Just Like Florence Nightingale by Sean Kennedy

 
    “HEY,
FRAN—”
     
    I
didn’t get any further.
     
    “Oh, hello ,” came the voice from the other end of the phone.  “Finally
calling to see whether we’re alive, are you?  We’ve only been gone three
weeks—did you just notice we’ve left?”
     
    “I
texted you!” I hissed, peering around the kitchen to check if Declan was still
asleep on the couch.  He was, his foot propped up before him encased in
its bloody bandages.  He was wincing in his sleep; when he woke I would
have to force some more painkillers down his gob as he was trying to be all
manly and do without them as much as he could.  “And you texted me back,
remember?”
     
    “Texts!”
she scoffed.  “We could have been kidnapped by terrorists, for all you
knew.”
     
    “I
didn’t know Tuscany was known for its terrorists,” I replied.  “But I
guess those grapes need protecting from Western imperialists.”
     
    “Hilarious.” 
There was a scuffling noise in the background and the drone of a male
voice.  “Roger says hi by the way.”
     
    “Tell
him I said hi back.  And to watch out for Osama bin Wino.”
     
    “ You
can talk to him in a minute!” she yelled off-line, then returned to me.  “Honestly!  So why are you calling?”
     
    “I
need your help.”
     
    “I
should have known this wasn’t a courtesy call.”
     
    She
was being very belligerent.  Fran could be that at the best of times, but
there was a boisterous edge to it, that... hang on.  “Are you drunk ?”
     
    “I’m
in Italy!  Of course I’m bloody drunk!  They take your passport off
you if you’re not lying in a ditch somewhere with a bottle of grappa.”
     
    I
heard an interrupted snore from the lounge room, but when I peeked around Dec
was still asleep.  “How very Contiki tour of
you.  Anyway, how do you cook soup?”
     
    There
was a startled silence on the other end of the line. 
     
    “Hello?”
     
    “Sorry,
I thought I was talking to Simon Murray.”
     
    “Give
me a break!”
     
    “Why
are you asking me about soup?”
     
    I
sighed heavily.  “I want to make some for Dec.  Isn’t that what you
do when people are sick?”
     
    Fran
took pity on me.  “How is Dec?”  There was mumbling again.  “ That’s
what I’m asking! ”
     
    I
had to bite back a laugh.  “He’s getting there.  Still
a lot of pain.   I promised him soup.  From scratch.”
     
    “Simon,
you can be so sweet when you want to be.  Why don’t you always want to
be?  Shut up, Roger! ”  She took a deep breath to collect
herself.  “You could have Googled a recipe, you
know.”
     
    “But
you’re the best cook.  And Declan deserves the best.  So seeing
you’re not here, he’ll have to settle for whatever monstrosity I produce.”
     
    “You
would so be getting a hug if I were there right now.”
     
    “Thank
fuck for all the ocean between us, then.”
     
    “Bastard. 
What type of soup do you want to make?”
     
    “Chicken
noodle.”
     
    She
giggled.  “That’s a bit clichéd, isn’t it?”
     
    “You
know me.  Always living up to the stereotype.”
     
    “Grab
a pen, and listen to me....”
     
    I
dutifully obeyed.
     
     
     
     

 
     

 
     
    I
WAS NO Kylie Kwong in the kitchen, I knew, but the
soup seemed to at least smell like soup as it simmered away on the stove. 
Fran had warned me not to add the noodles until the last few minutes so they
wouldn’t get all starchy and fuck the soup up.  They were waiting to be
added as soon as Declan woke and felt like eating.  He had opened his eyes
halfway through the process and laughed at me in my grimy butcher’s apron (I
was feeling very Masterchef ) but had quickly
fallen asleep again.  The meds were playing havoc with his system, so I
guess I could understand why he wanted to get off them as soon as possible.
     
    “Simon?”
     
    When
I walked back out into the lounge, he seemed alert.  He sniffed the air
and asked, “Are you really