The fridge was full of – wonder of wonders – food! The buggy was back on its nail on the porch; the sauce was simmering on the stove; the water was boiling for pasta; and there was garlic bread in the oven. All was right with the world. O knew how to cook. It had been a simple matter of survival. Growing up with just Father and her at home, making dinner for the two of them had become her job as soon as she was old enough to be trusted not to burn the house down. It had taken her some time today to get used to the unfamiliar kitchen, to find where everything was, to figure out exactly how the gas stove worked. Twenty minutes ago, Aunt Emily had come to the bottom of the stairs in the shop and called up, “What on earth are you doing up there? It smells delicious.” Now she was tucking into her second plateful of spaghetti. “Your father said nothing about your being such a wonderful cook,” she said. “I haven’t eaten this well in ages. I used to be a pretty good cook myself, when I was younger.
