Caroline Scott

“You can't give me this."
"Yes, I can. It's mine to do with as I choose, and I choose to give it to you. I can't vouch for its luck-delivering properties, but it can't do any harm, can it?"
"No." He looked at the gray metallic medal in his palm. The ribbon was still warm. He closed his fingers around it. "I want to say something to you. If I don't say it now, I might never say it."
She looked down as she shook her head. "Harry-"
"I am permitted to make a fool of myself because I might die tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? In Altrincham?"
"I'm not being literal."
"You are being dramatic." Edie pushed her hair behind her ears and put the beret back on. She smiled at him and widened her eyes. "You might not die tomorrow, and then what a fool would you feel?"
"Edie, please, let me be serious."
"No, because you will say something that you regret. And then I will say things that I regret."
"Will you?"
"I have to get my bus," she said. "Saint Christopher protects travelers. Now you'll always be able to find your way back to me, won't you?"
"I will. You know I always will."
"Don't really stop writing to me, will you?"
"How could I? I promise; I won't ever stop.”
― Caroline Scott, The Poppy Wife

“Stella turned through the pages and saw the pikelets, pea-and-ham soup and the boiled mutton and capers of her childhood. Here was her mother's wimberry pie, her damson jam and her gooseberry fool. Where recipes came from relatives and friends, her mother's handwriting noted the case: the method for hot-water pastry had been handed down from her grandmother; the parsley in her suet dumplings came from her cousin; the parkin was her great-aunt's recipe. Stella remembered how she and her mother would always share the first slice of roast lamb at the stove and the secret glass of sherry they'd drink as they made a trifle.”
― Caroline Scott, Good Taste