A nurse came up behind her. “Mrs. Quince is in the bed at the end. I’m sure she’ll be better in no time.” She guided her to the bed and gave Nell a perfunctory smile before heading back down the ward.

    Mrs. Quince did not look as if she would be better in no time. Pale, covered in bruises, with a bulky plaster cast around one leg, she was fast asleep. Her hair, which Nell had only ever seen tucked neatly into a bun, lay long and thin around her shoulders, a fan so white and transparent that it made Nell gasp. She’d never thought about Mrs. Quince’s age, and she swallowed hard at the reality that she was older, frailer than she appeared.

There was a chair beside the bed, so she sat down, wondering what to do, until the nurse bustled back, pressed Mrs. Quince’s hand until she opened her eyes, and said, “You’ve got a visitor.”

Startled out of sleep, Mrs. Quince looked even more feeble, but as soon as her eyes focused on Nell, she smiled weakly and relaxed. “Lovely to see you, my dear. Could you ask the nurse to get some aspirin? My hip hurts something rotten.”

Nell felt tears come to her eyes as she watched the older woman take the pills as if they were better than her favorite chocolates.

“Do they know what it is?” Nell asked tentatively.

“My hip’s gone. It was fractured, but it’ll all be right as rain in no time,” she said in a weak imitation of her normal cheery self. She patted Nell’s hand, as if their roles were reversed: Nell the patient and Mrs. Quince the concerned friend.

“But how long will you be away?”

“It’ll only be a few weeks or so. They’re doing a few tests on me, as the doctor thinks I might have a few other things, but I’m sure it’s nothing—”

“A few other things,” Nell repeated. “What kind of other things?”

“I’ve got a bit of diabetes, the doctors say. They gave me an injection. They also said my heart’s not as strong as it once was, but we all get old, don’t we, dear.”

“Your heart?” Nell felt her own heart fall. “Are you going to be all right?”

But Mrs. Quince calmed her. “I’ll be fine, just you see, and it’ll be good for you to be on your own for a while. You’ll rise to the challenge. I’m sure you’ll find it easier than you think. The Stricklands always like the same dishes, and when they have their special dinners, ask Audrey to help you out. You saw how Ambrose devoured her mushroom soup. She’ll do you well, I’m sure. Take some extra money for her from the housekeeping.”

    Nell sat back down, calmed, looking desolately at the floor. “What about the competition? I suppose we’ll have to pull out.” She gave a small sigh. “I wasn’t too keen on winning, you know. I’d never be able to speak on the radio. I’d just clam up. They’d get rid of me before I’d even begun. It was just a bit of a dream, that’s all.”

Mrs. Quince let out an exasperated huff. “Don’t be silly, Nell. With a spot of practice, you’ll be wonderful on the radio. Just think what tips and tales you could tell everyone. It’s such an opportunity for you, pet. You’ll get a bit of fame, and I bet it’ll bring you some excellent job offers, too. Now promise me you’ll stay in the competition, Nell. I need you to win for both of us.”

A queasiness took hold of Nell even thinking about speaking on her own. “But I won’t have time, what with the Stricklands’ dinners and all the extra work at the hall.”

“You need to tell Lady Gwendoline that you can’t do it all by yourself. They’re taking advantage of you, dear. Tell her you need at least one day off every week.”

The idea of saying anything to her ladyship—let alone asking for time off—made Nell shrink back in her seat. “No, I couldn’t do that. I’ll get it all done, don’t worry. In any case, it won’t be long until you come out of hospital, and—”

“Now don’t go all cowardly on me, Nell. Find a bit of pluck! You need to stand up for yourself.”

A flush of heat rushed into Nell’s cheeks. “But I don’t want to be fussy.”

Mrs. Quince smiled. “Nell, even if you tried, you couldn’t be fussy.” Her eyes bore into Nell. “We’re a country at war, and what we need is women with spirit, women who step forward and say, ‘I can do this.’?”

    Nell looked uncomfortably at her hands. “I don’t have a hope of winning without you. I’m not as good as the others.”

“You’re far better than them, Nell. You know that. You can’t rely on me all your life. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet. Grasp this opportunity with both hands,” she said, a twinkle once again in her eye. “You deserve better than this life in service. You’re already in second place. All you need is two more good recipes, and you’ll win.”

“B-but I thought you’d had a good life, being a cook,” Nell stammered, unsure if the stay in hospital was filling her old mentor with gloom.

“I was trying to make it sound good, trying to keep everyone happy. There are worse employers out there, to be fair, but honestly, my dear girl, now you have other chances, and you have to take them. I know you’re all worked up about your Italian lad, but you have to set that aside and focus all your attention on winning this contest.”

“But—”

“No more buts. You only get one life, Nell, and winning this contest might be your one chance for freedom. Nothing will change until you believe in yourself.”

Nell felt a tingle all over. Could she do it?

The nurse came over to tell her that visiting time was over, and she sorrowfully took her leave of Mrs. Quince, thinking about what she’d said. As she walked slowly back through the hall, through the main doors, and out into the bright light of day, Nell knew that she at least had to try.

She had to give it her all for Mrs. Quince.

Zelda

A tin of Spam sat in the middle of the long table in the factory kitchen. Behind it, the slow pace of the afternoon shift continued. Women in long white aprons cleared and cleaned from the making and serving of lunch in readiness for the making and serving of dinner. Zelda had chosen this lull in activity to create what she could out of, well, very little.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this.” Zelda sat looking at the tin with utter disgust.

Doris, the pasty young assistant, was watching it, too, only with very different thoughts in mind. “Looks a bit manky if you ask me. Couldn’t you find something better?”

Zelda’s eye had been on Audrey’s pig, until she was informed that it actually belonged to a pig club. These groups had sprung up everywhere, neighbors and friends raising a few pigs and dividing up each pig when it was slaughtered. “It means you get a nice joint and some chops every so often rather than all in one glut,” Audrey explained.

Audrey’s pig club was saving their last pig for Christmas, apparently. Zelda had no idea why people began saving food coupons and stocks of sugar as early as the summer, but the nation seemed obsessed with Christmas, fattening hens, ducks, rabbits, and pigs for the annual slaughter. Christmas had barely existed for her when she was a child. One year her mum had come home with a man, and he had given each of the children a penny to spend on sweets, to keep them out of the way. She’d kept hers, scared of spending it, eating it, having it vanish in a single delicious moment that would never come again. Then her sister stole it from her hiding place, and that was that. Another Christmas a lady from the church came and told them that if they went to the church they could have free food to make a nice dinner—there’d been a collection for the poor. But Mum had told the lady that they weren’t beggars, slamming the door in her face. Zelda had shouted, trying to go after the woman, but her mother grabbed her back, pulling her ear down until she was on the floor, kicked. What a meal she could have cooked with that free food! Desperation had already made her wise to the power of good cooking.

    Zelda glared at the Spam, peeved. The first round seemed so unfair—she’d kicked herself for not using scrod, as she’d used in her practice run. She had to make up for it in this round. Among other choice items, she’d considered offal, as the Ministry of Food was always pushing it in their Food Facts columns in the newspapers. But, after standing in a line for the whole of her morning off, they were even out of that. It, too, was now officially scarce, even brains and, for heaven’s sake, tripe. It was a sign that the nation was truly on its knees.

“Shall we try a bit?” Doris said, eyeing the Spam.

The tin was oblong in shape, the black-and-white label already peeling off. “I suppose it’s had a long, dangerous journey from America.”

“I’m glad the Americans joined the war, what with all these new tinned meats. Ethel got some chocolate from one of the GIs last week. Don’t know what she had to do to get it, but it was quite a big bar.” Doris giggled.

Zelda ignored her, picking up the tin. “I wonder if it has the extra layer of fat around the edge like the American tinned sausage meat. That’s very useful for making pastry.”

    Doris grimaced. “I’m not sure you’ll win a contest with that, Miss Dupont.”