I can’t believe Oliver and I are preparing Mr Ellis’s wife’s favourite casserole recipe. Oliver has taken charge of the cooking, which I am happy about since he is a great cook. I’m busy finding Tupperware dishes to store the casserole in. It’s not a complicated recipe, and Oliver soon has it in the oven. He sets the timer on his phone.
‘I need to pop out, Nelly, but I’ll be back before it needs to come out.’
‘I can sort it if you’re busy.’
He shakes his head. ‘I want to be here when it’s ready.’
I sit with Mr Ellis in his living room when Oliver leaves. Mr Ellis looks overjoyed to have company. I make us both a cup of tea, and he talks about Joan. His mantlepiece is littered with framed photos of them together. He talks non-stop about her, and I can see his blue twinkling eyes have returned. As he tells me about her love for cooking, I can see that he’s still holding on to something. There is a glint in his eyes. It startles me. The love for her hasn’t left him. I can feel a tiny ball of warmth shoot up my spine. His love for Joan has embedded itself in his eyes. Love carries on even after someone has passed away.
Oliver appears a minute before the casserole is due to come out of the oven. He smiles at me as I pass him the oven gloves. ‘I can’t wait to see this.’
The casserole smells and looks delicious.
Mr Ellis hobbles into the kitchen, and the sight of the casserole makes his emotions return. He lets out a loud sob. ‘It’s like my darling Joan has cooked it and gone to see a friend.’
‘Do you want some, Mr Ellis?’
The old man beams. ‘I have been waiting a long time for this. My children would tell me off for eating late at night, but I don’t care. I want to taste it and imagine Joan is still here.’
I take him a small bowl of casserole and cutlery. He takes a few mouthfuls, and I spot a tear trickling down his face. ‘Ah,’ he sighs, ‘I don’t think I have been this happy for a long time.’
We serve it into microwavable Tupperware dishes and give them some time to cool before we slot them into Mr Ellis’s fridge. Oliver writes down how long they should be cooked in the microwave.
By the time we leave Mr Ellis’s cottage, it is late, and Mr Ellis is weary. ‘Thank you, two wonderful people,’ he gushes. ‘You’ve made an old man very happy.’
* * *
Oliver and I are lying in bed, divided by our pillow wall. I don’t know about Oliver, but ever since we left Mr Ellis’s cottage, my body has been flooded with warm tingling sensations. We shared a bowl of casserole while we waited for the food to cool. It was delicious and comforting.
‘That felt so good, Nelly.’ His voice in the darkness makes me smile. ‘He was so happy.’
‘I still can’t believe you suggested cooking the casserole for him.’
‘Mr Ellis was poorly. That cough sounded nasty. I felt sorry for him.’
I turn to face the pillow wall. ‘Mr Ellis has so many casserole portions in his fridge.’
‘It will do him good.’
‘Yes, it will. He can also sit and look through Joan’s favourite recipe book.’
We both go silent for a while. I think back to Mr Ellis talking about Joan and telling me all his favourite memories of her.
‘I needed to cook that meal for Mr Ellis tonight,’ says Oliver. ‘It got me out of my head.’
‘Are you in your head a lot?’
‘Yes, I am.’ He quickly changes the subject. ‘The wall of pillows hasn’t let us down, Nelly.’
‘There’s still time for me to use my rolling pin. All it needs is a stray arm or a wandering leg calf.’
He chuckles before saying, ‘I’ll keep my wandering leg calves to myself.’
‘We made a good team in Mr Ellis’s kitchen earlier.’
‘We did. Let’s hope we can do something similar for Juliet Armstrong and her Spanish love.’
I remember Juliet, her three teenage children and her desire to get back in contact with Miguel, the author of the romance book she was trying to track down. I wished I had touched her when I had the chance. ‘It’s been years. She could be wasting her time.’
