Before Marc could ask any more, he saw Peggy walking towards the van, rugged up and ignoring everyone but Marc as she came closer.
‘Soup or stew?’ he asked. ‘Or can I tempt you with some shepherd’s pie – not sure where the recipe is from but it’s getting good early press.’
‘Oh you think you’re a laugh don’t you, Mr Ferrier?’ Peggy scoffed. ‘Since you said you and Christa were here, I thought I might be able to help out now and then.’
‘Then you should talk to me,’ said Petey. ‘Peter Chandler, fudge stall owner at Shambles Market, widower, also part-time volunteer here.’
Peggy seemed to assess him from top to toe.
‘Peggy Walker, housekeeper, divorced, and shepherd’s pie maker for tonight’s takeaway contribution.’
Marc wished Christa could see this moment but she was busy talking to Zane. He watched her laughing at something Zane was saying and he wished he could be the one making her laugh right now.
Petey was now showing Peggy the shopping bags of items they were giving out, chatting away while Peggy seemed to inspect everything with an eagle eye.
Christa came back to the van then. ‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Fine. What were you and Zane chatting about? He seemed to be making you laugh a lot.’ As soon as he said it, he knew he sounded churlish and stupid and tried to fix the sentence.
‘I should chat to him more – he seems like a nice guy.’
But Christa didn’t seem bothered by his comment. ‘He is – he’s lovely. You should definitely get to know him better.’
Christa came into the van and stood by him, helping to serve as the next wave of people came by for supplies and company.
Finally, the people trickled off as rain began to fall. Petey and Peggy had said their goodbyes to each other and to Christa and Marc.
By the time everything was packed up and put away, and Christa and Marc were in the car, he was exhausted.
‘It’s intense work, isn’t it?’ he said as he started the car. ‘And finishes so late.’
Christa took off her gloves and held her hands against the heater vents on the dashboard. ‘It is but it’s important. I don’t mind it. I’m used to the late nights.’
Marc drove through the streets and then down towards the river where Petey had directed him. He had looked up the pub and the address on his phone during a break and saw the potential that Petey had seen.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Christa, looking around the area as he pulled up outside the pub.
‘Why are we here?’ she asked.
‘Petey told me about this pub, said he had told you to look at it for your dining hall idea.’
Christa shrugged. ‘Yes, I did look at it but I don’t have the money or the experience to run such a big project. It would be irresponsible to think I could.’
‘Why couldn’t you?’ Marc challenged. ‘Anything is possible.’
Christa twisted her body towards him. ‘I looked up how many charities fail. People have great intentions but don’t have the infrastructure to do it successfully.’
‘I could help you,’ said Marc. ‘I can fund it.’
‘It’s not about money.’ She sighed. ‘I know what I am capable of and I have limits. I can feed people and care for them and support them but this sort of work requires a really strong infrastructure with policies and processes. We are dealing with people’s lives and mental and physical health.’
They sat in the car and looked at the pub, the moon high above them, shining a spotlight on the old slate roof.
‘It’s a great building,’ he finally said. She was right of course. If she was to do this it needed to be done right. This was more than just funding some endangered trees, which was the kind of philanthropy he usually engaged in.
‘It is,’ she said quietly.
The need to hold her hand was overwhelming and he didn’t stop himself. He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.
