The stupid dog lay on the doormat waiting for her, leaping to attention as she hobbled up the path. Today’s walk had been a complete disaster. With some effort she peeled off her filthy jeans, abandoning them on the doorstep to examine the damage. A livid bruise, purple with a smaller red centre, crowned her knee.
‘Oh dear, had an accident, have we?’ a hearty voice hailed her from the other side of the fence.
Startled, she looked up, tugging down her jumper to midthigh. At this rate if she wasn’t careful, she was going to get a reputation as the local flasher.
‘Something like that.’ Ella gave the man leaning on the fence a terse smile.
‘Your mother popped by, left you a few things. They’re in my fridge, I’ll just get them.’
Suddenly the man reappeared, walking down the garden path with a Waitrose carrier bag in one hand, the other awkwardly tucked behind his back. ‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Your mother dropped it round earlier. I’m George. I live next door. You have been in the wars. Smell a bit ripe too.’
‘I fell over.’ And landed in possibly the biggest cowpat on the planet after which the bloody dog had run off.
Forcing her fascinated gaze away from his virulent mustard-yellow cardigan, Ella took in the features of the older man. Extremely tall and thin, his lined nut-brown skin reminiscent of bark, he made her think of one of Tolkien’s Ents, a real-life tree man.
‘I keep an eye on the place when Magda’s not about. Take in parcels.’ He paused and then with a grin that brought all his wrinkles into furrowed life added, ‘And deliver parcels.’ From behind his back he produced a box wrapped in the familiar navy blue tied up with a silver-grey ribbon and held it up in one hand with a flourish, bringing to mind a basketball player.
With rather gentlemanly formality he held out his other hand, the shopping bag dangling awkwardly from it. She shook it. He had a firm strong grip.
‘Thank you. I’m Ella. Magda’s goddaughter.’
‘I know who you are. Magda briefed us.’
Ella stiffened.
He leaned against the door frame as if settling in for a chat and then with a little start remembered the parcel.
‘Here – for you.’
She took it from him and ignoring the avid interest in his eyes decided to open it out of sight.
‘Pleased as punch she was that you could come. I’m going to miss her cakes, always brings me a few slices. Do you bake?’
He looked so hopeful, Ella almost wished she did. ‘Sorry, not my area of expertise.’
‘Ah, well. I’m sure you’ll soon pick it up. Now, would you like me to bring you a paper in the mornings? I normally pop and get the milk as well.’
‘No, thank you.’ The automatic response, polite and immediate, popped out. She didn’t know him from Adam, this effusive helpfulness seemed a little . . . well, pushy. She couldn’t imagine her neighbours in London making such an offer or her wanting them to.
He looked a little crestfallen. ‘You sure? Magda does get through the old milk with her frother thing and Nespresso machine. Makes a mean cappuccino.’ His face fell. ‘She quite often brings one round for me.’
Ella gave him a perfunctory smile. There’d be none of that on her watch. ‘Well, I must get on.’ She glanced down at her knee.
‘Looks nasty. Best get an ice pack on it. I’ve got some Arnica indoors. Shall I bring it round?’
‘No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’
‘OK then, ducks. Well, if you change your mind, you know where I am.’ He finally turned to potter down the path of his own garden stooping every now and then to pull up a weed.
Magda’s super-duper coffee machine did indeed make fabulous coffee, even if it did take Ella a few minutes to figure out how the milk frother thing worked. Now that she’d showered and got rid of the methane-rich smell of cow poo, she could almost imagine she was in civilisation and forget the awful morning. Mum’s bag of Waitrose goodies was stashed away, although quite what her mother thought she was going to do with that lot, she had no idea. Chicken breasts needed stuff doing to them, and she didn’t have the energy or the inclination. At least she’d put a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio in there.
Ella took her coffee and sat down at the table, hugging her mug between hands insulated by the sleeves of the cosy outsize sweater she’d pinched from Magda’s drawers. In her haste to get cleaned up, she’d forgotten all about the parcel.
Putting down her coffee, she tugged at the wide ribbon, a renewed sense of excitement flickering as the fabric slithered down the side of the midnight blue box with sinuous grace into a soft pile.
Inside the box, there was more navy blue tissue paper and a sheet of paper. With a half-smile of recognition, Ella pulled it out to read the words.
Frustration sizzled in her fingertips as she delved into the box. Magda was definitely barking up the wrong tree. She pulled out a selection of sugar paste oblongs that reminded her of the Plasticine she’d had as a child, then an assortment of icing nozzles, a pack of icing sugar and a series of rounds of plastic which she realised were moulds and templates. At the very bottom was a battered notebook. Curious, she pushed the other items to one side to peruse its tatty pages. It bulged with recipes cut from magazines and newspapers, as if the pages were intent on bursting out of the confines of the hardback covers. On each page in a rainbow of colours, Magda’s neat italic script handwriting annotated recipes with notes, added ingredients and fierce scribblings out, including on one page a shouty recommendation in large bright blue capitals, DO NOT EVER ATTEMPT AGAIN!!!!
Ella shoved everything back in the box and pushed it to the back of the kitchen counter. She didn’t bake, wasn’t about to start baking and that was final.