Petey was walking down the street pulling a wheeled shopper of food, and singing to himself when she arrived. She jumped out of the car and watched him. She called him but realised he couldn’t hear her, so she waved and then he stopped, smiled broadly and took two earbuds out of his ears. ‘Was listening to a bit of Burt Bacharach. I love him,’ he said.
‘Earbuds – that’s so modern of you,’ said Christa. She had trouble setting the clock in her car so a seventy-odd-year-old man using Bluetooth technology was impressive.
‘What are you doing here? Come in for a cup of tea?’ he said as she walked with him to his gate. He pushed it open and she followed him and his little cart of supplies inside.
‘I’ve resigned from Pudding Hall,’ she said.
‘What?’ Petey turned to her and frowned.
‘Let’s go inside and I will tell you – it’s freezing out here,’ she instructed.
Once inside Petey turned on the kettle and Christa helped unpack his groceries. He bought many of the same items her dad used to buy.
Yorkshire tea, HP Sauce, cherry Bakewells, white bread, cheddar cheese, some apples, and a few bananas.
‘I will make the tea while you tell me what happened,’ said Petey bustling about the kitchen.
Christa told him the whole sorry story, from her marriage to Simon, to the restaurant, and up to now, over three cups of tea, two cheese sandwiches and a Bakewell tart.
Petey sighed and shook his head when it was finished.
‘You had to leave. You can’t stay there with him, no matter how much you like Marc and the boys.’
Christa nodded. ‘Thank you for saying that. It’s exactly what my dad would have said. I needed to hear it.’
Petey patted her hand. ‘Now, you can stay here until you get sorted. It will be easier for you and I would enjoy the company.’
‘I can’t do that, Petey. You have your life; I have to find mine.’
‘Let me help you for a while,’ he said. ‘You don’t have anyone else here and you’re a friend to me. I hope I’m one to you also.’
Christa grabbed his worn hand. ‘You are a friend. A real friend, Petey.’
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘I can show you to the little guest room. It’s not much but it’s clean and warm.’
She followed him through the small home to the bedroom next to his, which housed a small single bed with a yellow chenille bedspread and daisy wallpaper.
A white bedside table sat next to the bed and a matching wardrobe.
‘The sheets might need changing, been on there for a while, but it’s all yours until you figure out what to do next.’
‘Thank you, Petey,’ she said feeling her throat ache and eyes sting from the tears threatening to fall again.
‘It’s no Pudding Hall but it’s mine,’ he said.
‘This is better than Pudding Hall,’ she said. ‘I’m calling it Petey Hall.’
He chuckled. ‘Petey Hall – I like that,’ he said.
*
That night Christa tossed and turned in the small bed. Not from lack of comfort – it was warm and soft and cosy – but from the vision of her soufflé and its failure to rise like Simon’s. Perhaps she had overthought it, or overwhipped the egg whites. Maybe she was too arrogant and this was the little-known God of Soufflé reminding her she wasn’t as good as she thought she was.
Was there a God of Soufflés, she wondered, staring at the daisy wallpaper.
She thought about the day she had been accepted into Le Cordon Bleu. Marc had asked about it as though he cared; he had thought she was successful. She didn’t know why so many memories had sprung up since she’d been in York. Perhaps she had time to listen to what they had to tell her now.
The day she found out she was accepted into the course, she had woken up and forgot for a few seconds her father was gone. When she’d remembered, she’d cried. She had cried for the previous four months but always in secret, using the shower to weep or the storeroom at work, amongst the flour and grains.
