The thank-you page
On the afternoon before the community cookbook went to print, Nell laid its pages across the kitchen table. She had spent three evenings fitting the names onto the thank-you page, and the columns finally lined up. Recipe writers first, then photographers, then the people who had typed everything. At the bottom she had added a drawing of a mixing bowl. There was scarcely a finger’s width of paper left unused.
Mr Ellis came through carrying a box of baking tins, each washed and wrapped in a tea towel. “Ready to go back,” he said. During the cooking sessions Nell had simply found the right tins waiting on the bench. Now he explained that he had borrowed them from six neighbours. He opened a notebook to check their addresses. Between the pages were recipe cards he had collected from people who could not email them.
Nell looked again at her page. “We thanked everyone who sent in a recipe,” she said. Mr Ellis glanced at the sheet. “Looks tidy,” he replied, and lifted the box. She followed the columns with her finger. Each name was correct. That was the irritating thing: she could not point to a spelling mistake or a missing recipe writer. Nothing on the page was wrong, yet she no longer wanted to send it to the printer.
Nell considered squeezing one more name beneath the drawing, then fetched the scissors instead. She cut away the bowl and tested a fresh heading in the space: Other helping hands. Before writing any names, she caught Mr Ellis at the door. “Who else should I ask?” she said. He set the box down, opened his notebook again and turned back several pages.
