The Good Plain Cook Read Free

was. The most important thing seemed to be always to have a stockpot on the
     go.
    ‘Meat and vegetables both, Madam. Savouries and sweets.’
    Mrs Steinberg seemed to be waiting for more.
    ‘I can do meat cakes, beef olives, faggots… And castle pudding, bread and butter pudding, and all of that, puddings are what
     I do best, Madam.’ She could eat some bread and butter pudding now, with cold custard on it.
    Mrs Steinberg’s face was blank. ‘Anything else?’
    Perhaps they were vegetarians. Lou’s husband Bob said that some of these bohemians were. ‘Fruit fritters… and,
    ‘Nothing more… continental, Kitty?’ um…’
    ‘I can do cheese puffs, Madam.’
    Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘Well. Never mind. I hope you won’t mind doing some housework, too. I’m not very fussy about it, but
     there’ll be a bit of sweeping and dusting now and then, keeping the place looking generally presentable.’ She twisted round
     in her seat and looked again at the hole above her head. ‘It will be easier for you when Mr Crane and Arthur have finished
     knocking these two rooms together, of course. One large, light, all-purpose room, that’s what we want. I don’t believe in
     all this compartmentalisation , do you?’
    ‘Yes, Madam. I mean, no, Madam.’
    ‘Stop calling me that. It makes me sound like a brothel-keeper. You can call me Mrs Steinberg.’ The woman’s long fingers rummaged
     at her scalp as she spoke. ‘Now. Would you like to ask me anything?’ She perched on the edge of the armchair and held the
     wave of her hair back from her forehead with both hands. ‘Anything at all.’
    Kitty looked at the woman’s clear forehead for a moment.
    ‘Anything at all, Kitty.’
    ‘Are there any other staff here, Mrs Steinberg?’
    ‘Just Arthur, the gardener and… handyman, I suppose you’d call him. He doesn’t live with us, but he’s here most days.’
    Kitty shifted in her seat. ‘There’s no housemaid or parlour-maid?’
    ‘You won’t be expected to wait on us, Kitty, if that’s what you’re worrying about. We don’t go in for all that.’
    ‘No, Madam.’
    There was a pause. Kitty squeezed the green shoe in her hands.
    ‘Are we settled, then? Could you start next week?’
    She must ask it. ‘Will I be expected to – what you said about when you’re not here… your daughter…’ She mustn’t be the nanny.
     That was not what the notice said. ‘What I mean is, what will I be doing, exactly?’
    ‘Kitty, I’m probably the only bohemian in the country who likes order.’ Mrs Steinberg smiled and widened her eyes. ‘Let’s
     see. Start with the bedrooms. There are four rooms, one for myself, one for And one for Geenie… Mr Crane, of course.’ She
     paused. ‘Then a guest room. And, downstairs, sitting and dining room – soon to be one – bathroom, a cubby-hole that’s supposed
     to be a library, but you don’t have to bother with that: only I go in there. So it’s not very much. A little cleaning and
     polishing, fires swept and laid when it’s cold, which it is all the damn time, isn’t it? And the cooking, of course, but we
     quite often have a cold plate for lunch, and only two courses for dinner, unless we’ve got company. Geenie eats with us; we
     don’t believe in that nonsense of hiding children away for meals. And we don’t go in for any fuss at breakfast time, either.
     Toast will do for me, but Mr Crane does like his porridge.’
    Kitty blinked.
    ‘He has a little writing studio in the garden, you probably noticed – it’s where he works. But, if you’ll take my advice,
     you won’t go in there. The place is always a mess, anyway, and he hates to be disturbed. He’s a poet, but at the moment he’s
     working on a novel.’ Here she paused and smiled so brilliantly that Kitty had to smile back. ‘I’m encouraging him all I can.
     That’s why he’s living here, you see; it’s a vocational thing, really; if one has artistic friends, one must help them