Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
She snorts. “Never. Whether you’re four or forty, you’ll always be my little buttercup.”
“Okay,” I concede, feeling her hands move up to my hair and start combing through the strands.
“My buttercup,” she murmurs.
I close my eyes, thankful that my mum never breaks her promises . . . and always gives the best, most healing hugs.
Mr. Percival’s door is wide open when I let myself in the building, a racket coming from inside. I knock the wood and call out to him, but get no answer, which isn’t such a surprise given the noise. “Mr. Percival?” I call louder, treading through the gnomes flanking the hallway. “Mr. Percival, it’s Camryn.”
“Camryn?”
“Your door’s open.”
“I know, dear. Maureen opened it.”
I round the corner into the kitchen, the noise deafening, and find Mr. Percival at the table with a food blender whizzing around. I shudder. Fucking hell, it’s baltic in here. He sees me and smiles, flicking the switch so it drones to a gradual stop. “Making my stuffing, dear. Chopped nuts.”
Woolly gloves cover his hands, a scarf is wrapped a few times around his neck, and every button on his tweed coat is fastened, his cap on his head. I’m not Mr. Percival’s only spectator, either. The gnomes are all crowded round, watching. “Mr. Percival, it’s freezing in here.”
“The heating’s broken down, dear.”
“Have you called someone?”
“Yes, dear. An engineer will be here within six hours.” He fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out his watch. “It’s been three.”
“Right.” I wrap my arms around my body.
“It’s only the circuit board that serves the heaters, though, so we still have power.”
“Would you like to use my kitchen?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it doesn’t feel like Siberia.”
“You young folk.” He dusts off his gloves and pours his chopped nuts into a bowl. “Try camping out in the trenches for weeks on end, dear.”
“What?” I recoil. “Like, in the war?”
“World War Two, dear.”
“How old are you, Mr. Percival?”
“Ninety-nine, dear.”
“Fuck.” I balk at him. “You’re nearly one hundred.”
“Holding out to get my birthday card from the King, dear.” He grins at me.
“When’s your birthday?”
“January.” He shoves a wooden spoon in the bowl and starts mixing, and for the first time today, I smile. You incredible man.
“You look remarkable for a man who’s nearly a century old, Mr. Percival.”
“I know.” His shining eyes dim when he squints. “What’s happened to your cheek?”
“I had a run-in with a door at work,” I say, off the cuff. “It’s one of those flappy doors. I wasn’t looking where I was going and someone walked through before me and it sprung back and caught my cheek.” I approach the small table he’s working from. “It’s a bit early to be making stuffing, isn’t it?”
“You can’t be too prepared for Christmas, Camryn. I’ll pop it in the freezer with my turkey and ham joint.”
“Anything I can do?”
“You want to help?”
“Why not?” I’ve got nothing better to do. “You can tell me about all one hundred years of your life.”
“We might be here all weekend,” he says over a chuckle as I dump my bag on the floor.
“Hopefully,” I reply, waiting for instruction.
“We’ll put some carols on, shall we?”
“I’d rather just listen to you talk.”
“Oh, well. Have it your way.”
* * *
Four hours later, I’ve made mincemeat for his mince pies, a whole nut roast, squeezed sausage meat out of the skins, wrapped bacon around some chipolatas, and a whole lot more. And the entire time, I’m wondering who on earth Mr. Percival is cooking for and where the hell he’s going to sit them. I distinctly recall him mentioning he has no family, but I haven’t asked because I’ve been too busy listening to him talk non-stop about his time in the war—only one year, mind you, but a lifetime when you’re stuck in the trenches—as well as his marriage to Edith who passed in 1999, and their son, Miles, who Mr. Percival tragically outlived.
I continue to stir the double cream with the whisk, waiting eternally for it to thicken, while he chatters with such fond memories, and I wonder how. How can he have lost love, lost his son, and still be here smiling?
Living.
“I think there’s something wrong with this cream,” I say, my backside becoming dead on the stool, my arm feeling like it’s about to fall off because I’ve been here whisking it so long. Am I sweating?
He hobbles around the table without his frame, holding the edge. It makes me twitchy, my hands bracing to catch him if he falls. “We need some intervention.” Picking up the electric whisk, he raises his brows.
“You mean I’ve been beating it until my arm feels like it’s going to fall off and you had that the whole time?”
He shrugs, a little impish. “Slipped my mind.”
“Sure it did,” I grumble, snatching it from his hand. I know his game. He’s keeping me here for as long as he can. I don’t mind. It’s been a surprisingly lovely afternoon making and baking with him. I’ve not thought about what exactly I’m baking, I’ve just done as I’m told and listened to Mr. Percival chatter.