As the grainy twilight gloom gathered outside her kitchen window later that evening, Cathy sat at the table with a cup of tea. It was perhaps her fourth or fifth of the day already – she’d had so many top-ups from an insistent Iris that she really couldn’t be certain. She probably hadn’t needed to make one but it had become a habit: sitting at the kitchen table – unless it was for a meal – meant a mug of good strong tea, possibly a biscuit and, when she’d baked, more than one cake. It explained the extra few pounds of padding that had crept on in the time since her mum had died.
Comfort eating, one less tactful aunt had called it, but Cathy didn’t care. Her aunt couldn’t possibly understand what it was like for Cathy, and Cathy didn’t think she should be judging. She’d take comfort where she could, and if that came in the form of a custard tart then so be it. It wasn’t just down to the food anyway – it was also down to the fact that Cathy had a lot less running around to do these days with nobody to look after but herself. Perhaps that was about to change though.
In the meantime, she could occupy a lot of time gathering together some of the recipes that people had wanted from her and writing them down clearly so they could understand them.
In front of her now sat a brand-new exercise book embossed with pink flamingos and palm trees, ready to be filled. When all the recipes were in there, people could borrow it, pass it around, copy what they wanted from it and, when they were done, bring it back for Cathy to keep until the next time someone might want a recipe from her.
Once she’d collated them all she might even upload them to the internet as a blog. It would take time to set up (something she had more than enough of) but would make them available to the wider community. She could do that, she reasoned, but she was still going to put them all in her exercise book too, because she had a feeling quite a few of the older people who’d asked for them today – like Myrtle and Iris – didn’t go online and would still need paper versions.
And as she came across new recipes she could add to it – she could even get additions from other people at the coffee mornings, new ones she could try out herself. Along with her rather sorry little fairy cakes, Myrtle had brought courgette cake. Cathy had never tasted it before and couldn’t imagine it being nice, but she’d tried it anyway and found it surprisingly good. Maybe she’d get the recipe for that, tinker about with it a little, make it even better and then add it to her collection.
On the first page she wrote: ‘Cathy’s Cake Recipes’. Then she turned to the next clean page and stopped. Should she write a list of contents? An index? While that might make it easy for people to find a specific recipe it would soon get in a muddle when she started to add new things. She decided not to include a contents page, and maybe she’d think about an index later. She resolved to start with the more basic recipes first and then bring in the more complicated ones as the book progressed, so that people could try out the easy ones and work their way through the book as they felt more confident. Not that she was assuming a lack of baking skill on the part of anyone who might read it, but at least it would cater for the likes of Erica, who had freely admitted that baking made her nervous.
She tapped the pen against her chin, thoughtful for a moment, eyes on the darkening skies beyond the kitchen window. The sound of the radiators groaning into life broke the silence and the pipes began to creak and chug as heat started to trickle through them. Cathy looked back at her empty page. Where to start?
Banana loaf, she decided finally. Nice and simple, very hard to get wrong, universally loved and practically a health food, with all that potassium and fibre bursting from it.
Often, Cathy had very strong feelings and memories attached to certain foods and banana loaf was one of those. It made her think back to the days when her mum had still been well enough to look after her rather than the other way around, because it was one of the cakes she often baked for Cathy whenever she was recovering from an illness – like when Cathy had spent her twelfth birthday in bed with flu.
Not exactly the celebrations she’d been looking forward to – a trip to the local burger bar with her friends – but one mischievous microscopic bug had ensured that wasn’t going to happen. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so ill – she’d been utterly floored by it – but even as she lay in bed, she was more afraid of what effect it might have on her mum should she catch it than she was for herself. She’d noticed her mum was frailer these days, that she caught colds more easily and struggled with them for longer than she ought to, and had tried to keep her from getting too close as much as she could. Miriam had tried to nurse Cathy, of course, but Cathy had often not allowed it and had asked her to stay out of her room as much as possible. At first her mum had looked hurt and offended by the request, but then she seemed to understand what Cathy was trying to do and perhaps felt a little relieved by it too.
Thankfully, when Cathy had woken two days after her birthday, she’d felt lighter and brighter and wondered if she was finally over the worst of it. Her mum had shown no signs of infection so far and they could only hope that she’d escaped it.
So, still weak and tired, Cathy had come downstairs with an actual appetite. Small, but she could definitely eat something and that was progress.
‘Oh, you’re up!’
Cathy smiled wanly at her mum’s exclamation of delight. ‘I’m hungry.’
The smile blooming again, Cathy’s mother took a step towards her and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
‘That’s good then… You must be out of the woods.’
‘I don’t know,’ Cathy said, taking a step back.
‘I’m sure it will be fine now. We’ve been careful – I won’t hug you yet – how’s that?’
Cathy nodded. Though she wanted that hug more than anything, she contented herself with what they had for now. She turned towards the kitchen, perfectly capable and willing to get herself a snack, but her mum following anyway.
Cathy turned to her. ‘I can do it.’
‘I know you can; I just want to help.’
‘I’m only having soup – I’ll just open a tin.’
‘I’ll do it for you; you’ve been poorly.’
‘I know but I don’t want you to be poorly too.’
Her mum waved a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll be careful.’
‘Mum, I need you to stay away from me.’
‘And I need to be your mum!’
Cathy paused, about to say something else, but then she closed her mouth. Something in her mum’s expression was so pained, so desperate, as if she knew something bigger than this was coming for both of them, something she hadn’t told Cathy – something she couldn’t bring herself to tell her – that Cathy hadn’t the heart to challenge her again. Her mum had obviously decided that not being able to be a mother was worse than any flu risk, no matter how hard it might hit her.
‘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.