‘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.’
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.’
* * *
