So App-ealing

By Dawn Knox

a tot of rum

“Rex Parker, you’re moving that glass with your finger!” said Edie Bentwhistle, jabbing him with her elbow. The tumbler on the Ouija board jerked to a standstill as he lost contact with it.

“You horrible little man,” said Myrtle, “it’s not moving at all now you’ve taken your finger off it! I might have known the spirits wouldn’t be sending us messages about doughnuts. Why don’t you go and jostle a few brooms with Dora? The pair of you seem to be spending more and more time in that broom cupboard together.”

“That’s not true,” said Dora.

“Well, the cleaner’s gone off work with stress after finding you two in there. Poor girl! She’s only eighteen and she was quite traumatised.

“Honestly,” said Rex, “the youth of today. They’ve got no backbone, no stamina.”

“Whereas backbone and stamina seem to be something you have plenty of…” said Myrtle.

“Well, if you want to know the truth,” said Dora, “he’s not as—”

Before she could enlighten everyone, the door opened to reveal Matron. She snapped the light on. “What’s going on here?” 

“Just a friendly game of, umm… Scrabble?”

“In the dark?” asked Matron.

“It’s not completely dark. It’s only darkish.”

“It’s dark,” said Matron in her don’t contradict me tone of voice.

“We’re saving electricity, Matron.”

“I’m not a fool, Len Malone! I know an Ouija board when I see one. I thought I’d made myself very clear the other day after the disgraceful incident with that clairvoyant. The Willows Retirement Home does not permit activities connected to the occult.” 

“It’s just a bit of fun, Matron,” said Len.

“Not as far as I’m concerned, Len Malone! Now, I insist you abide by my rules or go elsewhere.”

“It’s like being at school,” whispered Len. 

“It’s worse,” replied Dora.

“I suggest you all find a new pastime because I am confiscating this.” Matron scooped up the Ouija board, tucked it under her arm and strode out of the room. 

“We’ve still got the glass,” said Myrtle. 

“What good’s that? The only spirit that glass has been acquainted with is the miniature bottle of Pernod Rex smuggled in and drank neat before Matron discovered it.”

“Not an experience I shall be repeating,” said Rex, “It stripped off the inside of my mouth and stomach and I think it dissolved one of my teeth.”

“Find a hobby, indeed!” said Dora, “Every time we discover something interesting, Matron puts the blocks on it!”

“Not every time,” said Len.

“What d’you mean?” 

“She only stops the things she knows about but she don’t know everything,” Len said with a smirk.

“What d’you know that Matron doesn’t?”

“I’ve got a new hobby.”

Eventually, after much tapping of the side of his nose, Len couldn’t resist telling. “I’m learning to sail.”

“Well unless it’s a model boat in the bath, I don’t see how. You haven’t been further than Basilwade town centre since Christmas,” said Edie.

“My nephew’s got a boat moored down at Slee-on-Sea and he’s lent me some books. He said as soon as I’m good enough, he’ll let me take it out.”

“You can’t learn to sail from books! You need to practise on the water.”

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Len, “these days you can learn anything using technology. I’ve got an app on my phone.”

“App? What’s an app?” asked Myrtle.

“It’s what he takes every afternoon, after lunch,” said Dora.

“Very funny,” said Len, “Anyway, I don’t nap after lunch. I have dry eyes and my blinks are just longer than other people’s.” 

“So, what is an app then, Len?” asked Myrtle.

“He doesn’t know,” said Edie, “he’s just showing off.”

“I do! I’ve got an app called ‘Hello Sailor’ and it’s taught me all sorts of things.”

“I’m sure it has although I bet it hasn’t taught you how to sail,” said Dora.

“I’ll prove it has,” said Len, “let’s go sailing on Monday.”

“You let them go where?” Matron asked her senior nurse, Hettie. 

“Slee-on-Sea. You were busy with the inspectors but Len and Dora assured me you wouldn’t mind.” Hettie backed away. She recognised Matron’s scowl and the steely tone. 

“Of course they said I wouldn’t mind! That’s their modus operandi.”

“Their mo… what?”

“Oh, never mind!” snapped Matron.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

“All right? Of course, they won’t be all right!”

“But Slee-on-Sea is a really sleepy little place – a few quaint fisherman’s cottages, a pub, a church, a fish and chip shop and that’s about it.”

“A church?” asked Matron, “Did you say church?” her eyes were now narrow slits.

“Yes. A lovely little Norman church if I remember correctly. They can’t get into trouble in church, surely?”

“Does it have a graveyard?”

“Yes, why?”

Matron jerked her desk drawer open and fished about for her car keys.

“You’re in charge while I’m out, Hettie, and for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone else leave the home before I get back.”

“But Matron, where are you going?”

“Down to the graveyard before they dig someone up or summon all the spirits from Valhalla.”

“Matron, they’re just a group of elderly people! Are you sure you’re not getting things a bit out of proportion?”

“So, I was getting things out of proportion, was I, Hettie?” Matron asked later that evening.

“Well, they weren’t exactly robbing graves.”

“It would only have been a matter of time,” muttered Matron. 

“But they weren’t anywhere near the church.”

“I know,” said Matron, I worked that out for myself when the sister at Basilwade Hospital informed me the coastguards had taken them to A&E.”

“I hope you’re satisfied, Len! You nearly drowned us!”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate, Dora! You’re such a drama queen!” said Len.

“Drama queen? How dare you?”

“Yes, steady on, old chap!” said Rex, “You only have to look at the list of injuries we’ve sustained to see what an ordeal we’ve been through. The coastguard said he’d seen people knocked overboard by a swinging boom but never every single person on board.”

“Well, I told you to space yourselves out and not all sit on the same side of the boat. But did you listen? No! It was mutiny from the instant we set sail.”

“Set sail?” said Dora with a sniff, “We went aground immediately. Still, the coastguard said it was just as well we hit that sandbank because with high tide in the evening and the strong currents, we’d probably have drifted out into the North Sea.”

“Well, I think you’re all very ungrateful,” said Len, “when was the last time you had so much excitement?”

There was silence for a few moments. 

Rex winked at Dora, “Last Monday, in the broom cu—”

“I really can’t remember,” said Dora tossing her head and avoiding eye contact with Rex, “Oh and by the way, you owe me fifty quid, Len.”

“What for?”

“I bought a new pair of deck shoes and they’re covered in mud.”

“I’m sure we can clean them up,” said Len, “We’ll let them dry and then brush them. They were brown anyway.”

“They were beige, not brown and we can’t clean them up. They’re still in that sandbank. I stepped right out of them.”

“Before anyone puts in a claim for new clothes,” said Len, “remember I could charge each of you for chartering my ship.”

More silence. 

“So,” said Myrtle, “how much will it cost you for boat repairs to your ship?” 

“Ah, well, under the circumstances, my nephew has been very understanding. He says the insurance company will pay to put the damage right but he’s banned me from sailing it ever again.”

“Thank goodness for that!” said Edie, “Well, I hope that’s taught you a lesson, Len.”

“It’s certainly taught me not to waste my expertise on ungrateful people like you lot!”

“No, I meant I hope it’s taught you to forget the idea you can learn something complicated like sailing from an app on your phone.”

“The trouble with you old folk is you’ve been left behind in the Technological Revolution. You’re all dinosaurs! But some of us have vision. Some of us are tech savvy!”

“So, you’re going to carry on sailing with your app, are you?”

“No, as it happens,” said Len, “I’m not sure sailing’s really my thing. I realised that when I went under for the third time. It suddenly came to me. I’ve got a new hobby. And I’ve got a new app.”

“Tiddly-winks?” asked Edie.

“I think it’s the CR app,” said Rex.

“Oh, very funny!” said Len.

“Actually, Rex, that was quite funny,” said Dora. 

Rex beamed and shuffled closer to her.

“It’s app-solutely fapp-ulous!” said Rex.

“What an app-alling joke!” said Dora.

“But you have to app-reciate it!” said Rex.

“Oh, ignore them,” said Myrtle, “what is your new app?”

“It’s called ‘Going Deeper’,” said Len.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s going to train me to be a deep-sea diver…”

About the author:

Dawn’s third book ‘Extraordinary’ was published by Chapeltown in October 2017. She has had three other books published as well as stories in various anthologies, including horror and speculative fiction, as well as romances in women's magazines. Dawn has written a play to commemorate World War One, which has been performed in England, Germany and France. www.dawnknox.com

Links to previous stories in the series:

1) A Question of Timing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/a-question-of-timing.html

2) In MaryWorld: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/in-maryworld.html

3) Knit and Natter: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/11/knit-and-natter.html 

4) Mint Pink: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/03/mint-pink.html

5) Sydney Jugg’s Book of Grievances: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/sydney-juggs-book-of-grievances.html 

6) Is there Anybody There?: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/is-there-anybody-there.html 

7) Going Freelance: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/05/going-freelance.html 

The Chocolate Murders

by Pat  Jourdan 

 dark chocolate

 It was interesting to sit here in the airport. Pisa airport was smallish, but did have the usual array of shops and cafés, with an escalator up to an extra layer of shops. Tessa wandered around for a while but seeing a row of seats, made for them, to have a rest.

Stopping at the general store, she was already stocked with another bottle of spring water to cope with the heat. It was amazing to see the display of cigarettes spread behind the counter. For a couple of years now it had been forbidden in England to show any cigarettes for sale. They were always hidden behind sliding cupboard doors and a customer had to ask particularly, humbly, if they wanted to purchase any packet of cigarettes.

Her friend, Moira who worked at the Co-op, said that if the sliding doors were open even slightly, the shop would get fined £4,000. It looked as though different rules were obeyed or broken in the EU, as here in Italy surely the same rules existed. It was all a mess of decisions criss-crossing each other.
The young woman sitting next to her was engrossed in her phone, a private existence in a public space. Beside her were two large suitcases wreathed tightly in layers of bright light-green plastic, almost phosphorescent.

A young man stood in the middle of the concourse, a Green Wrap hero with bolts of plastic, and a contraption ready to festoon any baggage with green wrapping. Once done, it looked so complete that the traveller would not be able to open their luggage without unweaving all the layers. What on earth did the silent girl have in those two cases, or was she going through several stopovers and needed extra security?

Tessa, bored now, went off for another walk round the corridors and deposited her own small suitcase through the handlers’ counters. As she walked back, the same seat was empty so she sat down again in the same place.

Suddenly the girl turned to her and with a warm smile and offered Tessa some chocolate. It was the end of the bar, a couple of broken segments in the silver-paper wrapper. They introduced themselves. Gina was from Argentina and on her way to Spain to visit her sister. Tessa was going back to England after visiting relatives on holiday in Florence.

“I’ve got to write a murder story for a writers’ group by next week and you’ve given me an idea. This chocolate could be poisoned and there would be no trace of how it happened. Of course there could be CCTV of us here now, but I can’t see any cameras. I think there’s some rule that they have to be observable if it’s a public place or perhaps that’s an urban myth. But thank you.”

  Tessa wandered outside to throw away the remains of her bottle of water before going through passport control. Outside in the humid heat, two young soldiers stood on duty. She asked if it was all right to throw the water onto a potted plant and the dark-haired soldier signalled yes. The bush would need some water today, surely. She slung the plastic bottle into the nearby rubbish bin and that was the last she saw of Italy. The trademark dark plumed Italian trees were far
away beyond the humdrum layout of the airport buildings and its carpark.


Back home, Tessa looked up poisonous plants and remembered laburnum, and sure, there it was. All parts of the plant were (or are) poisonous although mortality could be rare. Symptoms of laburnum poisoning included intense sleepiness, vomiting, convulsive movements, coma, frothing at the mouth and, the reference said, unequally dilated pupils. Who would notice that in the midst of all the other signs?

Tessa set to work. This was too exciting to waste on mere writing. Along the suburban lane on the way to the park, a magnificent laburnum tree swept over the wall of an old mansion waiting for redevelopment. Its long trails of bright yellow flowerets could be seen from afar; it was always a sign of late spring. She waited until the seedpods were formed and picked several when no one was about.
Buying some bars of dark chocolate, with their strong, almost bitter taste, she melted the bars, folding in the ground-up seeds. Leaving the lot to set, she had to think out the next step. In some of the crime books she had read, a poisoner tried out their doses on something smaller like a cat or dog. Wasn’t it Bywaters and Thompson who had also given the husband a mild dose at first, gradually increasing the amount weekly. Mixed in with a stew or fish and chips or cheese on toast it would have been well disguised. There was some sort of medical protocol that if a person had been unwell for some time, and if that person had been seen by a doctor in the week previous to their death, then an inquest would not be necessary.


Tessa of course could not embark on such a slow process with any strangers. But a small experiment with next-door’s cat was amazingly successful. She tried to look upset on learning that the fat malevolent moggy had been taken seriously ill. It had died before the vet had been able to arrive as there was a violent thunderstorm at the time.

“Perhaps it was heart failure?” Tessa said airily. “We don’t know how animals react in the middle of a thunderstorm, they must get affected. When I was a child our dog always hid under one of the fireside chairs and wouldn’t come out until it was all over.”

She made another batch, upping the amount of laburnum seeds. Somewhere in the past, perhaps in the sixth form, they had studied George Orwell’s The Decline of the English Murder. He had suggested that when divorce was unobtainable in the lower classes, domestic poisonings were the only way out for discontented wives (usually the wife) or husbands. While some, stupidly in fact, went to a chemist’s and asked for arsenic to kill rats, other, cleverer ones collected poisonous innocent-looking plants like foxglove or laburnum. Those who bought arsenic from chemists’ shops had to sign a Poisons Book, which was one of the first things police would inspect. But few police could trace a walk down a country lane and some leaves or seeds gathered into a bag or pocket.

With her new bus pass, Tessa went off to Heathrow and arrived full of enthusiasm. The new red wig and glasses gave a different image. She found a seat and offered some chocolate to the first person who sat next to her.

About the author

Pat Jourdan, winner of the Molly Keane Short Story Award and second in the Michael McLaverty Short Story Award, has also published collections of stories, poetry collections and two novels 'Finding Out' and 'A Small Inheritance.' Trained as an artist, she has held exhibitions in England and Ireland.

Getting Over Peter

by Bren Gosling

sweet sherry 

 My girlfriends never got over how I settled for Peter at nineteen. He is what you would call ‘steady.’ They said with my curves in all the right places I could’ve bagged anyone. Thirty years on and I’m still ample. The thing is, now, so is Peter. I do love him, except... Maybe if we’d had kids. We tried, but no-can-do. Didn’t fancy adopting. So we comforted ourselves with a nice house in the suburbs and exotic holidays. The mortgage was paid off last year. Only, when he gets in from work all he’s after is dinner in front of the Channel Four News. And he’s away a lot. At the weekends he likes to play golf and talk about Futures and Forex, mostly...

     I’ve taken a risk, I know, not like me at all. But after my little health scare, I thought, no point in holding off, is there?  As long as I’m not hurting anyone. Peter and I get on after our own fashion: I wouldn’t want for us to separate. This way it’s no questions asked. And who knows what he gets up to on the quiet?   I limit myself to once a fortnight when I’m certain he’s not coming home, always after eleven because then I know the neighbours are settled in for the night. I’ve been very discrete. Of course, I don’t use my real name. And it’s not as if I’m posting selfies all over the place. Just the one website, one picture that hints rather than being full -on. Better to make the imagination work a bit, tease a little. You’d be amazed how many fit young blokes there are out there, looking for anonymous excitement with the more mature woman.

   

Wave Goodbye

by Shawn Klimek

aged port in a salt-rimmed glass

One white-knuckled grip still on the heaving bow rail, she pointed towards the place we’d seen the massive fluked tail descend, then turned to reveal a face drenched with sea-spray and emotion. “Now, tell me that wasn’t a message from God,” she said.

 

“I love whales,” I countered, “but this planet belongs to humans, too. We all have needs.”

She lowered her head and sobbed, shaking spaghetti strands of wet hair left and right. 

I reached for her shoulder. “Maybe God did speak through the whale,” I allowed. “But give us time. Of what practical use is ‘thirty days’ notice?”

 

 @shawnmklimekauthor/facebook

Alchemy

by Susan  A Eames 

Bucks Fizz

Hannah was bored. Why had she allowed Gavin to persuade her to attend this event? She knew nothing about modern art and felt positively cross-eyed from the strain of listening to the artist pontificate about the alchemy of his Pieces. She downed her champagne and wandered away from the group of sycophants surrounding the bore. She’d had enough of pretending she gave a rat’s arse about his work.

‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ said Gavin handing her more champagne.

‘He’s an egotist.’

‘With good reason, Hannah. He’s sold over half the Pieces in this exhibition.’

‘Well, that’s nice for him. But I don’t understand modern art and he’s said nothing to enlighten me.’

‘Your approach is wrong. You must embrace the alchemy.’

‘Alchemy, schmalchemy.’ She gulped her champagne.

‘Stop pretending to be a Philistine.’

‘Oh, please. What does that even mean?’

‘Philistine?’

‘Alchemy.’

‘Well. Um. He’s talking about the magic within his work. When you embrace a Piece, it changes before your eyes: transmutes, transforms.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Hannah finished her fourth glass of champagne.

Across the room a beautiful man smiled at her.

Hannah perked up. ‘Now that’s an alchemy I want to embrace.’

Champagne-brave, she was off, Gavin forgotten.

About the author

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she is busy exploring Ireland.

Susan blogs at: http://susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

A Date with Paprika

by Morna Sullivan

bloody Mary 

“What does paprika do, love?”

She studied the labels searching for star anise and cloves. She was intent on replenishing her supplies after cooking her Christmas aromatic ham. A well-stocked spice rack was a necessity. Wouldn’t you think the herbs and spices would be arranged alphabetically to make it easier for customers to find what they’re looking for?

She was aware of a pungent smell to her right. She wasn’t convinced it was coming from the jars and boxes in front of her. It certainly didn’t smell aromatic or appetising and didn’t belong in this food aisle. A splash of Old Spice might have helped disguise it.

He was standing looking at her, expecting an answer. She looked back at him, taking everything in as she replied.

“It’s pepper – just like white or black pepper except with more flavour.”

“Pepper? Are you sure, love? Then why don’t they just call it pepper? Is it not more exotic?” he asked.

“Well, it’s a kind of pepper. There are lots of different sorts. Look, there’s hot paprika and smoked paprika,” she said, pointing out the jars.

“Oh, I like it hot,” he said, smirking.

She pretended she hadn’t heard his retort and returned to scrutinising the shelves. She lifted a refill box of cloves and popped it in her trolley. Surely this supermarket had star anise. It was usually well stocked. She’d already been in three supermarkets this week looking it and they’d all been sold out.

“Would you use it for Indian?” he asked.

Ignoring him clearly wasn’t going to work.

“You could, but you would need to use other spices too. Like turmeric and fennel seeds or cardamom and coriander seeds. Paprika would give the dish you’re making a good colour but you need the flavour too.”

“Oh, right.”

Under his pulled down beanie hat he looked puzzled. Tall, a bit older than her, tired and relatively attractive, but puzzled.

“It depends on what flavour you want,” she said.

“I want Indian. Is paprika Indian?”

“I don’t think so. I think it’s European originally -  from Hungary possibly.”

“Are you sure it’s not Indian? I’m sure she said it was. Are all spices not from India?” he asked.

“A lot are Indian - but spices come from all over the world.”

The smell didn’t seem as bad now or maybe she was getting used to it, or it was being masked by the spices beside her. He looked as if he’d been wearing the grey work trousers with pockets all the way down the legs and the faded navy blue hoodie for the last few days. They were stained with oil streaks and mud.

“How would I know which ones are Indian?”

He still looked puzzled, bewildered and overwhelmed by the colourful choices in front of him.

“The jar labels will tell you. You know, the spices can be quite expensive. You might be better buying one of those mixed jars like curry powder or tandoori mix or tikka masala because you need quite a lot of different spices to get the right flavour. If you don’t use them often they can lose their flavour in time. Which Indian dish do you like?”

“I like paprika, love,” he replied. “She said she wanted paprika in it.”

He shuffled over in his muddy work boots to look at the ready mixed spice jars. She took advantage when he moved out of the way to find the star anise refill box and popped it into her brimming trolley. She also took the chance to take a better look at him. His eyes looked tired and his body was slightly hunched as if this was all too much of an effort for him. He probably wasn’t as old as he first appeared.

“They’ve a lot of Indian dishes in the ready meals section and the freezers. You can heat them up in minutes in the microwave. They’re quite tasty. You can also buy jars of the sauce already made up. It’s not bad if you’re in a hurry,” she suggested, trying to be helpful.

“Thanks – I know you can buy them.”

“It would save you time.”

“I have to cook this myself. I promised her. I promised myself. What’s that you’re buying? Is it for a curry?” he asked.

“It’s star anise. I use it to flavour my spiced ham. Its quite sweet. It’s used in biryani dishes. It won’t bring much colour to the dish. I don’t think it would help your curry.”

“I want paprika. She’ll know if I don’t use it.”

“You could get away without using it. Paprika will add to the colour but there are other ingredients that give colour too. You could add more tomatoes, or buy a jar of curry sauce and add paprika. Paprika won’t give the strength and depth of flavour you’re looking for.”

“What about this? What about turmeric?” he asked.

“It’s used in Indian cookery. Lovely colour, but you’d need to use other spices to get the authentic flavour. What curry are you making? Do you have a recipe?” she asked. 

“I really like paprika, love,” he said.

“That’s a good start. What do you like about it? Is it the colour, the smell or the flavour?” she asked.

“Everything. And I like its name. Paprika! Most of all I like how it sounds – exotic, warm, spicy, mysterious, magical, tantalising. Just like her. I like her name. She’s called Paprika Moldova. We’re meeting for the first time tomorrow night. I’m cooking dinner for her. She said I had to use paprika and she’d know if I had. She’s lovely isn’t she?”

He thrust a photo on his phone in front of her.

“She seems very attractive.”

“She’s a consultant surgeon.”

“Really - she looks quite young - to be a consultant. I know it’s none of my business, but how long have you known her?”

“A few days. We’ve been chatting online. She’s very friendly.”

“I’m sure she is. What if you don’t like her when you meet?”

“I’m sure I will.”

 “Why don’t you just go for a drink with her - maybe see how you get on. You could maybe cook dinner the next time. She might not appreciate the effort you’re making.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“Sometimes people you meet online aren’t quite the same when you meet them in person.”

“Sounds like you’ve had your fingers burned.”

“I have. And I’ve heard all sorts of weird and wonderful online dating tales. You have to kiss a few frogs before you meet your prince. And, believe me, there are a lot of frogs – very few resemble their online photos. But I could be wrong. Paprika Moldova could very well be the beautiful, intelligent, rich, young woman you expect her to be.”

“I know what you’re thinking – what could she possibly see in me?”

“No – not exactly. I just don’t like seeing people get hurt. Sometimes when something seems too good to be true, it is. You can’t be too careful. Do you really want this stranger in your house? Sorry, I’ve said too much. Its none of my business. Don’t let me put you off cooking your Indian meal. You could always practice making it for yourself so when you meet her the next time you could cook it for her – or for someone else.”

He looked straight into her eyes. She shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at her shopping list.

“I should have just lifted the paprika without speaking to you.”

“You should just buy it if it’s what you want. But you should maybe also get one of those ready mixes. You can’t go wrong with them. You could always experiment by adding paprika to one of them – maybe the tikka masala one?”

“I like trying something new,” he said, again looking straight into her eyes.

She was beginning to feel very warm under her puffed feather down coat. She loosened the hand knitted stripy scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. Why had she bothered coming out shopping tonight? And why had she even bothered to look for cloves and star anise? It wasn’t as if she needed the spices tonight or tomorrow or even next week. Then she recalled one of her New Year’s resolutions - to get out of the house every evening – even if it was only for a walk or to the supermarket. One of her other resolutions was to make an effort to speak to strangers. Well she was definitely ticking all the boxes tonight!

“Are you going to cook chicken or lamb? Maybe you’re vegetarian?” she asked.

“Me a veggie? Do I look like a veggie?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Does it matter what I cook it with? It’ll probably be chicken.”

“No. It shouldn’t. Chicken will be lovely. That’s what I usually cook,” she said.

“How do you know all this? Are you a chef, love?”

“No, but I like cooking. I did an Indian cookery course last year so I know a little about it,” she said.

“You seem to know a lot about it. I like it hot.”

 “You can add more spices to make the dish as mild or spicy as you like,” she said.

“Definitely not mild. I like a spicy dish,” he said.

“Most men seem to have a palate that tolerates spicier food than women.”

“Right.”

“That course was great fun. It was at the local tech. You should look it up on the internet. They might still be running it. They usually start a new course after Christmas. I learned so much about cooking Indian food. Everyone was really nice. We cooked a different dish each week. Do you know ‘Tandoor’ on the Bristol Road?”

“Yes, I’ve been there loads of times.”

“Well, it was the guy who is the head chef there who took the course, Sanjeev Rashid, lovely guy. So it really was authentic. He used to tell me off each week for chopping my onions the wrong way. Who’d ever have thought there were so many ways to chop onions? And so many types – red ones, white ones, Spanish ones and shallots. The large Spanish ones were the worst. My tears were tripping me when I chopped them. According to him you have to chop them different sizes depending on the dish you’re making. He certainly knows his onions – and all his spices. I used to chop them as big as possible as chopping onions always makes my eyes water and I wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.”

“You seem to know your onions, and your spices too love. I’m sure you could teach me a thing or two.”

She smiled as she remembered it had been more than onions making her cry this time last year, but the onions had been a good excuse to blame for her tears, dropping into the meal she was making in the class, adding a bit more saltiness with each tear drop. Sanjeev hadn’t told her off, even though she knew it broke every food hygiene rule in the book. He’d just smiled kindly, clearly knowing the difference between onion induced tears and those brought on by a broken heart.  As each week passed her tears had lessened. She put it down to perfecting her onion chopping skills, rather than her broken heart starting to heal.

He selected a jar of tikka masala mix and a jar of turmeric and put them into his basket.

“I love Indian food. It’s so much healthier when you cook it all from scratch. Don’t forget your onions,” she said.

“Which sort should I use?”

“I’d recommend starting with the large Spanish ones. I’ve found they’re best for disguising heartache.”

“Sounds just what I need, love,” he said.

“You should try that cookery course. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done. I made new friends – real people. I love calling into see Sanjeev in the restaurant now to swap recipes.”

“Ok. Thanks for the advice. Maybe I will.”

“Don’t listen to everything I’ve said. Good luck with the cooking and your date with Paprika tomorrow night. Maybe I’ll see you back here in a few weeks buying more spices to cook for her again. Maybe you’ll have signed up for that course.”

“I hope so, love. I might, but then, maybe I could cook dinner for you?” he asked.

“When you’ve got the flavour right, I might like that,” she said, smiling back at him.

“Maybe you could help me with it.”

“Maybe I could. But what about Paprika? What will she think?”

“I think I’ll give paprika and Paprika a miss. I’ll go for something with a more distinct flavour that can bring out the best in the dish. I’ll focus on cooking what I like.”

“That’s important. You’ll enjoy it more then.”

“I’ll have fun experimenting in the kitchen. See you back here then.”

January wasn’t looking so bleak after all she thought, as she stood in the checkout queue and set her onions and spices on the conveyor belt.