Chapter 29
The cover of Barbara Plum’s Family Cookbook is a bit faded now.
It was once a bright orange and avocado green, but its tones have softened with age.
Barbara Plum’s image is front and centre.
She’s in her late thirties with a feathered blonde bob and oversized tortoiseshell glasses.
I like how she’s smiling knowingly at the reader as if she’s about to tell them a secret.
She’s standing in her avocado-green kitchen with copper pots hanging behind her, and she’s holding what looks like a tasty quiche that she’s just made.
Leaning against the counter, I flick through the pages, which have softened at the edges, curling slightly.
The once crisp white paper has mellowed into a warm vanilla.
On each page, there are faint freckles of splattered gravy, coffee, or casserole.
The spine of the book has loosened from years of being laid flat on a flour-dusted surface.
An idea pings into my mind. Mr Ellis sounded unwell, and he doesn’t need to trek outside tomorrow to buy the ingredients for Barbara’s chicken casserole.
I’m going to drop off the book and the handkerchief, but before that, I’ll buy the ingredients.
Tomorrow, when he feels better, he can make the casserole, and he won’t need to go to the shop because everything he needs will be in his fridge.
I’m at the self-serve till in the mini supermarket when I hear a familiar voice.
‘Hello, Nelly.’ I look up to see Oliver.
‘Are you cooking tonight?’ he asks, surveying my shopping.
He looks so handsome. His hair is tousled, his dark eyes are shining, his white shirt is untucked, and the top two buttons are undone, which means I can see the top of his tanned chest. My heartbeat has quickened. I need to suppress these thoughts.
‘I’m going to do a good turn for someone.’
‘Tell me more.’
I explain about Mr Ellis, the cookbook, the lost handkerchief, and my idea.
To my surprise, Oliver points to the book, which is tucked under my arm. ‘Can I help you with this good turn?’
‘You?’
He laughs. ‘Yes, me. Which recipe is it?’
I pass him the book. He flicks through it and finds Barbara’s recipe for her wholesome chicken casserole. ‘This sounds nice. I’ll come with you to drop this off.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
We walk to Mr Ellis’s cottage. Oliver tells me about his day, which involved staring at a blank screen, doomscrolling on social media and lying to his agent about his next book, the plot for which he hasn’t even thought of yet.
Mr Ellis takes a while to come to the door. He opens it, and I can instantly see how unwell he is. His skin is chalky white, his sad blue eyes are encased in two purple circles, and his nose is bright red. He coughs and then sneezes into a handkerchief. Seeing him so poorly makes my chest ache.
‘I found your book,’ I beam.
Mr Ellis’s face lights up as Oliver holds it aloft. The excitement overwhelms him, making him unsteady on his walking stick. Oliver catches him and prevents him from falling. Once he regains his composure, I notice Mr Ellis’s eyes have become watery. ‘This is a wonderful day,’ he gushes.
We follow him inside, and I get him seated in his armchair. I place the book on his lap, and he begins to sob as he flicks through the recipes. The sound of his emotion moves me.
‘Don’t cry, Mr Ellis.’ I dab my eyes with my sleeve.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m crying because I am so happy.
I can make her casserole.’ I let him reach out and touch my arm.
Once the light clears, I see him spending his days sitting in his chair, flicking through Barbara Plum’s cookbook and running his fingers over the faded photos of her recipes.
I make a mental note to add Mr Ellis’s name to my list.
‘We can do one better than that,’ says Oliver, standing by the kitchen door. ‘Mr Ellis, would you allow Nelly and me to make your wife’s favourite casserole?’ He holds up the bag of the ingredients. I stare at him in surprise.
‘We can cook it tonight.’
A huge grin spreads across Mr Ellis’s face. ‘Would you both do that for me?’
‘Yes, we would, Mr Ellis.’
I can’t believe Oliver and I are preparing Mr Ellis’s wife’s favourite casserole recipe.
Oliver has taken charge of the cooking, which I am happy about since he is a great cook.
I’m busy finding Tupperware dishes to store the casserole in.
It’s not a complicated recipe, and Oliver soon has it in the oven. He sets the timer on his phone.
‘I need to pop out, Nelly, but I’ll be back before it needs to come out.’
‘I can sort it if you’re busy.’
He shakes his head. ‘I want to be here when it’s ready.’
I sit with Mr Ellis in his living room when Oliver leaves.
Mr Ellis looks overjoyed to have company.
I make us both a cup of tea, and he talks about Joan.
His mantlepiece is littered with framed photos of them together.
He talks non-stop about her, and I can see his blue twinkling eyes have returned.
As he tells me about her love for cooking, I can see that he’s still holding on to something.
There is a glint in his eyes. It startles me.
The love for her hasn’t left him. I can feel a tiny ball of warmth shoot up my spine.
His love for Joan has embedded itself in his eyes.
Love carries on even after someone has passed away.
Oliver appears a minute before the casserole is due to come out of the oven. He smiles at me as I pass him the oven gloves. ‘I can’t wait to see this.’
The casserole smells and looks delicious.
Mr Ellis hobbles into the kitchen, and the sight of the casserole makes his emotions return. He lets out a loud sob. ‘It’s like my darling Joan has cooked it and gone to see a friend.’
‘Do you want some, Mr Ellis?’
The old man beams. ‘I have been waiting a long time for this. My children would tell me off for eating late at night, but I don’t care. I want to taste it and imagine Joan is still here.’
I take him a small bowl of casserole and cutlery. He takes a few mouthfuls, and I spot a tear trickling down his face. ‘Ah,’ he sighs, ‘I don’t think I have been this happy for a long time.’
We serve it into microwavable Tupperware dishes and give them some time to cool before we slot them into Mr Ellis’s fridge. Oliver writes down how long they should be cooked in the microwave.
By the time we leave Mr Ellis’s cottage, it is late, and Mr Ellis is weary. ‘Thank you, two wonderful people,’ he gushes. ‘You’ve made an old man very happy.’
* * *
Oliver and I are lying in bed, divided by our pillow wall. I don’t know about Oliver, but ever since we left Mr Ellis’s cottage, my body has been flooded with warm tingling sensations. We shared a bowl of casserole while we waited for the food to cool. It was delicious and comforting.
‘That felt so good, Nelly.’ His voice in the darkness makes me smile. ‘He was so happy.’
‘I still can’t believe you suggested cooking the casserole for him.’
‘Mr Ellis was poorly. That cough sounded nasty. I felt sorry for him.’
I turn to face the pillow wall. ‘Mr Ellis has so many casserole portions in his fridge.’
‘It will do him good.’
‘Yes, it will. He can also sit and look through Joan’s favourite recipe book.’
We both go silent for a while. I think back to Mr Ellis talking about Joan and telling me all his favourite memories of her.
‘I needed to cook that meal for Mr Ellis tonight,’ says Oliver. ‘It got me out of my head.’
‘Are you in your head a lot?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He quickly changes the subject. ‘The wall of pillows hasn’t let us down, Nelly.’
‘There’s still time for me to use my rolling pin. All it needs is a stray arm or a wandering leg calf.’
He chuckles before saying, ‘I’ll keep my wandering leg calves to myself.’
‘We made a good team in Mr Ellis’s kitchen earlier.’
‘We did. Let’s hope we can do something similar for Juliet Armstrong and her Spanish love.’
I remember Juliet, her three teenage children and her desire to get back in contact with Miguel, the author of the romance book she was trying to track down. I wished I had touched her when I had the chance. ‘It’s been years. She could be wasting her time.’
‘Nelly, you and I need to start giving love a chance,’ says Oliver.
His words make my body tense. ‘But we know what—’
He interrupts me. ‘We both need to heal, and I believe helping people like Mr Ellis and Juliet will be good for us.’
I think about Juliet and how she’s had no contact with Miguel for twenty-five years. ‘Oliver, it’s been years since she saw Miguel.’
He pauses and then says, ‘Love has a way of lingering. Years pass; lives change but our hearts still remember.’
I think of Mr Ellis and how the love for his wife has lingered. It’s still in his eyes and between the pages of Barbara Plum’s recipe book. ‘You might have a point.’
‘Are you going to see your aunt tomorrow?’
‘Yes, she has chemo.’
‘What’s her name?’
I smile into the darkness. He wants to know my aunt’s name.
‘She’s always been Aunt Polly to me.’
I can feel Oliver turning over. I think he might be facing the pillow wall. ‘Does Aunt Polly live on her own?’
‘Yes, she does – in Tide-Leigh which is on the coast. Years ago, she lived with her girlfriend, Sandra, but they split up.’
‘Oh, I see. Did you like Sandra?’
‘She had hair like Rapunzel. That was the only good thing about her. She was seeing the woman across the street behind my aunt’s back.’
‘I don’t like Sandra now either,’ he says, making me smile. ‘Tell me about Aunt Polly.’
‘She’s Dad’s sister and became my legal guardian when I was nine. I barely knew her before the crash.’
‘Wow – so she raised you?’
‘Yes. She’s sweet, lovely, and funny.’
I can hear him turning over his pillow. ‘Is there anyone special in Aunt Polly’s life?’
‘Not romantically.’ I think about Hilary and the letter tucked inside the photo album. ‘My aunt had a best friend called Hilary who was terrific. She and my aunt fell out ten years ago and they haven’t spoken since.’
‘That’s sad. Do you know why they fell out?’
‘No idea. I wish I knew because I know Hilary would want to know Aunt Polly’s having chemo. My aunt used to call Hilary her fourth emergency service.’
I hear him chuckle. ‘I need a Hilary in my life.’
Happy memories of my aunt and Hilary deluge my mind.
‘The two of them were always going on holiday and having wild times. They were the best of friends, and no problem was ever too big for Hilary to solve. My aunt would call Hilary and six minutes later we would hear a screech of tyres, a car door slam and the sound of Hilary’s heels coming up the garden path.
Hilary was like our version of the cavalry. ’
‘Hilary sounds like a legend. Have you ever thought about tracking her down?’
‘I think my aunt would be cross. Every time I mention Hilary, she looks like she’s angry with me. What I don’t understand is why she’s decorated her hallway with photos of them when they were younger.’
I explain about how I found a photo album, and behind one of the photos was an envelope containing a letter from Hilary.
He gasps. ‘Oh. Did you look inside?’
‘No, I felt like I was invading Aunt Polly’s privacy.’
He pauses before saying, ‘I would have looked inside. In that envelope could be a clue as to why they fell out.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes. They could have fallen out over something insignificant and now be too stubborn to apologise. I already feel strongly about Aunt Polly, and she needs all the support she can get right now.’
‘You might have a point.’
‘If I had someone as special as Aunt Polly in my life, I would move mountains for them.’
I lie awake for ages thinking about Aunt Polly, Hilary, and what he said earlier about healing. The word ‘healing’ makes me think of Margo’s book.
Once again, I hear him talking in his sleep. This time, he’s murmuring something about big red trucks. I lie awake for a few moments and wonder whether he is a fan of them. He’s never mentioned this. I make a mental note to ask him.