‘That’s better,’ he says, when I laugh with him. ‘My one good Samaritan deed for the day is done. By the way, on a more serious note, this place is great. You’ll love Nina. Speak of the devil.’
‘Sorry about that,’ she says, returning to the table. ‘Someone from the night-shelter is looking for work experience. That was her support worker.’
Angus gets up. ‘Welcome on board,’ he says, shaking my hand again, his grip strong. ‘Give her the job, Nina. She’s hotandshe laughs at my jokes.’
‘You are unbelievable,’ gasps Nina. ‘Stop cracking on to Holly and go and do something useful.’ She turns round to face him. ‘In fact, what are you even doing—’
‘I crashed here. Was out last night, having fun, you know how it is.’
She looks at him, more like a disappointed mother than a friend.
‘Anyway, lost my keys, so climbed in through the back window, the security here is shit by the way. Right, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘That man,’ she says to me when he’s out of sight. ‘He’s so clever, one of the brightest people I know. We’re old friends, went to uni together. He’s godfather to my eldest boy.’ She stops. Shakes her head. Clearly, he makes her lost for words. Yet I can tell she is fond of him, protective even. I feel like he was the golden child at school who should have passed all his exams with flying colours, the world was his oyster, yet something along the way tripped him up. And that something was most likely himself. Part of me is longing to know what he did that was so bad I’d never want to speak to him again. Or was he being overly dramatic to impress me?
‘He’s complicated,’ Nina continues. ‘You could write a book about Angus and still be none the wiser by the end. Anyway, enough about him. Let’s focus onyou. So, why do you want to volunteer here?’
Because I’m dying of loneliness.
I’m drinking too much.
I’m stuck.
‘I want to help others,’ I say, immediately sensing she’s heard that old chestnut before. ‘But I do feel fortunate,’ I add to the cliché. ‘I have so much to be thankful for, so it’s time I gave something back.’ I cringe inside. I sound so dull and earnest. ‘What you do here, it’s amazing. It’s terrible how much food goes to waste.’
‘It’s shocking,’ she agrees, at last connecting to something I’ve said. ‘If two hundred boxes of cornflakes are stacked together and the bottom two boxes are damaged, they will discard the whole bloody lot because it’s easier to get rid of one big pile in one go. And then there are people starving on the streets, or kids sent off to school with no breakfast and rumbling stomachs. Don’t get me started,’ she says, as if she could talk for England about this subject. ‘So, you live locally?’
‘Round the corner.’ That was another piece of advice. Don’t choose a voluntary job that takes hours to get to. I’d only end up resenting the journey and quit after day one.
Discreetly she looks at my left hand. I still wear my wedding and engagement rings.
‘And you love cooking?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘Especially baking. I have a sweet tooth.’ I decide not to let on I’ve stopped cooking since Jamie died, surviving on takeaways, Pringles and Dairy Milk, washed down with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. ‘Growing up, cooking was my way of entertaining myself,’ I say instead. ‘I was an only child, so I used to spend hours baking, pretending I was on TV– you know,Blue Peter, “this is one I made earlier”.’ Nina smiles. ‘Mum didn’t like cooking, well not for the family anyway. Her idea of lunch was a cheese and pickle sandwich. I mean, I love cheese and pickle sandwiches, just not every day of the school holidays.’ I shrug. ‘So I began to cook.’
‘Amazing. What kind of things?’
‘I bought this French cookery book,’ I recall. ‘It was a very old-fashioned one, you know, black and white with small text and no illustrations. I’m showing my age. Anyway, baking is my real passion. I started making cakes for Mum’s coffee mornings.’ I remember Mum’s friends saying how lucky she was to have a daughter who could cook. ‘Mum and I began to do cake baking competitions, Dad was the judge.’ I look back, remembering those happy days, and how stupidly proud I’d feel when Dad told me how much he loved my coffee and walnut cake, that it was my best yet. ‘This probably sounds stupid,’ I say, thinking of Jamie now, and how I used to love him cooking for me, and equally how much I loved experimenting with new recipes for him, ‘but I find cooking is a way to show love.’
‘It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Foodislove. It’s healing. I actually wanted to call this place “Food First” because I think food, in all its wonderful ways, is often the first step to recovery. Eating together can help us address all the other issues in our lives.’
‘Why Soul Food then, and not Food First?’
‘Good question. In the end, I think it made more sense. Food, as long as it’s decent, is good for the soul. A lot of the people who come here, Holly, this is their first hot meal of the week, because they can actually afford it. We charge a quid for a bowl of soup, and whatever they can afford for a main and pud. And if they have nothing, we never turn them away. The only condition I have is no one gets through the door high on drugs and the faintest whiff of alcohol you’re out. Visitors and volunteers, actually, we’ve got to feel safe. I want this place to feel like home, where people leave happy andnourished. Food is so much more than sticking something into your mouth. Food gives us confidence and friendship. Sorry, I’m getting carried away again,’ she says, but I find her inspiring. It’s no wonder she set up this place. I can see she has ambition and energy; people would have been falling over themselves to give her a grant. In a way I envy her passion. ‘I love seeing everyone here,’ she goes on, ‘sitting at these tables, enjoying a plate of food. Food brings us together. Mind you, I even love cooking for myself.’
I nod, but couldn’t agree less. After Jamie died, the last place I wanted to be was in the kitchen. The table was too big; the space Jamie had once occupied, vast. I began to order takeaways or if I couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone, a bowl of granola would do. When Jamie was out for the evening a bowl of cereal for supper was a treat.
‘I’m so greedy,’ Nina continues. ‘I seriously don’t understand these people who eat a bowl of cereal if their husband’s away, do you?’
‘No.Crazy.’
‘I eat all the things my husband hates when he’s away, like macaroni cheese. Do you have family? Children?’ she asks, trying to slot together the pieces of my life.
I shake my head, somehow always feeling incomplete when asked that question. Like I’m not quite enough. I see Jamie’s reflection in the bathroom mirror, before I turn to him, holding the pregnancy test kit, and he takes me into his arms, telling me not to give up hope.
‘Holly?’ Nina says, waking me up from my thoughts.
‘Sorry.’ I can feel my skin reddening. Please don’t cry. ‘I don’t have children. It wasn’t meant to be.’ I fight back the tears.
