**”A Bowl of Warmth in Place of Pudding” – A Tale of Kindness That Nourishes More Than Supper**
Victor sat at the table, his gaze drifting past Olivia. She was animated, her hands dancing as she spoke, her laughter light, but his mind was adrift elsewhere.
“Victor, you’re miles away. What’s the matter?” she pressed, her smile fading.
“Nothing, really,” he answered, nudging himself back to the present. “Go on.”
“I can tell something’s bothering you,” she insisted.
“Can you make soup?” he asked abruptly.
“What? Soup? What kind?” she blinked in confusion.
“Just the usual—pea and ham, chicken broth with noodles…”
“Well, yes. Why?”
“I’ve a favour to ask,” he said seriously.
…
Outside the door to flat fifteen, a rubbish bag sat untouched for two days. Victor had noted it yesterday, nudging past to avoid knocking it over. That morning, another small one had joined it. No odour, just odd. The building was new, barely a year old.
That evening, the bags remained. He sighed and resolved to speak to the flat’s occupant in the morning.
By dawn, there were three. Victor frowned and knocked. Once, twice.
“Coming, coming…” a woman’s voice called from within.
An elderly lady in spectacles and a faded blue cardigan appeared. She smiled nervously, half-hiding behind the door.
“Good morning. These are yours. Please take them out. The cleaner isn’t obliged to.”
“I thought my grandson would visit. I kept meaning to… My hands don’t obey me,” she admitted, holding out trembling fingers.
“I’ll take them. Don’t fret,” Victor said, gathering the bags.
…
That night, as he entered the stairwell, the door to flat fifteen creaked open.
“Good evening. Here—” She held out a five-pound note. “For your trouble.”
“Not necessary. Really.”
“Come in, then. Standing tires me.”
Victor stepped inside. The flat was sparsely furnished, boxes stacked along the walls—instant noodles, powdered mash, tinned milk.
“It’s no bother. Just don’t leave them outside. I can collect them at eight.”
“Bless you, Victor. I’m Margaret. My grandson brings supplies monthly. But these hands… sometimes I miss a proper bowl of soup.” She forced a frail smile.
…
Later, Victor sat with Olivia at a café. She prattled about a dress she’d fancied. He was quiet.
“Are you even listening?” she huffed.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About pudding? Shall we get treacle sponge? Or apple crumble?”
“Can you make soup?” he cut in.
“Is this an invitation? Or do you fancy me in your jumper, stirring a pot? Will cock-a-leekie do?”
“Just something simple—like pea and ham…”
“Order takeaway for your granny, then,” Olivia snapped. “That’s what social workers are for.”
…
He left in a daze, wandering into a grocer’s. As he reached for a drink, he overheard a woman selecting chicken.
“For soup?” he asked.
“Yes. Best for broth. Almost like Mum’s.”
“What else goes in?”
They talked. Her name was Eleanor. She lived nearby. When he mentioned Margaret, she nodded.
“Come back in an hour. I’ll make a batch.”
…
He delivered the pot to Margaret. Later, he returned to Eleanor’s.
“She lit up—not at the soup, but the company.”
“Because that’s what she truly needed,” Eleanor said. “The soup was just the excuse.”
Victor’s phone buzzed. Olivia. He declined the call.
“Well? Eat before it cools.”
Victor smiled.
“Turns out, soup really matters more.”
