a smile. ‘That would be great. Thank you.’
Alison nodded and drifted off down the hall, leaving the door ajar. ‘I’ll get some soup,’ she said as she went down the stairs.
Alex groaned and laid her head back on the pillow. One reason she had lost her appetite was the impact of Sue’s cooking. Sue was not, by her own assertion, a domesticated sort of woman and for the first few months as Alex’s lodgerhad managed to avoid preparing anything more complicated than tea and toast. Alex didn’t mind the arrangement in the least. For her, cooking was a way of relaxing after the stresses of the day. She loved to prepare and serve food and Sue had developed into a handy kitchen helper, quite happy to clear away and wash up afterwards. Faced with having to make a meal for them both, however, Sue’s meagre culinary skills were stretched beyond bearing. She had started by preparing relatively simple café staples – sausage, egg and toast, beans on toast, soggy bacon and toast.
Even in the best of health Alex would have struggled with some of these offerings, as Sue found it almost impossible to get her timing right. Invariably, one element would be charred and another stone cold, if not half-raw. Then Sue discovered soup and for several days had produced dishes of highly coloured, over-salted liquid, often cold, with the inevitable burnt toast. Recently, she had been getting bolder and several nights ago she had conjured up a supermarket cauliflower cheese with a very pink chop on top.
Alex tried to be appreciative. After all, she knew how hard her friend was trying, but when the left-overs appeared boiled up as ‘soup’ the next day, she abandoned all pretence and flatly refused to even have the tray on the bed. Sue was deeply hurt and they spent the evening in separate rooms, barely wishing one another ‘goodnight’. Still, Alex thought, setting Alison on her was going too far.
There was a scuffling outside and Alex braced herself as the door swung back and Alison shuffled sideways into the room lugging a tray.
‘Are you comfortable or do you need to be propped up a bit?’ she asked, juggling her burden.
Alex sat up straight hoping she managed to at least get the tray down safely – she had no desire to be ‘wearing’ whatever Alison had unearthed in the kitchen. As her lunch appeared before her Alex widened her eyes in surprise. Soup, yes, but nothing resembling Sue’s efforts. A serving of fresh vegetables with bits of chicken and noodles steamed in a large whitebeaker, golden croutons bobbing in the fragrant liquid. Several slices of crusty bread spread with butter were fanned out invitingly on a small plate and the spoon was wrapped in a crisp napkin. She blinked and glanced up at Alison who was eyeing the tray critically.
‘I thought it would be easier to manage a mug in bed,’ she said. ‘There’s more bread if you want it and I’ve made some vanilla pudding to follow. Sue said no coffee but I could get you some tea if you like.’
Alex stared at her and then nodded eagerly. ‘Wow,’ she said, picking up the spoon. ‘Hey, this is really great. Where did you get the soup – it’s marvellous?’
Alison stopped at the door. ‘I made it,’ she said in a voice that suggested she’d just missed off ‘of course’. ‘My Gran always made us chicken soup when we were ill and she showed me how before she died. She called it “Jewish penicillin ”. You have one sugar, right?’
Alex nodded again, her mouth full as she tried not to bolt the first decent meal she’d had in over a week.
‘Okay. I’ll bring a pudding up shall I?’ said Alison, disappearing down the stairs again.
Later that afternoon, Alex lay, drowsy and pleasantly full, contemplating the puzzle that was other people. Take Alison, for example. She seemed equally satisfied with herself however she did something. Good or bad, well done or shoddily, Alison wandered through life seemingly untouched by other people’s
Alison nodded and drifted off down the hall, leaving the door ajar. ‘I’ll get some soup,’ she said as she went down the stairs.
Alex groaned and laid her head back on the pillow. One reason she had lost her appetite was the impact of Sue’s cooking. Sue was not, by her own assertion, a domesticated sort of woman and for the first few months as Alex’s lodgerhad managed to avoid preparing anything more complicated than tea and toast. Alex didn’t mind the arrangement in the least. For her, cooking was a way of relaxing after the stresses of the day. She loved to prepare and serve food and Sue had developed into a handy kitchen helper, quite happy to clear away and wash up afterwards. Faced with having to make a meal for them both, however, Sue’s meagre culinary skills were stretched beyond bearing. She had started by preparing relatively simple café staples – sausage, egg and toast, beans on toast, soggy bacon and toast.
Even in the best of health Alex would have struggled with some of these offerings, as Sue found it almost impossible to get her timing right. Invariably, one element would be charred and another stone cold, if not half-raw. Then Sue discovered soup and for several days had produced dishes of highly coloured, over-salted liquid, often cold, with the inevitable burnt toast. Recently, she had been getting bolder and several nights ago she had conjured up a supermarket cauliflower cheese with a very pink chop on top.
Alex tried to be appreciative. After all, she knew how hard her friend was trying, but when the left-overs appeared boiled up as ‘soup’ the next day, she abandoned all pretence and flatly refused to even have the tray on the bed. Sue was deeply hurt and they spent the evening in separate rooms, barely wishing one another ‘goodnight’. Still, Alex thought, setting Alison on her was going too far.
There was a scuffling outside and Alex braced herself as the door swung back and Alison shuffled sideways into the room lugging a tray.
‘Are you comfortable or do you need to be propped up a bit?’ she asked, juggling her burden.
Alex sat up straight hoping she managed to at least get the tray down safely – she had no desire to be ‘wearing’ whatever Alison had unearthed in the kitchen. As her lunch appeared before her Alex widened her eyes in surprise. Soup, yes, but nothing resembling Sue’s efforts. A serving of fresh vegetables with bits of chicken and noodles steamed in a large whitebeaker, golden croutons bobbing in the fragrant liquid. Several slices of crusty bread spread with butter were fanned out invitingly on a small plate and the spoon was wrapped in a crisp napkin. She blinked and glanced up at Alison who was eyeing the tray critically.
‘I thought it would be easier to manage a mug in bed,’ she said. ‘There’s more bread if you want it and I’ve made some vanilla pudding to follow. Sue said no coffee but I could get you some tea if you like.’
Alex stared at her and then nodded eagerly. ‘Wow,’ she said, picking up the spoon. ‘Hey, this is really great. Where did you get the soup – it’s marvellous?’
Alison stopped at the door. ‘I made it,’ she said in a voice that suggested she’d just missed off ‘of course’. ‘My Gran always made us chicken soup when we were ill and she showed me how before she died. She called it “Jewish penicillin ”. You have one sugar, right?’
Alex nodded again, her mouth full as she tried not to bolt the first decent meal she’d had in over a week.
‘Okay. I’ll bring a pudding up shall I?’ said Alison, disappearing down the stairs again.
Later that afternoon, Alex lay, drowsy and pleasantly full, contemplating the puzzle that was other people. Take Alison, for example. She seemed equally satisfied with herself however she did something. Good or bad, well done or shoddily, Alison wandered through life seemingly untouched by other people’s
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