Free A Fatal Attachment by Robert Barnard

said Lydia briskly.
    â€œIt would be too much trouble,” said Colin, “It would stop you working on your book.”
    â€œIt would do nothing of the kind. I’m always finished work by four or five o’clock. Cooking for three is hardly more work than cooking for one, and it will be a great pleasure, which cooking for one hardly is. Will your father be home from work yet?”
    The boys had gone to school in the afternoon and explained the situation to their headmaster. At a quarter to four they had cycled home to an empty house and then come straight up to Lydia. Ted looked at his watch.
    â€œNot yet. About a quarter to six, probably.”
    â€œHe knows the situation?”
    â€œOh yes. The doctor rang him. Mum was just crying and that, and a bit afraid, so the doctor did it. I spoke to him too and said we’d be all right.”
    â€œWell, I’ll ring him a bit later on. Now, tonight may be a bit of a scratch affair—”
    â€œNo, really Mrs Perceval,” said the boys. “We don’t expect you to feed us without notice!”
    â€œDeep freeze. No problem. Call me Lydia, by the way. So much easier. Now, the question is: what do you like apart from all that fast food junk?”
    â€œShepherd’s pie!” said Ted. “With lots of tomato sauce!”
    â€œLasagne,” said Colin.
    â€œAll that mince!” protested Lydia. “You must like something that isn’t made with mince.”
    â€œPork,” said Colin, maturely considering. “I think pork’s my favourite meat. Roast. Or pork chops.”
    â€œI quite like fish,” said Ted. “And I know it’s good for you, but I don’t like it boiled or steamed. I like a good batter.”
    â€œAnd chips,” said Colin. “Nice crispy ones, not ones from the packet you just put in the oven.”
    â€œThat’s when I knew Mum was ill,” said Ted. “When she started serving instant chips.”
    Lydia felt blessed—somehow favoured. She felt as if some higher power had intervened. She noted down all their preferences in her head, and made mental notes of how she might lead them away from such basic forms of cuisine into something more interesting and inventive. It was going to give a new shape and purpose to her day. And it was going to last such a long time! Later on she rang their father.
    â€œMr Bellingham? This is Lydia Perceval. The boys are up here, and they’ve been telling me about their mother. I really am most upset for you all. I hear it’s a dreadful condition. . . . Yes, I’d gathered the treatment may take a long while. . . . Look, I’ve talked this over with Ted and Colin and I want to be responsible for giving them a proper meal each day. That would take a bit of the burden off you, wouldn’t it? They can come up here after school—young people really shouldn’t go home to an empty house, should they?—and I’ll have a good hot meal for them in the evening.”
    â€œThat’s really very kind of you, but there’s no n—”
    â€œIt’s pure pleasure, I assure you, Mr Bellingham. It’s good to know I canbe of some little help. I’m rustling up something for them tonight, and they’ll be back home by nine at the latest.”
    If it occurred to Lydia that it would be a kindness to include the boys’ father in the invitation now and then, she suppressed the thought. Nick Bellingham had not sounded, from the boys’ account of him, a man of any interest.
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    The Maple Tree had been a country pub from time pretty much immemorial, serving shepherds and dry-stone-wallers on a hilly road ten miles from Halifax. Time and demographic changes had destroyed its custom, and five years before it had been taken over by a couple in flight from Chelsea, who had turned it into an up-market restaurant, all tarted up in an amusing way, and