Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall

by Kate Forster

  ‘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

  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.

  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.

  9

  Marc was still awake when Christa’s car came up the driveway. He checked the time. One in the morning. Whatever professional event she had been at ran late, he thought and then checked himself. It was none of his business but still it made him curious. She said she didn’t know anyone in York and now she was out at events until one in the morning.

  Leaving his office, he entered the foyer of the house just as Christa walked inside.

  ‘Oh hello, I hope I didn’t wake you,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all, I was finishing some work and about to head to bed but was going to turn the tree lights off first.’

  Christa looked at the tree. ‘It’s a magnificent tree. The boys did a beautiful job.’

  Marc looked up at the tree that was twinkling in the semi darkness. The scent of the pine was soothing and the little angel on top was looking down at them.

  ‘Even for a Scrooge like me, this is pretty nice,’ he said with a small laugh.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked him. ‘I’m going to make a decaf one. Always helps me sleep.’

  Marc was tired but he wanted to stay up with Christa.

  ‘Love one, although I hate tea. Can I have coffee?’

  Christa turned to him as she opened the kitchen door. ‘Coffee? At this time? Will you sleep?’

  Marc shrugged. ‘I’ll get a few hours’ sleep – it’s okay.’

  He turned on the kitchen lights and Christa made them their drinks and sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘I can smell sausages,’ Marc said, sniffing the air. ‘Did you eat sausages tonight?’ He paused. ‘God sorry, that was rude. It’s a nice smell, just in case you were worried.’

  Christa laughed. ‘That’s good to know. Yes, there were sausages at the event I attended.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a black-tie affair I guess?’ he teased.

  ‘Are you saying sausages can’t be fancy?’ she said, pretending to be offended. ‘Not everything is foie gras and caviar in the world.’

  Marc laughed. ‘I actually hate both of those things.’

  Christa took the fudge out of the fridge and he watched her carefully cut the remaining pieces into little squares. ‘Don’t worry I won’t give you the rhubarb one,’ she said as she put down the plate.

  Marc looked at the plate and took a small piece of chocolate fudge and popped it in his mouth.

  ‘The tree was a good idea. Thanks for the push,’ he said.

  Christa pulled off her woolly hat and he watched her hair stick up with the static as she sipped her tea. ‘It wasn’t a push, it was a suggestion.’

  ‘Thanks for the suggestion then,’ he said supressing the desire to smooth her hair down.

  ‘So, what’s your Christmas battle scar?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked but he knew what she really wanted to know.

  ‘Why you hate Christmas so much? Was it terrible behaviour from family? Poverty? Addiction? Mine was poverty and addiction. Dad was an alcoholic. He eventually got sober but we had a rough few years there for a while.’

  ‘Um…’ he said, thinking. ‘I try not to think about it too much. There’s not much happy stuff in the memory board.’

  Christa picked up a piece of the rhubarb fudge. ‘You don’t have to answer. I was just curious. I’m nosy. I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I know I’ve been giving mixed messages about Christmas.’

  Christa laughed but not meanly. ‘You don’t want a tree, then you buy the biggest one ever cut down. You say no decorations and now the house is beginning to look like Santa’s wonderland. It’s hard to stay on what is what day to day.’

  Marc put his head down on the table. ‘I know, I know.’ He raised his head and looked up at her. ‘I’ve been pretty crazy.’

  And she smiled at him so kindly he thought she might already know his life story but he knew that would be impossible.

  ‘Not crazy, but I have learned the more you try and push the memories away, the more they come shooting back like a pinball in a machine, harder and faster every time you try and avoid them.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘So put me in the second category. Parents who spent their money at the bar instead of on food or even a small present under a shitty plastic tree is what I dealt with. Three younger siblings who didn’t know anything about what was going on and me trying to keep them fed with my money as a delivery boy. I think I hoped it was all fake. Then I would be the one who knew better, you know?’

  He looked down at his coffee, thinking about the debt collectors coming on Christmas Eve and taking the car. The one thing they had that made life easy for them to get to the shops or Dad to get some work as a handyman. Without the car they were stuck in the outskirts of Los Angeles and without a car, they were sitting ducks for homelessness.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You deserved better than that. So did your siblings.’

  He nodded. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Was Christmas especially difficult? Besides it being your birthday, which is what date, by the way?’

  Christa smiled at him. ‘Christmas Eve. Which is why I am called Christa.’

  ‘A Christmas Eve baby. Did you hate it growing up, having to share your birthday with a baby named Jesus?’

  ‘Not at all. My dad was great about it. We always had a separate celebration and presents.’

  ‘And your mom?’ he asked.

  ‘She died when I was four. I don’t really have any memories of her but I know I was loved. I guess that matters doesn’t it? Knowing you are loved and cared for?’

  Marc thought back to the apocalyptical fights with his parents and the police coming and the arguments and the violence between his parents at Christmas. It was strange how it could be such a special date for someone and the worst date for another.

  ‘Yes
, you’re right. I hope my boys know they’re loved. I’m not always great at telling them. I need to get better at it.’

  She smiled at him. ‘They’re such great kids, Marc. Honestly, they’re a delight.’

  ‘That’s not something I hear very often,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to hear.’

  A sadness washed over him. He looked at Christa. ‘What is it about you that makes me want to tell you my whole life story? You’re like some sort of emotional siren.’

  The blush on Christa’s neck rose again. ‘Oh I don’t know, people do seem to tell me things. I guess I’m just a good listener?’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘You get it, whatever “it” is.’

  He hoped he wasn’t coming across too strong. He wasn’t even flirting; he was being his true self and it felt foreign and yet liberating. He didn’t talk about his feelings to people, especially people who worked for him, but Christa wasn’t here for long and she challenged him in a way that wasn’t combative but instead thoughtful and putting the boys first.

  Her finger was circling the rim of the tea mug, slowly as though she was performing telekinesis on the cup. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a small whirlpool in the cup.

  ‘My dad went through some tough times. As I said, Dad struggled with alcohol. I mean it can’t have been easy raising me from so young and trying to keep up with bills and rent and trying to grieve for your wife.’

  Marc nodded. He knew what it was like to have alcohol ruin a childhood.

  ‘When I was nine, we didn’t have any money or food, or heating, so Dad took me to the shelter for Christmas lunch. I remember thinking it would be awful but it wasn’t. I mean it wasn’t the Pudding Hall experience but it was okay.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ asked Marc.

  Christa paused for a moment, as though gathering her thoughts.

  ‘I remember the presents,’ she said and smiled at the memory. ‘There was one that set my course to sail to where I am now actually.’