Recipes for Melissa

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘No – my lovely man. I know that’s not how you see me,’ she topped up her wine and then ran a finger around the rim. ‘You do know, Max, that I still see other people. Just occasionally. And I have no problem with you doing the same.’

  They had discussed this before and Max had never quite known how to feel about it.

  ‘I really thought that I did not want to be in love again, Sophie.’

  ‘Ah. That old thing.’

  ‘Yes. That old thing. I really did think that after Deborah and the way that all went so horribly wrong, I would face up to it. That Eleanor was IT. And that you don’t have to keep on looking.’

  ‘And now I hear the but?’

  Max looked down at their plates. He had finished his already – sea bass fillet with ginger and spring onions. Light. Lovely. Sophie had chosen partridge roasted with juniper and thyme and was toying with the final slithers. There was a bleep from his phone then.

  ‘Sorry. Very rude but do you mind if I quickly check this? I’m waiting on a message from Melissa.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  It was a text from her at last. All fine. Stop worrying xx He shook his head.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah fine. She’s fine.’ He put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Look, Max. I know I’ve said this before but there are so many kinds of caring, and the version we have isn’t wrong.’

  ‘I know that, Sophie. And I have treasured it. And I have gone over it a million times in my head. But I know that all the time that I am seeing you… Well. It just doesn’t feel right any more.’

  He wanted to add that there was this void; this gaping hole right inside him which he just couldn’t fill up no matter how many rocks he threw and how far he bloody ran.

  Sophie put her cutlery together on her plate and patted her mouth with the crisp, damask napkin. She looked away to the roar of the fire and then back.

  ‘Is there someone else? Another Deborah?’

  ‘No. Not really. Not yet. The problem is that I have surprised myself by feeling again lately that there could be. Or rather that, if I am being honest with myself, I would still like there to be. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘I gave up trying to make sense of you a long time ago, Max.’

  He smiled. ‘And now you are sounding like Melissa.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want to stay friends, Max? To wait a bit. See how this maps out?’

  He shook his head slowly and so she took a deep breath and reached into her embroidered purse to produce a card. ‘My next exhibition. There’s a painting I would like you to have. A little parting gift, if you like.’

  ‘No, no. I couldn’t. Sophie. Absolutely not. This is hard enough…’

  ‘You will like it. And if you care for me at all, Max, then you will listen. These have been happy times for me. We are very different. I always knew that, but I will miss you and it will make me feel better if you will take this. I will leave the painting for you to collect on the Friday. I won’t be there. But I would like you to see the exhibition. Will you do that for me?’

  He looked at the card. It was a few weeks away – at a gallery nearby.

  ‘And don’t look so worried. It’s not a trap. I’m not trying to lure you back. I’m just trying to say goodbye properly, Max,’ she clinked her wine glass to his water glass and tilted her head. ‘To say thank you.’

  14

  MELISSA – 2011

  The second night on the sofa bed and Melissa was relieved again for the space to think. Sam’s leg was still very sore but, with the strong painkillers, he was at least getting by. But he was unhappy with the separate sleeping – also the excuses she was making to buy privacy for the journal. Melissa had no idea what to do about this.

  During the day, Sam now sat mostly in the shade by the pool and Melissa had taken to hiding behind novels, insisting that he needed to do the same. To just chill to get over the accident. The truth – that she badly needed space herself to digest all that had happened. The accident. The dream. The journal. But Sam was unsurprisingly both agitated and uncomfortable in the heat and she would often catch him watching her and frowning. She was now worrying he would go stir-crazy if they just stayed in Polis and so put forward some ideas for trips. But this had not gone down well either.

  Sam clearly wanted to talk. She didn’t.

  Over the past couple of days, Melissa had found herself, on top of everything else, obsessing about a box in their garage back home. It was one of three which Max had brought over from his own outhouse storage when they moved into the flat. Two of the boxes contained useful bits and pieces – lamps and bedding and old schoolbooks and mementos which she had unpacked long ago. But the third, to her surprise, contained her mother’s old cooking equipment. Max had packed some of it away soon after Eleanor died. His argument was there was way too much of it for the cupboards – the truth obvious even to the young Melissa. It all upset him. When he brought the boxes over, he said that Melissa should feel free to give anything she didn’t want to a charity shop. Even before the book, she had found the sight of her mother’s kitchen equipment unsettling and upsetting. The old tins and boxes and the familiar Kenwood Chef mixer, wrapped for protection in a towel. She didn’t want to bring them up to the flat. But there was no way she could part with them either.

  Now, smoothing the cover on the sofa bed, she was trying desperately to picture the contents of the box in greater detail. Melissa turned her head and for a moment had this sudden glimpse – a clear picture of her mother chattering away while holding a damp cloth, wiping splatters from around the switch of the mixer. She would do this every time she finished with it. Wipe over the white surface and the pale blue trim until it gleamed, folding the dishcloth carefully over so that she could run it around the joins and the very edge of the switch, to tease out any stray flour or sugar.

  Melissa felt the now familiar paradox. The knot deep inside. Not knowing if she wanted to think of this. Or not. She waited until there was the gentle rhythm of Sam’s snore then moved slowly and quietly out to the balcony, taking her mother’s book with her.

  She kept the grey silk pouch close by the rattan chair so that she could conceal the book if Sam stirred. Melissa sat for a while not quite ready to read. She stared at the cover, wondering again if at home she would have simply thrown a sickie from work. Read it straight through. Cover to cover. Maybe. Probably not. Still she was so very disorientated by all these emotions it stirred.

  All day she had been thinking about the dream. Wondering if it would come back again if she read on? Again unsure if this was something that she wanted now. Or not?

  Melissa kept very still and listened. Nothing. And she would hear the sliding door if Sam stirred and came through from the bedroom.

  She looked out across the dusty vegetation to the sea in the distance – the half-moon low in the sky. Normally she loved this abroad. The warmth of the night. The faint scent of the ocean and the hum of the crickets. But tonight it brought no calmness at all.

  Melissa was not religious. She did not believe in interventions or fate or anything of that kind. But she was wondering about timing and about chance. That they should have been there on that road in the mountain at that precise time.

  To think that if they had drunk just one more coffee before they left Polis. Stayed a few more minutes in the church.

  Melissa closed her eyes again to the scenes from the other version of the accident – the one in which there was no stranger and no dive – pulling her wrap tighter around her waist until her knuckles turned white. And then she looked down, took a very deep breath and moved the postcard she was using as a bookmark, to turn the page.

  * * *

  Strawberry Jam

  2lbs strawberries (not too ripe)

  1.5lbs granulated sugar (no need for jam sugar)

  Juice of one lemon

  Three saucers placed in freezer

  Confidence!!!!

  Chop str
awberries in half and leave coated in the sugar for a few hours or overnight (this will help them keep shape). When ready to make the jam, use a large and sturdy pan. Warm fruit + sugar very gently over a low heat until ALL the sugar has dissolved. Then add lemon juice and turn up heat to a rapid boil. Time for 8 mins and take off the heat. Use one of the cold saucers next: put a teaspoon of jam on the cold saucer and leave for a minute. Push with finger… if there is a soft, wrinkly skin you have a set. If not? Rapid boil for 3 mins and try again. And again if necessary. Once you have a set, allow mix to cool for 10 mins and then put into jam jars which have been washed and warmed in an oven to make them sterile. Ta dah!!!

  My lovely girl. I know exactly what you are thinking. Jam? Are you mad? This is not the WI. I am 25. There is no way I am going to make jam.

  Please, I beg you, go with me on this one! I decided to try making jam after a few of those splendid holidays to Porthleven. Do you remember? The owner of the cottage would always leave out a cream tea set on a tray with home-made jam like nothing we had ever tasted. Anyway. I persuaded her to share her own recipe, which is a take on a classic apparently. She makes it in small batches as she enjoys it so much. So this is a cheat… not some family secret but rather something special from our past.

  The first time I made it, it took 8 mins + 3 mins + 3 mins. The second batch was different: only 8 mins + 3 mins. So it’s not an exact science and that is partly the appeal. I can’t recommend highly enough the sense of achievement when you get it right. So I am passing it on because I hope it will remind you of very happy times.

  And I have decided this entry is to be cheerful only. No sorries. No sadness. Just a little nudge to point you to the things we so loved.

  Oh Melissa – do you remember cricket on the beach in Cornwall? Do you remember how terribly seriously Daddy took it all and how wound up he got that we both found it so hard to hit the bloody ball?

  ‘If you would just CONCENTRATE, girls!’ And then, poor darling, he would be so offended. ‘Why are you laughing at me? I am trying to teach you something important here. And you think this is funny?’

  Do you remember those enormous pasties from the bakery along the seafront? With huge chunks of swede and potato. Very, very peppery. Daddy would always buy three exactly the same size (for which read HUGE) and I would always say – shall we get a smaller one for Melissa? And he would say – oh, no. I’m sure she’s hungrier than you realise – so that he would have the excuse to finish yours as well as his own. Bless.

  Do you remember the Snow White costume I made you for the fair day competition in school? God – I was so proud of that costume. You looked just edible, Melissa, and then the stupid judges thought that we had bought it so you didn’t get a prize and I was so disappointed for you… and I was thinking we may as well have let you wear the costume we bought in Disney. All those hours at the sewing machine!

  What else? Oh – yes. I am hoping that you will remember the skittles. Cue the child psychologists – but this is actually quite interesting. You see I read somewhere when you were very little that working mums need to be very careful not to fall into ‘later, darling’ speak. Always so busy, busy, busy. Always a million things to do. As I said before, I am writing a special section about modern motherhood (the warts ‘n all version) at the back of the book. But this reference belongs here.

  You see I wanted to set a good example to you by working and doing something I am passionate about. For me that is education. Continuing with my teaching. But even with all the school holidays sorted, it turned out to be busier and much, much harder than I had expected. To work and mother, I mean.

  So back to this ‘later, darling’ tip. I read that it is important to regularly play with your child until they are sick to the back teeth of you. Not every time (because you just won’t have time) but often enough for the child to get the message that they are your priority (which I promise you are).

  So I picked skittles. You had this really beautiful painted wooden set given to you by my father. Every week we would set them up in the long hallway and I would earmark the time to play until YOU wanted to stop. That’s the trick apparently.

  And what a revelation.

  I admit that with a lot of other things, I had to take the lead on moving on. Putting games away to get the supper. Putting the book away to get you to sleep. Turning off the television, to help you with your homework. Sitting you in front of a video while I marked books.

  But with skittles, I made sure you were the boss. Again? Of course. And again? Why not?

  * * *

  Melissa closed the book. Her pulse in her ear again. She was entirely surprised now by her surroundings. The veranda. The temperature dropping just enough for her to notice the breeze. Until now, she had completely forgotten about the skittles and so it was just like the cupcakes picture. The cue. She was remembering how her mother’s knees cracked sometimes as she stood up to set up the skittles once more. Over and over. And the fact that she had not thought of this before – not ever – made her feel both disorientated. Smiling inwardly and yet also guilty somehow.

  Why did she not remember these things before? Why?

  And then, for just an absolute blink, she became conscious of another sensation. Turning the page back to the recipe and at first remembering the noise. It’s a rolling boil. Look, Melissa. The bubbling and the sweet stickiness of the jam. The memory of the smell. And then it was exactly like that moment when you are trying to remember someone’s name and it almost comes to you and you turn your head, trying to grasp the information. Suck it back to you.

  Melissa turned her head once more and felt it again but only very fleetingly. Gone before she could hold it. Acknowledge the sensation properly. A shiver ran through her then, and not from the breeze, as Melissa closed her eyes to the realisation of what it was.

  For one fleeting and tantalising moment it was like remembering what it actually felt like to have her mother in the same room.

  Not a memory. Not a picture. The actual feeling.

  Melissa quickly placed the book back into the grey pouch and zipped it closed. She cleared her throat. She stood at the balcony railing for a short time, taking in the cooler air to temper her breathing and then moved back into the sitting room and set up her laptop on the coffee table.

  She clenched her right hand and could feel the nails pressing into her palm. But it was not like the dream, this. The voice of the book made it feel different somehow and Melissa found now that she very much wanted the feeling back. Yes. She was thinking that she could Google the cottage in Cornwall. Find a picture of the kitchen. The tray with the scones and the jam… She typed into the search bar quickly but then the external light on the balcony – visible through the patio doors – suddenly began to flicker. Instantly the internet connection died.

  Shit.

  Melissa tried quickly to reconnect.

  No Wi-Fi detected

  She tried to set it up again – fumbling for the apartment information folder and the password. But nothing.

  It was gone now. The moment. The frisson. The memory and the scent of the jam.

  All of it.

  Gone.

  15

  MAX – 2011

  Max left early for his run to put in an extra two k. He set off feeling that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, that he had finally done the right thing and that he was capable of putting things back on track. OK, so he might be lonely for a bit. OK, so he would miss the sex. He was human. He was a guy. But he had been thinking about this for a long time and he felt better. Lighter. Yes. He had absolutely done the right thing.

  Fast forward an hour and Max sat staring at his stopwatch at the kitchen table in abject disbelief. He could not possibly have taken that long to do just 5 k. Christ. If it really took him that long, he was going backwards.

  Max closed his eyes, feeling the sweat running down his back. Nice one. You are past it. Losing it. Not just your physical fitness but the plot. You have w
aved goodbye to possibly the only decent woman who is going to give you the time of day, let alone climb into your bed. You are going grey, you are losing fitness, your daughter no longer answers your texts ipso facto you are now one hundred per cent on your fucking lonesome.

  For a full ten minutes he sat, numbed by the pendulum of these emotions, staring blankly at the knots in the oak of the wooden floor. He wondered if this was what depression felt like – this ability to sit still for so very long without any inclination to move. Or was this just another symptom of true middle age? The dreaded slide.

  For just one moment of panic he considered phoning Sophie and confessing that he had made the most terrible mistake but – no. That, he reflected, would not help either.

  The truth was very simple because Max was actually quite a simple soul. He still missed Eleanor…

  Even after all these years, he missed simply being with her. He missed all the little and everyday things about their marriage that he had so taken for granted.

  Max looked across the room at the large frame which featured a montage of pictures from that other version of himself. Max on his wedding day. Max with Melissa asleep on his chest as a tiny baby. Max in charge of cricket on the beach in Cornwall. He remembered with a pang of discomfort how sometimes in that other hectic life he had both longed for and luxuriated in the small windows of time to himself. His run. His drive in the car to the university.

  And now? When your child finally outgrew you and those small windows of solitude got bigger and bigger and bigger?

  Fuck you – fate.

  Just fuck you.

  In the shower, he turned the heat up too high so that his flesh was scalded an alarming red by the time he realised – shit – that he had pushed his luck and would now, on top of everything, be up against it for his first lecture.

  In his office, realising there would be no time for coffee, he was just thinking that things could not possibly get any worse…