“Those were the days! I wore these to a cocktail party in the Café de Paris.” The baby seemed to stare at it, mesmerized

Zelda went back to the bed, sat down, nestling the baby into her and looking down into her pert little face.

“I wonder if you’ll ever think of me, when you’re older.” The baby fidgeted, stretching. “I want you to know that I didn’t want to give you away, but I can’t have you. You see, I’m a chef, and if you’re a woman and you want to be or do something great, you can’t have children, no matter how much you want to keep them…”

Her voice trailed off.

The sound of running came from the front garden, then some brusque chattering could be heard in front of the house, Nell’s and Audrey’s voices trying to stay hushed. Then the front door opened and closed.

    Zelda pulled the baby closer. Their moments together were slipping away, as if sand were flowing unstoppably through her fingers.

She bent her head and kissed the tiny forehead, lingering on the soft, fragile skin. “Please know how much I love you,” she whispered. “Wherever you go, whatever happens, know that you’re always in my heart.”

Footsteps on the stairs, hurrying, darting, echoed through the house, and the bedroom door was shoved open.

“You can’t go ahead with this!” It was Audrey, striding across the room, her arms out to take the baby. “We owe it to her to give her to someone good.”

But Zelda held tightly on to the infant. She looked from Audrey to Nell, the sound of Gwendoline and the woman down in the drawing room, still discussing the war. And beyond them all, the sound of the future, the crying, the laughter, the joy—the sheer, unadulterated joy!—was right there.

“It’s all right. I’m going to keep her.” And through eyes glassy with tears, she looked from the baby to Audrey. “We’re going to keep her.”

Nell

The pale autumn sun beamed over the London buildings as Nell hurried up Regent Street to the BBC headquarters. She didn’t pause to look at the bomb damage, the monstrous gaps in the majestic old terraces, or the jaggedly opened hotels and office buildings, their insides bearing wallpaper and furniture like broken dollhouses. She barely even noticed the massive crag in Broadcasting House itself.

It was her first day appearing on The Kitchen Front, and nerves, mingled with raw excitement, coursed hotly around her small being.

“Didn’t you see the signs outside?” a man at a makeshift desk in the lobby asked her. “A five-hundred-pound bomb fell on us back in 1940, and we’ve been broadcasting from the basement ever since.” He pointed to a small door. “Go down a level, then left at the corridor.”

Stepping into the darkened depths, she felt as if she were part of an exciting adventure. Not only was she in the heart of the BBC, but she was heading into their underground bunker.

Is this really happening to me, Nell Brown? she thought breathlessly.

The corridor was gray and poorly lit, but every door had a series of labels or lists, and as she came across the one that included The Kitchen Front in large, handwritten letters, she took a sharp intake of breath.

    You can do it, Nell Brown!

The previous week had been busy beyond belief. Ambrose had invited her over a few evenings to go over scripts and to help her with pronunciation. The more she rehearsed, the more relaxed she felt and the less likely she was to stumble over her words.

Meanwhile, the four women were busier than ever. Gwendoline had secured the restaurant in the village, and just as they started to clean and reorganize it, orders for pies and cakes began to boom. The airing of the final round of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest had helped Gwendoline land more new customers—even some from London.

The previous evening, she had gathered them together eagerly.

“We need to decide on a name for our new restaurant and catering business.”

A ripple of excitement went through them.

“What do you think about The Kitchen Front Cooks?” Zelda said. “It’s what we’re about, after all.”

Gwendoline shook her head. “I don’t know what Ambrose and the BBC would say. It’s the name of their program, after all, not ours.”

“And also,” Audrey added, “we need a name that will work after the war is over.” She grinned. “We do plan to be here for a long time, don’t we?”

That brought a few laughs and cheers.

“What about The Fenley Cooks? That tells everyone where we are,” Zelda suggested.

“It does, but perhaps we need something with more of a ring to it,” Gwendoline said.

They sat in thought for a while, and Nell, knowing she would never be the one to come up with anything, began to gaze through the window, wondering what Paolo was doing. She tried to get over to see him some evenings, and Sunday afternoons were always theirs. Sometimes they still cooked outside together, but as the autumn was coming in, they often just huddled in the old hut and told stories, enjoying each other’s company.

    “What about The Speckled Hen?” Audrey suggested. “After Gertrude.”

“Already taken, I’m afraid,” Gwendoline said. “There’s a pub with that name the other side of Middleton.”

Nell was still thinking about Paolo, but then, suddenly, it came to her. “What about The Four Friends? It’s about us.”

“That’s perfect!” Gwendoline and Zelda said together, making everyone laugh again.

“It sums us up,” Audrey said, taking everyone’s hands. “United we stand, united we fall.”

Everyone cheered.

Following that momentous decision, a discussion about the menu ensued. Since there was a healthy demand for some of the dishes made for the contest, they decided to start with those, although everyone agreed: Gwendoline’s sardine rolls were perhaps too much of an acquired taste.

As Nell stood there petrified at the door to the broadcasting studio, she thought of her friends. Funny, she’d never really had friends before, and here they were, all working together, relying on one another.

And her job was to spread the word on the radio.

With a sense of purpose, she knocked rapidly on the door.

A young, spectacled man wearing headphones opened it, put his finger to his lips, and ushered her in quickly.

Inside, a man behind a microphone at a desk was reading the news, his low, clear voice so utterly familiar. The sound of it transported her, and all of a sudden, she was taken back to the Fenley Hall kitchen, Mrs. Quince telling her to “turn the wireless on and we’ll listen to The Kitchen Front. It’s on after the news.”

Mrs. Quince. What would she think of her little protégé now?

“She’d be utterly thrilled,” Nell mused, and a smile touched her lips, as if she felt the presence of the old cook there with her, urging her on in her usual way. Go on, Nell. You know you can do it! I have every faith in you.

Ambrose appeared beside her. “All set, then?” he said cheerily.

“I’m a bit nervous, to be honest,” she muttered, taking her script from the handbag she’d borrowed from Gwendoline, the source of her new clothes and shoes.

    “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I don’t think it comes easily to anyone. You just get used to it, learn that it’s not such a big problem. Why don’t you pretend you’re Nell six months from now, a completely professional speaker?”

She laughed. “I’m too busy being nervous to even think.”

“At least you don’t have a lot to say this time. They decided to ease you in gently, and ease me off gently, too.”

That made her turn around. “You’re leaving?”

“No, no, my dear. They want to reduce the time I spend on the program so that I can present other shows, too.” He glanced around. “Now that the war is spreading around the world, we’re a bit thin on the ground here in London.”

The news presenter was drawing to a close, and as the short music played between programs, Nell followed Ambrose to sit at the desk, a technician pulling up an extra chair. When the music faded out, all eyes were on Ambrose as the chief technician counted down on his fingers: three, two, one.

“Welcome to The Kitchen Front.” Ambrose, as smooth and professional as ever, opened the show, listing the foods that were temporarily scarce (onions were becoming an ongoing problem) and food where there was a glut (a large shipment of salt cod had made it through from the Atlantic).

Then he turned to Nell.

“And today we have a special newcomer to the program. Miss Nell Brown, as you all know, won The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest, and is now here to help you make the most of your rations. In a wonderful rags-to-riches story—although I can hardly equate working at the BBC as ‘riches’—until recently she was a kitchen maid, and now she and her fellow competitors are to open a restaurant in Fenley. Can you tell us about that, Nell?”

The director was motioning frantically at Ambrose to go back to the script. He wasn’t supposed to be helping the maid promote a new restaurant. He was supposed to be talking about salt cod.

    Nell glanced at her script—now meaningless since Ambrose asked her about the new restaurant. His eyes bore into her, smiling.