Hannah Irvine’s Delicious Secret

There’ll be hell to pay if I’ve lost it.

I know my sisters will have plenty to say; none of them thought the family heirloom should have been entrusted to me.

Margot will say I did it on purpose to rile her over our argument last week. If truth be told our tiff was only the latest in a lifetime’s worth of petty rivalries that started the day she was born not quite two years after me. For heaven’s sake that was almost fifty years ago, you’d think two adult women could put aside all that immature jealousy and competition, but that’s Margot for you. Each month since the divorce her fuse has become progressively shorter. When her husband of 18 years left her you could see the bitterness etched in her face from a hundred paces.

Now Désirée will say, in her usual brittle tone, that she just doesn’t understand how a grown woman could be so careless with something so intrinsically valuable. She will look down at her exquisitely manicured nails, toss her glamorous hair that looks to be getting a shade blonder each year since she turned 40, and effect a sigh that signals I should just get on with it. Turn the place upside down if need be. Just find it Hannah!

And Zoë, our not-so-baby sister, will just look helpless. Tears will undoubtedly well in her gorgeous, big brown eyes as she thinks of the loss. That she accepted Richard’s proposal is the biggest surprise of our lives. We were convinced she would never marry but would simply continue providing us with glimpses of her exotic, jet setting lifestyle as a flight attendant in the middle-east. In uniform, her eyes peep beguilingly over the chiffon veil that looks almost incongruous with the smart Armani suit.

There have been difficult, awkward moments between the four of us, but somehow, we seem to stick together, through good times and bad, weddings and divorces, and endless arguments. Although we hold vastly differing views of the world and our place in it, we do have a bond, one forged by history and memories of our family.

Us four sisters, like our mother and grandmothers before us, are bound by an unwritten code started by our great, great grandmother Selena — stick together girls, no matter what. Along with her husband Tom, Selena immigrated to Australia in 1857 as a young bride, bringing with her a fierce independence, a mighty propensity for hard work, and a precious family recipe.

It’s the recipe for the family fruitcake that has been baked by the eldest daughter of her generation for every family occasion since Selena declared it to be so; weddings, engagements, funerals, christenings, 18ths, 21sts, 40ths, and 50ths. I made my own cake when I turned 50 last year as mum was so ill. And the next time was for her funeral. And now, I’ve misplaced it. Damn it. You’d think having made it only a few months ago I’d be able to turn my hand to the recipe in an instant. But I’ve moved since then.

After Frank’s death I left the city, left the traffic and the parking hassles, and cashed in our apartment with the million dollar views. Turning 50 is quite a milestone. Not yet old but well and truly ripe, and ready for a new life. But since leaving the city I’ve been inundated by visitors. Heck I came here to get away from the rat race, walk along the beach, and collect shells and driftwood. But I’m busier than ever. Once the locals found out I used to build companies for a living, the greengrocer, garage owner and publican all wanted to pick my brain about optimising their cash flow, upgrading computer systems, and coming to grips with their operating expenditure versus capital expenditure. Each beat a path to my door offering a car service, the ripest cantaloupes or a bottle of Dimple for a bit of advice. They all say business has never been better. Now, resigned to being on call for my new associates, I’ve started a new career, Hannah Irvine Business Consultant — well there are only so many shells one can pick up, believe me.

What with my new business I haven’t got around to unpacking the last few boxes. Now it’s getting urgent, I must find the recipe. Zoë gets married in February and I cannot let her down. 150 years of family tradition is too much to let slip away. And besides, my sisters would never forgive me. So just on dusk after a day spent wrestling with the garage’s fiscal shortcomings, I pour a large Dimple over ice into my best crystal glass. I’ve decided not to keep anything for good any more, everything gets used. Margot was almost apoplectic when she saw the cat eating off mother’s best Royal Doulton. With glass in hand I face the inevitable smiles and tears that come with searching through boxes crammed with memories, those bittersweet fragments of life that pop up and smack you in the face when you’ve been convinced for years that you’ve dealt with them.

I hadn’t yet torn the tape off the first box when the phone shattered the silence.

‘Yes, hello Margot.’ I hoped my voice didn’t sound too peeved at the interruption.

‘Well have you found it?’ Her tone was almost shrill.

‘Lovely of you to call dear,’ I replied, but with only an edgy sigh on the other end, I gave up and answered her. ‘No, not yet, I’ve only just sat down this minute to tackle the boxes I brought home from the shed.

I admit I baulked at needing a storage shed but sometimes it’s not easy to get rid of everything at once. What if I need that extra set of whisky glasses or the old towels in case the bath overflows?

‘You’re impossible Hannah. Now if I had been the eldest I would have treated that recipe as sacrosanct and safeguarded it with my life.’

She was always like this, dramatic, obsessive, guilt driven, a martyr to tradition. Rob couldn’t stand it and retreated into lucrative mergers and acquisitions before retreating altogether. I wanted to say to her that she wasn’t me and wouldn’t my daughter be grateful for that, but I bit my tongue.

‘Margot, the longer you rant and rave at me the shorter time I will have to look.’

‘Very well then, call me when you find it.’ And she hung up.

With another whisky to fortify me, I peer into the first box, a tangled mess of hastily packed books, papers and photos.

I take out the first layer. Oh no, it’s that photo of me and Margot, we must be about 14 and 16, she’s scowling. I can remember the day it was taken, my birthday 1972. My birthday present was a Carol King record “It’s Too Late” and we’d been shocked at the newspaper’s front page photo of the poor naked girl with napalm burns running down the road in Vietnam. But that didn’t account for Margot’s scowl. No that was because I was wearing a strapless bra under my blouse and Margot’s breasts were still flat against her chest.

The next photo is of Frank, fishing from the jetty not far from here. He was such a dear man, gentle and kind with so often a somewhat perplexed expression on his face. At first, he didn’t tell me he had a life-threatening heart condition but his face appeared more puzzled than ever. He’d always been a deep thinker and would come out with the most extraordinary things when I’d least expect it. Like the time he asked me to pass the salt and he looked at the shaker closely and muttered that we should be grateful for the exothermic reaction in the mixture of sodium and chlorine to yield table salt. Really? I suppose it wasn’t completely out of left field as he was an industrial chemist. But, really? Of course, he did eventually tell me that the situation was grave. But as a deep thinker I think he was trying to get all his ducks in a row perhaps like a last confession of sins and regrets. In any case, one morning before leaving for the jetty during one of our long weekends here he casually said that he’d had a disappointing diagnosis but that I wasn’t to worry, he’d made sure everything was financially sound and that he’d decided he didn’t want a huge funeral, just a few of his best friends with a couple beers at the surf club to send him on his way. Low key my Frank.

The next is an envelope. Had I stuffed the recipe in there? I take out the folded piece of paper.

No, it’s a letter full of angst, tears and disbelief from Désirée. I look at the date, March 1998, and remember when I first read it I couldn’t help but laugh at the coincidence. Here’s Désirée telling me about Derek’s infidelity and there’s Hillary Clinton on US prime time television defending Bill over his fall from grace with Monica. Poor old Derek had no such defence, no right wing conspiracy here. He was just a man thwarted by a middle-aged wife who seemed more interested in her children, her wardrobe and her nails than her husband. It’s a testament to Désirée’s determination to hang on to her lifestyle that she forgave him. Maybe Hillary too.

Why is it that when you’re looking for one thing you find lots of other things that have nothing to do with what you’re looking for? I could see it was going to be one of those nights. Thinking better of another drink, I put the coffee machine on and soon the heavenly aroma wafted through the cottage. Time for some soothing music and I flip through the CDs — Carlos Santana, cool samba sounds and catchy guitar riffs, perfect.

‘I could smell coffee from the beach Hannah, can you stretch to another cup for a poor wandering beach bum?’

‘Come on in Mac, the door is open.’ I grabbed another mug. Yes, it was definitely going to be one of those nights. ‘Forgive the mess, I’m looking for—’

‘And I’m interrupting you …’

He always looked like a shaggy dog to me; ruffled sandy hair slightly sticky from the salt air, tanned skin and blue eyes that pick up even the most faded blue shirt. In all a nice-looking picture if, like me, you find raffish elegance attractive. I’ve never asked him how old he is but I’d figured late-forties. He’s a freelance writer hiding out here trying to dry out, hence the coffee.

‘That’s alright Mac, I wasn’t having much luck anyway.’

He picks up the photo of Margot and me and laughs.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You, you’re sticking your chest out like a Kardashian.’

I grabbed the photo back and put in on the pile.

‘Ok I give in, what are you looking for?’

‘Just a recipe.’

Thank goodness he didn’t pursue it. I was in no mood to explain the history of the recipe or its loss.

He finished his coffee. ‘Ok then, I’ll leave you to it. Will you be coming to the surf club fundraiser Saturday night?’

‘I wasn’t going to.  Are you?’

‘Yeah, I’m writing an article on the surf boat crew. Want to come with me?’

I looked at him. I knew it would be difficult for him to have to refuse drinks at the bar but we’ve never been out on a date before, just coffee at JavaBean in the main street.

‘Do you mean as a date or as your watchdog?’

‘Both.’

‘Ok, I guess everyone will be there and it is a good cause.’

‘What’s a good cause, me or the surf club?’

‘Both.’

He laughed and moved toward the screen door leading back to the beach.

‘Seven o’clock Ms Irvine, be ready.’

‘Yes sir,’ I mock saluted and he was gone.

I’ve never considered myself in the market for a date. Since Frank died I’ve kept pretty much to myself. There’s been the odd, well-meaning friend who would try to set me up with some good catch who would invariably turn out to be boring or mauling, or both.

Before I moved here we would come for holidays. Frank and MacIntosh would fish together, under the bridge on the incoming tide, where the whiting and Moses perch glide by in a silver flash. I don’t have any of those silly ideas that Frank is looking down and approving of my going out with Mac, nodding his head serenely from his heavenly resting place to indicate his blessing. But I do get a small degree of comfort that Mac is abundantly aware of who I am, what I will stand for and not, and I can just be me with him.

After all, it was Frank and I who helped him finally realise his drinking was leading to disaster of body, mind and spirit — and bank balance if he didn’t do something drastic to cut down. There’s no 10 cent return on empty bourbon bottles.

I reached the bottom of the box only to feel a niggling irritation that I would need to open the next. If I try to meditate on the recipe maybe I can remember it. I know the basic ingredients; lots of Brazil nuts, almonds, hazelnuts, glace fruit, ginger, cognac … no, it’s no good I can’t remember the spices that make it so unusual. It’s a difficult recipe and if the oven is not perfect will burn easily. You cannot be lazy and leave off the paper lining of the cake tin either; I learned that the last time I made it, for Mum’s funeral.

The phone jolts me out of my meditation. For heaven’s sake it’s almost eleven o’clock.

‘Hello …’ There is that split second delay in the reply that tells me it’s probably Zoë calling from overseas.

‘Hannah, I’m sorry it’s so late. It’s early morning here in Chicago and we’re snowed in. I need to talk to you.’

‘Of course darling, but if you’re going to ask about the recipe then the answer is no, I haven’t found it yet.’ I thought I would get that cleared up first.

‘No I wasn’t going to but thanks anyway. Hannah I think I’m having second thoughts about the wedding.’

I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. She’s always seemed so young to me. I was almost twenty when she was born, this tiny thing with eyes that could melt your heart. She would run to me when she needed a band-aid or wanted a story read and I would pop her onto my lap with her favourite storybook, The Velveteen Rabbit. Every time I finished reading it to her she would look up at me with those innocent, trusting eyes and say “more” and we would start again, over and over and over. In the end I knew it all by heart.  It’s hard to believe she’s now almost 30, oh dear does that mean another cake?

‘What sort of second thoughts darling?’

‘It’s us, our family; we don’t seem to have much luck in the marriage department. You’re a widow, Margot divorced and Désirée, well we all know Derek has been caught out.’

I would have to nip this in the bud. ‘Now listen to me Zoë, I’m a widow because Frank had a massive heart attack but we had 22 years of a good and happy marriage, Margot is divorced from a husband who was more interested in money and property and was never home. As for Désirée, she and Derek are working through their problems, and that’s what marriage is about. We both know Désirée can be difficult, poor old Derek probably only wanted some affection.’

‘I suppose you’re right. But what if Richard and I are not suited or we grow apart—’

‘Stop right there.’ I could hear my voice getting stronger. ‘Do you love Richard? Of course you do. Does he love you? Of course he does. You’ve known each other for years, surely you know him well enough by now to be willing to take a chance on your marriage being successful.’

There was a breathy silence, maybe I had said too much but I couldn’t help myself, ‘and you do want children don’t you?’ That was the stinger. She told me only a few weeks ago that her baby clock was running down and if she was going to have a family she’d better start soon.

‘Thanks Hannah,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘I must have just had some early morning doubts. I knew I could count on you to be sensible. Talk soon, promise it won’t be so late next time, hope I didn’t interrupt anything. Bye.’

I had no desire to go back to the boxes, but the image of Zoë’s trusting eyes reminds me it’s time to get serious about the cake. I settle into the comfy arm chair with a pile of papers and folders. The gentle tic-toc of the wall clock is soothing and I can hear the whoosh of the surf as the incoming tide rushes up the beach. Rate notices, phone bills, removalist’s accounts, all from our former home in the city. What do you do with all this stuff? Reminders of a past life; busy, frantic, purposeful, driven.  Now I like to think of myself as being mellow, and mature, maybe even a little mysterious, not like in my forties when it was still slim, smart and sexy.

I look around the room, at the new home I’ve created. White linen slip covered furniture, polished floors, Hampton’s Style, and everything just as I want it. I’d thought myself so clever until I read that it was the most copied decorating style of the decade.

The last folder in the box looks promising. Snippets of paper with people’s e-mail addresses, holiday plans, travel brochures. Margot and I had planned to go to France at Easter but Zoë’s wedding has changed all that. Anyway, I’m not sure I could bear to spend time alone with Margot in her present mood. Right at the bottom there’s a photograph of Désirée and Derek and the children. It must have been taken after they reconciled, they’re both looking strained, half smiles on their faces but the children look blissfully happy. I look at Désirée and wonder how and when she got to be so brittle, always living her life on the edge.

Well it’s not there. And it’s late. The last box will have to wait until morning. After a shower I brush my hair. Désirée said I’m too old to have shoulder length hair, short suits women of a certain age she said, but I resist. Heck, I’ve got a way to go before I succumb to short hair and sensible shoes. Anyway, I’ve never been glamorous — but every night I slather some expensive glob onto my face and neck as a concession to time.

______

The first rays of sunlight peek through the shutters in my bedroom and I know I must make the effort to go for a walk along the beach. Two Dimples are one too many. It would be too easy to pull the covers back up and luxuriate in bed. But if I don’t walk I’ll feel lazy and sluggish all day. Désirée would be horrified. I expect she’s already at the gym, bouncing around the cardio room, running on the treadmill. Now I’m working again I don’t have the luxury of just drifting through my days, eating, sleeping, waking and walking at will, no one to answer to, no timetables to keep, no demands on my time or intellect.

I grab my hat and dilly bag in case I find some new shells and walk down the old wooden beach steps, bleached silver by sand and salt water. It’s deserted. Only small white crabs scurry over driftwood and scallop shells, chased by the surf as it crashes onto the beach and runs toward the seaweed that marks the high water line. A flurry of seagulls descend into the shallow water and bob up and down, probably looking for some breakfast if a school of tiny silver fish are chased into the shallows by hungry mackerel. I sink my toes into the cool sand, bliss. It seems to take something momentous in life in order to sort out what’s important and what’s trivial.

When I get back there’s a new red BMW in the driveway and I can hear two voices yelling my name and pounding on the front door.

‘Hannah, wake up, you can’t sleep the day away. Come on, open the door.’

‘What on earth are you two doing here?’

I can’t believe my eyes. My two sisters, together, at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Margot spoke first.

‘We decided that in your dotage we would come and help you find the recipe. Poor Zoë will be devastated if the heirloom cake is missing from her wedding. And you seem to be taking a very cavalier attitude to finding it.’

‘I spoke to Zoë last night, she’s ok. I’ve still got one more box to sort, it’s sure to be there.’

‘Coffee, I need coffee,’ said Désirée, ‘your turnoff is so easy to miss. Why you want to live in this little backwater of civilisation is beyond me. And I chipped a nail on your screen door.’

‘Come in, I wasn’t in bed, I was walking along the beach. That’s why I came here, remember?’

I turn the coffee machine on and take the cups from the dishwasher, find the artificial sweeteners for Désirée and skim milk for Margot. I wonder how long they intend staying. I hope they go before tonight. Damn. We will just have to find the recipe and they can be on their way. I can’t bear to think what they would say if they find out I have a date.

‘So where is this box Hannah?’ Margot demanded. ‘I’ll start looking while you make toast.’

She had the ability to bully everyone, and it’s easier to just give in and go with the flow where Margot is concerned. I pointed her in the direction of the lounge room.

‘I’ll bring in the toast and coffee when it’s ready.’

‘And marmalade,’ she called back.

Désirée had returned from the bathroom, her hair that had looked a little dishevelled when she first arrived making her look more relaxed, was once again smoothed down and sleek. Her nail had been filed. She looked immaculate.

‘Hannah, why do you live here? This cottage is nice enough but you’ll never meet any eligible men.’

‘Désirée, contrary to your view of the world, not everyone is on the hunt for a man.’

‘So what on earth do you do all day? We drove through the main street, one hotel, one garage, a fruit shop, a coffee shop and a little arcade. Hannah it’s positively Lilliputian.’

‘And just as I like it, with all this beach,’ I said pointing to the picture windows and the sweep of the bay.

It was the picture window that sold the house to us, well me. We’d had our fill of expensive five star holiday hotels up and down the coast where we felt obliged to dress up for dinner and room service was outrageously expensive. The house on the beach was a salve to our financial conscience; we figured we were sinking our retirement nest egg into a liquid asset rather than a succession of hotel conglomerates. The cottage was very plain with a florid lino on the floor and each room painted a different pastel colour. At first we simply bought some cane furniture and a microwave and a bed. But after Frank died I soon realised if I was going to make this my home it would need a significant reno. The kitchen and bathroom were dreadfully kitsch but the avocado green bath and basin have probably ricocheted back into fashion.

I carried the breakfast into the lounge room and then opened the shutters to let in the early morning sea breeze. ‘Found anything interesting Margot?’ I asked as I handed her coffee and toast.

‘Just old bills, photos and little scraps of paper. Well it’s not here. What are you going to do about it Hannah?’

‘Margot, don’t take that tone with me. It’ll turn up. It’s simply a process of elimination.’

I knew it wouldn’t be long and Désirée would have her turn.

‘Hannah, you must try to think what you did with it after Mum’s funeral. Now think back, you were in St Kilda at her apartment; is it possible you might have thrown it out when you finished the clean out?’

‘I doubt it Desi. I’m not a moron,’ I snapped.

‘Don’t take that tone with me,’ she replied.

Oh dear, two tone warnings in two minutes. I could see the conversation going from bad to worse, voices would get louder, the argument would get personal, Margot would criticise Désirée for some slight, Désirée would counter with a dig at Margot being fat and almost fifty and then they would both turn on me. I had to stop it now.

‘Ok gals, this is pointless, we all know that from here it only degenerates into a slanging match. Let’s try to think of some alternatives—’

‘What do you mean, alternatives, are you trying to wriggle out of making the cake?’ Margot demanded.

‘Of course not. But if the recipe cannot be found we have to think of something else.’

They both looked at me as if I had blasphemed to the Pope. This was not going to be easy.

‘If for some awful reason and I apologise in advance, the recipe is lost rather than misplaced we have to decide where to go from here as a fall-back position. Margot, what do you think dear?’

I hoped that asking her first would have a calming effect and I threw in the dear for good measure. She looked at me, tears welling in her eyes.

‘Hannah, I just don’t understand your attitude. You know how important that recipe is, you know our tradition, how we’ve always had that cake down through the generations. You don’t seem to be at all upset about it and that just kills me.’

I nodded. Margot often uses the “that just kills me” phrase which is so melodramatic and obviously hasn’t come to fruition, yet. In any case, this was not the time to fight back.

‘Désirée, what do you think?’

And with that she burst into tears. I met Margot’s eyes and she gave me a raised eyebrows look which I took to mean she didn’t think Désirée was upset about the cake.

Désirée dabbed at her wet face, the torrent of tears now downgraded to red blotches. ‘That’s the first time for ages someone has actually asked me what I think.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said. It’s always Désirée take the kids to school, pick up the dry-cleaning, make sure you’re ready for the chairman’s dinner by 7pm. Do this. Do that. Everyone thinks I’m an airhead only interested in fashion and celebrity parties and doing lunch but I’m more than that.’

‘And do you think that’s how we see you?’ I asked.

‘Of course, you’ve always been successful in your career, great marriage, lovely daughter, now you’re here and seem so happy. And you Margot, I know you had a rough time with Rob but you must admit you’re happier now that it’s all over.’

We both looked at her. She hadn’t spoken so openly since we were much younger. Something about growing up, marrying, and having children had divided us into camps, competing for status, holding back, not letting each other into our private thoughts and fears.

‘Well that’s not how I see you,’ I said, ‘I know how brave you were to forgive Derek, that couldn’t have been easy, I have no idea how I would have coped with that. And your children are a credit to you, you’re a wonderful mother.’

‘But I don’t seem to do anything else.’

‘What else would you like to do?’

She burst into tears again. I guessed no one had asked her that either.

Margot’s face was a picture of wonder and finally, she spoke in a much softer voice than her usual lately, ‘Desi, you know you’re right, I am happier. I just haven’t had the grace to admit it; I’ve been carrying around the hurt and betrayal … like a mascot.’

‘You haven’t called me Desi in years,’ she said looking as if she was a teenager again. ‘You know I would love to go back to uni, finish my degree.’

‘Now that’s an excellent idea, what’s stopping you?’ I asked.

She looked at me. I could see the doubt in her eyes as if the answer couldn’t possibly be that easy.

‘Nothing … I guess.’

She hopped up and hugged me and then turned to Margot. ‘So Margot, what are you going to do with your life?’

‘Well as we seem to be getting deep and meaningful here I have a dream too. Hannah, you know how we were going to Spain but postponed it for the wedding? Well, would you mind if I went alone? I need some time out, maybe walk the Camino. There’s a group of Aussie photographers going in the 2017 Euro summer, and I do have my new camera.’

‘Of course,’ I said with a heady mixture of relief and surprise. ‘You know I’m happy here and I do have some friends.’

‘Anyone special we should know about?’ Désirée asked.

Did I dare tell them about Mac? No, I’ll keep that delicious secret to myself for a while. ‘Stay tuned sis,’ I replied with a wink. ‘Look at the three of us, we’re all smiling, I don’t think I’ve seen us so happy since Zoë announced her engagement.’

‘Oh Hannah, Zoë’s wedding cake, what are we going to do?’ Margot asked.

‘Do you know Margot that’s the first time you’ve said we in a very long time?’ I patted her hand and she nodded. ‘What say we put our heads together and come up with a new cake?’ I suggested, mentally crossing my fingers.

‘Looks like our only option,’ Margot conceded, ‘where are your recipe books?’

The hours sped by in a flurry of excitement and laughter as we compared recipes until we finally settled on the one most like the original. And we remembered Selena’s secret ingredients: rosemary for remembrance, rue for grace, and caraway for a happy life. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

‘So, do we tell the rest of the family?’ I asked looking at each of them in turn.

‘No,’ said Désirée, ‘it’s our secret.’

Margot smiled and her face lit up. ‘You’re right Desi, let’s keep it to ourselves.’

I could hear Selena’s approval — stick together girls, no matter what.

______

Désirée’s BMW purred down the driveway leaving just enough time for me to get ready. I decided on the white silk pants and knit top, and a simple gold bracelet, understated yet stylish. Heck, who am I trying to impress? I put on some make up, a slick of gloss on my lips and took my hair out of its coil to fall down to my shoulders. I could feel a bubble of excitement in my stomach. Don’t be silly, it’s only the surf club.

‘Wow you look pretty special,’ Mac said as he stood at the door.

I was glad to see he didn’t have a bunch of flowers or worse chocolates, but then I remembered that this was a man of the world, a photo-journalist for National Geographic magazine before his fall from grace. He knew the right things to say and the right things to do. He kissed me lightly on the cheek.

I hope I didn’t look too surprised.

‘Yes, you look great Hannah … slim, smart and sexy.’

A small shiver ran up my arms.

‘Do you want to get a jacket? Could be cool later.’

I grabbed my white cashmere jacket, so soft to snuggle into and never prickly. The last time I wore it was Mum’s funeral — warmth and security blanket all in one. As we walked down the driveway to Mac’s battered Land Rover I checked the pockets for old tissues. Once I found at least six in various stages of decomposition, all new, all unused, obviously not for a funeral or a wedding. Why do we have tears at weddings? Are we simply reminded of our own happy day, or our vows of commitment to another person? Or is it the prospect of a new and happy life stretching before two impossibly beautiful young people that brings tears to our eyes? And why are they impossibly beautiful on this one day? Is it the love they have for each other and the love of their family and friends that surround them like shafts of adoring light ready to illuminate their new lives together?

Oh dear, don’t have tears now. Remember Zoë’s cake. Will her velvet brown eyes be full of tears on her day?

And I’ve always found it funny that some funerals don’t elicit tears. Are they the ones where the person has led a full life of loving and fulfilling their dreams? Note to self, fulfil dreams quick smart.

‘Ready ma’am? Mac asks as he holds the door open for me. I didn’t realise he was of an era that men held doors open, but I do like it. I’m tempted to fall into his arms but hold myself back. After all there were no flowers or chocolates and it is only the surf club.

‘Yes sir.’

But I stop, frozen. In the last pocket there’s an old, yellowed piece of paper. I don’t have to open it to know what it is.

‘Hannah, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you ok?’

‘Yes Mac, everything’s fine, it’s just an old recipe.’