Cathy took out her usual Tupperware container and peeled back the lid to reveal half a dozen pink iced cakes.
‘Do you ever spend a day not baking?’ Fleur asked as she took one. ‘Not that I’m complaining, just curious.’
‘Of course,’ Cathy said with a laugh. ‘Not often, I’ll admit. I don’t know… I just find it relaxing.’
‘I like your relaxing,’ Fleur said, munching on a mouthful. ‘I find it relaxing to eat the results of your relaxing.’
Cathy laughed again as she stowed her bag and coat in the cubbyhole beneath the counter. ‘How was Friday here? Busy?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘Nothing… I don’t know… eventful happen?’
‘You mean did your fella come in?’ Fleur asked.
Cathy looked suitably sheepish and Fleur grinned. ‘No, he didn’t. Does that make you happy or disappointed?’
‘I suppose it ought to make me relieved.’
‘But it doesn’t?’
‘Oh, it does. But I can’t help but think about what he might want.’
‘Flowers, judging by how many he’s bought recently.’
Cathy gave another light laugh as she reached for her mug of tea. ‘You’re probably right about that – I’m just reading too much into it.’
‘Hey, I’d read too much into it as well, but if he wants to spend his money with me then who am I to complain? As long as it isn’t causing too much upset for you.’
Cathy sipped at her tea before she answered. ‘You know what, a few days ago I might have said it was, but today I feel strangely alright about it.’
‘And what’s happened to change your mind?’
Cathy’s mind went back to her walk that morning, a slow smile creeping across her face. ‘Oh, just something and nothing.’
‘Hmm, and I’m not getting any more than that?’
‘I don’t know that there is any more than that,’ Cathy said. Putting down her mug, she reached for her tabard, dropped it over her head and fastened it in place.
Fleur narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m not buying that for a minute, and as soon as we’re set up here I’m going to get some answers from you.’
Cathy’s laughter was louder still as she replied. ‘You can try, but don’t bank on it.’
Sixteen
Just over an hour earlier, Cathy had finished eating the quick jacket potato she’d done for supper in the microwave and then turned her attention to the Christmas cake mixture she’d left to steep that morning. It had smelled gorgeous as she took the cover from the bowl, but it was even better now it was cooking. She’d leave it to cool once it was done and then store it somewhere until closer to Christmas, keeping it moist with regular drizzles of rum. She might even cut off a little piece today to test it, and if it was as good as she thought it would be, she’d make some more to give as gifts to her new friends.
After clearing down the surfaces and washing up, she turned her attention to the photocopy of Myrtle’s page. The handwriting showed a light touch, a style that seemed so much more formal than the handwriting Cathy saw nowadays. Fleur’s was almost indecipherable, she wrote so fast and loose – though Cathy had got used to her spidery notes by now. Her mum’s had been a bit more like this, but even that was nowhere near as beautiful. But Myrtle’s mother-in-law had probably been educated a long, long time ago, maybe even during the early part of the twentieth century, and schooling had been a lot more formal back then.
It was funny to look at it now and imagine that young woman making these notes for the very first time, having no inkling that her recipe would survive across the years and that now a woman she would never meet was using it. The idea had always been one that fascinated Cathy, that recipes could be like heirlooms, gifts handed down the generations, that such a humble thing could connect people in such a tangible way, whether they were still living or not. It was almost like archaeology – and, in fact, Cathy had once watched a programme about Tudor baking and the way the well-educated presenter had explained how the recipes for these dishes had been unearthed suggested that he thought so too. They were an important link, a social commentary on how people had once lived, and they were worth preserving.
It got Cathy thinking now about her own recipe book, how she was trying to keep her mother’s knowledge alive, and how perhaps she might be able to do the same for other people too. She was hardly in the same league as the scholars who had put together that programme, but she felt as if what she was doing was important in a small way nonetheless.
To that end, she wondered if she ought to ask for more recipes. There were bound to be more people like Myrtle who had old notes passed down, or even people who had invented their own that were so good they ought to be preserved for posterity. They didn’t have to be old to be worth saving – Myrtle’s courgette cake was proof of that.
Cathy made herself a cup of tea, got out her own book and sat at the kitchen table, while the delicious aroma of her Christmas cake wrapped her in its warm, richly spiced embrace. She opened up to the next clean page and began to copy Myrtle’s mother-in-law’s recipe. Every so often she’d take a sip of her tea, but soon she was so preoccupied with her task that she forgot about it until she reached to take some and realised it was cold. Her mother had been a zero-waste type of woman, and Cathy had inherited that trait, so she gulped down the rest with a grimace and put the cup in the sink before returning to her task.
When she was done she made her usual embellishments, drawing some sprigs of holly and a parcel with a bow in the corners. It might be silly, and the vicar’s comments made her wonder whether she ought to redo the book without the sketches, but she liked them – they made it feel personal to her – so she did them anyway. Besides, it was something to do.
‘What do you think, Mum?’ she asked, leaning back in her chair and holding the finished page to the light. ‘I bet you would have loved this recipe.’
She gave a small smile. Her mum would have tried Myrtle’s offering every which way; she’d have baked dozens of them with different variations until she had one she liked and then she would have continued to make that from memory for years. At least, she might have if she hadn’t been so unwell for the last decade of her life. But at least Cathy could have talked about it with her and they would have shared ideas and suggestions on how to make it better and they would have eaten the results together with the telly on in the background and a hot cup of tea. Small pleasures, but Cathy often thought it was strange that it was the smallest things she missed the most.
There was a few days until the next cookery club, but once the Facebook group was up and running and everyone who was likely to sign up had done so, she could ask people if they had recipes like Myrtle’s that they wanted to see preserved for posterity. Well, as much posterity as her little book offered. But it was an opportunity to share them and for others to get enjoyment from cooking them. For anyone not on the Facebook group, she could always ask Iris to put the word out, or else talk to them about it at the next class.
And then she started to think about Fleur’s idea of getting the finished recipe book printed by professionals, and the thought of seeing all those precious heirlooms on glossy pages made her more enthusiastic still.
She looked down again at her copy of Myrtle’s Christmas cake recipe and smiled. She couldn’t wait to see what gems might come her way in the next couple of weeks.
Strike while the iron’s hot, she thought, and went to fetch her phone from the living room to send Erica a text.
Just had a thought – I’d like to collect recipes from other people. Like people at the cookery club. I was thinking of adding them to my book so that they can share with others… if they want to, of course. What do you think? Do you think you can post about it in the new Facebook group?
Putting the phone to one side while she waited for Erica’s reply, she went to fill the kettle for a fresh cup of tea. She’d only just flicked the switch when her phone pinged.
Sounds like a l
ovely idea. Don’t you want to be on the Facebook group yourself? You could explain what you want better than me.
Cathy read the message again. Erica was probably right – she ought to do it herself. She’d withdrawn from social media to escape from the constant reminders that others were having a life denied her, but perhaps there was no need for that now.
Ok; I’ll do that. Thanks for setting it up x
It’s not that I don’t want to help, of course… x
I know that! Honestly you’re right and it’s fine. See you soon x
Goodnight, Cathy, see you soon x
Cathy put her phone down and went to get her old laptop. It was slow and clunky, but it would do for what she needed. Maybe if this took off and she started to use it a lot more, she’d treat herself to a newer one, as long as it wasn’t too expensive.
Once she was in she left a post explaining what she wanted to do and asking if anyone had recipes they wanted to bring in. Almost immediately replies began to appear. Most shocking was the fact that Myrtle was on Facebook – Cathy just hadn’t imagined her embracing technology in that way – and she replied first. She was thrilled that her Christmas cake had been a source of inspiration to Cathy and she said she could contribute lots more of her mother-in-law’s recipes. Beth replied saying she’d ask her mum, and Lindsey said she thought her grandma might have something.
Cathy was pleased to see that people were on board with her idea, but as she read through posts and comments on the relatively new group page, what warmed her heart even more was seeing people’s messages about how much they were loving the cookery club. They’d posted photos too, of family members enjoying the fruits of their labours or new things that they’d baked at home, having been inspired to try some of Cathy’s other dishes. She didn’t think she’d ever feel so valued and appreciated again. She’d often thought one of the greatest gifts her mother had given her was her love of baking because it had brought them so much pleasure as mother and daughter. But now she was beginning to realise that gift could keep on giving, even with her mother gone, through things like the cookery club and her recipe book, and the notion made her happier than she could have ever thought possible.
Seventeen
Cathy had stored the number for St Cuthbert’s office phone in her own contacts list, really just in case there ever came a time when she needed to let someone know last minute that she might not make a session of cookery club, fully expecting never to have to use it. So she was surprised when she was woken the next morning by her phone ringing on the bedside table and the number showing on caller ID. So much for having a rare sleep-in.
‘Hello?’ she answered, her voice still groggy and strange from having just woken.
‘Oh, Cathy… I haven’t woken you, have I?’
‘No, no… of course not. I was about to get up anyway.’ Cathy pushed herself to sit and leaned against the headboard. ‘What’s wrong, Iris?’
‘Well,’ Iris began, her tone becoming suddenly officious, ‘it’s just that we usually have two handheld blenders…’
‘Right…’
‘And because we were doing the cookery club we used petty cash to buy two more…’
‘OK…’
‘But today there are only three in the cupboard.’
‘Oh.’ Cathy frowned. Was Iris insinuating that Cathy had something to do with this? ‘Didn’t you check they were all there when we cleaned up after cookery club?’
‘I thought Dora had done that.’
‘Have you asked Dora?’
‘I phoned her before I phoned you. She wasn’t very helpful, to be honest – a bit rude.’
Cathy glanced at the clock by her bed. It had just gone seven thirty and if Iris had called Dora before she’d called Cathy, then it was no wonder Dora hadn’t been very happy about it. ‘But she hadn’t counted the blenders?’
‘She thought you or I had done it.’
‘And I thought one of you would have done it. Sorry, Iris.’
‘So you don’t know where the missing one might be?’
‘Sorry, but I haven’t a clue.’
‘Oh dear,’ Iris said, sounding stricken. ‘Oh dear…’
‘I could come down to help you look.’
‘Oh, would you? The vicar won’t be happy if he finds out we’ve lost it – petty cash is hard to come by, you know, and we can’t be seen to be frittering it away on things that we’re going to lose.’
‘No, I understand that. Listen, I’ll come to help you find it – I can’t see that it can be far away – maybe it’s just been put in the wrong cupboard or something.’
‘I’ve looked in all the cupboards,’ Iris said.
‘Well, sometimes a fresh pair of eyes makes all the difference,’ Cathy said. ‘And if we don’t find it, I’ll buy another to replace it.’
‘Oh, we couldn’t let you do that.’
‘I wouldn’t mind – after all, it would be sort of my fault it was missing; I should have done an inventory of everything before and after class but I never thought of that.’
‘I didn’t either. I’m at the church hall now; I’ll leave the door open for you.’
‘Oh… right…’
It looked as if Cathy was going to have to get up and get dressed right away, whether she wanted to or not.
Cathy skipped breakfast but she did take a few minutes to put on a little make-up, clip back her hair and spritz it with a glossing spray she’d bought for special occasions (there hadn’t been many and the bottle was quite old now, but the stuff inside was still OK). She also pulled out a more fitted coat she’d usually reserve for less muddy locations before leaving the house for the canal path. It would take a little longer to get to St Cuthbert’s this way but she’d walk fast to make up the time. The skies were dark and threatening but at least it wasn’t windy, and she hoped that if it was going to rain it would hold off long enough to keep her hair looking this way until she got where she was going.
She felt good and happy as she strode along the path, despite having been rudely awakened at an hour not of her choosing, and even though she didn’t know what mood she’d find Iris in when she got to St Cuthbert’s. She couldn’t even say why, but perhaps, if she was completely honest, it had a lot to do with hope – the same hope that had made her decide that she didn’t have time for breakfast that morning, but did have time to do her make-up and hair and search for her best coat.
As she walked she eagerly scanned the path ahead. What would she do if she saw him today? All sorts of conversation starters and ice-breakers ran through her head, all of them a lot cooler than what would inevitably come out if she did run into him. One of her more dubious talents had always been to completely forget what she’d meant to say in situations like this, leaving something far sillier to come out of her mouth. Jonas used to rib her constantly about her first meeting with him. They’d been introduced by a mutual friend (one of the many who’d drifted out of Cathy’s life once looking after her mother had taken over it) in a bar in town and, as Cathy had said hello, dazzled by him and certain that he was far too good-looking to be interested in her, he’d taken her hand in his to shake. She’d looked at his drink on the bar and said, ‘That’s a lovely pint of lager.’
What she’d meant to say was something like ‘I see you’re already settled in here.’ Or ‘Mind if I join you for one of those?’ or even ‘Pleased to meet you.’
He’d laughed and she’d blushed. It had been one of the things he’d liked about her straight away, or so he’d said afterwards, though he’d taken great delight in ribbing her about it every so often just the same.
She’d been lost in those memories for maybe ten minutes when she saw a dog bounding across the field. Her stomach did a flip, but then hurtled down the slope again as she realised that it was a completely different dog. Some way ahead, she saw a young woman with a toddler and then watched as the dog – it looked like a collie from here – raced towards them and gave the child a big lick, sending the l
ittle one into spasms of laughter while the woman complained and tried to wipe the child’s face with her sleeve.
Cute, Cathy thought as she watched, though she couldn’t help but be disappointed that it wasn’t who she’d hoped to see. She and the woman exchanged a brief good morning as Cathy squeezed past and marched on, the dog walking after her for a few metres until it decided she wasn’t worth pursuing after all and went off to sniff at a tree.
Up ahead, the path now forked into two, one that led further along the canal and the other that would take Cathy into town. The second was the one she needed to take, although she looked longingly at the other one for a moment before she veered off. How far along did the man walk when he went out with Guin? And it was strange, she thought, that right now she knew more about his dog than she did him, including his name.
She cast a last look along the route that continued down the canal. He might be further down but was it worth taking the time to hurry down there to check? And if she did, what would she do? A brief hello and a few comments about the weather? Was there any point? Perhaps he hadn’t come out today, or perhaps he’d found somewhere else to walk his dog. Perhaps he hadn’t given her a second thought since their last meeting and all the signals she thought she’d seen were in her head.
Cathy suddenly felt a bit pathetic. All this for a man she knew nothing about. If someone she knew had told her they were doing this she’d have thought them a bit weird, maybe even slightly scary. And yet, inexplicably, here was Cathy herself doing just that and she didn’t know why. She only knew there was something about him that kept drawing her here, that kept her wanting to see more and know more. And she couldn’t have told anyone what that was if they’d asked.
Maybe she’d been on her own too long. One thing was certain: she wasn’t going to see him today and, besides, she had more important things to worry about right now. Iris was waiting, probably ready to write her resignation to the vicar because she couldn’t find the offending blender, and Cathy had promised to go straight up there to help look. Thoughts of handsome, mysterious dog walkers would have to be put away for the time being.
Cathy's Christmas Kitchen: A heart-warming feel-good romantic comedy Page 12