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.