Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

4

Walking through the hall to go downstairs, Christa wondered about the house and its belongings. Everything was artfully placed and expensive, from the carpets that sunk under her feet, to the art in the elegant frames that were probably by famous artists she didn’t know and the furniture that all seemed to be covered in silk and beautiful prints.

She had seen people who were well off like Simon’s parents but this was next-level. Every room was decorated sympathetically to the style of the house but no one was in them. So many rooms unlived in, when so many people were living without a home. It felt jarring as she walked down the quiet hallway and turned at the sound of a fire crackling. She looked inside and gasped at the sight of the most beautiful wallpaper she had ever seen – gold and black with deer, squirrels and rabbits amongst ferns and flowers. The room’s furniture was all dark wood and leather, and there was a large desk and a fire in the grate.

‘Can I help you?’ she heard Marc say behind her.

‘Sorry, I was just admiring the wallpaper,’ she said and turned to him. ‘It’s so beautiful.’

He looked at her and then the wallpaper and back to her and nodded. She felt silly for commenting. He probably looked at it every day and was tired of it, or he thought she was a snoop. Everything about this man told her he had money. His expensive hoodie with the luxury label sewn onto the left breast. Well-fitted dark jeans and the trainers she had only ever seen in magazines with the unmistakable branding. Christa wasn’t impressed by labels, but she did notice how Marc ran his hands through his dark blonde hair and that his tan seemed real. There were flecks of grey in his hair, just a few, and she respected he kept them there. He was tall and slim, and she noticed he had some bracelets on one arm. One of them spelled out Dad in beads and she felt herself soften a little at his gesture to his children.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and she walked towards the stairs to go to the car to get her luggage and special chef knives that she took everywhere.

‘Is your room okay?’ she heard him ask.

Adam the officious lawyer had shown her to the floor and had pointed at the room that would be hers for the next month.

‘Sure, I mean there’s no gold wallpaper of forest animals frolicking but it will suffice,’ she joked.

Marc looked at her and frowned.

‘That was a joke,’ she said. God, this guy was a barrel of laughs.

‘Okay,’ he said and he walked into what she now presumed was his study and closed the door.

She immediately regretted her pithy comment. What she wanted to say was her room was lovely. It was nicer than she had expected or assumed she might be afforded for her time here.

She thought perhaps it would be a single room with a bed and bathroom. What she got was a true suite, similar to one she had stayed in on her wedding night at a fancy hotel. A large bedroom with a king-sized bed and a sitting room with a television and sofa set and new glossy magazines on the table. The bathroom was stocked with all the appropriate Penhaligon’s toiletries and a soft robe was hanging on a hook against the tiles.

She stood at the top of the stairs and wondered, and then went back to the room Marc had disappeared into and knocked. ‘Come in,’ she heard and she opened the door.

‘Yeah?’ he asked, looking up from his laptop from behind the desk.

‘I wanted to say the room I’ve been given is lovely. It’s much nicer than what I thought it would be and really generous. So thank you,’ she said, feeling awkward.

Marc leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

‘So you have everything you need?’

‘I do.’

‘And it’s warm enough? The housekeeper can get you more blankets if you need them.’

‘I think I’ll be okay. I’m used to the cold winters.’ She smiled at him.

He laughed and pushed his hand through his hair again – his little habit, it seemed.

‘Those from California aren’t so lucky. I’m still acclimating. Those winds are brutal.’

‘Gloves, hats and thermals are the thing for the wind,’ she offered.

‘Yes, I have it all from our ski lodge in Aspen but it’s different when you’re trying to exist in it and not flying down runs, hot from the exercise.’

Christa didn’t know what to say to that. Skiing in Aspen was so far away from her reality.

‘All right then, I’ll go get my things,’ she said and she turned and closed the door behind her.

When she returned from the car with her things, she had peered out the window of her room to see fog covering extensive lawns and the beautiful silhouettes of trees in the dusk. Hopefully, she would have time to walk the property, she thought as she pulled on her work pants and chef whites then slipped on her clogs and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

It was nearly four in the afternoon, and Christa wondered what she should make for dinner since Paul had given her carte blanche in the kitchen.

The fridges were filled with fresh vegetables and more cheese than she thought was possible for the small number of inhabitants of the house.

Another fridge held meat and then another wine. It was ridiculous, she thought, thinking of all the meals she could make with this food to give to those who needed it most.

She pulled out packages marked salmon, duck, quail and goat.

‘Bloody Nora,’ she said.

‘Who’s Nora?’ she heard a voice say and turned to see the twins behind her.

‘Whoever bought all this food. It’s enough for a formal dinner every night until the middle of next year.’

‘It wasn’t Nora, it was Peggy – she’s the housekeeper. Dad gave her a list of everything he thought we might need.’

‘What happens if we don’t eat it all?’ she asked. This was as much as they would order for a weekday lunch at the restaurant. How on earth would they get through it all?

‘They throw it out I guess,’ said one of the boys with a shrug.

Christa closed the fridge with a sigh.

‘I’m Christa,’ she said.

‘I’m Seth,’ said one of the boys. They were blonde, thin, with dark eyes, and utterly identical except one had a small freckle on his cheekbone.

‘And I’m Ethan,’ said the other.

‘Really?’ Christa crossed her arms. ‘I went to school with twin girls who were always messing about and pretending to be the other. It’s part of your DNA to play tricks on people.’

They laughed. ‘Nah it’s the other way around but you won’t remember anyway. Dad has never got us right.’

Christa saw a flicker in their faces and she studied them closely.

‘I will try my best to remember who is who,’ she said. ‘You,’ she pointed at the one with the freckle on his cheekbone. ‘Are Seth.’

He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How can you tell?’

She touched his cheek. ‘Your little hallmark,’ she said. ‘Gives you away.’

The boys seemed impressed with her deduction and they sat on the kitchen stools at the bench, their rollerblades making loud noises as they crashed against the woodwork.

‘We’re not really that similar,’ Seth said, as he touched the knife roll.

She quickly moved it out of the way.

‘Ethan likes gaming and metal music, and I like K-pop. He likes to film things and I like to make things, like with Lego.’

Christa nodded. ‘Good to know. And what do you like to eat for dinner?’

‘We like burgers.’ Seth said. ‘And pasta. And sushi. And Mexican food.’

Christa thought for a moment.

‘What does your dad like to eat?’

‘Stuff we don’t like,’ was all Ethan said and then he made a vomit noise.

‘He likes pasta,’ said Seth. ‘He had the little round things, like little squashed eggs. Knocko?’ he asked.

‘Gnocchi?’ she asked and he nodded.

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’

Pasta was a good start she thought, as she dug through the fridge and found some wagyu beef she could mince and make burgers with and found some potatoes to make pommes frites.

Ethan was up again and went sailing past her on his skates.

‘Sit down. No skating in the kitchen,’ she said firmly, and surprisingly he obliged and sat next to his brother.

‘Can you teach us how to cook?’ asked Seth.

She looked around the fridge door to see if they were being silly but saw they were serious.

‘How old are you both?’

‘Ten,’ they answered in unison.

Christa thought about it. A little company during prep could be fun and she could learn why her boss was always so angry. Besides, teaching people to cook was something she was passionate about. She never understood when people said they were terrible cooks and couldn’t cook. Anyone could cook if they followed the recipe. If they could learn to drive they could learn to cook.

If she had her way, cooking healthy food, and learning what to buy at the supermarket and budgeting, would be taught at school.

Those were real life skills.

‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘You can both be my commis cooks. You’re just old enough otherwise I would breaking the labour laws.’

‘What’s a commis cook?’ The boys seemed thrilled with the title.

‘It’s the name for the newest cooks in the kitchen. The ones who will become chefs one day if they work super hard,’ she answered.

The back door opened and an older, stout-looking woman holding shopping bags walked into the kitchen. She wore a green woollen coat and a scowl. Her grey hair was pulled into a bun and she had a face that could have made you admit to murder, even if you were innocent.

‘Oh, Cook, you’re here finally,’ said the woman as though Christa was late.

‘Christa Playfoot – I’m the chef,’ she corrected.

‘Peggy Smith, housekeeper of Pudding Hall.’

‘Pudding Hall?’

‘That’s the name of the house,’ said Peggy putting the bags on the bench.

Christa looked at the boys. ‘What a wonderful name for a house. But it’s called Pudding Hall and you don’t have a single Christmas decoration? That’s very sad.’

The boys shrugged as though they didn’t know the answer to her question.

‘Why are they in here?’ asked Peggy, looking at the boys suspiciously.

‘They’re my apprentices,’ Christa answered, trying to get a reading on Peggy, who seemed put out to have the children in the kitchen.

‘We’re commi cooks,’ said Ethan.

‘Commis,’ said Christa laughing. The boys were delightful and funny.

But Peggy didn’t seem to find them amusing. ‘Well don’t be messing about in here – Cook has a busy job.’

‘Chef,’ said Christa but Peggy ignored her and kept talking.

‘Mr Ferrier sent me out for more food, just in case you didn’t have what you needed.’

‘More?’ asked Christa thinking of the filled refrigerator.

She sighed. ‘I don’t know what else you would need. There will be nothing left in Waitrose if I head back there again.’

‘We have more than enough; don’t buy any more,’ said Christa. She watched Peggy unpack the bags of shopping.

More cheese, she noticed.

‘What do you do with the food that isn’t cooked?’ she asked Peggy.

Peggy shook her head. ‘It is thrown in the rubbish. I had to dispose of a lot of fruit and vegetables as they said they would be here earlier than they were and it went off.’ Her look spoke volumes to Christa. At least they agreed on something.

‘What sort of things does Mr Ferrier like for dinner?’ she asked Peggy who shrugged.

‘No idea – they’ve eaten in York for the past few nights.’

Christa looked to the twins who were fast becoming the fountain of knowledge for her induction at Pudding Hall.

‘What did your dad order for dinner?’

‘I don’t know. We weren’t invited,’ said the boys.

‘I made them shepherd’s pie and they didn’t eat it,’ said Peggy glaring at them. ‘In my day you ate what you were given and liked it.’

‘It was gluggy,’ said Ethan.

‘And smelled weird,’ added Seth.

Peggy gave a snort. ‘Rude little beggars,’ she said and left the kitchen.

Christa set about mincing the meat and then checked the cupboard for bread rolls for the burgers.

There weren’t any so she started on a dough to make her own rolls.

‘Shepherd’s pie isn’t for everyone,’ she said. ‘Feel like burgers then? Let’s make some rolls.’

‘We get rolls from the supermarket,’ said Seth.

‘These will be better than supermarket rolls,’ said Christa with a smile. ‘Want to see how I make them?’

‘Yes,’ the boys shouted.

‘Wash your hands and then let’s get baking,’ she instructed.

Every step of the way the boys asked her what she was doing. She let them knead the dough and then punch the air from them, which they took great pleasure in.

And then she set them aside to rise.

‘Is that how bread is made?’ one of the boys asked. ‘I never knew that. Mum doesn’t like carbs. She says they’re bad.’

Christa shook her head. She had no idea what carbs were at ten, let alone calling them bad. She knew it as bread or potato and that was that.

‘How did you learn to make bread?’ asked Seth.

‘I was taught by a lovely Italian man who owned a bakery that I worked at when I was at school,’ she said.

‘Did you just make bread?’ asked Ethan, as she worked.

‘Nope, I made all sorts of yummy things like Italian donuts and biscotti, which is lovely with coffee.’

‘Why did you have a job when you were at school?’ asked Ethan. ‘Is that even allowed?’

Christa smiled at him. ‘Yes it allowed and it’s good to work and earn your own money. The people who owned the bakery gave me a job right through school. I was very lucky. There is nothing like the smell of freshly baked bread,’ she said to the twins.

She remembered that was the scent that stopped her on her way home from school. The smell of bread was hypnotic, causing her to stop and look at the window.

Il Forno, the fancy gold lettering on the sign had read. A handwritten note with Help Wanted on a brown paper bag was taped to the window below the gold writing.

‘Have we been to a bakery?’ Seth asked Ethan.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ethan with a frown.

‘What do they look like?’ asked Seth.

Christa thought about Il Forno. ‘This was an Italian-style bakery, not an American-style, so instead of shelves, there were baskets of bread and rolls and loaves of all shapes and sizes. Some had olives in them. Some had herbs on top. And they were all delicious.’

‘I like olives, but Ethan hates them,’ said Seth.

The boys played with the measuring spoons as Christa told them about the Italian croissants, different types of biscotti and panettone in the prettiest boxes she had ever seen.

The boys listened and watched her intently as she peeled the potatoes.

With the potatoes dried, ready to be turned into pommes frites, she looked inside the refrigerator and thought about Adam and his husband and boss’s dinner.

She picked up a container of eggs complete with feathers attached. Real eggs, she thought.

‘Do you have chickens here?’ she asked the boys who were now warring with their hockey sticks.

‘No idea,’ they said in unison.

Seth added, ‘We’ve only been here a few days and it’s rained every day. And Dad won’t come out walking because he’s busy with work.’ They were back to skating around the kitchen now, which was slightly dizzying for Christa as she tried to spot who was who again.

‘Can you stop skating please? If you’re in the kitchen you have to learn that there are hot liquids, sharp knives and people carrying things. You can’t carry on like this or I will have to let you go and find other twins who can work respectfully.’

The boys stopped skating and came back to the bench.

‘Do you know any other twins?’ they asked, looking at her suspiciously.

‘Not yet but I can ask in town,’ she stated firmly.

The boys looked disappointed at her lack of twin connections and she felt a little sad for them.

‘Let’s make pasta,’ she said brightly.

The boys dropped their sticks with a clatter and turned their attention to her.

‘More carbs? Mom would die,’ Seth said. ‘She says carbs make her crazy.’

‘Lucky she’s not here then,’ said Christa, slightly annoyed that the children already had such a dim view of certain foods.

‘Do you have children?’ asked Ethan.

‘Nope. Go and wash your hands again at the sink behind me.’

The boys did so.

‘Why not?’ they asked, wiping their hands with the tea towel she handed them.

‘Because I work long hours and I would want to be with them instead of being at work.’

The boys looked at each other, as Christa tipped pasta flour in front of them in small mounds.

‘Make a volcano shape,’ she instructed and the boys followed her lead. ‘Now crack an egg into it.’

‘Can I film it?’ asked Ethan.

‘You can’t film and cook, so make your choice,’ she answered. ‘You don’t want flour all over your camera.’

Her egg yolk was orange it was so fresh and perfect, and she sighed with pleasure.

There was nothing she liked more than fresh, home-produced food.

The twins carefully broke their eggs into the well and she instructed them to drizzle over some olive oil and salt and then showed them how to whisk the eggs with a fork, eventually adding more of the flour as they went.

‘Don’t worry if the eggs spills out – move it back in with your hands. It’s all part of the work. And now let’s knead the dough, like we did with the bread. This will take a while so don’t give up. The more stretchy it is, the better,’ she encouraged.

She watched their faces as they worked, their young hands kneading the dough while she occasionally sprinkled more flour over the top.

She enjoyed showing people what she knew, and when children were engaged, she enjoyed teaching them.

She and Simon had decided against children during the last few years of their marriage because he had said they didn’t have time. She wasn’t sure she ever said an outright no but it became part of their narrative as a couple when asked and soon she repeated it until it became something she had believed. When she looked back on it now, she realised that Simon didn’t want her to have children because she would have taken time out from the restaurant.

A sadness gripped her and she wondered if she had missed out on something.

‘I’m pulling mine like we saw in that horror movie where they pulled the man’s skin,’ said Seth, interrupting her thoughts.

Ethan laughed and followed his lead. ‘This is his stomach as we pull the fat away.’

Christa made a face and turned away from them. Maybe she wasn’t missing anything if that’s what boys were like.

‘When you have finished cooking your horror show, we’re going to use the pasta maker to roll it really thin,’ she said pulling the pasta maker from the cupboard. Honestly, this house had everything she would ever need.

The boys looked at the contraption and nodded their approval.

‘I saw something like that in a video game. They put people’s hands in them to torture them and make them tell the truth.’

‘My God, does your dad know you watch that sort of stuff?’ she asked as she set up the pasta maker.

‘I don’t know,’ said Ethan shrugging and Christa wondered what sort of parent the man was. And then she remembered her own father, passed our drunk on the floor outside their flat, Christa trying to drag him inside even though she was only eleven. And the landlady coming upstairs to tell her that he had urinated on the landing and Christa had to clean it up. She had, telling him in the morning, and he’d promised to never do it again, which was a lie. She brought herself back to the room and away from young Christa. She didn’t often go back and look at her past because it was painful and complicated but lately the memories had been coming up more often that she liked.

‘Okay, no more horror movie references – now we make fettucine. Do you know what fettucine means in Italian?’

The boys shook their heads. ‘Nope.’

‘Little ribbons,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’

‘Like sinew and veins,’ said Seth. ‘I saw that on a medical show.’

Christa rolled her eyes. This wasn’t going to be easy after all.