I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘Oliver will be moving in by himself. I am out for the day.’
Tomorrow is Aunt Polly’s first chemo session. I told Oliver he could move in alone and get accustomed to the flat. He agreed and asked if he could prepare a meal for both of us when I get home. ‘A moving-in celebratory meal,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. I tried to put him off by saying I wouldn’t be in the mood for celebrations when I get home, but he was annoyingly persistent. He doesn’t know about Aunt Polly, and I don’t plan on telling him. There are many things that I don’t want Oliver to know, and this is one of them.
Miranda gasps. ‘You’re not going to help him settle in?’
‘Oliver is a grown man, Miranda,’ I snap. ‘I am sure he can move a few boxes from his car and carry them up to my flat. If you’re so concerned about Oliver’s welfare, why don’t you let him live with you?’
She lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Frank’s mother is moving in with us for a while. She hasn’t been the same since her hip operation.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
With a shake of her head, she sighs. ‘His mother is a difficult and bitter woman. Nothing positive has come out of her mouth for decades.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be grateful that you’re looking after her.’
Miranda scoffs. ‘Pigs might fly.’
We are distracted by a customer: an elderly man with tufty white hair and twinkling pale-blue eyes. Miranda leaves me to deal with him while she sorts out paperwork in the back room.
‘Can I help you?’ I beam at the old man.
‘Hello,’ he says in a gravelly voice. ‘I am trying to track down a book.’
He hands me a crumpled piece of paper. In scrawly handwriting, it says,Barbara Plum’s Family Cookbook.
‘I’ve never heard of Barbara Plum. Let me have a look.’ I gesture for him to follow me to the till. Once there, I type the title into the laptop.
‘It was the only cookbook she ever used.’
‘She?’
‘My wife, Joan,’ he replies and takes a breath. ‘Joan died a few years ago. I miss her terribly.’
His words make me look up.
‘I’ve been trying to cook the meals Joan made. Her shepherd’s pie was delicious, and we raised our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren on her chicken casserole. Everything Joan cooked was from Barbara Plum’s cookbook.’ He chuckles. ‘It used to be dog-eared, covered in pencil notes and gravy stains. After she passed away, when I moved house, it went missing.’
He blinks and takes out a white handkerchief with a cluster of pink embroidered flowers on one corner and the stitched initials J.C.E. ‘This was her favourite handkerchief,’ he explains. ‘I always carry it with me.’ He dabs his watery eyes. ‘If I can get hold of Barbara’s book, I can make her chicken casserole and…’ He pauses and stares down at the handkerchief. ‘For a few moments, I can believe that it was Joan who made it and she’s just popped out to the shops.’
My throat tightens. I remind myself that this is what love does to perfectly sane people. It makes them do strange things, such as chasing chicken casserole recipes and pretending it will bring back their loved ones.
He sniffs. ‘My family are scattered over the world nowadays. If I wanted to see them, I would have to fly. There’s no one near me any more, so I think about Joan and Barbara’s cookbook a lot.’
I return to the laptop, still carrying Henry’s book. The old man follows. Once at the counter, I slide the book on the shelf underneath the till. I tap in ‘Barbara Plum’s cookery book’ into the database.
‘I am afraid it has been out of print for years.’
The old man’s smile wobbles. ‘Well, I tried. It’s just an old cookbook.’ He blinks and holds my gaze.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can I give you my details in case you come across Barbara’s book?’
I nod, and he gives me his name, phone number and address.
As he hobbles towards the door, Miranda appears at the till counter. ‘Was that Mr Ellis?’
‘Yes, why?’
