I stand up and smile at Rosie. ‘Are you giving this book to charity?’
She nods. ‘It was his mother’s favourite. Why do you ask?’
Mr Ellis’s face appears in my mind. ‘I know someone who would love this.’
‘Be my guest,’ says Rosie. ‘I hope it gets a new home.’
Sam and his wife leave soon after, and I know he won’t be in here again. ‘Goodbye, Sam,’ I whisper, and to my surprise, there’s no ache inside my chest.
29
The cover ofBarbara Plum’s Family Cookbookis a bit faded now. It was once a bright orange and avocado green, but its tones have softened with age. Barbara Plum’s image is front and centre. She’s in her late thirties with a feathered blonde bob and oversized tortoiseshell glasses. I like how she’s smiling knowingly at the reader as if she’s about to tell them a secret. She’s standing in her avocado-green kitchen with copper pots hanging behind her, and she’s holding what looks like a tasty quiche that she’s just made.
Leaning against the counter, I flick through the pages, which have softened at the edges, curling slightly. The once crisp white paper has mellowed into a warm vanilla. On each page, there are faint freckles of splattered gravy, coffee, or casserole. The spine of the book has loosened from years of being laid flat on a flour-dusted surface.
An idea pings into my mind. Mr Ellis sounded unwell, and he doesn’t need to trek outside tomorrow to buy the ingredients for Barbara’s chicken casserole. I’m going to drop off the book and the handkerchief, but before that, I’ll buy the ingredients. Tomorrow, when he feels better, he can make the casserole, and he won’t need to go to the shop because everything he needs will be in his fridge.
I’m at the self-serve till in the mini supermarket when I hear a familiar voice. ‘Hello, Nelly.’ I look up to see Oliver. ‘Are you cooking tonight?’ he asks, surveying my shopping. He looks so handsome. His hair is tousled, his dark eyes are shining, his white shirt is untucked, and the top two buttons are undone, which means I can see the top of his tanned chest. My heartbeat has quickened. I need to suppress these thoughts.
‘I’m going to do a good turn for someone.’
‘Tell me more.’
I explain about Mr Ellis, the cookbook, the lost handkerchief, and my idea.
To my surprise, Oliver points to the book, which is tucked under my arm. ‘Can I help you with this good turn?’
‘You?’
He laughs. ‘Yes, me. Which recipe is it?’
I pass him the book. He flicks through it and finds Barbara’s recipe for her wholesome chicken casserole. ‘This sounds nice. I’ll come with you to drop this off.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
We walk to Mr Ellis’s cottage. Oliver tells me about his day, which involved staring at a blank screen, doomscrolling on social media and lying to his agent about his next book, the plot for which he hasn’t even thought of yet.
Mr Ellis takes a while to come to the door. He opens it, and I can instantly see how unwell he is. His skin is chalky white, his sad blue eyes are encased in two purple circles, and his nose is bright red. He coughs and then sneezes into a handkerchief. Seeing him so poorly makes my chest ache.
‘I found your book,’ I beam.
Mr Ellis’s face lights up as Oliver holds it aloft. The excitement overwhelms him, making him unsteady on his walking stick. Oliver catches him and prevents him from falling. Once he regains his composure, I notice Mr Ellis’s eyes have become watery. ‘This is a wonderful day,’ he gushes.
We follow him inside, and I get him seated in his armchair. I place the book on his lap, and he begins to sob as he flicks through the recipes. The sound of his emotion moves me.
‘Don’t cry, Mr Ellis.’ I dab my eyes with my sleeve.
He shakes his head. ‘I’m crying because I am so happy. I can make her casserole.’ I let him reach out and touch my arm. Once the light clears, I see him spending his days sitting in his chair, flicking through Barbara Plum’s cookbook and running his fingers over the faded photos of her recipes. I make a mental note to add Mr Ellis’s name to my list.
‘We can do one better than that,’ says Oliver, standing by the kitchen door. ‘Mr Ellis, would you allow Nelly and me to make your wife’s favourite casserole?’ He holds up the bag of the ingredients. I stare at him in surprise.
‘We can cook it tonight.’
A huge grin spreads across Mr Ellis’s face. ‘Would you both do that for me?’
‘Yes, we would, Mr Ellis.’
