Recipes for Love and Murder. Sally Andrew

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      CHAPTER TWO

      Now I’m not one to rush into bad news, so I helped myself to more tea and milk tart. Hattie was still drinking her first cup of tea, looking miserable. The envelope just sat there, full of its bad news.

      ‘It’s from Head Office,’ she said, running her hand over a bump in her throat.

      Maybe the air she had swallowed had got stuck there.

      Hattie didn’t often hear from Head Office. But when she did it was to tell her what to do. The community gazettes are watchamacallit, syndicated. Each gazette is independent, and has to raise most of its own funds through advertising, but they must still follow the Head Office rules.

      The shrike dived from the branch of the sweet-thorn tree down onto the ground.

      ‘Maria, they say we absolutely must have an advice column,’ she said.

      I frowned at her. What was all the fuss about?

      ‘Like an agony aunt column,’ she said. ‘Advice about love and such. They say it increases sales.’

      ‘Ja. It might,’ I said.

      I was still waiting for the bad news.

      ‘We just don’t have the space. Or the funds to print the four extra pages that we’ll need to add one column.’ She held her hands like a book. I knew how it worked. Four pages were printed back to back on one big sheet. ‘I’ve tried to rework the layout. I’ve tried to see what we can leave out. But there’s nothing. Just nothing.’

      I shifted in my chair. The shrike flew back up to a branch with something it had caught.

      ‘I phoned them on Friday,’ said Hattie, ‘to tell them, Sorry we just can’t do it, not right now, I said.’ Her throat became all squeezed like a plastic straw. ‘They said we can cut out the recipe column.’

      Her voice sounded far away. I was watching the shrike; it had a lizard in its beak. It stabbed its meat onto a big white thorn.

      ‘Tannie Maria.’

      Was the lizard still alive, I wondered?

      ‘I argued, told them how much the readers adored your column. But they said the advice column was non-negotiable.’

      Was the butcher bird going to leave the meat out to dry, and make biltong?

      ‘Tannie Maria.’

      I looked at her. Her face looked so tight and miserable – as if her life was going to pot, instead of mine. That recipe column was my life. Not just the money. Yes, I needed the extra food money; the pension I got after my husband’s death was small. But the column was how I shared what was most important to me: my cooking.

      My throat felt dry. I drank some tea.

      ‘But I’ve been thinking,’ Hattie said. ‘You could write the advice column. Give advice about love and such.’

      I snorted. It was not a pretty sound.

      ‘I know nothing about love,’ I said.

      Just then one of my chickens, the hen with the dark feathers around her neck, walked across the lawn, pecking at the ground, and I did feel a kind of love for her. I loved the taste of my melktert and the smell of rusks baking and the sound of the rain when it came after the long wait. And love was an ingredient in everything I cooked. But advice columns were not about melktert or chicken-love.

      ‘Not that kind of love, anyway,’ I said. ‘And I’m not one to give advice. You should ask someone like Tannie Gouws who works at CBL Hardware. She always has advice for everyone.’

      ‘One of the marvellous things about you, Maria, is you never give unsolicited advice. But you are a superb listener. You’re the one we come to when there’s anything important to discuss. Remember how you helped Jessie when she couldn’t decide whether to go and work in Cape Town?’

      ‘I remember giving her koeksisters . . .’

      ‘You listened to her and gave her excellent advice. Thanks to you, she is still here with us.’

      I shook my head and said, ‘I still think it was the koeksisters.’

      ‘I had another idea,’ Hattie said. ‘Why don’t you write a cookbook? Tannie Maria’s Recipes. Maybe I can help you find a publisher.’

      I heard a whirring sound and I looked up to see the shrike flying away. Leaving the lizard on the thorn.

      A book wasn’t a bad idea, really, but the words that came from my mouth were: ‘It’s lonely to write a book.’

      She reached out to take my hand. But my hand just lay there.

      ‘Oh, Tannie Maria,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      Hattie was a good friend. I didn’t want to make her suffer. I gave her hand a squeeze.

      ‘Eat some melktert, Hats,’ I said. ‘It’s a good one.’

      She picked up her fork and I helped myself to another slice. I didn’t want to suffer either. I had no reason to feel lonely. I was sitting on my stoep with a lovely view of the veld, a good friend and some first-class milk tart.

      ‘How about,’ I said, ‘I read people’s letters and give them a recipe that will help them?’

      Hattie finished her mouthful before she spoke.

      ‘You’d need to give them some advice.’

      ‘Food advice,’ I said.

      ‘They’ll be writing in with their problems.’

      ‘Different recipes for different problems.’

      Hattie stabbed the air with her fork, and said, ‘Food as medicine for the body and heart.’

      ‘Ja, exactly.’

      ‘You’ll have to give СКАЧАТЬ