Other women, Tom knew, set stock by their accomplishments in the kitchen, as if their identity, their essential wifeliness, were attached to the range, the mixing bowls, knives, crockery, and cutlery. His mother had entered her rich eggy sponges in the annual show, though at home cake baking was generally left until Saturday so that Sunday tea might have something special about it. She’d had a limited repertoire, his mother, though the food she set upon the table was good and hearty, each day assigned a menu that never changed. You knew it was Monday when pie topped with mash was dished up, the meat minced and left over from the Sunday joint. Tuesday toad-in-the-hole, Wednesday hotpot. And so on. No fish on Friday, though, unless one of the men had brought trout from a summer’s eve spent with rod and line. Experimentation was not his mother’s forte; setting up a good table for hungry men who showed appreciation with the doffing of a cap or a nod in her direction as they set off for their day’s work was good enough for her. She did not ask for more.
But Kezia had taken to heart a nugget of advice discovered in a hardly used recipe book found in her late mother-in-law’s larder:
Never omit that trifling touch of decoration which makes the simplest dish seem appetizing, and the homeliest table attractive. Even a jar of woodland or hedgerow blooms makes all the difference—a meal at once appears, something more than merely eating to satisfy the wants of the body. It becomes a pleasant affair, beneficial and a tonic to the soul.
So she set the table with best silver brought from the parlor for men who tied their trousers in place with rope. On her first day as the farmer’s wife, she’d put out fresh linen towels on the kitchen draining board as the men walked in through the back door, and soon it became a habit for them to form a line at the sink as they waited to wash their hands. At first they looked at Tom in dismay, wondering what life must be like with this woman who didn’t appear to know her place, who pulled up a chair to the table, her mug of tea held with both hands, asking them questions about their wives, their children, and what they thought of this or that, when the only thinking that engaged their minds was whether cows were to be moved from Barnaby to Pickwick, and whether their wives might get a bit of work, pin money earned darning pokes up in the oast house, still bearing the spicy must of last year’s hop-picking season. But soon there grew among these men something akin to envy. Though not a soul could articulate such feelings, it was clear that the farmhouse had been bathed in new light, as if it had been given a stark coat of white paint—and they wouldn’t put that past Mrs. Kezia Brissenden, Miss Marchant, as was. They could see that Tom had a freshness to him too, as he left with his workers to go out into the fields each morning. And it wasn’t that Kezia didn’t respect her role, or Tom, or the farm she had married as much as the man. She took it as it was, loved it for what it would forever be, just as she loved her husband. Kezia was Kezia, and nothing, it seemed, would change who she was, or who she might be in her world. Tom knew all this, could see and feel her establishing her place. She was not simply filling the role of another woman before her. It entertained him, this Kezia-ness that was enveloping Marshals Farm, named for a dark prison in Dickens’ day. And it never bothered him; he knew that at the center of Kezia’s rural life, they stood together, hand in hand, and all else would grow from there.
It was when they had been married precisely twenty-four days that Kezia realized that she had become somewhat disengaged from life beyond Marshals Farm, and decided to venture out beyond her immediate wifely domain of the house, the kitchen garden, or the village shop. She had been thinking about her mother. Mrs. Marchant had supported her husband in the many ways expected of a parson’s wife. She was active in the parish, with coffee mornings, flower arranging, visits to the sick and bereaved, and committee work. But she took her “days out” without apology or explanation, and Kezia could never remember a time when she had questioned where her mother might have gone at those times, or when she would return. Was it weekly that this happened? Or every fortnight? She wasn’t sure, but she supposed her mother had taken the train to London, or to the coast. A visit to an exhibition, or to Whitstable, where she might enjoy a plate of oysters, a cup of tea, and a walk along the seafront. On the morning of Kezia’s wedding, Mrs. Marchant came to her daughter’s room—not, to Kezia’s surprise, to give a lesson on married life, on what might be expected in the kitchen or the bedroom, but to slip into her hand the grand sum of ten pounds.
“Keep a nest egg, Kezia, your private money. Keep it safe and add to it, if you can, but never let it go. A woman needs money of her own, as much as she requires time beyond the home. Start as you mean to go on, Kezia, dear. Claim what you require at the beginning with no explanation, and beyond that day you will never have to account for yourself, as long as the house is a good house, the food is on the table, and your husband sleeps well at night.”
Then she kissed her daughter, placed her hand on her cheek, and left.
Kezia had a nest egg of her own, held safe in the bank—money earned while working at Camden, together with a small bequest from a maiden great-aunt. But she took her mother’s advice, and kept a tin in the bottom drawer of her dressing table, into which the ten pounds was duly placed.
On this, the first day that Kezia claimed for herself, she dressed in a sturdy walking skirt, her stout leather boots, and an old cream linen blouse that had seen better days—all good enough for what she planned. She packed a sandwich, placing it in a knapsack along with an earthenware bottle of lemonade. She took a book and a bound journal—she had kept such a daily record of her life since childhood. Kezia left Ada to the kitchen and the cleaning, and upon the table set a fresh pork pie and a loaf of crusty bread—probably too crusty, again—along with a wedge of cheese, two tomatoes, and an apple. She added a jug of lemonade covered with a doily, and set off. Tom might expect a cooked dinner at noon, with a pot of strong tea, but Kezia knew there was enough food to see him through the rest of the day. She would be home in time to prepare a hearty tea and have it ready when he walked through the door at six. It was coming on harvest time, and he would go out again later. There was always more work to be done on a summer’s night.
Kezia had no idea where she was going, only that she would set off towards what she believed to be the perimeter of the farm beyond Micawber Wood, and then along the edge, which she expected to be marked with a fence. She planned to explore the forested acres flanking Twist, the largest of the hop gardens, where the spicy hops with their dense, green, and pungent fairy-wing petals lay heavy on the bine. She thought she would even ramble to the edge of the Hawkendene estate. She knew little of the property abutting Marshals Farm, only that there was a wealthy man and his wife, their son—older than Tom, or Kezia—and a host of lackeys to do their every bidding. The family opened their gardens once a year, in late August. Trestle tables would be set up with linen tablecloths rippling aimlessly in a light breeze, like sails on a ship becalmed. There would be triangled sandwiches and small fancies with pastel icing. The tea would have a fragrance to it, and at least one of the villagers would be heard to comment—in a low voice, of course—that the lukewarm beverage was only fit to dab behind the ears, and wouldn’t set you up for anything, of a morning. When Kezia went into the village, it seemed that everyone was talking about the party, even with a month to go before the anticipated day. Thea had written to her—since the wedding, they were both endeavoring to nurture the friendship, for weren’t they now joined as family?—and told her that she should not go. She maintained that this inequity, this fawning on the rich by the poor, should have died with the old queen. Kezia thought she had a point, but at the same time found herself getting caught up in the excitement. She wondered, though, as she jumped over a stile as if she were a schoolgirl, if her enthusiasm was due to the fact that the people who set such store by the party were referring to her as “Mrs. Brissenden” for the first time. After almost a month she was getting used to her new name, and in the village shop now ceased to look round when greeted,
in case the ghostly specter of her late mother-in-law had appeared behind her.
Hawkendene Lake was still, the summer sun reflecting surrounding trees into the water as if copied there with oils. Kezia chose her spot, a place at the foot of a giant oak where thick roots reared up from the earth, providing a place for her to sit and rest her head. She pulled a square embroidered cloth from the knapsack, setting out her repast. She closed her eyes and sighed. This was it, a perfect place. Across the lake, just visible, the house in which the Hawkes family lived appeared to lounge amid perfect lawns and pruned hedges. It was, she thought, somewhat intimidating. Spires rose up from rooftops, poking their way skyward as if in competition with the pines. It was a tableau to be painted, one day, this image now scored into memory; the house, the woodland, the lake with water lilies in bloom. The light buzzing of worker bees toiling in the fields behind her seemed to settle her soul. Bliss, she thought. For two hours, perhaps more, she would read her book and pen whatever thoughts came to her. Soon, though, despite her best efforts to resist the heat of the day, the gentle swoop of birds across the lake, and the meadow fragrance, her eyelids grew heavy and she slept.
“Did you know you’re trespassing?”
At first the voice seemed to come from far away, and, she thought later, had even entered her dream, though she could not remember any detail of that slip into another world. But then, when she realized she was no longer alone, Kezia’s eyes opened in a snap. She shook her head and leapt to her feet, only to find herself looking down at a man who had, it seemed, been sitting alongside her for some time.
“And who are you, sir?” She felt as if she had fallen down a hole marked “Slumber” and was struggling to grapple her way out.
The man laughed, leaning back on one elbow. He was dressed in twill trousers, his white shirt open at the neck and a kerchief tied at his throat. He wore a brown weskit and leather shoes that appeared to have been polished to a shine before he set off across fields of hardened ochre Kentish clay soil, picking up dust along the way.
“It’s all right, I’m not going to take you to the constabulary. I just wondered if you realized you had encroached beyond your land.”
“How do you know what or where my land is?” Kezia leaned forward, her hands on her hips as if to establish an impression of importance.
Splaying his fingers on the ground to steady himself, the stranger stood up and faced her. He rubbed his earth-soiled hand on his trousers and held it out towards her.
“Edmund Hawkes. You’re in my favorite spot—since I was a boy, actually—but I won’t scold you for it.”
“How long were you there?”
“And you are?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Kezia took the proffered hand. “Kezia Mar . . . I mean, Kezia Brissenden.” She felt her cheeks redden. “Mrs. Tom Brissenden. From Marshals Farm.”
“Yes, I know that much—Tom’s new wife. I guessed who you were, but I didn’t know your name. Congratulations, Mrs. Brissenden.”
“Thank you. I apologize for the encroachment. Now I must be on my way. I will be sure not to come here again.”
Kezia turned and knelt to pack away her book, her journal, the spent bottle, and the white linen cloth in which she’d wrapped a sandwich. Hawkes knelt next to her.
“It’s all right, I can do it,” she said.
They stood, facing each other.
“Look, don’t worry—if you want to visit the lake, please, be my guest. You’re not hurting anyone,” said Hawkes. “It gives me pleasure, knowing that someone else enjoys my spot.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hawkes. But I think in future I will find plenty of interesting places within the boundary of Marshals Farm. Now I have to be on my way.”
They shook hands once again, and Kezia set off at as fast a clip as she could manage across the field towards the stile. She turned, once, to look back. Edmund Hawkes had not moved, and was staring in her direction.
Two days later Kezia had all but forgotten the meeting. She was in the kitchen, leaning across the table, wiping it dry following another swabbing. The top was a thick, solid piece of wood akin to the block upon which the butcher would swing his cleaver to chop through flesh and sinew into bone. It was more part of the kitchen than Kezia, or her mother-in-law before her; it had been in its place for generations. Now it had been scrubbed twice this morning, ready for Kezia to knead a lump of pastry dough into topping for a meat pie. The mix was too dry, but she had yet to get the feel of different types of dough in her hands. Meat pie had become her stalwart friend, a dish she could execute without too much ado. Execute might have been an appropriate verb to describe her skill, though her dexterity in the kitchen had improved. She had studied the recipe, and was confident in her ability to prepare the dish for her husband’s tea.
She was using leftover meat taken from a joint of beef, which she cut into cubes, pressing them into the meat grinder as she turned the handle. The grinder was screwed onto the table for this part of the job, and Kezia could never quite turn the nut tight enough on the screw—the grinder wobbled a good deal, so crumbs of meat dropped onto the floor. She fried onion and celery, along with grated carrot—her mother-in-law would never have grated the carrot, but would have instead cut root vegetables into small cubes. She added thyme and savory to the mix, along with the meat, onto which she poured some gravy.
The one ingredient not specified that Kezia added to each meal, and in copious amounts impossible to be weighed on the kitchen scale, was a love for her husband growing beyond affection, beyond the familiarity that led her to accept his proposal. It must be mentioned that there were those—both in the village and farther afield among others familiar with the Marchant family—who wondered if, and therefore, why, Kezia Marchant had married below her station. There was speculation that she might have envisaged spinsterhood looming and rushed into marriage at the first opportunity—though the long engagement would suggest not; indeed, the young couple had been putting money by for their future. Others thought Kezia had “settled” or that the Brissendens were attempting to better themselves. The truth was perhaps more simple. Each recognized the honesty in the other and felt—with an acknowledgement that had no need for spoken confirmation—that their trust was well placed. Their love was thus seeded in the rich soil of mutual understanding.
While kneading, rolling, and lifting the pastry to line the pie dish, Kezia could think only of Tom, imagining him in the distance, a moving speck against the plane tree on the hill, walking down towards the farmhouse and along the road, his jacket thrown over a shoulder and held by a single finger. Tom’s hands were working hands, broadened by shovel and pick, by steadying the harness and driving a saw to coppice a few acres of woodland. Soon the kitchen would be filled with the fragrant heat of pie blended with the aroma of vegetables overcooked. With the meal almost ready, Kezia kept an eye on the window, a vigil for her spouse. When she saw him, off came her pinafore, consigned to the hook on the back of the kitchen door. She pushed back a stray hair and quickly checked her appearance in the mirror on the back wall, to ensure no flour had rubbed off on her face.
“Hello, Tom.” Kezia went straight to him, always, when he entered the house, and this day was no different. She took his jacket and pressed her lips to his. Tom could not help but smile, pulling her into his arms. He had never in his life known his mother to greet his father in such a manner, and wondered if she ever had.
“I smell a meat pie,” said Tom.
“Ah, but a different meat pie today,” replied Kezia, putting on her pinafore once more.
Tom washed his hands at the sink, scrubbed his nails with the brush, and picked up the clean linen towel Kezia had placed on the draining board. His father never washed his hands; never had water, soap, and a linen towel touch his skin between work and a meal.
“What did you do this time?”
“I’ve added a little something to the gravy, and some herbs to the vegetables—but don’t worry, I’
ve massacred the greens for you.”
Tom laughed and sat down, waiting for Kezia to set plates upon the table. The tea had been made and left to brew, so Tom reached for the pot, removed the knitted cozy—a wedding present from one of the villagers—and poured for them both. He had noticed that Kezia was thinner. Not awkwardly so, but in contrast to his own weight. One of the women working in the blackcurrant fields commented upon it, saying, “Ah, love, you’re a married man now. It’s contentment in your belly, that’s what it is.” And he’d blushed, then measured the woman’s picked fruit and moved on to the next row to check the trays.
“You need a bit more food, Kezzie,” said Tom, pointing his fork towards her plate.
“It’s enough for me, Tom. Plenty. What do you think of it?” Kezia waited for his appraisal of the dish before lifting her own cutlery.
He had never heard his mother ask for an opinion upon her cooking. She put food on the table and expected it to be eaten. She would nod when his father patted his belly and said it was a good table she’d set for them, or she might add, “It’s entitled to be, it took me all morning.” But Kezia liked to talk about each dish, what he liked, what he thought would have been better. So Tom became used to this discussion as he ate his dinner, a meal that Kezia’s family would have called luncheon. His tea was their supper. His mother’s supper was a thick cheese sandwich after mopping the floor at ten o’clock at night, whereas Mrs. Marchant’s was likely a cup of cocoa with a slice of toast, and possibly the only meal she prepared herself each day. It was funny, thought Tom—this naming of each meal, and how it changed from here to there, whether the here and there was a division by geography or by the station of the person sitting down to eat. But one thing Tom knew—he liked to recognize the food on his plate.