She gestured to the chair next to her. He sat down, unbuttoned his blazer and laid his stick on the floor, then fished in his pocket for a treat for Hercules who came and lay across his shoes.
‘You look very smart,’ Rita said.
He made some sort of an appreciative noise. Rita was of the generation who recognised effort. He liked that.
‘Tea?’ Jules asked.
‘Yes please, dear. And cake, and would you mind putting these flowers in water for me?’ she said, then asked, ‘Are you eating properly, Andrew?’ as Jules left the room.
‘Why does everyone harp on about that?’ he grumbled.
‘Because it’s important and you don’t,’ Rita retorted. ‘I’ve got various single portions of main meals in the freezer if you want to take them.’
He squared his shoulders. This would surprise her.
‘That’s very kind of you, Rita, but I’ve decided this is a good opportunity for me to learn to cook a few things.’
Her eyes widened gratifyingly.
‘Last night I made a rather good job of cooking some lamb chops, if I say so myself.’
‘Well, I never!’ she exclaimed.
‘And I dug up a root of potatoes from the vegetable patch and pulled some carrots.’
‘Goodness me, Andrew. I am impressed.’
He felt himself expand a little with pride.
‘I haven’t quite got the measure of gravy. That was a bit lumpy, but…’
‘Gravy isn’t always easy. When I’m up and about I’ll come over and show you how to do it.’
‘I’ll look forward to that,’ he said, and the thought of it, Rita bustling around his stark kitchen, giving it some life, made him feel lighter. He looked around the room at the stone fireplace filled with houseplants for the summer, the bookshelves crammed in a higgledy-piggledy way with books on just about everything, the gilt-edged mantel mirror with its foxed glass and the oak table in front of the window full of family photographs jostling for their own space in sparkling silver frames.
‘I haven’t been in this room for a while,’ Andrew said. ‘I’d forgotten how charming it is.’
‘I don’t use it very often now. Living in the kitchen seems easier and warmer in the winter.’
For the first time her face fell.
‘Such Christmases we used to have in this room when the children were growing up and when I was a girl. Do you remember the parties, Andrew, the fun, the laughter?’
‘I remember the drink,’ Andrew said with a chuckle. ‘Goodness me, it flowed!’
‘George never wanted anyone to have an empty glass. Some people never made it home the same night. Just used to find a cosy spot around the house and I’d cook porridge for everyone in the morning to sober them up. Couldn’t do that nowadays.’
‘Probably a good thing, too,’ he said.
‘I miss those days,’ she said, ‘the people who have left us.’
She blinked, fingered the newspaper on her lap.
‘And now we’re alone,’ he said softly.
‘Yes.’
She reached out her arm, her fingers thickened from years of physical work, but her nails painted a delicate shade of cyclamen pink to match her lipstick.
