The Care and Management of Lies (9 page)

As Kezia drove back to the farm, she hoped Tom would not mention that she had already gone into the village every day so far this week. His mother went but once a week at most, doing all her shopping in one fell swoop and returning with her baskets laden. And as for her mother, Kezia was well aware that merchants called upon the parsonage, and that the cook placed the weekly order, to be delivered on a Friday. Kezia admitted to herself that it was company she sought. It wasn’t that her days weren’t full enough—there was the laundry, which took the better part of a day, and more if it was raining; there was cleaning and polishing, and the blacking of the stove, which kept her and Ada busy until the girl left at half past three to care for her siblings after school. Kezia found that she looked forward to the girl’s company. She discovered that Ada had been required to leave the village school earlier than most to look after her mother, who had been sickly after the birth of her eighth child. Only four had survived past the age of five, a fact that the girl took in her stride, as if such wounds were only to be expected. Most of the children in the village had lost at least one sibling—an infant stillborn, a little one taken by fever, an older child suffering an accident. Ada therefore could not read at a level that Kezia—who was discovering that relinquishing her role as a teacher was harder than she had anticipated—thought appropriate. Each day after Tom left to return to the fields following dinner—which Kezia still considered to be “lunch”—she would sit down with Ada at the table and tutor the girl in her numbers and letters. If she delved a little more into her heart, Kezia might admit she was trying to create an avid reader, another Cammie with whom to talk of novels and poetry. She used the books to hand, and began in the kitchen, so Ada might develop two skills at the same time.

“Now, this is what I plan to cook for Mr. Brissenden this evening, and I must start now. So, Ada, would you read to me from here.” Kezia had taken down her mother-in-law’s recipe book from the shelf above the stove, its yellowed pages dry and cracking as she pressed the spine, and set the open book before Ada, who leaned forward, placed her finger by the first word, and began.

“Cuh . . . cuh . . . a-a-a . . . b-b-b—cabbage. Cabbage w-w-w, i-i-i, th-th—with a wh-y-t.” She sighed. “Cabbage with a white sss-sauce. Cabbage with a white sauce.” Ada looked up at Kezia. “You go and put a sauce on the cabbage? I bet Mr. Brissenden never had that before.”

“No, I bet he hasn’t, and I’ve never cooked it. So we can get into trouble together, can’t we, Ada? Now then, carry on.”

And so they stumbled through. And by the time Ada’s work was done and she had returned home to the end cottage in the village, she knew that cabbage could be cooked with a sauce of water, salt, butter, the tiniest pinch of soda, and some flour. She also knew that Kezia hummed while she cooked, and that she strained lumps out of sauces with the sieve, and still managed to make the sauce lumpy again when she returned it to the stove. She knew that Kezia threw away all the goodness of the cabbage with the water—which Ada would have made a gravy with, if she’d had the browning and a bit of corn flour—and that this dish alone would have been a whole meal for her family. But Kezia had also bought fish, which she put on to bake a good hour before Ada thought she should have—fresh fish never took that long, and she knew the shop only ever had fish when it had come up straight from the boats at Hastings, or when they sold it round the back because it had been caught at the Hawkes’ lake without the gamekeeper knowing. But she also knew something else, an impression garnered while she watched her employer prepare food or stand at the stove, contemplating the sauce as it came to the boil—contemplating, mind, not stirring, which is what she should have been doing. Ada noticed that when Kezia cooked, it was as if she were blessing the food. Her brow knitted when things did not go smoothly, but she smiled again when a problem was solved. She lifted pots and pans with a gentle flourish, as if carrying something very precious. And though Ada could never have articulated her observations, there was something about the way Kezia moved in the kitchen that made her feel warm, as if she were caught in a glow.

T
om had been working long hours throughout the past week, as hop pickers began arriving from London. The annual hop-picking season was a holiday for the East Enders, a few weeks away from the Smoke, a time to get a bit of sun and fresh air, and all without losing money—even, with a bit of luck, earning more than they expected. Gypsies—who as a rule camped on Wimbledon Common, or who went from town to town, searching for work—turned up at the same time, looking to make enough to see them through the winter, and on the side the women would sell their posies of white heather, going door to door and persuading with their guttural, throaty tongue, “Gorn, luv, bring a bit o’ luck, that will.” They sold paper carnations, and clothes pegs made by the men, and as long as they kept to themselves, everyone rubbed along out in the hop gardens.

Amid the melee of the incoming tribes, there were always villagers too, taking stock of the outsiders and wondering how much they could get away with and blame it on these people who sounded nothing like them, and not even like one another. Tom loved the harvest season, whether it was soft fruits, hops, apples, or barley. The fragrance of ripeness filled the air, the spice aroma from hop pollen, the tang of blackcurrant, and the sweet waft coming from the orchards. This would be the last year of blackcurrants, though; men from the ministry had already come calling, and with the fruit picked and gone to jam makers and bottlers, the field was to be ploughed in ready for turnips and potatoes, hearty vegetables to keep an army marching. His father had always taken a chance on the fruits anyway, because money was in livestock. Wheat came in cheaper from Canada and America, and it seemed that output from farms across the Empire and refrigeration in ships had eased the need for British farmers to grow so much. Tom knew men who’d been letting land lie fallow, with trees coming back to re-form the forests of old, woodland that had been cut down when ancient Britons learned to furrow and plant. Young men had left the counties for urban employment, exchanging fresh air for smoke, for the factory and another master. But now, when the hops were ready to be picked, the city came to the country, and the farmer was happy to have it be so.

On this day, as Tom walked across the hop gardens, making sure everyone was settling in to the work, greeting people he hadn’t seen since last year, it was getting on for dinnertime, so the hoppers were already setting up kettles for tea, bringing out bread and dripping sandwiches or, if they were feeling flush, a bit of cheese. Tom pushed back his cap and felt the growl in his stomach—it had been a long time since breakfast, so he was ready to walk back to the house for whatever delicacy his wife had prepared. Since he’d married, Tom looked forward to meals for more than sustenance to get him through the next part of the day. Kezia fascinated him with her imagination. Time and again he wondered if life on Marshals Farm would be enough for her, but she smiled with ease, and was becoming softer against the land, as if all those sharp edges of the town were wearing away.

Yet he was a man with a hint of worry amid his contentment, as if he were like a sailor on calm seas who saw dark clouds in the distance. He’d lost Bill, Mattie, and one of the apprentices to the army already, and when the pickers began arriving, walking along from the station with prams, pushchairs, and handcarts filled with pots, pans, bed linens, and boots, he could see that it was mainly women, children, and the old who’d come. If there were young men among their number, they were the lame, the thin, the sort who looked as if they’d been sickly as children and never quite recovered. And already Tom was beginning to feel something akin to guilt, as if he should be with his men who’d left the farm, alongside those who’d enlisted from the village. These were men he’d known since he was no taller than his own thigh.

“When you coming, guv’nor?” Mattie had called out, on the day the whole village had lined the street to watch their young men marching away to war. He was all smiles and teasing. “We’re all in this one together—let’s show ’em what us Kentish lads are made of. Come on, join up with us.” And then they were gone, marching through the village with regulars sent to bolster recruitment, like a band of Pied Pipers taking away the children. So Tom was thankful for the workers who came this year, grateful for the Londoners and gypsies, and even for the fact that Danny would never be able to enlist, and Bert was too old. When all the harvest was in, winter would come, and surely the three of them could manage the farm as the days became shorter.

Chapter 6

Many women find it difficult to begin their letters—others find equal difficulty concluding them. One sensible rule to observe in beginning a letter is to avoid starting off with the pronoun “I.”

—
THE WOMAN’S BOOK

Dear Tom and Kezia . . .

Thea held her pen above the paper and made a series of dots around the
i
in Kezia’s name, so it resembled a child’s sketch of a fountain gushing upwards. Frustrated, she scribbled across both names, then crumpled the barely started letter and started again with a new sheet.

Dear Kezia and Tom,

I wanted . . .

But what did she want? What did she want to say to her brother and sister-in-law, or to her sister-in-law and brother? She felt uncomfortable writing to them together, as a single unit. In fact, when had she last written to Tom, or he to her? When her parents were alive, it was far more simple; letters were sent to Mother, who would of course read each out at the dinner table, as if it were a story—she imagined—or pass it to her husband first, who would read a bit here and there before handing it to Tom. She could see her brother in her mind’s eye, placing the letter to the side of his plate and reading it while eating dinner. Mother would scold him—
Be careful with that gravy on the tablecloth
—but not really; it couldn’t be called a scold, because any reprimand from their mother directed at Tom was always mild, never forceful, as if she were going through the motions of dismay. Tom could do no wrong in his mother’s estimation.
You’re her blue-eyed boy
, Thea would tease.

Even Kezia belonged to him now. She put down the pen, sliding it onto the groove next to the inkwell. She twisted the paper into a tight knot and threw it into the wastepaper basket. She didn’t want to write to Tom too. She wanted to write to Kezia. Kezia alone. It was not that there was a secret to tell, or anything untoward to communicate, but she could not write to Tom and Kezia together, even though the letter would likely be read out at the kitchen table. And having given the matter due consideration, she realized that all she wanted to do, really, was let them know how things were, because she knew the village, she knew the farm, and she believed the war had probably barely touched them. And that made her angry. It made her angry that they could sit there and not know what was happening, that they were oblivious to it all.

Dear Kezia . . .

One more sheet for the wastepaper basket.

My dear Kezia,

By now you will be in the thick of the hop-picking, and I am sure that, even though you’ve known the farm since we were girls, it has come as a bit of a surprise to you. I don’t think you ever came at hop-picking time, did you? When the hoppers arrived from London, you were always in Europe with your family, or on the Norfolk Broads, or in the Lake District, so you never saw the farm at the busiest time of year.

I wonder what news you hear of war. I imagine nothing’s changed much for you, though I can tell you, London has changed. You never know what you’re going to hear next—the papers are full of it, and on the street people are very excited about the boys going over to fight for Belgium. One of the women boarders here works at the London Hospital as a typist, and she says they’ve been bringing in wounded late at night so no one can see them. She heard from an orderly that some of the men are in a terrible state, and they arrive with their clothes reeking of dirt and rats. You would read nothing in the newspapers about it. They want to keep that to themselves.

Germans are leaving London now. Elsie’s best boy has gone, and she is heartbroken—and so is he! I think most of the waiters here have gone, so heaven knows what the restaurants will do, not that I would notice, as I haven’t the money to pay for fancy suppers. And you would have thought the larders of London were absolutely bare, as there was nothing to be had in the shops for a time, though I think people have calmed down a bit and realized there is still food to eat.

Kezia was at the kitchen sink, rubbing a thick green bar of laundry soap back and forth across the neck of one of Tom’s shirts, when she saw the postman walking up to the house along the farm road. The collies, Sloppy and Squeers, rushed at him, but he waved them away and they grew bored and trotted off, noses down, to find shade in the lee of the oast. She shook the suds from her hands and looked again. Mr. Barham had stopped to talk to Ada, who was pushing sheets through the wringer; with a deft hand she was keeping both the sopping side and the damp side out of the dirt. If the day was fine, it was always best to wring the laundry outside before pegging it on the line to dry.

“Mr. Barham, good morning to you!” said Kezia, wiping her hands on her apron, then lifting her left hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “You have some post for us?”

“Two for you, Mrs. Brissenden,” said the postman, who took the opportunity to cast a glance towards Kezia’s waistline.

“Oh, lovely—there’s one from my father, and another from Thea—” She looked up. “Dorrit—she’s known as Thea now, remember?” She smiled, glanced at the postman, again shielding her eyes. “Are you in a rush, Mr. Barham? Would you like a cup of tea, or some fresh lemon barley water?”

“Not today, Mrs. Brissenden. Got to be on my way now.” He looked down at the ground. “Not a good job to have today, this.”

“Is something wrong, Mr. Barham? Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?” Kezia turned to Ada. “Ada, go and put the kettle on, would you? Just let that sheet back into the basket.”

Kezia waited until the girl had gone inside the house, then turned back to the postman. She was a vicar’s daughter, and intuited when trouble’s shadow was moving in to cross the sun. Her father had encouraged his parishioners to tell him about problems causing sadness or worry; as he explained, “Bad news can’t settle inside, Kezia. My job is to bring it out and see what the Lord will do with it, and how He might want me to serve.”

She placed a hand on Barham’s arm. “I can see there’s something troubling you—please tell me what I can do to help.”

The man shook his head, and reached into his delivery bag. He took out a telegram. “I’ve to deliver this today—to Ada’s aunt. She was widowed last year, and now this—her eldest, Jimmy, has gone. Killed over there. I don’t need to see what’s inside, I know already. He was with the regulars, so he took his chances when he joined up—you’d be simple to think you’d never have to go to war, being in the army. Happened at a place called Mons. Our boys were driven back by the Hun, you see—and they copped it. I’ve been walking around with this envelope, knowing what’s inside.”

Kezia’s eyes filled with tears, which she wiped away with the corner of her apron. “Jimmy was one of ours, Mr. Barham—I remember it was almost two years past, when he joined the army. Not that I knew him well, but I remember Tom remarking upon it, that he was joining up because there wasn’t enough of the world to see around here. Oh, Jimmy’s poor mother—how will she bear up? I must pay a visit.”

“Best to leave it for now, Mrs. Brissenden. I wouldn’t be surprised if young Ada doesn’t come to work tomorrow, just so you know.” He pushed back his cap and scratched his head where perspiration had gathered. “I knew it would come to this. They all go off, you see, these young ’uns, and they don’t know what it’s like. They think it’s going to be a big adventure, like going off to the seaside for the day—I daresay that’s what Jimmy thought. And they say the Hun is a terror to fight.” He looked across at the oast, at the giant pokes filled with dried hops pressed down, ready for the brewery, now loaded on the cart to be taken to the station. “You’re lucky to still have your horses—you watch if the men from the army don’t come round and want them. You can’t say no to them, not if they want your horses.”

Kezia nodded. “They were both lame when they came, and they’re getting on in years—Tom told the men about it, about how old they are and that he’s thinking he’ll have to go to market soon for more, if there’s any to be had. So they left them with us. And they didn’t take Mrs. Joe—they said they needed horses with some size to them, not a pony.”

“The Shires were too old, eh? I reckon I remember when Jack Brissenden brought the pair of them home—never would have thought them too old.”

Kezia nodded, and began to turn away. “Well, they’re not good enough for the army anyway, the man said so. And what with the food we’re sending off from here, the horses are doing their bit for the war.”

“And that’s a fact, Mrs. Brissenden.”

Kezia looked along the road where it vanished among the trees and led to the fields of Marshals Farm. She drew her attention back to the postman. “I wish I could do more for them, the mothers who’ve seen their boys go—they must be worried sick.”

“Oh, and there’s more still of an age who’ll march away, you mark my words.”

With the heat of the day upon her, Kezia felt a sudden lightheadedness.

“Are you sure you won’t come in for a cup of tea?” she asked.

Barham shook his head. “Best be off.” He touched his cap and, as he turned to walk away, the two collies came alongside, ready to accompany him until he reached the main road.

Kezia stood for a while, then slid the letters into her pocket and returned to the kitchen, where she settled her hands down into the now-lukewarm water. She felt along the collar of Tom’s best shirt, then lifted it from the suds so that she could press it against her face, and across her cheeks, as if to wash away her tears.

“Mrs. Brissenden?”

Kezia turned, releasing the sopping garment back into the sink. “Oh, yes, Ada, is everything all right?”

“I made the pot of tea—would you like a cup?”

“Um, not yet. Put the cozy on and let it brew, and I’ll have a cup in a minute.”

Ada nodded, and reached for the tea cozy hanging up above the stove. “I’ll finish the wringing and then put those sheets on the line—they’ll dry in next to no time, I shouldn’t wonder, with this heat and the blow they’ll get.”

“Yes, of course. And then you should go home, Ada. I can do the rest. I’m sure your mother would like to see you walk in the door a bit earlier today.”

Ada looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. “But it’s not even dinnertime yet.”

“I know, but we’ve got a lot done between us, and you’ve not had a moment off your feet all morning. Go on, Ada, you go home when the washing’s on the line. I’m going to set to and prepare something special for Mr. Brissenden’s dinner—something he hasn’t had before. Oh, and don’t worry, Ada, nothing will be docked from your wages. It’ll all be the same as usual.”

Kezia waved as Ada left the garden and went on her way down the farm road towards the village. It was a tight little place, that much she knew already, so when Ada walked into her home, it would be as if her own brother had died. All the children in the village had grown up together, in and out of one another’s houses. They courted within the villages, and for the most part they married local, so when someone went, it was always as if family had been lost.

L
ambs’ kidneys. Kezia did not care for kidneys, but Tom had brought home four fresh lambs’ kidneys from Maidstone market just the day before. They should be cooked or they would spoil soon enough. Kezia had placed them in the coolest part of the larder, while considering what she might do with them. In truth, she did not even want to touch them, did not want to finger the smooth flesh, blood oozing out onto the plate. It had pooled almost to the edge of the china, and already she could see a mark forming as the blood began to dry and congeal, working its way back to the kidneys as if it were an outgoing tide. Lifting the plate, maneuvering it with care, she attempted to get it to the sink without spilling a drop. Since Mr. Barham had called with the post, she had been thinking of Jimmy Hart. Poor dead Jimmy Hart, killed by a German gun. She tried not to hate Germans. She tried to imagine German boys being killed by British guns, by French cannonade. And she thought of Thea, and wondered what she would say, now that the war had come to the village.

O
NION AND
K
IDNEY
S
AVORIES

Take one large onion and a paring knife. Take out the middle of the onion as if coring an apple. Wash the kidney, dry with clean muslin cloth. Skin the kidney. The oven should be hot. Place the onion in a baking dish and insert the kidney. Bake, basting with cooking butter. When cooked, serve with thick brown gravy.

How, thought Kezia, would she know when the kidney was cooked? Would she touch the meat with a knife, checking that no blood oozed from inside? Did kidney change color when cooked? And how thick, pray, was thick gravy? She had four kidneys, not one, so four onions were required. Tom would walk down the lane from the oast house in just over one hour, so she had better get on with it. In the kitchen garden, Kezia pulled four onions, and then some parsley. Her mother-in-law had only ever grown parsley, and rosemary seemed to grow by itself. Kezia wanted to experiment with other herbs, and had ordered seeds from a catalog—oregano, basil, thyme, sage. In the meantime, she’d purchased a small envelope of dried mixed herbs when last she went into Tunbridge Wells on the train. The village shop did not have dried mixed herbs, and the only spice available was a mixed spice cube for casseroles and stews. The recipe did not mention herbs, but this was to be a special dinner, a medley of flavors to set before Tom.

Kezia wept over the onions, felt queasy handling the kidneys, and at last began to enjoy herself with the parsley and dried herbs. She blended them together into a mash with cooking butter, and pressed a lump down on top of the kidney, as if it were a fragrant hat. How might it turn out? She had no idea, but there was something staid about the recipe, something middling, something run-of-the-mill. And everything she did for Tom, she wanted to be different. Even if it meant taking a risk.

As she moved about the kitchen, as she banked up the fire and opened the dampers to make the oven hot, so hot that when she opened the door she felt as if her eyelashes would scald together, Kezia thought about Thea. Or, if she were to distinguish her thoughts with more accuracy, she considered how Thea was changing. It was as if Thea were becoming more defined, so that when Kezia saw her friend in her mind’s eye, she saw her still, as in a photograph, only someone had taken a black pen and traced around her frame, outlining her, making her stand out. And then, limb by limb, button by button, and now the shoes, the ears, the hat, each part of Thea was becoming bolder and sharper. There was no part of Thea that might disappear. Kezia straightened her spine, a kidney held in one hand. While Thea was acquiring more definition, she felt as if she, Kezia, were fading at the edges, drawing back into herself, like the blood on the plate. It was as if, when she looked at her body, she would see herself vanishing—disappearing. Had she ever been defined? The collies started barking again, and Kezia looked at the clock on the mantelpiece above the stove. Now she finished the dish, adding even more herbs, more pepper—more edge—to the recipe. This would be
her
onion savory, not anyone else’s. Her onion savory, served with mashed potato, to which she would add just a little cheese, and perhaps some fresh cream, too. And the gravy would not be thick, would not be sludge, lumpen on the plate; no, it would slip across the potato, slide into the onion, and it would be a dish fit for a king. Her king.