Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

29

Christa drove to the only person she really knew in York.

Petey was walking down the street pulling a wheeled shopper of food, and singing to himself when she arrived. She jumped out of the car and watched him. She called him but realised he couldn’t hear her, so she waved and then he stopped, smiled broadly and took two earbuds out of his ears. ‘Was listening to a bit of Burt Bacharach. I love him,’ he said.

‘Earbuds – that’s so modern of you,’ said Christa. She had trouble setting the clock in her car so a seventy-odd-year-old man using Bluetooth technology was impressive.

‘What are you doing here? Come in for a cup of tea?’ he said as she walked with him to his gate. He pushed it open and she followed him and his little cart of supplies inside.

‘I’ve resigned from Pudding Hall,’ she said.

‘What?’ Petey turned to her and frowned.

‘Let’s go inside and I will tell you – it’s freezing out here,’ she instructed.

Once inside Petey turned on the kettle and Christa helped unpack his groceries. He bought many of the same items her dad used to buy.

Yorkshire tea, HP Sauce, cherry Bakewells, white bread, cheddar cheese, some apples, and a few bananas.

‘I will make the tea while you tell me what happened,’ said Petey bustling about the kitchen.

Christa told him the whole sorry story, from her marriage to Simon, to the restaurant, and up to now, over three cups of tea, two cheese sandwiches and a Bakewell tart.

Petey sighed and shook his head when it was finished.

‘You had to leave. You can’t stay there with him, no matter how much you like Marc and the boys.’

Christa nodded. ‘Thank you for saying that. It’s exactly what my dad would have said. I needed to hear it.’

Petey patted her hand. ‘Now, you can stay here until you get sorted. It will be easier for you and I would enjoy the company.’

‘I can’t do that, Petey. You have your life; I have to find mine.’

‘Let me help you for a while,’ he said. ‘You don’t have anyone else here and you’re a friend to me. I hope I’m one to you also.’

Christa grabbed his worn hand. ‘You are a friend. A real friend, Petey.’

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘I can show you to the little guest room. It’s not much but it’s clean and warm.’

She followed him through the small home to the bedroom next to his, which housed a small single bed with a yellow chenille bedspread and daisy wallpaper.

A white bedside table sat next to the bed and a matching wardrobe.

‘The sheets might need changing, been on there for a while, but it’s all yours until you figure out what to do next.’

‘Thank you, Petey,’ she said feeling her throat ache and eyes sting from the tears threatening to fall again.

‘It’s no Pudding Hall but it’s mine,’ he said.

‘This is better than Pudding Hall,’ she said. ‘I’m calling it Petey Hall.’

He chuckled. ‘Petey Hall – I like that,’ he said.

*

That night Christa tossed and turned in the small bed. Not from lack of comfort – it was warm and soft and cosy – but from the vision of her soufflé and its failure to rise like Simon’s. Perhaps she had overthought it, or overwhipped the egg whites. Maybe she was too arrogant and this was the little-known God of Soufflé reminding her she wasn’t as good as she thought she was.

Was there a God of Soufflés, she wondered, staring at the daisy wallpaper.

She thought about the day she had been accepted into Le Cordon Bleu. Marc had asked about it as though he cared; he had thought she was successful. She didn’t know why so many memories had sprung up since she’d been in York. Perhaps she had time to listen to what they had to tell her now.

The day she found out she was accepted into the course, she had woken up and forgot for a few seconds her father was gone. When she’d remembered, she’d cried. She had cried for the previous four months but always in secret, using the shower to weep or the storeroom at work, amongst the flour and grains.

But that day she’d cried wrenching sobs until finally she was out of tears. Walking to the kitchen to get a glass of water, she’d seen the letter on the table.

She had picked it up, headed back to bed and lain down, placing the letter on her stomach, trying to divine what was inside it based on her gut.

Her stomach wouldn’t tell her anything though. She would have to open it and find out for herself.

Sitting up in bed, she’d turned on the light and opened the envelope, careful not to rip the paper. She hadn’t known why she’d felt she needed to be careful but the emblem and words on the crest made her respectful of the process.

She’d pulled out the letter and opened it and her eyes scanned over the words.

Congratulations.

We are pleased to inform you.

Accepted for the Grand Diplôme of Cuisine and Pastry.

£30,000.

‘You got what you wanted, Dad,’ she’d said looking out the window at the snow.

He had told her to apply before he was diagnosed but she’d told him they couldn’t afford it. Then, when he’d was told he was dying, he’d announced that he had a life insurance policy. It wasn’t much but it was enough to put her through the course and help her live in the rented flat for a year or so.

‘Dad, I can’t think about that now,’ she had said to him, as she had helped him into bed.

‘You have to think about it. You love cooking and you love caring for people.’

‘So I can cook in a nursing home or something,’ she’d said.

He had gently swatted her hand. ‘Go and learn all those techniques I see you watching on the television and the computer. Your croissants would make the French jealous.’

As she lay in the small bed in the house of an old man whom she hardly knew, she wondered what her dad would make of her success now. He would have hated the way she gave her life up for Simon to control.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she whispered into the darkness.

She wondered what Marc was doing. Just thinking about him made the shame rise inside her and she closed her eyes and sighed. What must he think of her?

The vision of Simon’s gloating was burned into her memory and she wished she could get him out of her mind and think about all the nice things about Marc instead.

His hand in hers, the shared glances, the laughter, the teasing, the flirting.

Who was she kidding? Marc was never going to stay in York and Avian and the boys would return to America. Why was she pretending this would be happy families forever and ever?

She looked at her phone next to the bed. Ten missed calls from Marc. More texts. She didn’t read them or listen to the messages. She was too embarrassed.

Closing her eyes again she lay on her back and took some deep breaths, slowing down her racing mind by thinking about the garden at Pudding Hall. The orchards and the maze, the dell with the shared company of the fantastic stag.

She didn’t know what she was going to do next but she had to choose a future that spoke to her heart and soul; one that helped her put good into the world.

The selfishness she had seen from Simon and Avian and even Marc at times wasn’t anything she wanted to be around.

She’d enough of the self-involved. She wanted to make a difference and even though the pub was now sold, she could work towards that, couldn’t she? She would speak to Zane in the morning to find out what was needed and how she could help beyond the van. She would get out of her head and into the world.