Chapter 2

"Are you doing anything over Christmas?"

"Not much," I said, "I have a neighbour, Mrs. Ainslie, who's elderly and all alone and I usually invite her to join me for Christmas Dinner. It's awkward cooking for one anyway and I don't think anyone should be alone at Christmas."

Her face fell.

"Something the matter?" Her head was down again. "Rose-Marie, are you alone at Christmas?"

A tear dropped onto the table between us.

"Hey! Don't cry. Have Christmas dinner with us."

"I don't want to intrude..."

"You won't be. Please come?"

"Are you sure it's okay?"

"Of course! Mrs. Ainslie is lovely, but she's seventy-seven and you're much prettier."

She blushed. "What would you be cooking?"

"Oh, I'm very traditional. Chicken with sausage meat and thyme and parsley stuffing, roast and boiled potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots, gravy, bread sauce. Christmas pudding and cream to follow."

There was a very long silence.

"I've never eaten meat."

"You're vegetarian?"

"Not exactly. My parents are. I never had a choice, so I don't really know..."

"What about curry?"

"Oh, that was one thing I liked. They had to eat spicy food when they were overseas, so we often had curries."

"Tell you what," I said, "come round tonight and I'll cook you a chicken curry. You can see if you like it."

"I'd like to..."

I handed her a card. My address (which I'm not about to publish; I get quite enough junk mail, thank you) is one which for some reason folks find hard to spell, so I got in the habit of printing a few 'business' cards. "Edward Wilson, writer and computer engineer" and my address and land-line number.

"You're a writer?"

"Not really," I confessed with a smile, "but it makes for some interesting conversations. I post the odd piece on the internet, that's all."

"You live in Broomhall?"

"The area, yes, not the big house!"

"Isn't it, you know, a bit ... rough?"

"Used to be," I said, "lots of bed-sits and bed-and-breakfast places catering for homeless folk, lots of prostitutes, drug dealers, muggings, you name it. As local residents we were left in peace." I added after a pause, "Mostly. But then the Council decided to do something about it; the Police clamped down on the more obvious disorder, the girls got moved on and it was declared a 'Housing Action Area'. It's quite a desirable place these days."

"I'd really like to come..." she said slowly, "but ... I know it's cheeky ... could you collect me?"

"I haven't got a car," I said, "would you mind riding in a sidecar? I could collect you on the bus if you like."

"You ride a motorbike?"

"Usually, yes."

"I think I'd like to try..."

"Tomorrow? I'll pick you up about six? Wrap up warmly..."

When we got up to go our separate ways, she leaned close and kissed my cheek. "Thank you," she said simply.

I started the curry that night; I like to let the spices permeate the other ingredients.

I didn't need to go into campus the next day, so did some shopping, some work and rather more hobby-writing. At half-past five, I checked the oven to be sure the curry was heating through in case the timer hadn't worked – that time it had – wrapped up well and rolled the BMW out.

She was waiting when I knocked on the door ... bundled up in puffa jacket and padded boots. I helped her into the single-seat sports chair. The BMW has an oil-cooler and I had a little radiator fitted in the chair near the passenger's feet and the oil diverted through it. Why throw heat away when you can make use of it? In the summer, of course, that has to be isolated.

In a sports side-car, you're close to the road and everything seems faster ... I wasn't surprised that when we arrived she was flushed and breathing a little hard.

I served the curry with Basmati rice and poppadums and put bottles of lager on the table.

"Water tends to intensify the spice," I explained. "I like to drink lager with curry, but I don't want to unless you'll join me. Try some..."

I think she was a little surprised I said a grace before we ate, but I always have. As I said, it's a link to my parents.

She agreed that the beer went well with the curry, which she said was 'delicious'. She didn't eat a lot, but I thought more than when I'd seen her with the salad. I'd steamed a syrup sponge for a desert and served it with custard.

"I'm full," she said, "but I'll have a very little, if I may."

I wasn't surprised she felt full ... I didn't think she'd had what I would call a proper meal in her life.

After we'd eaten, we went to the lounge and listened to music; folk and contemporary stuff. She ... I don't think there'd ever been any music in her life but hymns; she was a little shocked by the recordings of Christian music I had that were more recent than the Victorian era.

"Do you sing that sort of thing at your church?"

"Sometimes," I said, "it's nice to have music from different eras ... like this..." I put on a recording of 'Gaudete' - "Gaudete, gaudete Christus est natus, ex Maria virginæ gaudete..."

"Mediæval Latin," I said, replacing it with the Calypso Carol; 'See Him lying on a bed of straw, a draughty stable with an open door... '

She was silent – stunned, I think. We were sitting in the settee after I put on a CD of Katherine Jenkins and I lifted my arm in invitation to snuggle. She moved slowly into my embrace. I don't think it was reluctance, rather that she was thinking a lot. We neither of us said anything until the CD came to an end.

"I know I'm really thin," she began quietly. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"Yes and no," I said. "It bothers me that I think you haven't been properly fed. Being very thin is just as dangerous as being overweight. If it's your natural body shape, then there's not a lot to do about it. I suppose it's possible you've got a chemical imbalance; you could ask the doctor for some tests. If it's not your natural shape it's easy enough to fix."

"But..."

"Baby, don't worry about it. You are what matters and you are more than your body."

I didn't realise what I'd called her.

"You called me 'Baby'," she whispered.

I thought about it. "I suppose I did," I said. "It's a term of endearment."