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

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Cathy's Christmas Kitchen: A heart-warming feel-good romantic comedy Page 7

by Tilly Tennant


  ‘We are chatterboxes,’ Dora said. ‘Well, you are anyway. The rest of us would like the opportunity to be chatterboxes but we can’t get a word in when you’re talking.’

  ‘You were the one going on about that Marcel fellow!’ Iris squeaked.

  ‘Only because you mentioned artists.’

  ‘It was Cathy who mentioned artists.’

  Cathy looked vaguely alarmed at being dragged back into this as she popped her handbag on a seat next to Erica’s. She was about to respond when Erica laid a hand on her arm and winked.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Easier to let it go.’

  Cathy relaxed. She was beginning to realise that this coffee morning had the potential to turn into the Mad Hatter’s tea party, and while she wasn’t sure how she felt about that, at least it would be entertaining. As long as she didn’t become Alice, dragged into an utterly bewildering exchange that she had no chance of understanding. At least she had Erica there. The more time she spent with her, the more she liked her, and she was beginning to hope that this might be the start of a very good friendship.

  She glanced up to see that Colin had brought the drinks trolley over to the seating area, while Iris and Dora were busy unwrapping and uncovering the treats people had brought in.

  ‘Help yourselves, folks!’ Colin said cheerily, and nobody needed telling twice as they fell on the offerings. Along with cakes from Cathy, Erica and Dora, there was a huge selection pack of biscuits that Myrtle had brought in – fancy ones from Waitrose, she’d said, because she hadn’t had time to bake and felt a bit guilty about it.

  Once everyone was settled, conversation turned to various subjects as diverse as the never-ending roadworks outside the town hall to how much Baxter Pippington’s new moustache suited him (whoever Baxter Pippington was). And then, inevitably, it turned to cake appreciation. So much fuss was made over Cathy’s cakes, once again, that it was becoming almost embarrassing for her.

  ‘Anyone could do it,’ she protested, her face burning. ‘I mean, Erica’s have turned out lovely. It’s all down to following the recipe really.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest,’ Erica said. ‘Mine might be alright but they’re not a patch on yours.’

  ‘That’s only down to practice,’ Cathy insisted. ‘The more you do it, the better you’ll be.’

  ‘But it’s instinctive with you – anyone can see that.’ Erica looked around the room and a few people nodded agreement.

  ‘Well,’ Cathy said, her face growing even hotter. ‘That’s from practice too. After a while you can see straight away what looks and even smells right. But the basic principle of following a recipe is the same point we all start at.’

  ‘Really?’ Erica looked sceptical. ‘But you bake without a recipe. You told us that you do it all from memory and I doubt any of us could do that.’

  ‘Only because I’ve done it so often.’

  ‘You know what,’ Dora put in as she chewed on a brownie (with hazelnuts, because as far as she was concerned all this nut allergy business was a fad and nobody had nut allergies in her day), looking slightly like a contented cow with a cud, ‘you should give lessons.’

  Cathy looked blankly at her. ‘Lessons?’

  ‘You could use our kitchen here… couldn’t she, Iris?’

  It was Iris’s turn to look blank. ‘Our kitchen? Here? At St Cuthbert’s?’

  Dora took another bite of her brownie. ‘I’m sure Reverend Lovely Locks would say yes if you asked him nicely,’ she said, not worried at all by the fact that her mouth was rather full of chocolate as she spoke.

  ‘He’s got a lot on already,’ Iris said stiffly. ‘I couldn’t ask him to use the kitchen just because a few people want to make better cakes.’

  Dora shrugged carelessly. ‘Make it some kind of community thing for the needy and he would.’

  ‘But that would be lying to him!’

  Dora rolled her eyes. ‘Not if it was some kind of community thing for the needy.’

  ‘Yes, but what needy person needs cookery lessons?’ Iris asked, looking confused. ‘Surely they have more pressing needs than that?’

  ‘You know,’ Colin said thoughtfully, ‘that’s not actually a bad idea, Dora. You could charge a pound or two a head, get people to bring their own ingredients in, and the admission money could go to the church fund. Or, if you wanted to make it more community-spirited, you could make it free for people in need of a little extra support – lonely pensioners, people with nobody to fall back on or who have particular emotional needs… that sort of thing. The more vulnerable members of society that could do with the monotony of their week breaking up – let’s face it, there are plenty of them.’

  Cathy suspected that quite a few of them might be in the room now and, judging by his meaningful look at Iris, Colin knew for sure they were.

  Iris said nothing for a moment. She sipped at her tea and a strange silence fell over the room. But then she looked up. ‘I think the vicar might go for that.’

  ‘I think so too,’ Colin said.

  ‘I think he’d love it,’ Dora agreed, and Myrtle made an enthusiastic noise through her mouthful of jammy dodger to show her support too.

  Cathy looked at Erica, Dora, Iris and Colin in turn. Then she looked at everyone else, slightly gobsmacked that nobody had yet pointed out what a stupid idea it was and how obvious it was to anyone that she would be rubbish at leading any sort of class. And at what point was anyone going to ask her if she even wanted to teach cookery classes – whether the students were needy or not?

  Almost as if she’d read her mind, Erica turned to Cathy. ‘What do you think? Would you fancy it?’

  Cathy’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t know. It would depend on so much.’

  ‘It’s all hypothetical, of course,’ Iris said. ‘Very much up in the air and the vicar may well say no. It may prove to be quite impractical too, even if he says yes, but is the idea of it something that appeals to you?’

  Cathy formed the word: no.

  But she stopped herself from saying it. Apart from working a couple of days with Fleur she was quite bored day to day and she couldn’t rely on social events like this to fill the gap, or expect that new friends would always be available to meet up. The way she’d reacted to meeting Jonas again was currently playing a part in her thought processes too. Seeing him and the way his life had moved on had thrown her – not only in the way it had shocked her but in that it had called into question everything about her life as it currently was, whether there was any point to it and certainly whether there was any point to her. But today… being here today with this lovely bunch of people she felt more hopeful, more optimistic. Perhaps she could try again to turn things around and, with the support of the St Cuthbert’s coffee gang (which was what she was going to call them from now on), she could do that.

  Feeling useful to someone in some capacity would certainly go some way to doing that, surely? Maybe something like this could be the answer, the thing she’d been searching for all along. And she did love baking so much that it couldn’t be that much of a hardship to share her passion with others, could it? Would it be so bad to give it a try?

  Anyway, she reasoned, these thoughts flying through her head faster than she could keep up with, the vicar was probably going to say no anyway.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be any good at teaching people,’ she said.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to make it that formal,’ Colin replied. ‘You would only have to supply the recipe, maybe do a quick demonstration… Everyone will simply get on with it. You’d go round giving help and guidance when they need it. It would really be a social thing more than anything else.’

  ‘And there are plenty of people who would benefit from knowing how to cook from scratch,’ Dora said. ‘Too many eating things from packets and tins these days – good home cooking is a fast-disappearing skill.’

  Cathy wasn’t sure that was completely true – the number of cookery programmes on TV would
argue against that – but she did see where Dora was coming from. If someone had grown up in a house where nobody cooked or they’d never been shown how to do anything, they’d have grown up with a relationship with food that was sadly lacking in real love or appreciation.

  With every second that passed she was warming to the idea.

  ‘I suppose it might be alright. I might learn a thing or two as well – I don’t imagine everyone who’d come wouldn’t be able to cook at all.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Dora said. ‘They might just fancy a meet-up with other people who like cooking, or they might just want to get better, but even the worst cooks can have the odd trick or two up their sleeve…’

  Dora’s glance rested on Myrtle for a moment. Luckily, she was preoccupied trying to wrestle the last custard cream from the bottom of the Waitrose selection pack and hadn’t noticed Dora looking at her. Cathy had to admit that she sort of saw what Dora was trying to say, though Myrtle seemed like a rather unkind example – after all, her courgette cake had been pretty good, even if Cathy had had to tinker with the recipe a bit as she’d gone along.

  ‘I’ll talk to the vicar,’ Iris said.

  ‘I thought you might,’ Dora said.

  Iris looked sharply at her, but if Dora had meant any sarcasm, her expression of absolute innocence was giving nothing away.

  ‘I can’t promise anything though,’ Iris added.

  ‘I think it’s brilliant,’ Erica said warmly. ‘I think he’ll say yes – he’s got to. I’ll come; I’d love to learn how to make more cakes.’

  ‘Me too,’ Myrtle said.

  ‘Count me in,’ Colin added with a broad smile. ‘I’m one of your folks who’ve spent their lives eating from packets and tins, Dora. I’ve never so much as held a spatula but I’m willing to learn.’

  Cathy blew out a breath as she surveyed the faces around her. She’d been expecting many things from her visit this morning, maybe even hoped for one or two, but this certainly hadn’t been one of them. Surprise plans and spontaneous decisions weren’t things that had featured highly in her life over the last few years, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about them. It’s alright, she told herself, the vicar will probably say no.

  But what if he said yes?

  Nine

  ‘And…?’

  ‘He said yes – we can go ahead and do the class.’

  ‘I can see you’re excited too.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Yes, you’re glowing!’

  Fleur smiled fondly at Cathy, who put a self-conscious hand to her face. It didn’t feel hot.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you look so happy since… Well, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you look so happy.’

  ‘I’ve been happy,’ Cathy said, a slight defensive note creeping into her tone. ‘I’m not that miserable, am I?’

  ‘You smile, but that’s not the same.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  Fleur folded her arms and leaned against the counter, regarding Cathy for the longest moment. Then she shook her head slowly. ‘We can all smile and pretend there’s no pain going on behind it, and some of the time we can even fool everyone else into believing that too. But I can see it. From what you’ve told me you haven’t had an easy few years, love, so don’t feel bad for me pointing it out; nobody would blame you for faking that smile with what you’ve been through. Hell, I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t even try to smile. But today… today it’s real enough. Whatever happens at your new class I think it’s good news that it’s got the go-ahead. It’ll be good for you, regardless of whether it’s good for anyone else.’

  ‘I suppose it will,’ Cathy said thoughtfully. She hadn’t really considered it that way until Fleur had said it, but now it seemed so obvious that this class was probably going to do more to help Cathy than it was anyone else. She couldn’t deny that she was excited too. Since the phone call from Iris her head had been buzzing with ideas for her first session – wondering who would come, what they’d be like, what they might need and want from her, how she could make certain everyone was included, what they could make that would keep the more skilled cooks challenged but not be too difficult for the less skilled ones, and what wouldn’t put off complete beginners.

  ‘Do you have any idea of numbers yet?’ Fleur wound a scarlet ribbon around the stems of a bunch of snow-white roses before pinning it in place so that it didn’t slip down when they were handled. They were part of an order for a winter wedding, and Cathy half wished she’d been invited to it because, if the choice of flowers was anything to go by, the wedding itself was going to be stunning. Fleur put the bouquet to one side and began work on another, smaller version where the white roses were broken up with carnations – presumably for one of the bridesmaids. She worked quickly and confidently, swapping the flowers with such dexterity that Cathy marvelled, distracted into silence as she always was, no matter how many times she’d seen it before. In a few short moments her boss flicked out a hand and Cathy placed another ribbon into it.

  ‘Not really,’ she said, remembering now that Fleur had just asked her a question.

  ‘What will you cook?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that either – I need to think about it. I’ll go through the recipes I’ve already written down to see if there’s something in there.’

  ‘I’m sure it would be easier to use something you’ve already got in your book,’ Fleur agreed. ‘Did you think any more about getting it printed?’

  ‘I haven’t really had time to think about it,’ Cathy said, cutting off another length of ribbon and placing it in Fleur’s waiting hand. ‘There’s just been too much going on.’

  ‘That sounds like an excuse if ever I heard one. Are you sure it’s not just you being overly modest as usual? Now would seem like the ideal time to me.’ Fleur took a pin from her mouth to fasten the stems of the posy she was currently constructing. ‘You could take copies to your class so that everyone would have the recipes to hand. And if you’re thinking nobody will want your book I’m sure that’s not the case. If they’re interested enough to sign up for the session then it stands to reason they would want a recipe book to accompany it.’

  ‘Oh,’ Cathy said. ‘I was just going to write it on the whiteboard.’

  ‘But then how would anyone make it again when they got home?’

  ‘I thought they might write it down if they wanted to do it again.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to send them an ingredient list before the class so they know what to bring?’

  ‘Well, probably, but that’s only ingredients.’

  Fleur shook her head. ‘Why not send the method out too? You can’t rely on people getting it down right – you only have to play Chinese whispers to see how easily people can mess things up. I’d give them exact copies if I were you.’

  ‘But if they have a whole book of recipes at the first class they might not come back. Or if I send out the method then they might just do it at home anyway.’

  ‘Of course they’d still come. They can get recipes on the internet if they want to stay home; there’s hundreds of them out there. You said yourself it’s about socialising more than it’s about cooking. They’ll come back to see their friends again. They’d come back for you too; people want to be shown how to do things. Why do you think the TV schedules are full of programmes telling us how to make omelettes? Everyone knows omelette is basically a smashed egg, but we still want to be shown how to do it properly.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do. You worry too much.’

  Cathy was about to reply when her attention was caught by a figure walking in through the double doors of the market hall. Her forehead creased into a vague frown, and much as she hated the treachery of a heart that shouldn’t have reacted as she recognised him, it began to beat that little bit faster anyway.

  Fleur, noticing that the conversation had stopped mid-flow, turned to see what Cathy was staring at, and then her forehead cre
ased into a frown too.

  ‘Isn’t that your old boyfriend? The one that bought flowers for his wife last week?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cathy said. And as she continued to watch, she realised with horror that he was coming to French for Flowers again.

  ‘I’ve got this,’ Fleur said in a low voice. ‘Make yourself scarce if you feel the need to.’

  But Cathy didn’t have time to get away, and it would have looked too obvious anyway. She stood, rooted to the spot, unable to stop staring as Jonas walked towards them. He had his hands deep in the pockets of his expensively tailored woollen coat as he stopped at the stall and smiled.

  A vague and fleeting thought crossed Cathy’s mind as she noted it. When they’d been together he’d been working as a delivery driver for a local warehouse, but during the five years they’d been apart much had changed. At least it looked that way, because the clothes he was wearing suggested that he didn’t drive delivery trucks these days.

  Since the day he’d unexpectedly come back into her life she hadn’t been able to help thinking of him, even though she wished she could, and she’d even searched for him on an old Facebook account that she hadn’t logged into for so long she’d had to get a new password for it. Given her aversion to social media, that was significant in itself. But he’d either taken himself off there or else made himself invisible to the public, because she hadn’t been able to find him. And if she had – what would she have done anyway? Tortured herself with photos of him and his lovely wife and his perfect new life without her – the life she might have been gifted had her own fortunes been different?

  In the end she’d decided she was better off not knowing and letting the past lie – it wasn’t like she was going to see him again anyway. So why did he have to go and ruin her one comforting thought by turning up again now? Why couldn’t he just stay away? Did he know what this was doing to her? Did he take some perverse pleasure in making her suffer, because he must have known that his coming here would make her suffer? How could he not know? Was he really that clueless?

 

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