Once upon a time, in a quiet corner of London, Arthur sat at the table, his gaze drifting past Eleanor. She chattered away, gesturing brightly, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Arthur, you’re not listening at all. Is something wrong?” she pressed, her smile fading.
“No, everything’s fine,” he said, stirring from his thoughts. “Do go on.”
“I can tell you’re distracted,” she insisted.
“Tell me—can you make soup?” he asked abruptly.
“What? What sort of soup?” she blinked in surprise.
“Just ordinary—beef and vegetable, chicken noodle…”
“Well, yes, of course. Why?”
“I’ve a favour to ask,” Arthur said gravely.
…
By the door of flat fifteen, a bin bag had sat for two days. Arthur had nearly tripped over it the evening before. By morning, another small one had joined it. There was no smell, but it was odd—the building was newly built, barely a year occupied.
When he returned that night, the bags still sat there. He sighed and resolved to speak to the tenants in the morning.
By dawn, there were three. Arthur frowned and knocked. Once, twice.
“Coming, coming…” came a frail voice from within.
An elderly woman in spectacles and a knitted blue cardigan answered. She offered a timid smile, then flustered, half-hiding behind the door.
“Good morning. These are yours. Please do take them out—the cleaner isn’t obliged.”
“I thought… my grandson promised to come. I kept meaning to… but my hands won’t obey,” she murmured, holding out trembling fingers.
“I’ll take them. Don’t trouble yourself,” Arthur said, collecting the bags.
…
That evening, as he entered the hallway, the door of flat fifteen creaked open.
“Good evening. Here…” The woman held out a note. “For your trouble.”
“Please, it’s nothing.”
“Do come in. Standing tires me…”
Arthur stepped inside. The flat was sparse—few furnishings, boxes stacked along the wall: instant noodles, powdered mash, long-life milk.
“It’s no bother. Just leave them inside—I’ll collect them at eight.”
“Thank you, Arthur. I’m Margaret. I’ve enough, truly. My grandson visits monthly. Only my hands… sometimes I miss a proper soup,” she said with a frail smile.
…
Later, Arthur sat with Eleanor in a cosy tea shop. She prattled about a dress she’d fancied. He stayed quiet.
“Honestly, where’s your head at tonight?” she huffed.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About pudding? Shall we get the treacle tart? Or the apple crumble?”
“Can you make soup?” he interrupted.
“Is this an invitation? Or do you expect me in your kitchen, wearing your jumper? Fancy a leek and potato?”
“Just plain—beef broth, chicken noodle…”
“Order some here and take it to your granny, then,” Eleanor snapped. “That’s what social workers are for.”
…
He left, bewildered. At the grocer’s, he meant to buy tea—then overheard a young woman selecting a chicken.
“For soup?” he asked.
“Yes. The best cut. Closest to homemade.”
“What else does one need for broth?”
They chatted. Her name was Charlotte, from the next street over. When he mentioned the old woman, she said,
“Come back in an hour. I’ll make a pot.”
…
He delivered the soup to Margaret. Returning to Charlotte’s, he said,
“She was overjoyed—as if it weren’t the soup but the company.”
“Because it was,” Charlotte nodded. “The soup was just the excuse.”
Arthur’s phone buzzed—Eleanor. He declined the call.
“Well then, eat. It’ll go cold.”
Arthur smiled.
“The soup matters more, doesn’t it?”
