The Good Plain Cook Read Free Page A

out.’
    Kitty looked about the room for a clock but couldn’t find one. How long had she been here? Her stomach felt hollow. She thought
     of sausage rolls, of biting into the greasy pastry, the deep salty taste of the meat.
    ‘And then there’s Geenie. Well, of course, I would really appreciate it if you could keep an eye on her occasionally but she’s
     my responsibility now.’
    If Kitty didn’t move, her stomach might not growl.
    ‘Children need their mothers first and foremost, don’t they?’
    Kitty nodded, relieved. ‘Oh yes, Mrs Steinberg.’
    There was a pause. The growl was building in Kitty’s stomach, pressing against her insides as if some creature were crawling
     around the pit of her.
    ‘So. Can you start next week?’
    As she nodded, Kitty’s stomach gave a long, loud rumble. Mrs Steinberg raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘It’s lunchtime, isn’t
     it? Yes. I must let you go.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Kitty, I think you’ll do nicely. Forty pounds a year, and two
     afternoons off a week, all right?’
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Steinberg.’
    The woman stood, and Kitty followed.
    ‘Are you still holding that shoe?’ Mrs Steinberg laughed. ‘Why don’t you keep it? As a welcome gift. We might even be able
     to find the other.’
    Kitty looked at the sodden shoe. It was at least two sizes too big for her. ‘Thank you, Mrs Steinberg,’ she repeated.

· · ·  Two   · · ·

    G eenie walked into a sitting room full of dust. Her shoes made a strange scrunching noise on the floorboards and she could
     taste something in the air: a cloud of powder, like the stuff Ellen threw about her face every evening.
    Her palms were still smarting from gripping the willow tree in the back garden. It was a new game: holding on to the ridged
     bark with all her strength, digging her nails in, seeing how much matter would lodge beneath her fingertips, then going in
     the house and telling Ellen that she’d fallen. Showing the marks on her palms, she usually got a frown from her mother. Just
     occasionally, though, she was rewarded with a short spell on her lap, which, although not wide, was always warm, and she could
     run her hands along the smooth skin of Ellen’s knees and listen as she breathed close to her ear. ‘You’re too old for this
     sort of thing,’ her mother would say. ‘Girls of eleven shouldn’t be sitting in their mothers’ laps.’
    Blotto trotted behind as she walked into the sitting room. ‘Ellen!’ she yelled. ‘Ellen!’
    The dust fell. Blotto sniffed the air.
    Then she saw it. A hole right through to the next room. Pressing her palms together, she approached, and Blotto followed.
     She stood for a minute, examining the gap where wall had once been. The dog sniffed the pile of rubble at her feet and gave
     an interested half-bark. Geenie ignored him and pushed a finger into the damaged brick. A few crumbs fell on her shoes and
     she smiled. Now they would be scuffed, but it wasn’t really her fault, because there was a hole in the wall. She pulled a
     loose bit of plaster away and a cascade of brick dust covered both shoes. Again, not her fault, and more interesting, even,
     than the willow tree game. Brick made a greater imprint than bark, and the sound of it falling around her bare legs distracted
     her from the familiar afternoon noises that had begun to seep from her mother’s bedroom.
    Blotto sniffed at the new pile of debris, whimpered, then retreated.
    After a bit more working, her knuckles scraping on the rough brick until they were peppered with blood, the hole was big enough
     for Geenie to put a leg through, so one patent T-bar shoe touched the floorboards in the dining room, whilst the other remained
     in the sitting room. The broken brick dug into her inner thigh as she shifted her leg until her foot was planted firmly on
     the floor. She tried to imagine what it would be like to live between two rooms like this: one foot always in the sitting
     room, the