Finely chop the stalks and slice the caps of the mushrooms. Put the butter or fat into a hot pan and cook until melted and brown. Add the mushrooms and onion and slowly fry until translucent. Add garlic if you have any.

Scatter the herbs over the mushrooms. Add the sherry or wine. Stir in the flour. Add the stock and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the milk or cream a few minutes before serving, or swirl a little over the top.

Lady Gwendoline

The village hall was bustling with activity as the large orderly clock on the wall chimed seven even tolls. Rows of chairs were filled with eager onlookers from Middleton and other nearby towns, some even from London. Ambrose had been talking about the first round on The Kitchen Front for over a week, and the excitement was palpable. Radio technicians with headphones ran around setting bulbous microphones along the table onstage, one standing at the side for Ambrose.

Lady Gwendoline felt a flutter of eagerness.

My very first time on the radio!

The first of many, naturally.

Newspaper reporters were also there to capture the event, some with boxlike cameras with flash sets. A photograph of a wartime cooking contest would look superb on the cover of any newspaper—especially when the other news was so dismal.

And particularly as I will be the winner, Lady Gwendoline mused smugly.

She recognized a number of faces in the audience. Any free entertainment was readily taken these days. The war had left many women at home on their own, desperate for a bit of a break, especially when it took their minds off worries for their men far away from home.

    Lady Gwendoline imagined herself on the front page of The Times.

That’s precisely what I need. I’ll show those society women, and my husband, too, she thought.

The place was buzzing with gossip. Lady Gwendoline had heard that bets were being taken at the village pub. Mrs. Quince was the favorite, naturally, as she was a locally renowned cook. Annoyingly, however, Lady Gwendoline’s own sister, Audrey, was close behind, and she herself only running third.

As if Audrey stands a better chance than me!

A long table had been set up across the stage for the cooks, and she took the first spot. Going at the beginning was bound to set her at an advantage. Ambrose’s palate would be fresh and enthusiastic, unsullied by her rivals’ attempts.

After much consideration, she had decided to wear a formal maroon dress that she often wore for her demonstrations, a crisply ironed white apron over the top. It gave precisely the right impression of a well-to-do lady entering a wartime contest while also representing the authority of the Ministry of Food.

She watched as her fellow competitors began to arrive. First, Mrs. Quince tottered in, struggling to make it up the stairs on the side of the stage. Thank heavens she had the maid helping her. Then, bang on time, in rushed Audrey, looking a complete fright in her men’s trousers. She hadn’t even brushed her hair!

Ambrose Hart stood to one side, busying himself with his notebook. His task this evening was not to be envied: judging four women, each of whom considered herself to be a cook of the highest caliber. He had been right when he’d told her that the contestants would be watching out for favoritism. Any sign of unfairness, and he’d be in trouble. He pulled out a smartly folded handkerchief to dab his already furrowed brow.

Five minutes late, the last competitor, Zelda Dupont, paused at the door for everyone to turn and look. Her painted mouth twisted in misplaced triumph as she looked confidently over the crowd.

    How on earth could she think she possibly stands a chance in this village where she knows no one?

Bringing her silver-domed platter to the front, she walked slowly up onto the stage, ignoring the other contestants before taking her place at the very end of the row. And if Lady Gwendoline wasn’t mistaken, a glance was exchanged between Zelda and Audrey—what could that mean?

But before she had time to consider this, a technician at the side said to Ambrose, “Shall we start?”

He nodded, donning his stage smile, and the technician counted down with his fingers—three, two, one.

“A very warm welcome to everyone at this first round of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest,” Ambrose began, standing before the microphone like it was second nature. “I would like to thank you, one and all, for coming, especially the members of the press.” He looked down at the half-dozen men and gave them a practiced pose while a lone camera snapped a shot.

“Get on with it!” a thin voice called out—was it the vicar?—and Ambrose coughed and continued.

“This is the first of three rounds, at the end of which the scores will be added together to find a winner.” He looked eagerly from one contestant to another. “That person will join me as a presenter on The Kitchen Front.” This was said without relish. “Without more ado, I will begin the judging.”

He turned and walked over to the first contestant.

“Lady Gwendoline, please introduce yourself and tell us what you have for us this evening.”

“I am Lady Gwendoline Strickland, one of the Ministry of Food’s dedicated home economists. We visit local towns to speak about how to stay happy and healthy on the rations. An experienced professional speaker, I would be perfect for the BBC role.”

She paused to prompt a photograph from the newspapermen, then as none seemed forthcoming, she whisked off her silver dome with a flourish.

    “Today I’ve made a favorite of mine from my wartime demonstrations: sardine rolls, spruced up with chopped herbs and vegetables fresh from the garden.”

Her precious two pastries lay on a gold-encrusted Royal Doulton plate. The pastry on the rolls was golden, flaking slightly at the edges, indicating that it was impeccably well made. Beside them, a garnish was made of an inner lettuce leaf, curled like a little bowl, a few small radishes piled in the middle to make a nest. With the emphasis on wartime austerity, she knew she was onto a winner.

For a brief moment, she thought that Ambrose’s face fell. Perhaps she should have prepared more of a restaurant-style dish? She knew his tastes were sophisticated, with a penchant for delicacies. Maybe she had misjudged the weight given to home-style food? But wasn’t that the focus of The Kitchen Front?

However, she quickly pushed any doubts aside, musing to herself, He can’t afford to ignore my status in this little place. Nor Sir Strickland’s power over him.

Ambrose was evidently struck by the same notion, as his face quickly lit up in a generous smile, bestowing good humor all around.

Murmuring rumbled among the audience. A few titters came from one of the younger newspapermen, before being promptly shushed as Lady Gwendoline began to speak.

“The dish makes the best use of one of our wartime staples: tinned sardines. The big surprise bonus of this recipe is that you use the oil from the tinned sardines to make the pastry, thus not using a single ounce of your precious butter rations. The pastry can taste a little salty due to the fish, which is why I added chopped, cooked vegetables—in this case a carrot, a leek, and a potato.”

The audience sat in awed silence.

Bending his head, Ambrose cut through one of the rolls. Lifting a smallish chunk to his mouth, he paused to smell it, unable for a moment to contain a brief look of anxiety, before silently counting to three and popping it into his mouth. During some copious chewing, he glanced around, a look of satisfaction on his face, only his eyes giving away a sense of desperation, before he swallowed, hard, twice.

    Everyone was on tenterhooks as he paused, trying to work something out from between his teeth with his tongue.

Eventually, he gave his broadest smile and said, “Superb texture to the pastry. Perhaps the flavor is a bit fishy, but it makes first-class use of tinned sardines in these difficult times.” Bestowing a congratulatory nod, he moved on.

Next in line, Mrs. Quince gestured for the kitchen maid to remove the dome. Beneath it, a large plate was set with a narrow, roasted leg, a rich, dark sauce pooled beside it. The leg had been thinly carved and fanned out, showing a delicately pinkish center, and the whole thing was decorated with a small heap of something dark—could it be berries of some sort?

Mrs. Quince leaned uncertainly toward the microphone on the table in front of them. “We are the cooking staff at Fenley Hall. I’m the head cook, Mrs. Quince, and this is the kitchen maid, Miss Nell Brown. Today we have made a leg of wild hare with a sauce made from elderberry wine, accompanied by caramelized elderberries.” Mrs. Quince nodded with pleasure, pulling the maid forward. “Nell did most of the work with this, didn’t you, Nell?” The maid glared at the ground, as if willing it to swallow her up.