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The farmhouse – passed down to her aunt Anei from Jacqueline’s grandmother Irina – had always generated a feeling of inner security. Aside from her own house, she knew of no other place that provided a safer haven. Except perhaps in Stewart Gardener’s arms. She flushed at the thought.
The back door opened and her aunt Anei came in from outside. She immediately rubbed her hands together, blowing into them.
“It’s cold.”
“Which is why I’m here. You shouldn’t be working outside at your age.”
Her aunt smiled, washing her hands at the sink before taking her seat at the table.
“Hard work never harmed anyone. I have worked all my life outside. It’s what I know.”
She rose and stepped outside the back door again. Anei returned, dragging a wooden box in with her.
“I know you have,” said Jacqueline, nibbling on a piece of cake. “But it doesn’t stop me worrying. You’re seventy years old now. You should be taking life a little easier.”
Anei smiled warmly at her niece. Jacqueline noticed the glint in her eyes. She knew what her reply would be. Despite her concerns and voiced opinions, nothing would change.
“I’m as healthy as you. You are staying for lunch, yes?”
“I’m not sure I should, you always make me eat too much.” Jacqueline found it almost impossible to resist her aunt’s cooking, mostly traditional Romanian, home-grown. “What have you made?”
“Transylvanian soup. Your favourite!”
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. “Not much chance of resisting that, is there?”
The soup had been made with green peas, small slices of white ham, green garlic, tomatoes, and parsley. Anei always insisted they eat the dish traditionally, with a wooden spoon. She said it tasted better. Anei reached down into the box, pulling out a variety of different vegetables, all of which she had harvested within the last hour, judging by the fresh soil.
“How do you manage to grow so much stuff in winter?” Jacqueline said, amazed.
“You can grow anything you want any time of the year. If you have the touch.”
“Surely you’re not going to eat all those.”
“Not all of them.” Anei set some aside on the table, then slid the box toward Jacqueline.
“It’s no use passing them on to me. I’ll never eat all of them, either.”
The news on the radio finished, and a country song followed. Jacqueline recognized the singer as Glen Campbell.
Her aunt put the vegetables away, then sat back down, taking a sip of her tea. “Maybe not, but you have parishioners. I’m sure some of them will be glad for something extra, especially in this economy we are having. A ‘recession,’ they keep saying on the news. People are facing hard times. A little help goes a long way.”
“No one knows more about hard times than you.”
Her aunt didn’t reply straight away. The minister noticed the pause. She sensed a slight change of mood, fearing where the conversation would lead. “Venin! Those poor children. I have read the papers. I know what goes on.”
Jacqueline reached out and placed her hands over Anei’s. “You shouldn’t upset yourself over newspaper reports. You of all people should know how ruthless others can be. Your family survived a World War, not to mention a hazardous trek across Romania to escape the clutches of the Nazis.”
“I can’t help myself. Children should not have to suffer at the hands of men. People should
not be allowed to live in a world when they are so cruel to children.”
“I know. I had to bury the child. His parents were so grief-stricken. I have no idea how they are going to cope with the loss.”
“And then they find a body in a flat!”
“A body?”
Anei fished a broadsheet newspaper out from under the table and passed it towards Jacqueline. The story ran centrally at the bottom of the second page, short and precise.
