Its not going to be enough, Flo said, anxiously, counting the dishes on her fingers.
Dont be silly, said Rose. Well burst as it is.
No, it wont. I think Ill just run up a little pie, and if theres no room for it, itll hot up for supper.
At about half past two, the men cleared the long table of newspapers and laid places. The two children were sat up side by side, with napkins around their necks. Yes, thats right. Flo would say. Make Peter sit by Oar. Perhaps the way he eatsll be an example to Oar. Oar, you see how Peter eats his food so nice? You do, too. Ah, my God, that I should be punished with a kid that wont eat.
It was true, Aurora did not eat. She sat through the long feasts, watching everyone else eat. When one of her parents pushed some food into her mouth, she let it stay there, until they shouted at her, when she might swallow it, but more often spat it out again.
We began with rich vegetable soup, flavoured with herbs. Flo never used a recipe book. Her soups were always invented out of whatever materials lay around. Then we ate great mounds of spaghetti, or ravioli, or giant macaroni sticks stuffed with meat and herbs. By then we were all groaning and saying we could not eat another mouthful.
Theres no hurry, Flo said, beaming with pleasure because of our enjoyment. No hurry in the world. Well have a little rest now. We leaned our elbows on the table and smoked a while, while Flo cleared the table for the next course. That would always be a small piece of roasted meat, because as she said: Its a waste of good rations, but just once a week we must remember what Sunday dinner is. We all ate small herb-flavoured slices of meat; a kind of vestigial reminder of the traditional British Sunday meal.
Then came a great bowl of fresh salad.
Yes, you eat plenty of that, dear, Flo said. Theres nothing like salad for emptying your stomach so theres more room for whats coming next.
At the right moment, she whisked off the salad, and served delicate flaky pies, filled with creamed spinach, or leeks, or onions. These went with the weekly ration of tasteless corned beef, which she had cooked up with chips of potato and rich blackened onions. Or she would stuff cabbage and lettuce leaves with a paste made of rye bread and herbs and gravy and serve it with mounds of rice cooked so subtly flavoured one could have eaten it alone.
Dan nodded, and went on with the News of the World.
But now he knows.
Eat what Im given, he said, grinning.
Ah, my Lord, listen. Well, you can talk if you like, but I know you wouldnt go back to the old ways. Just as I wouldnt, once my granny had taught me. When she left to go back to Italy, hung in between two great black slicks with the gammy leg all crooked, like a witch she was, she said: Flo, she said, now youre fit to get married, she said. And I was married all the time. She didnt like my first husband and I dont blame her.
Meanwhile, pots were bubbling all over the stove, and the oven was crammed.
Its not going to be enough, Flo said, anxiously, counting the dishes on her fingers.
Dont be silly, said Rose. Well burst as it is.
No, it wont. I think Ill just run up a little pie, and if theres no room for it, itll hot up for supper.
At about half past two, the men cleared the long table of newspapers and laid places. The two children were sat up side by side, with napkins around their necks. Yes, thats right. Flo would say. Make Peter sit by Oar. Perhaps the way he eatsll be an example to Oar. Oar, you see how Peter eats his food so nice? You do, too. Ah, my God, that I should be punished with a kid that wont eat.
It was true, Aurora did not eat. She sat through the long feasts, watching everyone else eat. When one of her parents pushed some food into her mouth, she let it stay there, until they shouted at her, when she might swallow it, but more often spat it out again.
We began with rich vegetable soup, flavoured with herbs. Flo never used a recipe book. Her soups were always invented out of whatever materials lay around. Then we ate great mounds of spaghetti, or ravioli, or giant macaroni sticks stuffed with meat and herbs. By then we were all groaning and saying we could not eat another mouthful.
Theres no hurry, Flo said, beaming with pleasure because of our enjoyment. No hurry in the world. Well have a little rest now. We leaned our elbows on the table and smoked a while, while Flo cleared the table for the next course. That would always be a small piece of roasted meat, because as she said: Its a waste of good rations, but just once a week we must remember what Sunday dinner is. We all ate small herb-flavoured slices of meat; a kind of vestigial reminder of the traditional British Sunday meal.
Then came a great bowl of fresh salad.
Yes, you eat plenty of that, dear, Flo said. Theres nothing like salad for emptying your stomach so theres more room for whats coming next.
At the right moment, she whisked off the salad, and served delicate flaky pies, filled with creamed spinach, or leeks, or onions. These went with the weekly ration of tasteless corned beef, which she had cooked up with chips of potato and rich blackened onions. Or she would stuff cabbage and lettuce leaves with a paste made of rye bread and herbs and gravy and serve it with mounds of rice cooked so subtly flavoured one could have eaten it alone.
And now stop it. Flo. Rose said. We had all loosened our belts or undone our waist hooks, and sat helplessly, unable to move.
Ah, my Lord, but its Sunday and, Dan, whats that smell? You tell me.
Dan would obediently sniff. Rosemary? Thyme? Saffron? Garlic? Coriander?
Ah, you make me laugh, thats mint. Look Ive got these new potatoes fresh from the market yesterday. And she would slide in before us a flat dish with tiny new potatoes, swimming in butter and mint. Have some. Yes, you must. Whenll we see new potatoes like that again in our lives? What with this Government there might be no food at all, at any minute.
Then, another lull. The smell of strong coffee began to overpower the other smells. The table was cleared for the coffee cups, and as Flo filled our cups and handed us cream, she put proudly before us her fruit tart that her grandmother had taught her. No English fruit tart this, but a flat base of rich buttery biscuit, piled high with raspberries, strawberries, redcurrants and sliced peaches.
Ma, Im dead, Jack would announce, stuffing in fruit and gulping down coffee.
Well, Flo, youll never better today, Rose would say, caressing her stomach with both hands.
Flo, youre the best cook Ive ever known, Id say.
And Dan would finally get up and stretch himself, and say: And now for some real food. Wheres my fish and chips?
Ah, get along, Flo said, delighted, absorbing our grateful admiration and smiling. Get along with all of you. If you like what I cook, then thats all I ask. And there sits Oar, all this time, not a mouthful taken, what shall I do?
This would be the signal for either Rose or Dan to take the child on to their laps, and try and fill her mouth by force. Aurora sat, quite passive, watching her mother, who stood across the room, hands on her hips, anxiously watching this operation. When her two cheeks were bulging out tike a monkeys, she leaned over and emptied her mouth on to a plate; then shut her lips tight against the invading spoon wielded by her father or by Rose.
Well, I dont know, dear, Flo would say helplessly to me. How do you acount? After all, I cook nice, dont I?
Flo, youre the queen of cooks.
Then why doesnt my Oar ever eat a mouthful?
Just dont bother. If you dont bother, shell eat.
Ah, listen to you. Dont bother, she says. Oard let herself die of starvation and not even notice. Oar, have a little mouthful of something, darling, sweetheart, just to please your mother, please. Oar. Aurora, already on the floor with my son and the puppies, would frown, stiffening up her mouth. If Flo persisted, she would let out her routine roar of protest, and go right on playing, her lips pinched together against the threat of food.
Oh, leave her, Rose said.
Then well wash up.
We women washed up. It was now about four or five in the afternoon. The men were putting on overalls and getting tools and paint out. Sunday was a hard-working day for everyone. Dan and Jack went off to paint the walls of the stairs, or fix a door. Meanwhile, Flo and Rose got out buckets and brushes and began scrubbing.
Were too full to move. Flo said, every Sunday. But all that food. Weve got to work it off. Thats right, Rose. You clean out the oven. Because its not fit to cook in, the way its full of grease and smells, and how can I cook supper for tonight the way it is?
You dont think were going to eat again today? Rose said.
Those menll be down, you see, seven or eight, and they wont say no to my fish stew, with ray garlic and my onions, youll see.
And later that night, about eleven, there would be a second meal, and again we ate, and ate, and ate.
Thats right. Rose would say, as we staggered upstairs to bed. You eat whats offered. And besides, weve got to eat proper just once in the week. Though, of course, now youre here all the time. I suppose Flo feeds you up in the week, too.
No, she doesnt. She doesnt cook for herself.
Then what does she do with herself, Id like to know. Because if shes not cooking, shes too stupid to live.
Rose was bitter about Flo at this time, on two counts. For one thing, because she herself was miserable and self-punishing, she was allowing herself to be exploited badly, Flo would come up the stairs at ten at night, and although Rose had bathed and was clean for bed, she would go down and scrub and wash for Flo when asked grimly, silently, but without protest. If she hasnt got any conscience, making me slave for her, then thats her lookout, not mine.
Rose was bitter about Flo at this time, on two counts. For one thing, because she herself was miserable and self-punishing, she was allowing herself to be exploited badly, Flo would come up the stairs at ten at night, and although Rose had bathed and was clean for bed, she would go down and scrub and wash for Flo when asked grimly, silently, but without protest. If she hasnt got any conscience, making me slave for her, then thats her lookout, not mine.
The more Rose was depressed, the more she sank under Flos thumb.
The second reason was that now I had given up my job and was spending my time writing. Or trying to write; for I was discovering that coming to England had disturbed me, and it was going to take some time to get started again. But I was in the house with Flo, And Rose said: So now it means youll be Flos friend, not my friend.