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Ella took Millie’s arm and guided her through the narrow alleyways of Castries to a tiny restaurant, no more than a wooden shack, squeezed in between a barber’s shop and an Irish-themed bar. A group of elderly men lounged in the shade on the pavement in red plastic chairs, putting the world to rights around a bottle of rum.
‘Let’s get some lunch.’
A huge platter of food appeared as if by magic – Millie wasn’t even aware they had ordered. Stuffed red snapper finished with a flourish of thyme and lemon balm, a timbale of fragrant rice and a tangy mango salad – a mixture of spring onions, red and green peppers, cucumber and fresh basil. The meal produced a delicious symphony on the tongue and her taste buds zinged with appreciation.
‘Here, try some of this,’ offered Denise, holding a silver spoon aloft.
‘Mmm,’ said Millie, licking her lips.
‘It’s green bean salad – onions, sweetcorn, red peppers with a dressing of soy sauce, thyme, garlic, chilli and a hint of lemon juice. And wait until you try the roasted sweetcorn spread with butter whipped with fresh coconut.’
They polished off lunch, washed down with a jug of fresh, home-made lemonade, and Ella ordered a chocolate mousse.
‘What do you think?’
Millie dug in her spoon and wrapped her tongue around the sweet, smooth dessert. The flavour was velvety yet bitter. When she allowed the mousse to slip down her throat she gasped as an intense heat invaded her mouth and she had to take a glug of her lemonade.
The women burst into laughter, delighted at her reaction.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s Michael’s special recipe – a family secret, I’m afraid. Of course, the main ingredient is fiery red chilli,’ chuckled Ella. ‘Goes well with dark chocolate, don’t you think?’
‘I think his hand slipped preparing this batch!’
A sudden scraping of chairs on the pavement warned Millie it was three o’clock and the daily downpour was imminent. Right on cue the raindrops arrived, smashing down from the sky with a ferocity she had never encountered on the streets of London, or Oxford for that matter. It was as though the sluice gates of heaven had opened, tipping the contents onto the unsuspecting ants milling around down below.
They lingered over tiny cups of black coffee which tasted to Millie like rancid petrol – same consistency, same appearance. They chatted about favourite family recipes, new ingredients that had become fashionable, whilst watching the continuous slap of rain on the tarmac outside. They shared their respective childhood aspirations which, for all three of them, had inevitably centred around the preparation and consumption of food.
‘It’s only now, in my sixth decade, that I’ve come to understand that food is more than just a compound with which to replenish the body,’ Denise mused, toying with a silver teaspoon, her lips curling at the corners as her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Savouring the exquisite flavours of our most favourite recipes is like a lover tasting his sweetheart’s lips for the first time.’
Millie smiled at the analogy. She had never forgotten that first sweet infusion in her veins of the beginnings of a lifelong passionate relationship with the culinary arts; the dream to be fortunate enough to make it her living, a career which she could enjoy and not feel it was work, never moan about the monotony of routine – for a chef there was never such a complaint. Every day, every recipe, every ingredient presented a different challenge, one which taxed not only the brain and the nimblest of touches, but the heart and the extent of her passion.
‘I love to see the smile on a diner’s lips as they curl the tip of their tongue around a spoon or a fork and then the look on their faces as the flavours burst onto their taste buds. That is my all-consuming passion – to witness the delight in others over something I have created.’
Why had she given all that up to run away to London to work in a tiny patisserie?
But, of course, she knew the answer and had no intention of going there.
The science behind the melding of ingredients to produce ecstasy had always fascinated Millie. Or it had until recently when she had felt paralysed by misery and shame. But she enjoyed working in the café with Pippa at her side and the return to hard work proved to be the sanctuary she needed. Whipping up a soufflé or a meringue made her happy – that fleeting emotion so pursued by humans in its many guises, like the holy grail of existence. However, reality always lurked in the wings, waiting to push its unwelcome nose into her fantasies.
Millie glanced out of the restaurant’s colourful shutters. The downpour had freshened the oppressive humidity and allowed her the chance to breathe in the crisp freshness of cooler air before the onslaught of tropical heat resumed its dominance.
‘You’ve chosen one of the wettest months to come to St Lucia,’ said Denise as she nodded her thanks to the café’s owner and dumped three heaped teaspoons of demerara sugar into her second cup of coffee.
‘Typical,’ said Millie, rolling her eyes at her new friend.
‘Ah, here’s my Henri.’ Ella rose from her seat to greet her son with a bear hug and place two noisy kisses on his cheeks. ‘How are Leon and Travis?’
‘Leon’s exhausted – but that’s what studying for your sergeant’s exams does to you. He’s already talking about the changes he intends to make when he’s in charge of the police station in Soufrière. Heaven help the criminal fraternity!’
‘Always was ambitious that Leon Hamilton, just like his father,’ said Ella. ‘What about Travis? How’s his foray into wood carving progressing?’
‘Not sure about his woodcarving but he got two new commissions for his artwork last month from a Swedish guy who’s just bought a place over in Rodney Bay. Wants an oil-on-canvas of the Pitons for his den and a smaller pastel piece for his kitchen. Business at his gallery is brisk, he says. He’s worried about Carlton, though.’
‘And so he should be,’ snapped Denise, slurping the dregs of her coffee as she collected her straw shopping bag and tucked escaped tendrils of curls into her bright orange and yellow headscarf. ‘That boy’s a menace.’
Ella raised her eyebrows to her son in question, but, wisely perhaps in the presence of Denise, Henri remained silent.
