren’t you going to ask us in? It’s freezing out here.” When Stella didn’t move, Joan put a hand on Bobby’s head. “You don’t want your nephew to catch his death in this cold, do you?”

Stella stepped away from the door.

“What a lovely big kitchen you have here,” said Joan, looking around and nodding a hello to Mrs. George and the other cooks, who’d slunk back in.

“It isn’t mine. Why aren’t you in Bristol?” She looked down at Joan’s hand that clutched a small battered brown case. “And why do you have luggage?”