The Frugal Kitchen
A Maggie B. Casefile
It began, as some mistakes do, with a casserole guilt trip and a cookbook no one really wanted.
The Women’s Institute’s annual Bring & Buy was a solemn affair, thinly disguised with bunting.
Audrey Crenshaw was holding court by the cake table, hailing attendance figures as a testament to moral fiber and good sponge.
Maggie had no intention of staying long. She’d brought a jar of rhubarb chutney no one would touch and a fiver she intended to exchange for escape.
Audrey materialized near the raffle, clipboard first.
“We expect everyone to contribute and support, Magda,” she said, stressing Maggie’s full name the way one might address a dog about to soil a carpet.
Maggie offered her smallest smile. “I’m supporting. With coins, not casseroles.”
“Very droll.”
In the corner, half-buried beneath hand-knitted mug cozies and a forlorn jar of expired Bovril, sat a spiral-bound cookbook: The Frugal Kitchen: Wartime Bakes and Make-Do Meals. Maggie picked it up on instinct, immediately regretted it, and then—under Audrey’s hawk-like gaze—bought it out of sheer spite. It cost her £1.25 and a sliver of dignity.
Baking’s never been the issue, she thought. The fortitude’s the problem.
She didn’t look at it again until three nights later.
The dog had finally gone to sleep. The radio was droning something pastoral in D minor. Maggie, inexplicably peckish, reached for the book. Inside, nestled between pages 86 and 87 (Mock Victoria Sponge and Beetroot Fudge), she found it: a brittle newspaper clipping, yellowed at the edges, grease-stained down one side.
A protest line. Dozens of women—fists raised, mouths open mid-chant.
Front and centre: a younger Netta Flinn.
The hair was shorter, streaked with grey. The stance unmistakable. The placard she held read:
WE ARE THE DAUGHTERS OF THE WITCHES YOU COULDN’T BURN.
Maggie didn’t gasp. But she sat very still.
She checked the inside cover. A faint pencil mark: “Flinn, N.”
Netta had donated the book.
She let the page fall closed—but not out of reach.
The next time she saw Netta, it was at the WI meeting. Audrey was launching into a tirade about the spiritual hazards of yoga pants. Netta, perfectly silent, folded napkins with the kind of precision usually reserved for military inspections or personal reckonings.
Maggie said nothing. But she watched.
Noticed the mismatched earrings—one a small brass fist.
Noticed the way Netta hummed softly during God Save the King but didn’t quite sing.
After the meeting, Maggie brought the cookbook over. Its corners now curled. Page 112 dog-eared and annotated in blunt pencil: “needs more treacle.”
She handed it to Netta. “Your ginger loaf’s rubbish.”
Netta didn’t blink. “Always needed a stronger backbone.”
They didn’t mention the photo. Or the protest. Or the decades between then and now.
But as Maggie turned to go, Netta said, very quietly:
“You don’t stop believing in things. You just learn where to place them.”
That evening, Maggie opened the grey notebook.
Case #15: The Frugal Kitchen
Observation: Some stories are lost by accident. Others are placed just right—meant to be found.
Outcome: Not forgotten. Not returned. Just read.
Additional note: There’s more heat in what gets folded into a page than what’s served on a plate.
She tapped the page once. Then closed the book.
Outside, the wind stirred the ivy.
Inside, the radio murmured an old tune—soft now, but still marching.