Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

8

On Monday morning, Christa called the number Petey had given her and asked for Zane. She had spent Sunday evening cooking two roast chickens with all the trimmings for the family and had eaten with them but quickly cleaned up after and headed upstairs.

‘Sorry, Zane is out but he can return your call when he’s back. What’s your number?’ said the person on the end of the line.

Christa gave her number and then put down the phone.

She felt slightly dithery, hoping Marc would come into the kitchen but also hoping he didn’t because she needed to get on with her work.

She would make some stock for the soups using the quail, which would give her a beautiful broth.

Soon she had the birds in the roasting pan and in the oven. Then she started chopping the onions, carrots, celery and garlic. She used the fresh parsley from the market and the pig’s foot she had bought at the butcher before she’d seen Marc and the boys. Then she dug into the shopping bag, hoping she hadn’t lost the precious small ingredient.

‘There you are,’ she said and she opened the bag and held it to her nose and took a deep inhalation and then sighed.

‘Wow. Seems like you have some good stuff there. Is it legal?’ she heard Marc’s voice say and she felt her stomach flip.

Damn, it was a crush. How embarrassing.

Pulling the bag away from her nose, she handed it to him. ‘Take a sniff and tell me what you think it is.’

‘Oh a sniff test – I’m good at this. I once smelled a baloney sandwich that had been in my sister’s school backpack for a full semester.’

He held the bag to his nose and closed his eyes.

‘I can smell…’ he opened his eyes and looked at her ‘…spice. Wood. Something like incense but not cheap stuff like at Venice Beach but something like I smelled in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco.’

Christa wasn’t sure if he was being pretentious or silly but he seemed serious.

‘They’re juniper berries,’ she said.

Marc seemed thrilled with this news.

‘Oh my God, I’m gifted. There were juniper bushes where I was. These super rare ones that I was asked to help fund a protection programme for.’

‘Did you?’ asked Christa, trying to get her head around what he was saying. ‘Fund the bushes?’

‘Of course. I love gin,’ he said and then he laughed.

For a moment she thought about telling him her plans to cook for others with his food but how could she say it without sounding like a thief or as though she was judging him for having so much more than others. She would tell him, she thought, eventually, when she found the right time. She needed to think about it, she told herself. But deep inside, she knew she was avoiding it because he’d probably think she was some sad do-gooder who was trying to make him feel guilty about having so much. Who was she to think she could solve homelessness and world hunger, like a foodie Bob Geldof?

She opened the oven and turned the meat, making sure she was scraping up all the bits caught on the pan.

‘That smells incredible,’ he said. Peering into the pan. ‘Is it for dinner?’

‘No, it’s stock for soup.’ She shoved the pan back in and closed the door and her phone rang.

She picked it up and answered, ‘Zane, how are you? Can you hold a minute?’

She put her hand over the receiver. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ She took the phone and walked outside, shocked at how cold the air was and wishing she had her coat but Marc was inside the kitchen now. He was looking inside the refrigerator, which was his right, but she wished he would go away at least until she had spoken to Zane.

‘Hi, Zane, I’m Christa. Petey from the market gave me your details. He said you might be looking for volunteers?’

‘Yes, we are actually. What sort of help are you hoping to give?’ Zane asked.

‘I’m a chef, so I can cook some of the food, like soups or stews and I can help in the van a few nights for the next few weeks. I’m not in York for long but I was helping homeless people in London and I want to support the people of York.’

‘That sounds incredible, Christa. Do you want to come down tonight and see what we do? Say nine o’clock?’

‘Yes! I would love to,’ she said seeing Marc now eating the fudge from the refrigerator.

‘I’ll text you the address to this phone number and remember to dress for warmth. Those night winds can be deadly.’

Christa knew this wasn’t just a figure of speech. The cold air would actually give people hypothermia and she had heard of dead bodies being discovered in parks and on benches during very brutal winters.

She shoved her phone in her pocket and went back into the warm kitchen.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Marc.

‘Fine, I will be heading out after dinner tonight, if that’s okay with you. I don’t think you need me once the boys are all sorted and in bed.’

Marc’s eyes looked away from her and seemed to settle on something outside.

‘That’s fine. I hope you have a nice time.’ His jaw was set now and Christa knew he wasn’t happy with something. His mood had changed.

‘It’s professional not personal,’ she said. Though she knew she didn’t need to justify it, she wanted to.

‘That’s fine. You’re an adult; you can do what you like.’ His hands were in the pockets of his jeans now. ‘I came down to ask you if you can please arrange a cake for Adam. It’s his birthday tomorrow. He loves chocolate and drama, so if you can work with that brief, it would mean a lot to him.’

Christa laughed. ‘Cakes, chocolate and drama are my specialty. Consider it done,’ she said.

Marc walked to the door of the kitchen. ‘I ate some of the fudge also – hope that’s okay. Did you make it?’

Christa smiled at him. ‘I bought it for everyone from the market actually. I was going to share it after dinner tonight with coffee.’

Marc nodded. ‘It was okay. I think I ate one that was sour. Tasted like my grandmother’s rhubarb strudel, one of my most hated desserts as a kid.’

‘That’s exactly what the pink one is. It’s very hard to pick, according to the man who sold me the fudge. You picked rhubarb and the juniper berries – you must have the nose for it after all.’

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.

‘Get some food for the girl and then yourself and take a seat,’ a man said, wearing a red paper crown, with a name tag that read ‘Dennis’.

They walked to the bain-marie and Christa looked inside the glass windows, the heat welcome as she peered at the choices.

‘What can I get you, love?’ said a woman who was wearing a Santa hat and a slash of orange lipstick.

‘Christa?’ She heard her name and she returned back to the present.

‘Yes, sorry,’ she said to Zane who was in front of her, trying to get her attention.

‘Petey is ready for you to jump in whenever you’re ready,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she said and she rushed to Petey’s side.

‘It’s a Monday, so we usually get around one-fifty or so. It’s cold so they might be more likely to come tonight, especially if they hear about the soup you made,’ said Petey kindly. ‘It’s not only rough sleepers. It’s parents struggling to feed their kids for the week, or pensioners who can’t make ends meet. We’ll package them up with some food boxes also.’ He pointed to the shopping bags already tied up, filled with pantry items that she could see through the plastic.

Christa felt silly not realising how many people they helped and she wished she had made more but they seemed to have enough food judging by the number of pots and containers heading out the door.

Soon the van was loaded up and Christa was offered the passenger seat next to Zane while the other volunteers sat inside the van.

Zane turned to Christa. ‘You warm enough?’

‘I hope so,’ she said. She had on her pink puffa jacket, thermals, her beanie and gloves and boots with warm socks.

‘Okay then.’ Zane started the van. ‘You ready to help some people?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Christa and she felt that for the first time, she was doing what she was meant to do in life.

Italian Vegetable Soup

Ingredients

2 each of onions and carrots, chopped

4 sticks celery, chopped

1 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp sugar

4 garlic cloves, crushed

2 tbsp tomato purée

2 bay leaves

few sprigs thyme

3 courgettes, chopped

400g/14oz can butter beans, drained

400g/14oz can chopped tomatoes

1.2 litres/40½fl oz vegetable stock

100g/3½oz Parmesan or vegetarian equivalent, grated

140g/5oz small pasta shapes

small bunch basil, shredded

Method

1. Gently cook the onion, carrots and celery in the oil in a large saucepan for 20 minutes, until soft. Splash in water if they stick. Add the sugar, garlic, purée, herbs and courgettes and cook for 4–5 minutes on a medium heat until they brown a little.
2. Pour in the beans, tomatoes and stock, then simmer for 20 minutes. If you’re freezing it, cool and do so now (freeze for up to three months). If not, add half the Parmesan and the pasta and simmer for 6–8 minutes until the pasta is cooked. Sprinkle with basil and remaining Parmesan to serve. If frozen, defrost then reheat before adding pasta and cheese and continuing as above.