Cathy's Christmas Kitchen: A heart-warming feel-good romantic comedy

by Tilly Tennant

  ‘Please,’ she continued, ‘let me do this for you. Let me be your mum sometimes.’

  Cathy would never say outright the huge burden of responsibility she felt for her mum, even at the tender age of twelve. Perhaps it was because she could see how weak her mum’s immune system was and she was often so acutely aware of the loss of her father that she didn’t want to risk losing her other parent. But, whatever the reason, that burden was one she often carried. She’d never considered herself a young carer – a phrase a teacher had once used – but she understood very well how it would feel to be one. Sometimes she just wished she could be a normal girl like her friends.

  In the kitchen, the scales and old stoneware mixing bowl were on the table, along with a bag of flour and caster sugar, eggs and a tiny bottle of vanilla essence.

  ‘What are you making?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘I was going to do a banana loaf. I know it didn’t seem like there was any point really because I’d be eating it alone, but it was something to do.’

  Cathy sat at the table. There was no further discussion over who would make the soup – her mum simply went to the cupboard and looked inside. ‘Tomato or chicken? If I’d known you were going to want soup I’d have made fresh.’

  ‘It’s alright, Mum. Even I didn’t know I was going to want soup until I did. Chicken please.’

  ‘It’s funny how these things go when you’re young and fit,’ her mum said. ‘One minute you’re at death’s door, the next you’re craving chips. You want some bread with your soup?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I could eat bread.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll want some later. You might even be in the mood for cake later, eh? Once you’ve had your soup it might kick-start your appetite.’

  ‘Can I stay up and bake with you?’

  ‘Are you feeling up to it?’ Her mum poured the soup into a small saucepan. ‘Don’t you think you ought to take it steady? Perhaps you ought to go back to bed after this.’

  ‘I’m sick of being in bed.’

  ‘You could read – you don’t have to go to sleep.’

  ‘I’d still rather be down here. It’s too early to be in bed.’

  Her mum nodded slowly as she stirred the soup. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  Cathy gave a tired smile as she rested her chin on her hands and leaned on the table, already worn out from being up but determined not to succumb. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  If Cathy closed her eyes now, she could still see her mum so clearly, standing in this very kitchen, stirring soup at the stove, chatting away, happy to see Cathy up and about and clearly appreciative of her company. The light from the window showed up the copper in her brunette curls and as she hummed something from some old musical, her voice was about the prettiest thing Cathy had ever heard.

  When Cathy had finished her soup she’d helped her mum make the cake – though now that she thought about it, it was far more likely that she’d sat and watched as her mum did most of it, simply happy to be up and content to be in the bubble of love that she and her mum shared in their little cottage.

  In fact, as Cathy turned her thoughts back to the task in hand, it was far harder than she’d imagined to recall everything that went into a banana loaf, and in what quantities, than it was to recall the sights of that day, how her mother’s singing had sounded and how the cake had made the air of the kitchen warm and sweet as it baked. Her mum’s banana loaf was one of those things Cathy had done so often she could now make it on autopilot; no conscious thought was required, and she did it almost by muscle memory. Like a typist who instinctively reached for the keys on the board but was completely stumped when asked to say where each one was, Cathy could make a banana loaf in her sleep but she couldn’t tell you how.

  In the end, she decided to trick her brain into thinking she was about to make one and suddenly found her hands travelling the cupboards almost of their own volition, settling on every ingredient she would need until everything was lined up on the kitchen counter. Once she was done, she could see instantly that it was all there – now all she needed to do was get the measurements down. She’d do this by eye – she’d done it for so many years she just knew when it looked right. So she put everything out, but then instead of tipping it into the stoneware bowl to mix she took it to the scales to weigh and jotted down every value. She wrote it precisely for the people who liked order, and then she added cup measurements for people who liked to play a bit faster and looser.

  When she’d done all that she took her notes and turned them into something more coherent, and then she wrote it all down in the book in her best and most careful handwriting, finishing with a flourish of little sketches of bananas and eggs and mixing spoons at the corners of the page. Perhaps the doodles were overdoing it a tad, but it was her book and if she fancied doodling in it then why not? Short of some saucy, Nigella-style soft-focus photos, she didn’t have much else to pretty it up.

  She smiled as she inspected her handiwork and realised that she’d really enjoyed doing it – so much that she’d completely lost herself in the task. Her eyes travelled to the windows again and saw it was now dark. The tea she’d made earlier had gone cold too, almost untouched, and despite the amount of cake she’d eaten that morning, her stomach was starting to sing for its supper. She really had taken longer than she’d imagined she would, and on just one recipe. But she was happy with that one and it hadn’t exactly been a chore. She’d do one more tonight, but first she’d have to make herself a little something to eat.

  Going to the fridge she paused, taking in what was on offer. It was looking a bit empty really – she probably needed to shop tomorrow. But then she saw exactly the thing she fancied and to hell with the calories. She got the pack out and went to the stove.

  A big fat bacon sandwich – that would do nicely.

  Five

  Monday morning always came around quickly, but while some would have rolled over in bed, frowning at the alarm clock as it rang in the arrival of a new working week, Cathy was always happy to be woken by hers. It meant spending the day with Fleur.

  She loved her job on the flower stall. She loved the gossip and banter, the heady mixtures of floral scents that mingled with damp concrete and disinfectant and the aroma of coffee from the nearby café. She loved being busy but not stressed and not having someone’s life depend on her. She loved that she could brighten the day of some lonely old lady by sparing half an hour to talk, or when Fleur congratulated her on how beautifully she’d done an arrangement or a wreath, and she loved it even more when her boss went into paroxysms of pleasure over some cake or fancy Cathy had baked and brought in for them to share with their morning tea.

  It didn’t matter if they were busy or quiet, whether their customers were grateful or awkward, whether it rained on the streets outside or the sun leaked in through the moss-smudged skylights of the huge old stone building that housed the market, Cathy was happiest these days when she was working. For those few hours, she could escape the loneliness of the home where she rattled around on her own night after night, where every corner reminded her of her mum, memories that were still raw for now, and that – even though Cathy looked as if she was coping – would take longer to soften than anyone could really know.

  She’d once told Fleur all this, and Fleur – perhaps rather sensibly – had asked why Cathy didn’t just sell up and move house. If the place she lived in held such sadness for her, why didn’t she just leave it behind and move on? It would be a good idea but for the fact that it was more complicated than that. Because, while the house that Cathy had once shared with her mum held lots of sad memories, it held happy ones too, and Cathy wasn’t sure she was ready to leave those behind just yet, even if sometimes it became hard to look back into her past and see the good times through the fog of the bad ones that she was still trying so hard to dispel.

  Besides, she loved her pretty cottage on the outskirts of town and she was well aware that it would be hard to find anything else that lovel
y and how lucky she was to have inherited it. The rooms might have sometimes felt too small and the beamed ceilings too low, and the tiny sash windows might have had gaps in the frames where the wind whistled through when it was high, and the front door might have been heavy panelled wood that often swelled during the winter, but to Cathy it all felt so familiar and comfortable that she couldn’t imagine living in a big bright modern house, even though she admired them in magazines and on TV.

  Her mum had loved it too, and though she was no longer here, that fact was another reason not to give the place up. And even if it hadn’t been quite as lovely as it was, and even if her mum hadn’t loved it as much, the location and size was just about perfect for Cathy as she lived now, so why would she put herself through the stress of trying to find somewhere else that was probably not going to be as good for her?

  Fleur stood in the tiny floor space of French for Flowers now, munching solemnly on a delicate pistachio macaron from a batch that Cathy had spent the previous evening whipping up in readiness for today. They were on their first cup of tea of the day – which they always had once they’d set up the stall with all the day’s fresh flower deliveries. Fleur always made the first cup of tea because she was always in far earlier than Cathy. Being single (after a particularly messy break-up) with no kids, she always said it didn’t bother her to come in at the crack of dawn because her business was about all she had that really meant anything to her. Sometimes that made Cathy sad to hear, though she knew that Fleur was loved by many friends and that she had a huge family both in England and in Barbados, and she was sure that Fleur – while sometimes discontented – wasn’t lonely or unhappy. From the way she talked about her ex, her boss didn’t seem all that interested in another man either, and from that point of view it was easy to see why she’d devote all her energy to her business.

  As they stood together waiting for the working day to kick in, Cathy was telling Fleur about the recipe book she was planning to put together for the people she’d met at St Cuthbert’s.

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Fleur said. ‘I’ve always thought it a shame that such delicious recipes were only in your head and nobody else could have a go at them.’

  ‘They were in Mum’s head really,’ Cathy said. ‘And a lot of them I never had a chance to get out before she died. Even when she did share them with me, I can’t always remember exactly what she did or how she did it, so I’m having to fill up a lot of gaps as best I can with what I know about baking.’

  ‘Which is a lot.’

  ‘Not as much as some. I’m just an amateur, dabbling on a Sunday for something to do.’

  ‘Isn’t that what most people who bake are doing?’

  ‘I suppose so, when you put it like that.’ Cathy paused, the welcome warmth from the tea seeping through the mug and into her numb fingers. She hadn’t realised how cold it had become in the market building until she’d stopped running around. It was always cooler in winter, but today was bitter, even with the extra heater Fleur had switched on and stashed beneath the counter. ‘It was only really a handful of people who wanted recipes anyway and I bet they were only being polite, even then.’

  Fleur raised a pair of disbelieving eyebrows.

  ‘I know,’ Cathy said, laughing. ‘I’m at it again, talking myself down.’

  ‘And you know what I think about that.’ Fleur was silent for a moment, her gaze trained on the huge double doors that marked the entrance to the old building. ‘You know that printers on the high street?’

  ‘Yes…’ Cathy wondered where this sudden turn was going to take the conversation.

  ‘They’ve got an offer on.’

  ‘Have they?’

  ‘So you could get your little book printed.’

  Cathy took a sip of her tea, unsure how to reply to this. An exercise book full of scribbles was hardly worth anything to anyone, and certainly not worth getting printed.

  ‘What for?’ she asked finally.

  ‘You could sell them on here.’

  Cathy’s mug stopped halfway on the journey to her mouth this time. She frowned at Fleur, whose pensive gaze hadn’t moved from the entrance doors.

  ‘On the stall?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Who’d want them?’

  ‘Lots of people.’

  ‘The people on the cake stall wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘They can go hang. People are allowed to make their own cakes as well as buy from them. I can’t see anyone over there tearing a strip off Mary Berry if she walked in here now, could you?’

  ‘Well, no, but… she’s a celebrity.’

  Fleur turned to her now. ‘Even Mary Berry had to start somewhere. I’m just saying you could make yourself a little extra and I think they’d go down well.’

  ‘And you’d be OK with them being on the stall here?’

  ‘Course I would! If I thought we could get away with it, I’d have you selling the cakes too.’

  ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘I know, but there are no food hygiene issues with selling a little recipe book, are there? You could make a killing if you got them out in time for Christmas. You could even put Christmas recipes in there. I should have thought now’s the perfect time to get started on your Christmas baking. What are we now – about four, five weeks to go? Isn’t that when people usually get started?’

  ‘I’d have to find the money to get them printed first,’ Cathy said thoughtfully.

  She paused, letting herself absorb the idea. But then she shook her head. ‘There’s no time for that – it’s going to take ages to put the book together as it is, and even though I have a lot, I don’t think I’ve got enough to make a proper, decent-sized book – at least, not decent enough that people would want to pay for it. And doesn’t a recipe book have to be all glossy with photographs and wipe-clean pages and stuff? Would the printers on the high street even be able to do that?’

  ‘You could easily take photos of your cakes for them to put in. They could even put photos of you in there.’

  ‘Me?’ Cathy burst out laughing. ‘We’re supposed to be persuading people to bake, not putting them off their pavlovas!’

  ‘I think you’d look lovely in there. Homely, wholesome… a domestic goddess with a secret saucy side… It works for Nigella; she’s made a fortune out of it.’

  ‘Now I know you’ve got something in your tea,’ Cathy replied, still laughing. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate the compliments. It’s a lovely dream, but it’s just that. Pie in the sky… if you’ll excuse the pun. But I might get some copies made for the next coffee morning; just a few pamphlet-sized ones.’

  ‘I still think you’re missing a trick there, but if you’re determined…’

  ‘Thanks, Fleur.’

  Cathy put down her tea for a moment and gave her boss a quick hug.

  Fleur laughed lightly as Cathy drew back again. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘For having such faith in me and saying such nice things.’

  ‘They’re not nice; they’re only the truth.’

  ‘Even so.’ Cathy drained the last of her tea. ‘I’m going to rinse my mug out in the kitchens out back. Want me to take yours?’

  ‘You can do.’ Fleur handed hers over. There was a layer of tea at the bottom, but her boss always left one. Habit, she said, because of all the years her grandma had brewed up using tea leaves – some inevitably found their way to the bottom of the cup, so if Fleur drank down too far, she’d find herself with a mouthful of bitter leaves.

  With the mugs clean, Cathy wandered back to the flower stall. As she approached, she saw that Fleur was talking to a man as she bound a lush bunch of scarlet roses. He had his back to Cathy, but he was tall and broad, well dressed with a head of thick, dark hair. Someone was going to be a lucky woman, Cathy thought as she watched the exchange with a smile. The man handed Fleur a banknote, and as she rang it through the till, he turned slightly to glance around the market, presumably waiting for his change.


  Cathy froze and almost dropped the mugs she was carrying.

  ‘Jonas!’ she breathed.

  Six

  He recognised her almost at the same time as she did him, and the shock on his face was almost as great. But while Cathy looked as if she didn’t know whether to burst into tears or run away, Jonas broke into a more relaxed smile.

  ‘Long time no see,’ he said as Cathy put down the mugs. She glanced briefly at Fleur, but not too quickly to miss a curious and questioning look on Fleur’s face.

  ‘Five years,’ Cathy said.

  ‘God, that long? That’s flown.’

  Not for me, Cathy thought. I’ve felt every day of those five years.

  ‘Hasn’t it just?’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘How are you? I thought you’d moved to Scotland with…?’

  ‘Eleanor.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry, I forgot…’

  As if she could have forgotten his wife. She’d cried when she’d first heard the news that he was to be married, even though she’d resigned herself to their own split. She hadn’t even known why she’d cried, but part of her suspected that it had more to do with the life she felt she was missing out on than because she was still hopelessly in love with him. She’d told herself that enough times too, though having him stand here in front of her now after all this time, she wasn’t so sure it was true. All she knew at this moment was that she was forcibly reminded of how lonely she’d been and how much she’d missed the embrace of a loving partner, even if she hadn’t realised it before.

  ‘We did but… well, I missed home. We came back last week actually. For good. Took a while for us both to get new jobs down here but it was what we both wanted.’