There was a photograph of Lady Gwendoline, Sir Strickland’s wife, looking especially haughty. It was no use, the woman looked like a horse. She was smiling politely, as if meeting the king, her fingers lightly touching the pearls at her smooth, pale throat.

    “I hope to help housewives everywhere tackle the difficult problem of putting healthy, appetizing food on the table in these times of rationing,” she said.

Healthy food, how dull! If it were me, I’d be conjuring up tricks that would make every dinner an experience.

Everyone at the factory knew about the boss’s wife. Only a few days ago, Zelda had been to watch Lady Gwendoline in a wartime cooking demonstration in Fenley Village Hall, where her Woolton pie had been spectacularly bland, wanting of color, texture, and taste. She could tell in an instant that Lady Gwendoline embodied everything that Zelda loathed: a distaste for indulgence, a disastrously dull personal style, and a mistaken sense of self-importance. That kind of woman was always stealing the show in the press.

    Lady Gwendoline’s new goal is to win the BBC’s Kitchen Front Cooking Contest, which is to be held in the coming months, open only to trained and professional cooks. The winner will be named Ambrose Hart’s co-presenter on The Kitchen Front.

Zelda’s eyes opened wide. Could this be true? Had Lady Gwendoline unintentionally provided her, Zelda Dupont, with a gateway to better things?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Forbes, who was passing a sheet of typed paper over the desk to her. “Oh, yes, Miss Dupont. I have this for you.” He uttered a small cough to cover his embarrassment. “I’m afraid we have refused your request for a higher salary.”

Zelda remained calm, her hands firmly on her lap, leaving him holding the paper in midair. His long-fingered hand began to shake, so he decided to put the letter down in front of her.

“What on earth can you mean?” she asked.

“We don’t think your, er, style of food merits a raise.” He smiled weakly.

“What are you saying about my food, Mr. Forbes?”

“Well, I’ve been told that the workers aren’t used to such dishes as”—he looked down at the sheet of paper—“Boeuf bourguignon and penne al dente. And what, in heaven’s name, is ‘quitch’?”

She leaned forward across the desk, daintily snapped the paper up, and read it. “Quiche,” she uttered elegantly. “It’s an everyday French dish perfect for today’s rations, although we did have to use dried egg powder and more vegetables than I would have liked.”

“Well, it appears that our staff prefer the usual British food. You know, pies and rissoles, that kind of thing.”

Zelda handed back the paper, as if it were totally unacceptable. From skimming the contents, it appeared that the entire kitchen staff had complained about her bossiness and the fact that she blamed everyone else for her own mistakes. Fuming, she silently vowed to get even, but said calmly, “I’ll agree to provide British food, if you raise my pay.”

The man dithered. “I’m afraid you misunderstand—”

    “And I’m afraid that if you don’t agree to my very reasonable offer, then I could make things terribly difficult for you.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Oh, well, I’m not sure if—”

She got up, adjusting her hat as if it had already been agreed. “You wouldn’t want me to alert the newspapers to the fact that some of the women had to take time off after contracting food poisoning here last month?”

“No, no, absolutely not,” the man said, fluttering the papers on his desk with fear. “But a raise?”

“Absolutely. I want an extra two shillings a week.” She proffered a hand to shake his.

He frowned. “But?”

“You wouldn’t want to lose your job, would you? They might have found a place for you in the army by now. I’ve heard they’re desperate for new cannon fodder in North Africa, and—”

“All right,” he said, nervously picking up a pen to make a note. “I’ll organize it.”

She folded the newspaper in her hand. “I’ll wait for the check in your secretary’s office.”

And with a sharp thwack of the folded newspaper into her open palm, she began to formulate her next plan: to find out more about this Kitchen Front Cooking Contest.

Fenley Factory’s Curried Salt Cod

Serves 6 to 8

1 pound salt cod, very well soaked ? teaspoon sugar 1 tablespoon oil or cooking fat 1 onion or leek, chopped 1 tomato, chopped 1 apple, chopped ? tablespoon curry powder 1 tablespoon flour Pepper

2 cups fish stock or vegetable stock 1 pound root vegetables (potatoes, parsnips, turnips, carrots, beetroots), peeled and chopped into ?-inch chunks

Using a sharp knife, take the skin off the salt cod, then wash it. Place it in a pan, skinned side down, and just cover with cold water then sprinkle over with sugar. Bring to a boil and simmer for 3 minutes. Drain off the water, then slice the fish into ?-inch chunks.

Heat the oil or fat in a pan and add the onion or leek and fry until cooked. Add the tomato, apple, curry powder, and flour and stir. Bring to a boil and add pepper (but not salt). Add the stock gradually to make a thick sauce. Add the fish and vegetables and cover. Cook for 45 to 60 minutes. Serve with potatoes or rice, if available.

Audrey

The evening was chilly for June, but Audrey didn’t bother with a cardigan as she strode down to Ambrose Hart’s house. Perhaps she’d become hardier with her daily outdoor weeding and pruning, or maybe she was simply too nervous to worry about something as niggling as the cold. If one thing was clear to her, it was that this contest was going to be hard fought by all concerned.

Audrey had heard about it from Alexander when he came home from school the previous Thursday.

“It’s the talk of the village!” he said excitedly. “Ambrose is claiming it was his idea, but rumor has it the chaps at the BBC are pressuring him to have a female voice on the program. He wants a local woman.” He raised an eyebrow. “Probably so that he can control who it is.”

She let out a chuckle. “It’s a shame I don’t have the time. I bet it’ll be fiercely competitive with all the WVS ladies.”

“That’s the thing. He only wants contestants with professional cooking or catering experience, which counts out the village matrons. They’re jolly cross about it. The Women’s Institute ladies are saying they should be allowed to join as they’ve been selling their jams and running their preservation centers for years. They think canning and jam making makes them into professional chefs.” He laughed. “Oh, do join, Mum. You’ve got a splendid chance of winning.”

    “Look at all this!” She spread both arms out to encompass the unwashed pie dishes and the floury tabletop now covered in carrot peelings. “I don’t have the time.”

“I can help out at home. Ambrose is holding a meeting in his house on Tuesday evening at eight, so at least go to that. You can see what you think.”

She looked down at her hands, her grubby trousers and work boots. “Alexander, darling, can’t you see that I need to focus on my work?”

But later that night, as she lay down after her long, exhausting day, she began to think about how winning a cooking contest could change everything.

“Me, on a radio program?” she whispered to herself. She certainly had a lot of rationing tips and ideas to share. If she won, it would mean proper work, real money. If she were Ambrose’s co-presenter, she would be able to stop running. She could stop spending her every minute baking, looking after the vegetables, dealing with the chickens. She could pay the debts, mend the roof. They would be able to stay in Willow Lodge forever.

She took a deep breath at the thought of it. “What a life that would be!” If Matthew were still alive, he would be so proud of her. He always adored her cooking, savoring every mouthful—telling her that she put a little of her warmth and love into everything she baked.

Now she could share that spirit with the nation.

It was still light out as she walked toward Ambrose’s house for the meeting. The government had put the clocks forward another hour—“double daylight savings” they called it—so that workers could keep going for longer, especially on farms. For Audrey it was a godsend, enabling her to weed and prune well into the night. It also meant that the blackout didn’t start until later.

A military truck hurtled toward her, and she stood aside in time to see that it was a full troop truck, packed with young recruits singing “Roll Out the Barrel” in the back.

“They don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for,” she murmured.

Every time she saw a man in uniform, Audrey couldn’t help thinking of her husband, how cavalier he’d been as he left. How proud he was to be wearing the uniform, to be joining the fight.

    No one mentioned that he might never come home.