by Kate Forster
She shrugged and smiled a little. ‘I told you I’m not here to be your therapist.’
‘I know, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? We have had similar struggles and yet we’re coping with them so differently.’
She pushed her tea away.
‘The difference is love,’ she said.
‘How so?’
‘Because even though my dad struggled with alcohol, and we ate at refuges and used the food bank, I knew he loved me. I knew he hated himself but he loved me more and that was finally enough to make him stop drinking. But you, it sounds like you had terrible parents who didn’t care for anyone but themselves. You weren’t loved.’
She saw Marc’s eyes fill with tears and she felt terrible for saying what she’d said.
‘Sorry, that’s not my call to say that. I shouldn’t have said it.’
But he shook his head. ‘No, you’re right. They were narcissistic nightmares. They hated having children. We were a burden yet they kept having more. I sometimes wonder why people have kids if they don’t like them.’
‘Why did you have children?’ she asked him.
‘I wanted children and so did my ex-wife. It was exciting to find out we were having twins. But I wasn’t a great parent. I haven’t been but I’m trying to get better. Pudding Hall has been great for me to see them and do more with them. That’s why I didn’t worry about school while they’re here; I just wanted to let them have a proper break. I mean, I know I’m full of shit because I’ve been working so much, but that’s to avoid feeling stuff. I know I need to work on that more.’
Christa gave him a small smile. ‘They boys adore you,’ she said.
‘They also adore you,’ he replied. He waited for a moment and then leaned over the table. ‘Can I come out with you tomorrow night? I’d like to help.’
‘Sure, I think Zane said they’re still a few people down so he would be happy with the extra pair of hands.’ She stifled a yawn.
‘Come on, home to bed. Want a lift? I can get someone to pick up your car tomorrow.’
Christa thought about the drive home in the dark, worrying that a deer might spring out from behind a tree and into the path of her car.
‘That would be great actually,’ she said.
The drive back to Pudding Hall was smooth in the large car and, in the silence, Christa felt her eyes heavy from the work and from crying. She shouldn’t have cried in front of her boss. She told herself off as she watched the shape of the trees flash by her. Soon her eyes closed and she leaned her head back for a moment.
‘Christa, Christa.’ She heard her name whispered and she opened her eyes.
God, she had been asleep in Marc’s car and she was pretty sure there was dribble running from one side of her face down onto her coat.
Seriously? She was a mess.
‘God, sorry,’ she uttered, as she undid her seat belt and wiped her mouth.
Marc held her hand as she stepped out of the car.
‘Not really my best Princess Di moment,’ she said, feeling herself hot with embarrassment.
‘I was never into Princess Di,’ he said. ‘I was more of a Demi Moore fan.’
‘Oh?’ Christa was still holding his hand, wondering why she felt flickers of delicious anticipation inside her stomach.
‘You know in Ghost? The short hair, big eyes, that laugh.’
Christa nodded, trying to think if she did know any of Demi Moore’s traits and could they possibly be traced back to her.
Was she still dreaming? Was she still dribbling in the car?
And then the moment finished. Marc dropped her hand and turned away from her and closed the car door with a thud.
‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I better get to bed. Pancakes in the morning, if you’re up early enough.’
‘I have a phone call at five am so I will be,’ he said as they walked towards the house.
Inside they took off their coats and Marc locked the front door as Christa went upstairs.
‘Goodnight, Marc,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being so understanding and supportive.’
He looked up at her. ‘My hocks are your hocks; now Hammy Christmas to you and to all a good hock.’
Christa stifled laughter. ‘That makes no sense.’
‘I’m tired – throw me a bone,’ he said as he climbed the stairs.
‘I have a ham hock I could throw you tomorrow,’ she said as she walked backwards down the hallway.
Marc walked backwards in the opposite direction.
‘That’s truly hocking,’ he said.
‘I aim to hock and awe,’ she said.
‘You’re a hock star,’ he answered and she giggled loudly.
‘Goodnight, you big ham,’ she said as she got to her door and smiled at him.
‘Goodnight, Christa, the Robin Hood of Hocking Forest.’
She stepped inside her room and closed the door, taking a deep breath. She had no idea what was happening but it was fun and silly and wouldn’t lead anywhere. She’d forgotten how much she loved to flirt and tease and play.
She lay on her bed and looked at the ceiling. Marc was great company when he stopped trying to take over the world and he listened when she spoke about her dream and didn’t dismiss it.
She could imagine Simon explaining all the ways she would mess it up and how it wasn’t viable and people should just get a job and pull themselves up out of the rut and get some control.
This from the man who had never had to want for anything; but Marc, she knew he understood. There was a look on his face when she spoke about being in soup kitchens as a child that she recognised. He’d known what it was like to be hungry once. He knew her dream mattered.
And she hadn’t asked him for money. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him. She didn’t have a plan or any experience in undertaking such a mammoth task. But she could learn and when she knew enough she could do it, one day.
Maybe Pudding Hall wasn’t such a terrible idea after all. She could keep helping at the van and now that Marc wanted to help her, she could prepare even better food and wouldn’t have to hide it.
When she was curled up in bed, about to drift off to sleep, Christa remembered when she had dribbled in the car and groaned.
Seriously. She really wasn’t the sort of woman Marc would like anyway, so why did she think there had been a moment between them? Why on earth would he want to kiss a ham-hock-stealing, quail-poaching, dribbling cook?
Sometimes she really didn’t understand herself at all.
17
In the morning, Christa was prepared for the dressing-down she knew was coming when Peggy arrived for work.
The kitchen was prepared for pancakes and Marc was drinking coffee at the table and reading on his iPad.
‘Morning, Mr Ferrier, Cook,’ said Peggy as she took off her coat and hung it on the hook by the back door.
‘Morning, Peggy,’ said Marc and Christa together.
Peggy was about to leave the kitchen when Christa spoke.
‘You mentioned the quail and the ham hocks,’ she said and she saw Peggy’s chin lift, as though ready for a fight.
‘I forgot to tell you I made soup with them and then I took the leftovers to the St William’s food van.’
She saw Peggy glance at Marc who didn’t look up from his reading and then back to Christa.
‘St William’s you say?’
Christa nodded. ‘Yes, there are many needy people this time of the year.’
Peggy nodded and looked at Marc again who finally lifted his eyes from the iPad. ‘There were many out last night, weren’t there, Christa?’
‘Many. Hard times for good people.’
‘You were there, Mr Ferrier?’ Peggy cleared her throat halfway through speaking, as though her tongue was tied in knots.
He nodded and sipped his coffee. ‘And I’ll be there again tonight,’ he said.
‘Tonight?’
‘Yep.’
Peggy’s mouth opened and shut for a mome
nt.
‘I meant to ask you what your recipe for shepherd’s pie is. It would be a good healthy and filling dinner I can put it into containers, if you don’t mind sharing?’ Christa asked.
Peggy shook her head slowly like a carnival clown and Christa felt like popping a grape into her mouth from the fruit bowl.
‘I will get the cleaners ready and then I will come and walk you through it,’ she said as she walked to the door that led out into the main part of the house. ‘I am pleased you asked me, Chef, very pleased.’
And with that Peggy had melted into a softer version of the iced character she had been minutes earlier. She left the room.
Christa looked at Marc who laughed. ‘You now have to try and make her recipe into something edible. The boys said it was like paste.’
Christa held up her hands. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing. I have worked with some of the most egotistical chefs in Europe. Peggy will be a walk in the park.’
Marc stood up and put his coffee cup in the sink.
‘Well, have a good morning,’ he said.
‘I’ll try,’ she answered and she wondered why she sounded like she was flirting.
Marc walked out of the kitchen and she adjusted the jug of maple syrup on the bench.
‘What’s for lunch?’ she heard him ask and saw his head pop around the corner of the doorframe.
‘Tomato soup and cheese baguettes.’
He nodded and then disappeared as she felt herself smile like a loon, alone in the kitchen.
‘Anything for morning tea?’ he asked, peeking around the doorframe a second time.
‘Let me know if there’s anything you would like. I can make anything you want.’
He was grinning at her. ‘Anything?’
‘Anything.’
He held her look and she raised her eyebrows at him, challenging him.
‘Madeleines,’ he said proudly.
‘Madeleines?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what they are but I heard about them once from somewhere and that’s what I would like for morning tea with coffee. Can I pre-order that, like a soufflé?’
‘You can. See you at eleven.’
He disappeared again and she waited until she was sure he wasn’t coming back and then she wondered if there was a madeleine tray in the house.
She searched through the tins and by some sort of miracle, there were two unused madeleine trays with the price tag still on them.
Oh, this was too much fun, she thought as she peeled off the stickers and washed the trays. If Marc wanted madeleines then he would get madeleines. All of them.
*
Marc sat at the table with Adam and Paul and the boys.
Along the centre of the table were beautiful serving plates of fine china in all shapes and sizes.
‘Are these mine?’ he asked Peggy, who was putting the coffee accoutrements on the table.
‘Yes, Mr Ferrier, you have an expansive range of china for all occasions.’
Marc was nodding and looking about the table. ‘Good to know,’ he said.
Christa came to the table and smiled at him.
‘You requested madeleines but you didn’t state what sort of madeleines you wanted so I took the liberty of making a selection for you.’
Marc could see a glint in her eye as she used a clean wooden spoon to point a plate out.
‘Do you know where madeleines originated?’ she asked the table, doing her best schoolteacher impersonation.
‘No, Miss Christa,’ said Paul in a little boy’s voice. The twins roared at his impression and copied him.
‘Buckle up then, you’re in for an exciting ride.’
She tapped the first plate. ‘These are a classic madeleine, made by a young baker named Madeleine for the Duke of Lorraine. Yes, the same originator of the name of the quiche, which the duke was also a huge fan of. This duke loved his baked goods and he adored madeleines, so he took them to the French court where King Louis XV tried them and also adored them and, making them a part of the royal menu.’
She tapped on a pink scallop-edged china platter. ‘There are madeleines filled with lemon curd, made with lemons from Pudding Hall’s tree. They are delicious with tea.’
She saw the boys’ hands creeping out and she whacked the wooden spoon onto the table, making them jump and then laugh.
‘Madeleines became popular again in France after Marcel Proust wrote about dipping a madeleine in lime blossom tea and having a memory come back to him of being a child at his aunt’s house and doing the same.’
She looked at the boys. ‘Have you ever eaten something and had a memory of another time you ate it and what was happening back then?’
Seth frowned, his face in thought. ‘Yes. I remember when we were eating oat pancakes and they made me gag and Mom and Dad were fighting. Now I can’t eat oat pancakes.’
The table was silent.
‘Okay, that went south,’ muttered Marc but Seth was still thinking.
‘I also think I will always remember the hamburger you made the first night you came here.’
‘Oh? Really?’ she asked, thankful they had moved on to happy food memories. ‘Why is that?’
‘Because Dad ate with us,’ said Seth, smiling happily at Marc.
Marc grimaced in shame and he pulled Seth to him. ‘I will always eat with you, buddy, especially Christa’s hamburgers and chips.’
Ethan put his arm around Marc’s neck. ‘What are the other ones?’ he asked.
Christa pointed to a yellow plate with little bees on it. ‘These are honey and orange. And these—’ she showed them a white plate with pink madeleines on top with icing sugar scattered across the plate ‘—are strawberry and lemonade flavoured. These are my favourite; I have a terrible sweet tooth.’
‘Which one?’ asked Ethan.
‘Pardon?’
‘Which tooth is sweet?’
Christa laughed. ‘All of them.’
Peggy poured tea and Christa made coffees with the machine and soon they were sitting around the table, sharing cakes and chatting.
Perhaps this would be her madeleine memory, she thought, as she watched the way Marc moved the hair out of Seth’s eyes while they were talking. It was a small gesture but so tender that Christa had to look away, moved by the intimacy between parent and child.
Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to love a child the way her father had loved her. Because even when he was unwell, she knew he loved her.
‘It’s nice to have you at the table, Peggy,’ said Marc and Christa knew he meant it.
Peggy preened under his attention. ‘I know I can come off a bit prickly at times but I mean well and I am thankful for you keeping me on here, Mr Ferrier.’
Marc sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re never going to call me Marc, are you?’
Peggy shook her head gravely. ‘There will be a snowstorm in Tahiti before that happens, Mr Ferrier. I am very traditional and I like things the way I like them. I have never addressed any of my employers any other way than simply as it should be.’
After morning tea, Christa set about making the soup for lunch and cutting the bread while Peggy peeled the potatoes for the shepherd’s pie. The two worked in synchronicity, not getting in each other’s way, and Christa was grateful for the company in the kitchen.
There was some robust discussion about putting garlic into the pie until Christa told her Gordon Ramsay always put garlic into his pie, which convinced Peggy.
Not that Christa minded terribly. Peggy was so old-fashioned that Christa knew she thought only men should be chefs, which is why she called Christa a cook instead – apart from her brief concession earlier. It wasn’t a hill Christa was prepared to die on; after all she would be gone soon and Peggy would have the kitchen and the rest of Pudding Hall back to herself again.
Christa’s Madeleine Recipe
Ingredients
2 free-range eggs
100g/3½oz caster sugar
100g/3�
�oz plain flour, plus extra for dusting
1 lemon, juice and zest
¾ tsp baking powder
100g/3½oz butter, melted and cooled slightly, plus extra for greasing
Method
Preheat the oven to 200ºC/400ºF/Gas 6. Brush the madeleine tray with melted butter then dust with flour to coat, tapping out the excess.
Whisk together the eggs and the sugar in a bowl until frothy. Lightly whisk in the remaining ingredients. Leave to stand for 20 minutes before carefully pouring into the prepared madeleine tray.
Bake for 8–10 minutes, or until the mixture has risen a little in the middle and is fully cooked through. Transfer the madeleines to a wire rack and leave for a few minutes to cool slightly. These are best eaten within an hour of cooking.
18
This time Marc was prepared for the cold with a warmer jacket, a wool cap and gloves, and even thermal underwear on under his clothes.
Still, the wind hit him like a slap when he opened the car door for Christa.
‘Thanks,’ she said, moving around to the back of the car as he opened the boot where they had stored the food containers.
Marc picked up the bags with Christa’s shepherd’s pie, inspired by Peggy, the extra madeleines she had made and some healthy chocolate muesli bar slices.
‘All set?’ he asked and Christa nodded, carrying some extra shopping bags of supplies that she had picked up at the supermarket on the way into town: sanitary items, shower items and packaged food that could be eaten without a stove or an oven.
Marc had paid for everything even though Christa had tried to go halves.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ he’d said, taking her purse from her hands and placing it back in her bag.
The van was setting up when they arrived and Zane met Marc with a firm shake of the hand, setting him to work serving stew and soup inside the van.
They worked for a few hours, occasionally chatting between waves of people coming to the van. Sometimes he saw her glance at him and he smiled at her and she seemed embarrassed to be looking but he knew he was doing the same. When she didn’t notice him, he could watch her talking so easily and kindly to everyone she met. Her laughter with some of the people was like a bell and when she rubbed people’s arms, in sympathy or empathy, he saw in her face her compassion was true.