20. Scent - A Family Favourite Feast

The first thing you notice as you walk through the door of your cosy little homestead is the coalescing smell of spices coming from the kitchen. Strong, but not overwhelming. Blended to a perfect mix.

You recognise it, you realise, stripping off your jacket and throwing it over the stair rail ahead of you. A little earthy, sharp enough to ignite a spark that radiates heat from the moment the smell hits your nose. That heat travels downwards, settles in your chest, clawing at the cold that had taken hold of you during your afternoon walk around Redbarrow. Following the smell, you walk into the kitchen. Your father stands over the fire, stoking the flames with an iron poker in one hand, stirring whatever concoction lies in the pot with the spoon held in his other hand.

“You’re just in time, little one,” he calls over his shoulder, focused on the pot. It means he cannot see you roll your eyes at his affectionate use of your nickname.

“Little one?” you start, creeping up behind him to peer over his shoulder. “Pretty sure I’m taller than you now, old man.”

He turns sharply, taps you on the nose with the wet spoon. Try as you might, your father was just too quick, and your attempt at a dodge smears the food across your cheek. “What have I told you about calling me old? I’m not old, just–”

“Getting slower?”

A pointed look and another tap of the spoon later, this time against your chin, and you waft his hand away. “Okay, okay, you’re not old dad!” He shoots you a smile, one you gladly return. Grinning from ear to ear at this little back and forth. Then you glance down at the pot once more, giving it one large, long sniff. “Largoss soup?”

He hums, turning back to the pot to give it another stir. Just barely you can see his lips twitch downwards.

“You haven’t made this in years, not since…”

You trail off. Voice failing you as your own expression sours, the memory of another home flashing across your mind, replacing the sight before you with a vision of eccentric decorations and expensive fabrics, of a woman standing with you and your father. Smiling with you, laughing with you.

Not since mum died…

Though his shoulders sag with the weight of a memory you can only guess at, but imagine is similar to your own, he somehow manages to hold his smile. You love and hate that about him in equal parts. His ability to stay strong, stay smiling, even when loss and grief dare him to kick and scream.

“I figured since we’ve settled down, we have something to celebrate this year. A reason to cook something up - something good, not just the usual fast and easy meals, you know?” he says. Only glances over his shoulder at you once, probably to see if you are okay, even though he’s the one hurting more.

“Yeah…” you reply. Then, voice a little softer, whispering over the crackling fire, “smells the same as it did all those years ago. Kind of reminds me of those family dinners, huddled round the fire to keep us warm.”

“Not that we needed the fire to keep warm. The soup was good enough at that all on its own.”

Something compels you to step forward. Just a fraction, just so that you are close enough to take up a little bit of your father’s space. He almost turns around, confusion bleeding into his expression, but before he gets the chance you wrap your arms around his waist and hug him tightly.

For a minute the two of you just stand there. Your father drops the iron poker in favour of tapping one of your forearms, an attempt at soothing you despite the awkward angle. You bury your face against his shoulder. Smoke from the fire clings to the fabric of his shirt, mingling with the faint hint of the Largoss soup, and for a moment you can pretend that your mother is here too. That she escaped alongside the two of you. That you have shared more than one dinner like this, cooked her favourite meal more than just once in seven years. You can pretend that the smell of burning flesh isn’t seared into your senses, that your life wasn’t completely upheaved for the sake of a family feud.

But you have to step away. Your father has to serve you both a portion of the soup, even if tears prick at the corners of his eyes whilst he pours. No matter how much you wish you could freeze this moment, stay reminiscing about a better time for just that little bit longer, you have to move on.

Eventually, as the sky fades from a twilight blue to an all encompassing black, mottled with the faintest starlight, so too does the smell of your mother’s favourite soup fade from your home.