Whispers on the other end. Finally, Gillian said, “We can do that.”
“Good luck with the shoot,” said Emma.
When she turned around again, Charlie burst out laughing.
“I’m going to get ‘Gardens aren’t just about flowers’ tattooed on my forehead one of these days,” she muttered.
“I bet the Royal Botanical Heritage Society doesn’t have to deal with Gillian Frayn.” When she shot him a dirty look, he shrugged. “I’m just sayin’。”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Come on, let’s go mark out the long border.”
“You got it, boss.”
? STELLA ?
FEBRUARY 1944
Stella slammed the door of the larder so hard the clock on the wall trembled and threatened to fall to the floor.
“Mrs. George,” she barked at Highbury House Hospital’s head cook. “This is the second time in as many weeks that you’ve made off with my milk.”
“Miss Adderton, please,” Mrs. Dibble, Highbury House’s housekeeper and a member of the regular staff like Stella herself, said with a gasp.
Mrs. George, that miscreant in blue serge and white linen, slowly wiped her hands on her apron while the two junior cooks who reported to her watched in wide-eyed fascination, a potato and a knife frozen in each of their hands.
“Miss Adderton, think of what you’re saying. Are you really accusing me of stealing?” asked Mrs. George.
“I’m sure Miss Adderton wouldn’t—”
“I’m not accusing you,” Stella cut off Mrs. Dibble. “I’m telling you that I know you stole the milk from the larder again. And eggs. There were six in the green bowl this morning. Now there are just four.”
The four chickens that Mrs. Symonds had let her keep in a corner of the kitchen garden weren’t laying as much as they had just six months ago, and eggs were becoming more and more precious. And real milk that wasn’t powder in a can was practically liquid gold. Stella didn’t even want to think of the criminal acts she would commit for a taste of real cream in real coffee.
“This hospital doesn’t need your eggs and milk. We have our own rations,” said Mrs. George.
“And what about the time I caught you in my flour, red-handed?”
The woman dropped her eyes to the pile of carrots in front of her. “That was a biscuit-making emergency. I had every intention of replacing the flour I used.”
“A likely story,” Stella muttered.
“Excuse me, Miss Adderton,” said a meek voice from across the room.
Stella spun around on her heel to face Miss Grant, the diminutive junior cook who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. “What?” she demanded.
Miss Grant opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water.
“What is it, Miss Grant?” she prompted, trying to soften her tone.
“I broke the eggs this morning. I backed into the counter and I must have hit it just the wrong way because the bowl tipped over and two eggs rolled out and fell onto the floor, and I’m very sorry, miss.” The truth poured out of the young woman like a waterfall until at last she was spent and her shoulders slumped forward.
Mrs. George shot her a scathing look.
Oh, why doesn’t the bloody floor open up and swallow me whole?
Mrs. George said Stella scared her cooks more than the Germans frightened the wounded soldiers upstairs—and now Miss Grant would scurry away from her even faster. For as much as she disliked having her kitchen overrun by cooks from Voluntary Aid Detachment, she disliked it more when those cooks wouldn’t talk to her.
She touched a hand to the synthetic silk scarf she wrapped around her hair to keep it out of the way and straightened her shoulders, preparing to make amends as best she could. “Miss Grant, accidents happen.”
“I’ll replace the eggs. I’ll… I’ll find a way to do it,” promised Miss Grant.
But she couldn’t by that evening, when Stella needed them. They were to make a custard, which she would be serving Mrs. Symonds; Father Bilson, the vicar at Highbury; and his wife, Mrs. Bilson. Mr. Hyssop, a solicitor from one village over, would round out the party. This long into the war, few people had illusions that any dinner party would come close to the ones they’d had before 1939, but Mrs. Symonds was one of the few holdouts. To not serve pudding—even in wartime—was unthinkable.
“I’ll make do just fine with four eggs, Miss Grant,” said Stella.
The young woman nodded several times in quick succession and scooted off down the hallway.