Page 76 of Secret Paths

“That is a beautiful defence.”

I elbow him gently. “Move.”

He laughs and steps back.

The first few pieces are uneven. By the time I finish, we have a pile of carrots that would pass inspection if the inspector were kind and slightly short-sighted.

Peter heats oil in a frying pan and adds the mince. It hisses loudly enough to make me step back.

“It is not attacking you,” he says.

“It sounded aggressive.”

“It is browning.”

He breaks up the meat with a wooden spoon, then lets me stir once the onion and carrots go in. I am beginning to suspect stirring is mostly how competent cooks make incompetent cooks feel included.

“What now?” I ask.

“Tomato purée.”

I pick up the tube. “How much?”

“A decent squeeze.”

“That is not a measurement.”

“It is a cottage pie, not a controlled drug.”

“I prefer instructions with numbers.”

“One tablespoon.”

“Thank you.”

I squeeze in too much.

Peter looks at the pan.

I look at him.

He nods gravely. “Bold.”

“Is it ruined?”

“No. It will have character.”

“That is what people say when something is ruined.”

“You will learn to trust me.”

“Ambitious.”

He adds stock, peas and a shake of Worcestershire sauce.

I watch the bottle with suspicion. “What is that actually for?”

“Depth.”