14
The next day Christa swung open the garden gate outside Petey’s house with her foot, while carrying some potato and leek soup from Bill’s harvest and some fresh soft white rolls she had made that afternoon.
She knocked at the door of the plain little house and waited.
Zane had given her Petey’s address somewhat reluctantly but she promised she wasn’t up to anything more sinister than trying to give the older man something nourishing to eat while he was ill.
The door opened a little and she saw Petey’s face.
‘Christa,’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Zane said you were sick, so I have some soup and bread and maybe a slice of chocolate cake. If you’re hungry, of course, or you have it later when you’re feeling better.’
Petey opened the door wider. ‘Come in, come in. I could eat an oven door if it were buttered,’ he said, his lilting accent making her smile.
Christa followed him into the warm house and down to the kitchen, which was neat as a pin.
There were signs of a female’s touch in the house, with tea towels and oven mitts matching the yellow gingham curtains on the window above the sink.
‘What a pretty kitchen,’ she said, as she placed the bag of food onto the table.
‘Oh, that’s my Annie’s doing, she was always good at the things to make a house a home,’ he said as she sat down at the table with a sigh. His head still sounded as though it was filled with cold and he had a slight rasp to his voice.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Christa said quietly.
‘She’s been gone a few years now. Cancer, terrible thing. She started making the fudge and did so well. All her recipes are the ones I still use today.’
He shook his head as though trying to remove the memories. ‘Want a brew? I can make a pot.’
‘Only if I make it. Now let me get this soup warmed for you and the bread buttered so the oven door is safe and then we can chat.’
Christa busied herself and soon Petey was eating his soup, giving a running commentary on the taste, the flavour, the viscosity. He raptured over the softness of the rolls and then finished his symphony of compliments with a rondo about the chocolate cake with the strong tea.
‘You must have been a very good cook in London,’ said Petey. ‘Your little place must have been the place for everyone to go.’
Christa smiled. Usually she corrected people when they called her a cook because it was meant as a put-down but Petey’s comment couldn’t be further from that.
‘I did okay,’ she said. ‘I ran it with my ex-husband, although he got most of the glory.’ She scoffed thinking of Simon’s excitement every time he was mentioned in a review.
‘Men always do,’ Petey replied. ‘Even with my Annie’s recipes, and her name on the label, people still think it’s all me. I stopped correcting them because then I have to tell them she died and that just makes me sad.’
Christa nodded.
‘I understand. My dad didn’t like to talk to people about my mum after she died.’
‘So what are you going to do when you’ve finished cooking for the fancy man on the hill?’
Christa was surprised he cared but they had connected when they worked at the food van and at the market the way old souls do. Seeing the same values in one another about food, and compassion and doing what you can with what you have.
She thought for a moment. ‘I think I want to open a place for people to come and eat for nothing. A free restaurant.’ She laughed. ‘Which goes against everything I worked for in London.’
Petey thought for a moment. ‘So they don’t pay nowt?’
‘Nowt, nothing, nada,’ confirmed Christa. ‘But with good food. Nourishing food to help people’s bodies and minds, not just sugary stuff donated, you know? I mean it’s nice of companies and businesses to give it away but there’s nothing in it to help the body. You need to balance it, you know?’
Petey nodded. ‘Like this meal you make. Who wouldn’t be happy after such a feast?’
‘You are too sweet, Petey. Honestly, all these compliments will go to my head.’
