Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

16

‘I will finish up tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And pay you back the money you gave me.’

‘Why? That’s ridiculous,’ Marc said as he set their hot drinks down in front of them. The only place open was a fast food chain with Christmas carols playing and the smell of grease in the air. ‘I am pretty sure I agreed to you doing something with the excess food.’

Christa couldn’t look at him.

‘But I should have been more open, transparent about it all. I might as well have stolen it. I’ve been underhanded,’ she cried. She had stolen it. No matter how she tried and convinced herself otherwise, she had stolen the food and handed it out to people for free.

‘You used what would have gone into the trash and you gave it to people who needed it more than me or you. There is nothing devious about it. You mentioned it to me and I said yes. Why are you so upset?’

Christa sipped her watery tea and grimaced.

‘Is that face because of the tea or me?’ he asked.

‘Both.’

Marc smiled. ‘Why are you so upset about this, Christa?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I feel like I should have been more honest with you.’ She sighed and slowed her breathing down. ‘I think I was embarrassed to ask, like I was some chugger, leeching off the largesse of my boss.’

‘What? What the hell is a chugger?’ he asked.

‘A charity mugger. Like those people who harass you in the street about famine somewhere or other while shaking a tin at you.’

Marc laughed. ‘No, I don’t think it’s the same.’

Christa rubbed her temples and then looked at him.

‘I’m a hypocrite,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I was glib about your success and your wealth, yet I used it to help others without being totally honest with you. I turned up with meals for the people and didn’t tell anyone they were made with your goods. I took the credit and didn’t mention once that it’s your food I’m using to feed people.’

Marc shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter where it comes from though, and it doesn’t matter who “owns” it, as long as it gets to the people who need it.’

They were quiet for a moment and then Marc spoke again. ‘So, do you make a habit of being a food-driven Robin Hood?’

She thought for a moment, wondering how much she should tell him and then decided she had nothing to lose, not since he had caught her red-handed.

‘I have always tried to help people the way I know how. Which is with food. I did it when I had the restaurant in a casual way, feeding people out of the back door of the kitchen.’

Marc leaned in, listening.

‘And it made me happy to feed people – you know, with good nourishing food.’

‘Okay.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘We help with what we have, I get it.’

‘Then I came here and I finally had the time to help, really help. I had some time at night. So I did. I met this lovely old man at the market who made the fudge. He told me about the charity so I called, and next thing you know, I’m making vegetable soup and breadsticks and pasta and little delicious lemon cakes that are actually really healthy. They were very popular.’

She saw Marc smile at her and she smiled back.

‘You know I spent time in soup kitchens and refuges as a kid. The food was a lifesaver when Dad wasn’t well but the food was mostly donated or cooked for quantity not quality because that’s all they could afford. I wanted to make people food that would help them from the inside.’

Marc was nodding. ‘And you want to do that once you finish at Pudding Hall?’

She thought for a moment. For most of her adult life she had been overlooked, with Simon taking the credit for talent, but now her future was so clear, she could feel it.

‘I do, I want to help people. I want to open a place here and make it low cost or no cost for people to come and get food. I want to give cooking lessons to people who haven’t been taught how to shop and how to make meals that nourish and are affordable. I want people to be able to volunteer and chat and provide support for mums and dads and children. I want it to be the place where anyone can come and they will be fed, respected and supported.’

She finished her speech and then took a sip of her tea and was reminded it tasted like hot dirt water.

Marc sat back in his chair. ‘And you want me to fund it?’ he asked.

She looked at him and frowned.

‘Not at all. I didn’t ask. You asked me what I wanted to do and that is it. It was the first time I’ve actually been able to clarify it for myself but that’s it; that’s what I want to create. It might not happen soon – it might take ten or twenty years – but I will work towards it and hope it will happen. And meanwhile I will keep cooking for those who pay well and save what I can.’

Marc’s face was unreadable.

‘I’m not asking for your help at all, Marc. I am really sorry about the food. I will pay it back. I will replace the ham hock and quails tomorrow.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t care about them. I don’t. I get it. I get why you did it.’

He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand though his hair and then clasped his hands behind his neck.

‘I had a shitty childhood. It was tough and we didn’t have any help until the night my mother tried to kill my father.’

‘Jesus,’ said Christa.

‘She failed,’ said Marc. ‘But we were taken away from our parents and then ended up in the system. My whole life, I have run away from my past, avoided doing anything that might make me feel anything other than successful and yet you, with your own shitty upbringing, you run towards it now. You’re not afraid of it. You want to help.’

Christa said nothing as they looked at each other.

‘So why do you run towards it when I run away? What are you looking for and what am I avoiding?’

She shrugged and smiled a little. ‘I told you I’m not here to be your therapist.’

‘I know, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? We have had similar struggles and yet we’re coping with them so differently.’

She pushed her tea away.

‘The difference is love,’ she said.

‘How so?’

‘Because even though my dad struggled with alcohol, and we ate at refuges and used the food bank, I knew he loved me. I knew he hated himself but he loved me more and that was finally enough to make him stop drinking. But you, it sounds like you had terrible parents who didn’t care for anyone but themselves. You weren’t loved.’

She saw Marc’s eyes fill with tears and she felt terrible for saying what she’d said.

‘Sorry, that’s not my call to say that. I shouldn’t have said it.’

But he shook his head. ‘No, you’re right. They were narcissistic nightmares. They hated having children. We were a burden yet they kept having more. I sometimes wonder why people have kids if they don’t like them.’

‘Why did you have children?’ she asked him.

‘I wanted children and so did my ex-wife. It was exciting to find out we were having twins. But I wasn’t a great parent. I haven’t been but I’m trying to get better. Pudding Hall has been great for me to see them and do more with them. That’s why I didn’t worry about school while they’re here; I just wanted to let them have a proper break. I mean, I know I’m full of shit because I’ve been working so much, but that’s to avoid feeling stuff. I know I need to work on that more.’

Christa gave him a small smile. ‘They boys adore you,’ she said.

‘They also adore you,’ he replied. He waited for a moment and then leaned over the table. ‘Can I come out with you tomorrow night? I’d like to help.’

‘Sure, I think Zane said they’re still a few people down so he would be happy with the extra pair of hands.’ She stifled a yawn.

‘Come on, home to bed. Want a lift? I can get someone to pick up your car tomorrow.’

Christa thought about the drive home in the dark, worrying that a deer might spring out from behind a tree and into the path of her car.

‘That would be great actually,’ she said.

The drive back to Pudding Hall was smooth in the large car and, in the silence, Christa felt her eyes heavy from the work and from crying. She shouldn’t have cried in front of her boss. She told herself off as she watched the shape of the trees flash by her. Soon her eyes closed and she leaned her head back for a moment.

‘Christa, Christa.’ She heard her name whispered and she opened her eyes.

God, she had been asleep in Marc’s car and she was pretty sure there was dribble running from one side of her face down onto her coat.

Seriously? She was a mess.

‘God, sorry,’ she uttered, as she undid her seat belt and wiped her mouth.

Marc held her hand as she stepped out of the car.

‘Not really my best Princess Di moment,’ she said, feeling herself hot with embarrassment.

‘I was never into Princess Di,’ he said. ‘I was more of a Demi Moore fan.’

‘Oh?’ Christa was still holding his hand, wondering why she felt flickers of delicious anticipation inside her stomach.

‘You know in Ghost? The short hair, big eyes, that laugh.’

Christa nodded, trying to think if she did know any of Demi Moore’s traits and could they possibly be traced back to her.

Was she still dreaming? Was she still dribbling in the car?

And then the moment finished. Marc dropped her hand and turned away from her and closed the car door with a thud.

‘Right then,’ she said. ‘I better get to bed. Pancakes in the morning, if you’re up early enough.’

‘I have a phone call at five am so I will be,’ he said as they walked towards the house.

Inside they took off their coats and Marc locked the front door as Christa went upstairs.

‘Goodnight, Marc,’ she said. ‘Thanks for being so understanding and supportive.’

He looked up at her. ‘My hocks are your hocks; now Hammy Christmas to you and to all a good hock.’

Christa stifled laughter. ‘That makes no sense.’

‘I’m tired – throw me a bone,’ he said as he climbed the stairs.

‘I have a ham hock I could throw you tomorrow,’ she said as she walked backwards down the hallway.

Marc walked backwards in the opposite direction.

‘That’s truly hocking,’ he said.

‘I aim to hock and awe,’ she said.

‘You’re a hock star,’ he answered and she giggled loudly.

‘Goodnight, you big ham,’ she said as she got to her door and smiled at him.

‘Goodnight, Christa, the Robin Hood of Hocking Forest.’

She stepped inside her room and closed the door, taking a deep breath. She had no idea what was happening but it was fun and silly and wouldn’t lead anywhere. She’d forgotten how much she loved to flirt and tease and play.

She lay on her bed and looked at the ceiling. Marc was great company when he stopped trying to take over the world and he listened when she spoke about her dream and didn’t dismiss it.

She could imagine Simon explaining all the ways she would mess it up and how it wasn’t viable and people should just get a job and pull themselves up out of the rut and get some control.

This from the man who had never had to want for anything; but Marc, she knew he understood. There was a look on his face when she spoke about being in soup kitchens as a child that she recognised. He’d known what it was like to be hungry once. He knew her dream mattered.

And she hadn’t asked him for money. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him. She didn’t have a plan or any experience in undertaking such a mammoth task. But she could learn and when she knew enough she could do it, one day.

Maybe Pudding Hall wasn’t such a terrible idea after all. She could keep helping at the van and now that Marc wanted to help her, she could prepare even better food and wouldn’t have to hide it.

When she was curled up in bed, about to drift off to sleep, Christa remembered when she had dribbled in the car and groaned.

Seriously. She really wasn’t the sort of woman Marc would like anyway, so why did she think there had been a moment between them? Why on earth would he want to kiss a ham-hock-stealing, quail-poaching, dribbling cook?

Sometimes she really didn’t understand herself at all.