The Pancake Pan
By every mark of the clock, Helen is running late for work, staring down the barrel of another pay deduction and one of those awkward chats with her punctilious boss. The mornings a chaos of mishaps. Her son, Harry, a sulky Year 3, refuses his porridge and whimpers about a sore throat. Donning her reading specs, Helen inspects his neck with the scrutiny of a detective, searching for even the slightest hint of redness. Once convinced the little rascals fibbing, she threatens a gentle telling-off, hefts his school backpack onto his shoulders, and hustles him out.
Meanwhile, her older son, Tom, dashes about like a whirlwind, hunting for his homework diary, and the entire house feels caught in the eye of a storm. Helen snaps at Tom, grabs Harrys hand, and bolts outside, only to find the family saloon still soapy and half-washedher husband Dave can never quite get timings right. When, at last, they all clamber into the car and edge onto the High Street, a relentless London traffic jam finally kills off any hope Helen had of being on time.
Darting across the slippery pavement towards her office at the railway ticket agency, Helen nearly loses her footing. Shes only saved from an embarrassing tumble into a muddy puddle by a massive suitcase she clings onto for dear life, somehow staying upright. Realising shes gotten away with only a fright, Helen apologises and wheels the heavy suitcase back to its elderly owner, who sits among a forest of luggage, then rushes inside.
Hearing from her colleagues that the boss has yet to arrive, she breathes a sigh of relief, gulps a glass of water, and collapses into her chair.
Within half an hour, the flurry of customers and paperwork erases the morning muddle from her mind. At lunch, Helen gazes out the window and spots the old woman with the huge suitcase, still sitting where she left her. Something about her draws Helens gaze: resignation etched deep in her features, a faded hope flickering in tired eyes. The wind tugs at the paper ticket clutched in her hands, threatening to snatch it away like a brittle leaf. But the old lady sits unmoved, as if turned to stone, numb to the damp chill and the bustling station around her.
How long has she been out there? Helen asks her mate, Sally.
They say its her second day now, Sally replies.
And wheres she headed, do you know?
To Norwich.
Thats odd. There are several trains to Norwich every day. Why hasnt she gone? Helen pours tea from a flask, snaps off a wedge of homemade sponge, steps out, and takes a seat beside the solitary passenger.
You probably remember me. This morning, your suitcase caught me before I slipped. May I ask where youre travelling to?
Norwich, the old woman says, sipping her tea, her tone flat.
Helen glances at her crumpled ticket. But your train left two days ago. Why didnt you go?
Adjusting her battered felt hat, the lady clears her throat, her voice grating softly: Seems Im a bother wherever I sit. Dont worry, Ill move in a minute. She sets her half-finished tea down on the bench and starts to get up, but Helen gently lays a hand on her arm.
No, please, stay put. Its cold and wet here
Truthfully, I feel nothing these days, whispers the woman, dabbing her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief, voice brittle as autumn leaves. You see, Ive nowhere to go. Just one of those family stories. Didnt get on with my son or, more precisely, with his wifevery pretty, but temperamental, selfish. He was blinded by love, ignored my concerns, called me a nag. For her sake, he decided to send me away. Bought me a ticket to my sister in Norwich, packed my bags, brought me here. Poor lad didnt know she passed on three years ago, and her house was sold long since. I just couldnt tell him. Decided to let fate do as it pleases. Maybe theyd be happier if I stopped getting under their feet. So here I am. Waiting for somethinga stroke, a bit of luck, or maybe for someone to carry me off to a care home. Thank you, dear, for the tea and cake. Didnt realize how hungry I was until now.
The simple dear of a stranger tugs at Helens heart, sending her back to her own childhood in an orphanage, where the sight of happy, adopted children always stung. Ashen-haired, freckly, never quite striking, shed never recited poems well enough to be chosen herself. After leaving care, she was placed as a trainee at a textile factory, given a tiny box-room in a draughty old terrace, and lived there until she married, thankfully, well.
Dear The unfamiliar warmth of maternal comfort spreads through Helen, soothing and steadying her soul, echoing in her bones.
She touches the womans tweed-clad shoulder and quietly insists: Please dont go anywhere. When my shift is over, come home with us. Our house is roomy, theres space for everyone. If you dont like it, you can come back here. Deal? Helen meets the old ladys gaze, catching the tremble in her chin, tears glistening in tired eyes.
Later, in the car, introductions are made: Im Helen, this is my husband Dave, and our boys Tom and Harry. What shall we call you?
Just Edith, my dear, the old woman replies, warming up in the backseat.
The next morning is a Saturday. Helen wakes to the delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen. Pulling on her dressing gown, she slips into the conservatory. A generous heap of lacy pancakes fills the table. Edith, folds of her apron smeared in flour, deftly flips one in her trusty pan and slides another onto a plate, ensuring Tom, Harry, and Dave are all well attended to. When Helen appears, Edith smiles shyly: Forgive me, dear. I found your pancake pan in the ovennothing ever sticks to itso I thought Id make myself useful. Sit down; try a taste.
After the hearty breakfast, the whole family heads out to rake up the fallen leaves, tossing spuds into the glowing embers of the bonfire. Helen watches Edith in wonderall pink-cheeked and humming a song shes never heard.
Dont be surprised, love. Im sturdy, always have been. In the war, they called me Horse EdithI could carry any bloke away from shellfire. Helped everyone til I copped a wound myself, got sent off to recuperate. Thats where I met my husband, had my son She trails off, the memories catching up with her. Shame, reallymy husband never recovered. His chest was bad, he faded away with the winter rains. Wasnt easy, raising a lad on my own, but I managed. Got him in good stead, in the end.
Edith falls quiet, wandering back into her own thoughts, and soon her gentle singing floats through the garden.
Come Monday, the regular bustle resumes. Harry whimpers, Tom dashes after his lost books, Dave gets the car ready. As Helen and her boys step out, they find Edith at the door, suitcase in hand: Thank you, dear, but its time to move on. One shouldnt overstay a welcome.
Aunt Edith! Didnt you like it with us? exclaims Helen.
I did, love. But who wants a stranger in the house?
Edith sighs, but Tom and Harry erupt: Stay, Aunt Edith! Please! No one makes pancakes like you! Mums never managed itplease stay Youre ours now.
Without another word, Helen scoops up Ediths heavy case as if its weightless, takes her arm, and leads her back inside.
As the family piles into the car, Ediths voice rings out: Helen, do be a dear and pick up another pancake pan, would you? Its much easier to juggle two!
She doesnt hear Helen whisper, voice trembling with quiet joy: Of course, Mum EdithHelen grinned, feeling laughter rising unbidden from somewhere deep inside hera place that, lately, had been mostly empty. Everyone seemed lighter, as if a gentle hand had brushed the dust off their small, tired hearts.
That evening, as dusk gathered and soft rain whispered on the windows, the kitchen glowed golden with lamplight, steam, and stories. Edith presided in her apron, teaching Harry how to swirl batter, showing Tom her secret trick for flipping without a spatula. Dave sliced apples for fritters, and even the quarrelling boys were united in anticipation for Ediths proper supper.
Afterwards, Edith nestled on the old sofa, a blanket over her knees, the boys at her sides. She spun tales of trenches, secret codes, and peace celebrations with more pancakes than soldiers. Helen watched her children, faces shining, and realized that home was not only walls, or routines, or shared blood, but the warmth created when kindness found a place at the table.
Later, as Helen tidied the quiet kitchen, she traced the pans handle, warm from so much use. She glanced out the window and smiled at the soft, huddled shapes in the lounge, their laughter rising like sweet steamher family, mended and expanded by a simple act of welcome.
From then on, breakfasts were a feast, weekends brought noisy games and music, and the ancient pancake pan, seasoned with stories and care, never once cooled on the hob.
And when neighbors asked about the new woman in Helens house, the boys would simply say, mouths full and eyes bright, Thats Edith. She makes the finest pancakes in all of London. But what she really does is make a family feel, finally, just right.
