‘Food delivery,’ I said, holding up a bag for life late the following morning.
Without a word, Mr Mickleby stepped back to allow me inside, then closed the door and followed me into the kitchen.
‘It’s just a few basics for starters.’ I placed the bag on the table. ‘I’ve got some fresh soup and a roll for your lunch and a ready meal for your tea. I thought we’d better discuss what you like and what you can cook before I do a full shop.’
‘What flavour soup?’ he asked.
I lifted out the two soup cartons and held one in each hand. ‘Pea and ham or leek and potato.’
‘Leek and potato,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘It was my Gwendoline’s favourite.’
‘She had good taste, then. It’s my favourite too. You want it now?’
He nodded. ‘Seems a long time since breakfast.’
I emptied the contents into a bowl and placed it in the microwave.
‘Nice Aga,’ I observed while the soup heated.
He shrugged. ‘No idea how to use it. My Gwendoline was the chef. I’d have helped her, mind, but she loved cooking and baking and would always shoo me out of the kitchen.’ He took a spoon from the drawer by the sink. ‘There were two reasons we bought this place and the kitchen was one of them.’
‘What was the other one?’
‘The hedgehogs.’
The microwave pinged so I gave the soup a stir then set it going again.
‘The hedgehogs?’ I asked.
‘Yes, the hedgehogs.’
Hmm. I was glad we’d cleared that one up. ‘Would you like your roll buttered?’
‘Yes, please.’ He passed me a knife and a side plate.
By the time I’d finished buttering, the microwave had pinged again. He took the bowl out and sat at the battered wooden table with it.
‘I’ll put these away while you eat,’ I said, taking a carton of milk and some cheese out of one of the bags. I wanted to ask about the hedgehogs but I could tell from the way Mr Mickleby was scooping up his soup that he was ravenous and, now that he’d accepted that eating was a good idea, I didn’t want to put him off his stride.
Unpacking gave me a good chance to check out his cupboards which were, quite literally, bare. I found a shelf of out of date herbs and spices, just as he’d said, accompanying old bottles of vegetable and olive oil. If he didn’t cook, I suspected they’d been there since Gwendoline died.
When he’d finished his lunch in silence, Mr Mickleby make himself a cup of tea and retired to the lounge. I was going to leave his dishes – I wasn’t his skivvy after all – but it seemed petty when it would take me all of two minutes to wash and dry them. I wasn’t going to do without a cup of tea, though.
Mr Mickleby’s eyes widened as he watched me sit down with my drink. I prepared for a sarcastic comment about me making myself at home but he surprised me.
‘My Gwendoline would be having words with me about my shocking manners,’ he said. ‘I never thought to offer you a cuppa. I’m sorry, lass.’
I smiled, relieved that I wasn’t on his bad side. ‘That’s okay.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not okay and I’m sorry. It’s no excuse but it’s been so long since I’ve had company. I’ve quite forgotten how to entertain.’
The obvious loneliness was heart-breaking. ‘In that case, you can entertain me by telling me about the hedgehogs.’
‘The hedgehogs?’
‘Yes. You said there were two reasons you bought the farm: the kitchen and the hedgehogs. I’d love to know more about the hedgehogs. I’m assuming that’s Mrs Mickleby holding them in those photos on your dresser.’
He smiled and I swear it took years off him, his face lighting up with pure love. ‘My Gwendoline adored hedgehogs. She found a litter of abandoned hoglets when she was little, looked after them, and was hooked. We must have looked after hundreds of injured and abandoned hedgehogs after we married and it was always her dream to be able to do more. As soon as I saw this place, I knew I had to buy it for her. She had such big plans. One of the barns – the biggest stone one – was going to be the rescue centre. We bought plastic crates for beds and a stack of other things. She had an agreement set up with the local vet for medicine at cost. It was all coming together. And then…’
‘What happened?’ I asked when he fell silent.
‘She’d had a sore throat for a while but she was never one to kick up a fuss. Turned out it was a bit more serious than a sore throat. By the time I convinced her to see a doctor, because the weight was dropping off her, it was too late. Cancer of the oesophagus. Advanced. Two months later, she was taken from me.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Me too, lass. I know you judge me for wanting to join her…’
I shook my head vigorously. ‘I don’t judge anyone for anything. But it’s my job to preserve lives so I’ve only been doing what comes naturally.’
‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just that, since my Gwendoline was taken from me, I haven’t known a single day of joy.’
‘But she died twenty years ago.’
‘Exactly. So do you understand why I wanted to…?’
I nodded. Yes, I understood. I got it. Life without James had been unbearable and we’d been together for a tiny fraction of the time that Thomas and Gwendoline had been so how I felt must have been magnified a thousand times over for poor Mr Mickleby. I couldn’t blame him if he hated me for saving him when he could have been at the end of his pain and loss.