Wandering Through The Land Of Nod.

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A slightly spooky story about grief, kindness and soup.

The bright A board poster barred Maggie’s path and stopped her in her tracks.  She read the orange words “Super Duper Soup of the Day “above a picture of a steaming cauldron and raised her eyebrows in surprise.  She didn’t remember seeing this small café before, though she thought she knew the High Street like the back of her hand.  She couldn’t remember what used to be there, squeezed between Fantasy Nails and Spellbound and Sons, solicitors you can trust. 

Suddenly her heart raced, and she gasped for breath.  She was enveloped in soft warmth and looking down, she saw a black cat winding its way around her legs.  Maggie and the cat caught each other’s eye for a second before the cat scampered away.

Dizzily, she looked again at the poster, then at the condensation-soaked café windows.  ENTRANCE it said on the door.  Welcome to Dreams Come True Delicatessen.

Maggie hadn’t been feeling hungry, and she hadn’t intended to eat out, but she found herself pushing open the door and walking inside to be wrapped around with warmth and aroma of – was it leeks or lentils, parsnips or potatoes, cabbage or cauliflower?

There was one person sat at a table by the door, wrapped up in a dark coat and hat, although it wasn’t cold outside and was positively balmy indoors.  Even with their back turned towards her, Maggie could tell that they were writing.

A line of plain Formica topped tables led the way to the glass fronted counter which displayed a tempting array of cakes.  Behind that stood a shiny black cauldron bubbling away and emitting that indistinct mix of aromas.  By its side stood a tall thin woman.  Her emerald green eyes were framed with orangey red hair, and she was dressed in black.  Her fingers were long and thin as she spread them out in welcome.  Her voice drew Maggie’s eyes away from her bright green nail polish.

“What would you like?”  she asked.

“Erm, what is the soup of the day?”  Maggie said, sniffing again the confusing mix of flavoursome scents.

“What would you like it to be?”  the tall woman replied.

“Is there a choice?”

“Oh, there’s always a choice, you should know that by your age.”

Maggie wondered just how old she looked and regretted wearing her leggings and tee shirt.  Had she even washed her face or combed her hair before coming out?  For a fleeting moment, she wished she’d gone to Costa where sterile food comes plastic wrapped, eye contact is avoided, and conversation unwelcome. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a flash of black fur and again, green feline eyes met hers.  The room spun around her, and she reached for the counter.

“Why don’t you sit down,” said the kindly voice of the tall woman who walked around the counter to take hold of Maggie’s arm.

“I’m alright,” said Maggie, “it was just a dizzy spell.

The woman led Maggie to a table, placed a glass of water in front of her and seated herself opposite.  Maggie watched mesmerised as the bubbles in the water rose to the surface and burst.

“So, what sort of soup would you like?”  The words broke into Maggie’s reverie, and she looked up into green eyes that were gazing at her.

“I don’t know,” Maggie said.

“Well, what did you want when you left home this morning?”

“I don’t know, I just wanted to leave, I guess.”

“Didn’t you have soup at home?”

“No, no soup, there’s nothing that I want there, just painful memories. 

A hush came over the quiet café, the cauldron stopped bubbling, the stranger’s pen stopped scribbling, and the black cat stopped her pacing, one paw raised in the air.

The bubbles in the water ceased to dance as tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes and spilled onto the Formica.

With a sigh and a rustle of skirts, the tall kind woman was gone.  In a moment, the cauldron bubbled back to life and in a trice, a steaming bowl of soup was placed before Maggie.

Deep down pain rose up from her insides and came out in a loud sob.  Her tears got thicker and faster and when they fell into the thick broth it bubbled up and swirled around, steaming into her nostrils and awakening her long-forgotten appetite.

Beautiful, green tipped fingers held out a spoonful towards her.

Maggie took the spoon and sipped gingerly, then gulped it down and took some more.

The soup tasted of sunshine and teenage romance, of holding hands and a first kiss.  It tasted of being held and words of love, promises to never part.  It tasted of building a home, of hard work and happy exhaustion.  It tasted of loving through good times and bad, through richer and poorer, in sickness and in health and it tasted of overwhelming grief which is part of love.

A gust of wind touched her cheek.  The stranger had packed up their notebook and pen, pulled their hat more firmly around their ears and walked out into the street.

A pool of warmth flooded through her.  The cat had leapt onto her lap, and she welcomed the life that it brought.

The kind woman returned to the counter and busied herself, ready for the next customer.

“How was your soup of the day?” she asked.

Maggie found a smile as she stood up.  “It’s warmed me and woken me up, thank you.” When she stepped out of the door, the sun was shining. She turned and headed towards home.