Soup for Gwen

When Tommy heard on Saturday morning that Gwen had been laid up with a fever since Thursday, he decided against sending the usual “get well soon” message. He would rather do something useful. It was high time he repaid her for the weeks she had spent helping with his move, and some proper soup seemed a better way of doing it than words.

The fridge, however, was less promising than he had hoped. Besides some onions, a handful of carrots and a few potatoes, he found only the remains of a roast chicken, and when he reached for the salt, the container turned out to be empty. The bread was beyond saving.

He knocked on his neighbour’s door, half expecting no answer. Mrs Reed, who rarely left her garden at weekends, listened without comment and returned with some salt and a loaf still warm from the oven. “Take some of this as well,” she insisted. “Soup without bread is only half a meal.”

Back in the kitchen, he chopped the vegetables, covered them with some water and let them simmer while he stripped what was left of the chicken. He added some salt only at the end, remembering his grandmother’s rule that it is easier to add than to take away. Within the hour, the whole stairwell smelled of Sunday lunch.

Gwen was too tired to say much when she opened the door, but the sight of the pot wrapped in a towel seemed to do some of the talking for him. After a few spoonfuls she asked, almost shyly, whether there was any more. “There is plenty at home,” Tommy said. “It’s time you went back to bed, and I’d rather you didn’t cook anything tonight. I’ll bring you some tomorrow.”