Another letter. Nurse Peters sighed. The poor man should stop writing and save himself postage. The young nun in her care never read them, no matter how she teased.
She passed the letter off without comment this time, and waited for Sister Bernadette to slip it into her robe with all the others.
But instead, she opened it.
Nurse Peters held her breath. "Would you like some cake? It's almond sponge today."
The woman's eyes shone. "Yes, please."
When Nurse Peters passed by later, she was pleased to find the plate empty and the nun's lap full of opened letters.
It was a shock seeing her again, after their disastrous cricket outing. Tom felt his face grow hot with embarrassment.
"Hello, Reverend," she said coolly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"I thought the sisters might enjoy these," He held out the cake box with a shaky hand. "A gift from a generous parishioner."
"If it's cake, I'm sure they will." She opened the box and gasped in delight. "Meringues! My favorite."
"R-really?" His head felt so light, he might float away.
"Would you like to come in for tea?"
He'd dream about her smile for weeks afterwards.
She thought she was fine, but then the strangest things would remind her of that last day. Like the cake at lunch. Bright yellow, like the sunshine on a plate. The sun through the curtains of their flat. They had no baking skills between them, but she found a good lemon drizzle at the shop. The crumbs got everywhere - stuck to her palms, her lips, the soft backs of her thighs. For once, she did not mind.
"Patsy, don't you want your cake?" Barbara asked.
She pushed aside the plate. "It's a bit too sweet for me."
"Our special biscuits," he called them, because no one else liked them. Not Jimmy, not Cynthia, not even Sister Monica Joan, who usually pounced on anything sweet. The name was not exactly appealing - squashed fly biscuits - but to her, they tasted of childhood, and that was something she hadn't been able to share with Gerald. He'd been so much older, she hadn't really shared anything with him. And while all she'd shared with Alec so far was tea, biscuits and a brief spin on a motorbike, she sensed that maybe one day, there would be more.
"Oh bother."
Sister Bernadette, walking past the kitchen, heard the distress of her tall friend and popped her head in.
"What seems to be the trouble, Nurse Noakes?"
"Tomorrow is young Timothy Turner's birthday and I told Dr. Turner I'd organize a Cubs outing as a party. But Ms. B's on holiday, and my attempts at a cake have been - " she sighed "less than successful."
Sister Bernadette frowned. She remembered several birthdays with no cake at all after her mother died. That wouldn't do.
"If a cake is all you need, I'd be glad to help."
"Mummy, I help."
Shelagh sighed. She'd wanted to finish this Christmas cake before Timothy raided the larder after school, and the help of a three-year-old would only result in a larger mess.
But Angela's brown eyes were pleading, and it was Christmas. "Well, all right." She lifted her onto the stool and guided her as they mixed and measured. Angela got flour in her hair, ate a good portion of the icing, and cried after she stuck a sultana up her nose.
The resulting cake was lumpier than usual, but no one said a word, except Angela – "I made it!"
She hadn't expected cake.
"Cake is for guests, Antonia," her mother would always say, slapping her hand away from the tea tray. And she wasn't here as a guest. She was here to devote her life to His service and to the community.
But when the elder nun pushed the snowy white confection and a cup of tea toward her, asking "Aren't you hungry? You've had such a long journey," she couldn't resist. It tasted like cream, spun sugar and summer days.
Cake could welcome guests, but it could also welcome you home.
