Katherine came to him in the most unexpected moments – even in the rolling ‘r’s of the man who bought two large parsnips and half a dozen carrots. ‘Rrrr . . .’ he said, ‘rrrr . . .’ as if speaking in code.
She came in the smell of lavender and vanilla. In the memory of pork pies.
It was she who had introduced him to them, understanding now the Chinese love of pork. ‘They’re very English,’ she’d told him as she gave him the brown paper bag. Kuch’s in Cuba Street made the best pork pies in town.
‘Kuch’s? Is this English name?’ he’d asked, and she only smiled.
He loved the plump pink filling ringed with gelatine, the rich short pastry as full as a moon. They were as close as he got to moon cakes all year round, as if every night might be when the moon was fullest, when family came together to eat and gaze at its brightness.
Now, lying awake at 2 a.m., he watched moonlight at the end of his bed. Suddenly he did not know where might be home.