Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster
6
When the dishes were cleared from the table, which Adam and Paul had helped with, and the two dishwashers were on, Christa went up to her room and showered.
Her room was beautiful, she thought as she closed the curtains on the dark windy night.
She opened a cupboard and saw a small fridge and kettle with a selection of tea and a French press for coffee. A tin of shortbread was unopened and in the fridge was milk and some fruit.
Did Peggy do this? At Marc’s insistence? It seemed like a very personal touch in an impersonal house.
She took out the kettle and filled it in the bathroom, plugged it in and turned it on. A night-time cup of tea was exactly what she needed. Moving the heavy curtains back, she looked outside but it was so dark she was shocked. She had forgotten what the dark was after living in such a light-polluted city like London.
The weather report was still claiming snow was on its way, and according to news reports York would be looking at a very cold Christmas.
Marc had taken the boys upstairs to get ready for bed, since they had stayed up later than usual. There had been a lot of laughter and chatting over dinner, and Adam and Paul had great stories about when they met in New York and Paul’s work as an interior stylist for celebrities in Los Angeles.
‘Pick up any Architectural Digest and I can tell you the budget, who is selling and if it’s a divorce about to be announced and why my work is the best on the West Coast,’ Paul stated.
‘He’s right, it is the best,’ said Adam. ‘You know he said no to the family starting with K because they buy their artwork by the metre.’
Christa made a face. ‘Horrendous.’
‘I know, right?’ said Paul. ‘I mean one of them looked at a Rothko and asked if he could make it bigger? The man’s been dead for more than fifty years.’
Christa laughed. ‘I get it. My place in London was decorated by my ex and it’s very impersonal. Not me at all.’
‘Photos?’ asked Paul and she looked up the listing on her phone and handed it to him. He swiped through the photos. ‘It’s very masculine, sort of Four Seasons, Hyatt inspired?’
‘Yes, he wanted it to feel like a hotel.’ She sighed.
‘I went to a conference at a place like this once,’ Paul said.
Christa started to laugh again. ‘God, it’s not me,’ she said. Marc had returned and was holding the phone now, swiping through the images.
He looked up at her. ‘What is you? What is your style?’
She paused and thought for a moment. ‘Warmth. Colour. Fun. Something pink and flowers and gardens and teapots and things that I love around me. Probably too girly for most men but I am unashamedly in love with the colour pink and anything fun.’
Marc handed her back her phone. ‘You shouldn’t ever apologise for what you like,’ he said and she appreciated him saying that.
There was one tense moment when Paul, after a few glasses of wine, asked why there weren’t any Christmas decorations.
A cloud seemed to cover the dinner for a moment until the boys cheered and said they wanted a tall tree and stockings over the mantel and could they make a gingerbread house? ‘Please, Christa?’ they begged.
Marc hadn’t said anything but the energy in the room changed and he ordered the children upstairs to shower and bed.
Christa didn’t ask what it was about but the spell was broken and she was back to being chef and a staff member.
Not that it troubled her now as she stepped from the shower. Her room was snug with the gas fire on and the lamps dimmed. Christa had never had an open fire in her bedroom before and now she wondered how she would ever not have one again. There was a small mantel above the flames and she wished she had some Christmas trinkets to place on top. Even a little garland of holly would suffice. Perhaps she might buy a few things and place them in her bedroom. Marc Ferrier couldn’t say anything about that if it was in her room, could he?
Christa dried herself and pulled on her favourite Christmas flannel pyjamas with cute little puddings on them and the complimentary robe from the bathroom.
There was a soft knock at her door and she opened it, surprised to see Marc Ferrier outside her door.
‘Oh, hi, did you want something to eat?’ she asked, wishing she wasn’t wearing the namesake of the house on her body.
She saw Marc’s eyes take in her nightwear and he gave her a small smile. ‘You have puddings on your pants.’
‘Um, yes, yes I do,’ she said, wishing she could fall into a hole and never climb out.
‘They’re fun,’ he said and then seemed to catch himself.
‘Thank you,’ she said wishing she was in a sensible pantsuit and not PJs. ‘How can I help you?’ she prompted him.
‘Oh I just wanted to say thanks again for today and tonight. And to make sure we’re okay.’
She nodded. ‘Of course. I have no issues at all.’
Marc nodded and stepped away as though to head back down the hallway and she couldn’t stop herself.
‘Do you think we could buy some decorations? I know you’re not keen but the boys would like it. Might add some spirit to the house, you know?’
Marc stared at her, his face stony again.
‘I will do what needs to be done when I’m ready, thank you.’
Christa nodded. ‘Of course, your house, your décor, your timeline.’
He went to speak and then closed his mouth again.
Christa couldn’t help herself. ‘My dad hated Christmas but he learned to love it because I loved it and he made sure I had nice memories, even if he struggled with the season. He didn’t let his own rubbish times affect mine. I was always grateful he put my emotional needs above his own.’
Marc nearly snarled at her, his lip curling. ‘Thank you for your therapy lesson, Christa, but you’re here to cook.’
Christa rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t help yourself can you?’
‘What?’ he said, his eyes narrowed.
‘When people suggest things, or when things aren’t in your control, you act like this. You apologised to me and now you do this again.’
‘It is not your business whether I have a Christmas tree or not.’
She shrugged at him. ‘I know it’s not, but take it from me, your kids will remember not having a tree more than having a tree.’
Marc stalked away and Christa felt a flush through her body. She never spoke to anyone like that but Marc just really made her want to speak her truth. After so many years of not being herself, this new improved version was both thrilling and terrifying.
Men like Marc Ferrier never liked an idea that didn’t come from themselves. He was rude, imperious and moody. Clearly his previous brightness was a rare emotional eclipse. Marc seemed to not like Christmas for whatever reason. Perhaps it had been a hard time for him at some point but it didn’t mean he should deprive the boys of the enjoyment of this time of the year.
At least she could have some fun besides cooking and she could see if there were people in York to help.
She couldn’t help thinking about all the food in the fridges downstairs that would go to waste. There was no way they could eat it all before it went out of date and was ruined.
Christa took off the robe and climbed into bed, and googled Marc Ferrier on her phone.
Notoriously private.
Very few photos of him. None of his ex-wife and children.
He was worth nearly one billion dollars.
Christa put down her phone. It was so much money it was stupid, she thought. No one needed that amount of money and she wondered what he did to help people. That was too much money to spend in a lifetime, just as there was too much food downstairs to eat.
She looked up whether he did any charity work but there was nothing listed. For some reason it made her angry that he wasn’t doing anything to help the world – to fight hunger and poverty.
She turned out the light and lay in bed thinking about all the things she could cook with the food that could go to the homeless or the vulnerable. He wouldn’t even know that it was gone and besides, she reasoned, she wasn’t stealing the food, she was redistributing it, like Robin Hood but of the kitchen.
The thought thrilled her as she pulled the covers up under her chin. Having so much to give away and help so many people? It was a dream come true. She just had to hide it from Marc and the rest of the house. Anyway, who would notice a few things missing from such an overstocked kitchen?
*
Only the twins came to breakfast and they requested pancakes and bacon and maple syrup, which Christa whipped up in no time. She had been up early checking the contents of the fridge, working out what to cook and when before the food went off.
She could make a hearty stew with the beef and Thai chicken patties. And she had a lovely recipe for a goat curry, which she could serve with some naan bread.
She had so many ideas but she also had to see where the need was in York.
There was always need in every city. Always children in shelters, like she had been, eating nervously, looking around and hoping there wasn’t a fight over the gravy or apple pie. Men missing their children, mothers trying to find enough to buy their children something for under the broken tree, if there was a tree.
She hadn’t seen Marc that morning but she had given Peggy a tray with coffee, muesli, fruit and yogurt as requested.
Peggy was now supervising the cleaners who had arrived, looking terrified of her and waiting by the front door.
Christa wasn’t sure where dust would dare to settle under Peggy’s watchful eye but she was grateful Peggy was occupied so she could do some planning for cooking for the house and for organising where she could distribute the excess food.
With the house busy she could drive to York, pick up some containers for food and then drop into a refuge or homeless centre to see if they needed food or whether there was anywhere else she could deliver meals. A sense of purpose for the morning made her feel excited as she looked inside the fridge. So many ideas and since Marc was a wasteful Grinch she felt no guilt about sharing his abundance with people less fortunate than herself.
She checked the time and mentally worked out how long she could be out and explore York and then come back in time to make lunch. It was doable, provided she was efficient.
Peggy came into the kitchen just as she was writing a list.
‘It’s going to snow,’ she announced to Christa.
She looked up. ‘Today?’
‘Not today but soon,’ she said ominously like a human version of a speaking weather predictor machine.
‘They say that every year and it never does.’ She laughed but Peggy stared her down.
‘I am not they,’ she stated. ‘I am never wrong and I know York. Lived here all my life. If I say it’s going to snow then it will snow.’
Christa realised she had offended the woman and changed the topic from weather to food, which might be more soothing to the housekeeper.
‘I have to head into town and pick up a few things,’ she said. ‘I’m going to freeze some stock and make some soups.’
Peggy lifted her chin, clearly insulted by Christa’s inference that she hadn’t bought the right groceries. Obviously this was a touchy topic just like the weather, she thought.
‘If you give me the list I can arrange the items to be delivered to the house. It’s Saturday so you will have to wait till tomorrow for the delivery.’
Christa smiled. ‘No thank you. I like to shop for things myself sometimes so that I get to see local produce and so on.’
Peggy grimaced. ‘Then you’ll want to head to Shambles Market, over on Parliament Street.’
‘A market? I love a market,’ exclaimed Christa. ‘Should I see if the boys want to come?’
Peggy was taking some tea towels from under the sink.
‘Mr Ferrier did say you weren’t here to childmind, remember?’
She left Christa before she could say anything in reply. She knew she wasn’t here to childmind but everyone loved a market and it might be nice to check if the boys wanted to see some of York, but again she reminded herself, this wasn’t her circus and they weren’t her monkeys.
*
The market was as delightful as she had hoped, set next to a cobblestone street with medieval buildings. Christa felt like she had gone back in time. People milled about – both locals and tourists – and there was a lovely Christmas feel that made up for the lack of it at Pudding Hall.
‘Would you like to try some fudge, miss?’ asked an older man as she passed a stall. ‘It’s tusky triangle. Very good this time of year.’
Christa stopped. She had already tried an orange truffle covered in white chocolate and a thick slice of York Cheddar and had drunk a coffee and eaten a blueberry Danish but she was intrigued by the name.
‘A tusky triangle – what a fun name. What is it?’
The man handed her piece. ‘You taste and tell me what you think it is. No one ever gets it right but they always head home with some in their shopping bags.’
Christa took the little napkin with the pinky marbled fudge sitting atop, waiting to be discovered.
She put her shopping down and looked at the fudge and then picked it up took a bite, then she took another bite and then finished the sweet off and wiped her mouth with the napkin.
‘Any guesses?’ asked the man who was old enough to be her father. He had twinkling eyes and a weather-beaten face. She liked his energy immediately.
‘It tastes like champagne but it’s not champagne. It’s tart but it’s not sour. The sweetness comes from the fudge not from the flavouring.’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re closer than most.’
Christa paused and closed her eyes as she tasted the last remnants in her mouth.
‘Rhubarb!’ she exclaimed.
The man cried out, ‘She guessed it, Robert, she guessed the tusky triangle.’
A man from another stall selling gin laughed. ‘You might as well retire now, Petey – she knows your secret.’
‘Aye she does,’ said the man called Petey. He smiled warmly at Christa. ‘And for that, you get a box of assorted fudges, including the mystery one that you guessed.’ He handed Christa a ribbon-wrapped box.
‘That’s so kind but I can pay,’ she said.
‘No, it’s a pleasure to give to someone who knows their rhubarb from their crab apple. And it’s good to be generous at this time of the year, don’t you think?’
Christa placed the box into her shopping bag. ‘I do, thank you. I will come back and buy some more next week. I’m sure these won’t last long with my sweet tooth.’
She was about to keep walking when she thought of a question for Petey.
‘Are there many homeless or people in need around here? I would like to do some volunteering, mainly around food as I am a chef, but I’m not from here and I wasn’t sure if maybe you knew any places or organisations?’
Petey leaned in over the display of fudge. ‘I knew you were special,’ he said and she saw his old blue eyes crinkle as he beamed at her. ‘I help down at St William’s food bus. It’s usually from ten till midnight. I used to help a few times a month but since the weather has been cold and people are away for Christmas it’s been hard to get people to help or even provide food.’
‘Oh yes, I want to help; I need to help. I’m Christa Playfoot. I’m new in town,’ she said to him. ‘Who can I call?’
Petey was writing down a name and number on the back of a brown paper bag.
‘Call Zane, he’s the social worker who runs the bus and outreach programme. He’s a good fellow and he will guide you. Tell him Petey told you to call.’
Christa carefully folded the paper and tucked it into her purse.
‘You are a dream, Petey, thank you.’
‘And you, Christa, are a gift to me and to the people of York. Welcome.’
Petey’s Tusky Triangle Fudge
Ingredients
1kg/2¼lbs of fresh rhubarb, chopped
2 cups white sugar
2 teaspoons grated orange zest
1/3 cup orange juice
½ cup water
340ml/11½fl oz evaporated milk (unsweetened condensed milk)
600g/21oz caster sugar
30g/1oz butter
275g/9¾oz of the rhubarb mixture
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Method
- In a saucepan, combine the rhubarb, sugar, orange zest, orange juice and water. Bring to a boil, then cook over medium-low heat for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until thick. It will thicken more as it cools.
- Butter a 23x23 cm (9x9 in) dish.
- Combine evaporated milk, sugar and butter in a large saucepan over medium heat; boil. Stir in rhubarb mixture and lemon juice. Heat, stirring constantly, to between 235 and 240ºC (455 and 464ºF), or until a small amount of the mixture dropped into cold water forms a soft ball that flattens when removed from the water and placed on a flat surface.
- Remove from heat and quickly spread in prepared dish. Allow to cool before cutting and serving.