PART ONE
Chapter One
London, Spring 1963
‘Garlic should be the same size as an ’azelnut in its shell,’ said Mme Wilson in her strong French accent. She was looking at a collection of pale, curved shapes on a plate in front of her that could have been toenail clippings given both their appearance and Mme Wilson’s look of utter disgust.
Lizzie regarded the despised items. She had no experience of garlic. It was one of the things her father regarded as ‘foreign muck’ and so had no place in her family kitchen. And yet just then, Lizzie was grateful for her father’s fondness for ‘good plain cooking’, for without it she wouldn’t have been sent to London to do a cookery course.
So here she was, in a rather cramped basement in Pimlico, with nine other girls, being lectured by a Frenchwoman who, if first impressions were anything to go by, was fairly terrifying. Almost everyone was wearing a white buttoned-up overallcovered by a white bibbed apron, as specified in the prospectus.
Mme Wilson had moved on to olive oil and the outrageous fact that you had to buy it in chemist’s shops. Lizzie gathered this meant that olive oil had another function, apart from use as a cure for earache. Mme Wilson seemed to despise most ingredients available in England, and Lizzie couldn’t help wondering how she managed to live here when it was obviously a culinary desert.
She surreptitiously studied her fellow pupils, hoping that at least one of them would turn out to be friendly, otherwise her time in London might be lonely.
Most of them seemed to be very aristocratic, with smooth white skin, their glossy hair in elegant chignons, fat ponytails or discreetly backcombed so it rose smoothly from their foreheads and ended in perfect ‘flick-ups’, a style she had never managed to achieve herself. Under their all-covering garments glimpses of cashmere and silk could be seen. They wore pearls, round their necks and in their ears. Lizzie had a string of pearls, given to her by her godmother, but they were for best, not for every day. She had to ask her mother whenever she wanted to wear them.
One of the girls was a bit different. She had ignored the white overall and instead wore a blue-striped butcher’s apron over what seemed to be a man’s dress shirt without the collar. She was wearingblack cigarette pants and round-toed shoes which buttoned up across her instep. Her long hair (glossy, like the other girls) was tied up into a pile on her head. She had a thick fringe which gave her a look of Audrey Hepburn. She was wearing pearls too, but hers were much larger, twisted round her neck like a rope. Lizzie suspected they were fake, and she warmed to her. She was just as glossy and well bred as the others and yet she wasn’t as haughty. This girl was looking around the kitchen as if she didn’t quite know how she’d got there.
Another girl caught Lizzie’s attention because she was writing everything down with single-minded attention. She sometimes asked questions and, judging by Mme Wilson’s response, they seemed to be the right questions. She was obviously seriously interested in learning to cook, not filling in the time until the next social engagement which, going by the snippets of conversation Lizzie overheard, was what most of the other girls were doing. When she caught Lizzie’s eye, she smiled, shy but friendly. Lizzie began to feel more confident.
‘Now, girls, you know it is easier to cook good food if you are accustomed to eating it. However, I know that many of you are not experienced in a kitchen. You may be forbidden to enter because your cook doesn’t like people interrupting her.’
Lizzie gulped inwardly. Her mother would hire a cook for the evening if she had to entertain herfather’s business colleagues but she did all of the everyday cooking herself, often helped by Lizzie.
‘Now I’m going to take you through thebatterie de cuisine. Each of you will introduce yourselves, and then I will see if you know what each item is for.’
There was an inward gasp of horror as the haughty debs looked around, obviously aware of how little they knew about kitchen equipment. Lizzie was anxious herself. Her mother had a cooking set consisting of a ladle, potato masher, long fork and palette knife that hung in a set on the wall. They had been a wedding present, Lizzie knew. If she was asked about anything more complicated she might well fail and draw the opprobrium of Mme Wilson down on herself.
Yet here was an opportunity to learn everyone’s names as well as a test and Lizzie paid attention. The girl in the striped apron was called Alexandra and the one who seemed to know her way round a kitchen (she identified a garlic squeezer without difficulty) was Meg, presumably short for Margaret. The others were called things like Saskia, Eleanor and Jemima. At school Lizzie’s friends had more ordinary names: Rosemary, Anne and Jane, or Elizabeth.
Lizzie was still wondering what it must be like to have the same name as a duck in a Beatrix Potter book when Mme Wilson called on her. Fortunately,Mme Wilson was holding up a cheese grater, which she could identify without difficulty.
After this trial-by-egg-whisk the girls were told to get out their notebooks (Meg was ahead on this, Lizzie spotted) and write down the recipe for sardine pâté. After that they were to cook steak, and for dessert, oranges with caramel.
‘Come on,’ said the tall girl who looked like Audrey Hepburn – Alexandra – at the end of the morning session, hurrying Meg and Lizzie out of the kitchen. Meg had found herself doing the washing up and Lizzie had felt obliged to help her. ‘Follow me.’
Lizzie didn’t have a better idea and she liked the thought of getting to know this girl who didn’t seem to care much about the rules. She herself had always done what her parents had expected of her but it now appeared there were options.
Alexandra obviously knew her way around Pimlico very well. A short walk, a left-hand turn and they were walking down a side street and into a small café.
The windows were almost totally obscured by condensation and the noise of the steam from the coffee machine was loud and disconcerting. The machine was about the same size as a car and sounded as if it was about to explode. But as no one seemed remotely bothered, Lizzie followed the others inside.
The moment the girls entered, the man behind the counter, who was buttering bread and baguettes, came out. ‘Bella!’ he said to Alexandra, hugging her and kissing her soundly on the cheek. ‘Where you been? We’ve missed you! Maria! Alessandra is here!’
A woman, her black hair in a bun, a slightly grubby apron covering her clothes, appeared from the kitchen and kissed Alexandra for even longer. Then she said, ‘Sit! Sit! Are these your friends? Welcome! Now – coffee! Food! You must eat!’
It took a little while for the three of them to be herded into a booth and shortly afterwards three foam-covered cups of coffee arrived. Lizzie wasn’t sure about coffee. She made it for her parents when they had dinner parties but she didn’t like it much herself.
‘Capuccinos,’ said Alexandra, ‘they’re lovely but you’ll need sugar. Lots of sugar.’ There were large wrapped lumps of sugar on the saucers and she started unwrapping hers.
The other two did likewise and, copying their new friend and gang leader, put in both lumps of sugar and, when the sugar had found its way through the foam, began to stir.
‘Oh my goodness, that’s delicious!’ said Lizzie, having taken a sip. ‘I didn’t know coffee could taste like that.’
‘It’s not like any coffee I’ve ever had before,’ said Meg.
‘I’ve known Maria and Franco for years,’ said Alexandra. ‘They taught me about coffee.’ She paused. ‘I had an Italian nanny for a short time. She used to bring me in here when I was a child.’
