12
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of cooking, plating up, washing pots and wiping my brow in the suffocating heat of an overcrowded kitchen. Three more volunteers turned up, and over fifty of Brooksby’s needier residents braved the snow. The team dashed about clearing plates, pouring drinks, wiping tables and being bossed about by me.
By three, we had served the last tea and coffee, and the pace began to ease off. Dylan had prepared a quiz, and a few of the other guests set up a card game in one corner. The dozen or so children piled into one of the Sunday School rooms to watch a film with an enormous bowl of popcorn and a heap of cushions. We pulled crackers and set off party poppers, and once it was dark, Dylan opened the doors and everybody who could walk unaided spilled out into the car park for a mass snowball fight. I tried to stay out of sight in the kitchen, hiding behind the mountain of dirty dishes, but once someone opened the fire door, a missile whizzing in and splattering muddy snow all over the fridge, I knew it would mean a lot less work if I went to the fight instead of letting the fight come to me.
After an hour of soaking wet, pink-cheeked warfare, culminating in a last stand between a family of six brothers barricaded in behind a snow-wall and a full-on charge from a group of retired veterans, we trooped back inside for more hot drinks and the last of the cakes.
It was after six before the guests began to leave, fresh flurries of snow spinning down through the orange streetlight. A couple of volunteers stayed to help Dylan and me with the remainder of the clearing up. Eventually, I declared us finished, collapsing on a chair in the side hall, pulling off my sopping-wet boots and socks.
Dylan came out of the kitchen a couple of minutes later. ‘Right, who’s staying for supper? I guessed none of us would have much time to eat earlier.’
He was right. I had been too full of adrenaline to manage more than a couple of mouthfuls of pie. The pitiful contents of my fridge back home seemed deeply uninviting.
‘As long as it’s not turkey pie. Ever again.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve put a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven.’
‘Frozen pizza?’ I screwed up my face. ‘Maybe I could manage a piece of pie…’
‘They’re posh ones! Upperton standard.’
I hesitated, but not because of the pizza.
‘Come on, Faith. Are you a food snob?’
‘Yep. Three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year, absolutely. Today, however, if someone else cooks, I’ll make an exception.’
‘Great. You round up the others and I’ll set the table.’
‘Actually, everybody else left. They were worried about the snowdrifts.’
Did I imagine that charged moment of silence?
‘Ah.’ Dylan looked uncomfortable. No, Faith. You didn’t imagine it. But it wasn’t for the reason you thought. Minister,dining alone with an engaged woman while her fiancé’s out of the country? Slightly pushing the boundaries there, methinks.
‘It’s okay,’ I said, hastily gathering my socks and shoes together. ‘I’ll go. You probably can’t wait to get home, anyway.’
He ran one hand through his hair, looking back at the door before making a decision. ‘No. It’s fine. We’re friends, right? We both know there’s nothing going on. And they are massive pizzas. Even a Yorkshireman couldn’t eat all that by himself.’
‘If you’re sure?’
He grinned. ‘Come on. I spend far too many evenings eating alone.’
We poured ourselves a drink, leaning against the kitchen counter while the pizzas cooked.
‘So, how do you define a posh frozen pizza?’ I asked.
‘One’s got spinach on it.’
‘Woah! Classy.’
‘And buffalo mozzarella.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘Maybe even some of those sun-dried tomatoes.’ He grinned.
‘It’ll be like being back in my old Michelin restaurant.’
