Edward sat at the table, staring blankly past Hazel. She was chatting away, gesturing and smiling, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Ed, you’re not listening at all. Is something wrong?” she asked, her tone shifting to concern.
“No, everything’s fine,” he said, snapping out of it. “Go on.”
“I can tell you’re distracted,” she pressed.
“Tell me, do you know how to make soup?” he blurted out.
“What? What kind of soup?” she blinked in confusion.
“Just… ordinary soup. Chicken noodle, minestrone…”
“Well, yes, of course. Why?”
“I’ve got a favour to ask you,” Edward said seriously.
…
A rubbish bag had been sitting by the door of flat fifteen for two days now. Edward had nearly tripped over it the evening before. That morning, a smaller bag had joined it. There was no smell, but it looked odd. The building was new, only occupied for a year.
When he returned that evening, the bags were still there. Shaking his head, he decided to speak to the resident in the morning.
By the next day, there were three. Frowning, Edward knocked. Once, twice.
“Coming, coming…” came a woman’s voice from inside.
An elderly lady in glasses and a blue knitted cardigan answered. She smiled but hesitated, half-closing the door.
“Good morning. These are your bags—please take them out. The cleaner isn’t responsible for this.”
“I thought… my grandson promised to come. I’ve been meaning to… my hands don’t work like they used to,” she murmured apologetically, showing him her trembling fingers.
“I’ll take them. Don’t worry,” Edward said, grabbing the bags and leaving.
…
That evening, as he stepped into the hallway, the door of flat fifteen cracked open.
“Good evening. Here…” The woman held out a ten-pound note. “For taking the rubbish.”
“Not necessary. Really.”
“Do come in. Standing’s difficult for me…”
Edward stepped inside. The flat was sparse, with minimal furniture. Boxes lined the wall—instant noodles, powdered mash, long-life milk.
“It’s no trouble. Just don’t leave them in the hall. I can collect them at eight.”
“Thank you, Edward. I’m Margaret. I’ve enough, really. My grandson visits once a month. It’s just these hands… I do miss a proper bowl of soup sometimes,” she said, forcing a smile.
…
Later, Edward and Hazel sat in a café. She prattled on about a dress she’d tried on. He stayed quiet.
“Are you sulking again?” she huffed.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About dessert? Should we get the sticky toffee pudding? Or the apple crumble?”
“Can you make soup?” he interrupted suddenly.
“Is this an invite to yours? Or do you expect me in one of your shirts, playing house? Would Thai coconut do?”
“Just… normal soup. Chicken noodle, minestrone…”
“Order some here and take it to your granny,” Hazel snapped. “That’s what social workers are for.”
…
He left the café dazed. Heading into the supermarket for a drink, he overheard a girl picking out chicken.
“That for soup?” he asked.
“Yes. Best kind for it. Closest to homemade.”
“What else do you need for stock?”
They got talking. Her name was Lily. She lived nearby. When he mentioned Margaret, she said:
“Come back in an hour and a half. I’ll make a batch.”
…
He brought the soup to Margaret, then returned to Lily’s.
“She was so happy—as if it wasn’t about the soup, just the company.”
“Because it wasn’t,” Lily nodded. “The soup was just the excuse.”
Edward’s phone buzzed. Hazel. He declined the call.
“Go on, eat. It’ll go cold.”
Edward smiled.
“Soup really is more important.”
