Page 30 of Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall
Marc laughed. ‘Don’t forget the baloney sandwich.’
‘Never,’ she answered as he walked away.
*
Christa had made a large pot of vegetable soup for the family and saved one for the St William’s food bus. She had made several baguettes to have with the soup and once dinner was cleared up and put away and the boys were still decorating the tree and arguing about the placement of decorations, she had slipped out the kitchen door with the soup in a large pot she’d bought in town and put it in her car, along with some bread, making sure it was safe for the drive.
The house was quiet as she drove away, feeling uneasy at not being honest about telling Marc she was using his food to help others, but she tried to remind herself that he wanted to help. He liked helping. Tomorrow, she told herself, she would tell him tomorrow. Besides, tonight might be a dismal failure and they wouldn’t need her or her food. She drove down the dark driveway, her car lights showing the way when she saw the stag again, majestic in the centre of the road. Behind him walked a doe, elegant and graceful. She stopped and waited for them to move. Eventually they did, watching her car as she passed.
She made a mental note to never eat venison again after witnessing such beautiful animals.
*
After finding her way to the headquarters of the charity that ran the food bus, she parked her car and carried the pot of soup and the bread to the door and rang the bell.
The street was well lit but she still felt nervous being out at night in an unfamiliar environment. The door opened and there was a man in his thirties with a broad smile. ‘Christa?’
‘Yes,’ she said, feeling awkward shoving the soup pot at him. ‘I brought soup.’
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘I’m Zane.’
She stepped into the reception area and then followed Zane down a hallway where she could hear voices in the distance.
‘Come down and meet everyone,’ he said. ‘We park the van out the back so we can load it up and then we head out. Some people do the food and we have some nurses who help with basic first aid and health checks. On weekdays people can come here and shower and get their clothes swapped or washed and they can have a haircut on Tuesdays.’
He was handsome and had a lovely energy about him, she thought as they entered the large commercial kitchen.
Zane put her soup down on the bench. ‘Everyone, this is Christa. She is a chef and she brought us some of her soup.’
Looking at the large pots on the stove and various items cooking, she felt silly with her pot of vegetable soup but no one responded poorly.
‘Christa.’ She heard Petey’s Yorkshire accent. ‘You came.’
She saw her new friend buttering slices of bread.
‘I did, thank you for this, Petey. I hope I can be of some help.’
Zane was talking to someone by the stove and there were two women who had stethoscopes around their necks and were pulling on large jackets.
‘You can help me butter this bread if you want, and then we can load it up for the truck.’
Christa looked at the trays of bread. ‘How many will come for food tonight?’ she asked.
In London she had fed maybe ten people on a busy day out the Playfoot’s kitchen back door. She knew the soup kitchens in London fed hundreds of people but she liked to help those around the restaurant who couldn’t get to the kitchen or didn’t want to line up. She had thought about helping there more and more as she and Simon grew apart, but there simply wasn’t time with cooking six days a week. She felt the nerves surface she hadn’t felt since she was young.
A memory shot into her mind with a force that felt like a slap. Her father taking her hand as they stood in line; Christa, cold in her red coat and wishing they were home in the flat in front of the radiator, but Dad hadn’t paid the power bill and it wouldn’t be on until tonight.
‘Jimmy? Jimmy and daughter Christy?’ She heard her dad’s name called and she glanced up at him. He looked tired and his skin had a sheen to it that came after he had been asleep for a long time.
‘Here,’ he said and he walked to the front of the line, her hand still in his.
There were mumbles from the line, and someone said, ‘Oi he’s got a bairn,’ and then the mumbles stopped.
‘Dad, what’s a bairn?’ she asked but he didn’t answer as a woman with a clipboard checked his name and then pushed open a door for them.
The smell of cauliflower hit her first but then there were other smells of chicken, some sort of red meat – maybe lamb. Yes, it was lamb.
There were round tables with plastic tablecloths in faded colours and unmatched chairs surrounding them. A small vase of holly and sat in the centre of the table and at each place setting was a single Christmas cracker.
