The first thing Clara did when they got back inside was look for the list.
She stood on tiptoe and reached for it, but her fingers fell just short of the paper.
Arthur handed her the list and a pen, and she leaned against the table to write down what they had found: the overgrown plot, the old shed, the fruit trees, and the stream.
At the bottom, she added one more line:
Bucket: needs checking.
Arthur saw it.
“You’re putting the bucket on the list too?”
“Of course.
If it leaks, you could walk all the way back from the stream and find there’s hardly any water left.”
“I’ll check it now.”
Arthur took the wooden bucket from behind the door and turned it over to inspect the bottom.
None of the boards appeared cracked, and the handle was sturdy, but Clara wouldn’t let him cross out needs checking.
“You won’t know until you put water in it.”
“All right, little housekeeper.”
Arthur took the bucket outside, and the three children followed at once.
Helena had meant to stay and get lunch started, but she turned back from the doorway and set the bag of oats on the table.
“I’m coming too.
You can’t carry the bucket and watch all three of them.”
They knew the way to the stream this time.
Arthur had the children wait on dry ground while he went down and filled the bucket halfway.
He lifted it and stood still for a moment.
Nothing dripped from the bottom, and the handle held firm.
“Does it pass?” he called to Clara.
“It passes.”
Arthur carried the water home.
Clara walked beside Helena, thinking about lunch the whole way.
The little bit of hard bread they had eaten that morning hadn’t filled her up, and the thought of warm oats only made her hungrier.
Back at the house, Arthur lit the fire.
Helena washed a pot, set it on the stove, and picked up the bag of oats.
“How much?” she asked.
“Half a bowl to start,” Clara said.
“We can make more if it’s not enough.
Don’t pour in the whole bag.”
Helena turned to her.
“You know how to cook them?”
“Yes.”
“Come and have a look, then.”
Clara walked over to the stove and tipped her head back.
At her current height, she couldn’t see inside the pot at all.
Arthur brought over a low stool, but before he could ask her to stand on it, Theo said, “That’s too close to the fire.”
Clara shook her head as well.
“I’ll tell you what to do from here.”
Arthur moved the stool farther away, where she could see the bowl and the bag of oats on the table.
Helena measured out half a bowl and tipped it into the pot.
“Now add water,” Clara said.
Helena poured in one ladleful.
“A little more.”
As the second ladleful went in, Clara quickly called, “That’s enough!”
Helena stopped, though another half ladleful had already gone in.
“It’s only a little extra.”
“We can cook it longer so it thickens,” Clara said.
“Let it come to a boil first.”
Arthur sat beside the stove, feeding wood into the fire.
The flames soon grew stronger, and the contents of the pot began to move.
Helena gave the oats a few stirs.
Seeing them floating in the water, she frowned.
“This looks far too thin.
I’ll add more oats.”
“Not yet,” Clara said.
“Give them time to cook.”
“But it looks like soup.”
“The oats will soak up the water.”
Helena set the bag down, though she didn’t look entirely convinced.
A little later, she checked the pot again.
The oats had thickened.
“They really did.”
“I told you,” Clara said.
“I didn’t say you were wrong.”
“You picked up the bag.”
Arthur laughed under his breath.
Helena looked back at him.
“Turn the fire down.
It’s about to boil.”
“It hasn’t—”
Foam surged up the sides of the pot.
“Turn it down!” Clara shouted too.
Arthur hurriedly pulled out a piece of firewood while Helena stirred with the spoon.
The foam sank back, but a little oatmeal had spilled onto the stove.
Soon it began to smell burnt.
Theo covered his nose.
“What’s burning?”
“What spilled over, not what’s in the pot.” Clara looked toward the stove, though she could only see the rim of the pot.
“Mum, don’t stir so fast.
Just scrape the bottom gently.”
“I know.”
Helena’s spoon paused.
Arthur looked up at her.
“You do?”
“I do now.”
Lucas, leaning against the table, couldn’t help laughing.
The oats took longer to cook than anyone expected.
Helena stirred every so often to keep them from sticking, while Arthur watched the fire.
Whenever he thought it was too low to cook their lunch, he added wood, only to have to pull it out again.
Clara stood a few steps from the stove, telling her mother when to add water and her father when to stop adding wood.
By the end, her throat was dry.
“I’ve never worked this hard cooking oats before,” she muttered.
Theo looked at her. Find the original chapter at g.com.
“You’re not cooking them now.”
“I can’t even reach the pot.
What am I supposed to do?”
Lucas poured her a little water.
“Drink this.
You’re going hoarse.”
When the oats were finally ready, Helena spooned out a little, blew on it until it cooled, and let Clara taste it.
Clara took a bite, then asked for some salt.
Helena had barely picked up the salt jar when Clara added, “Just a pinch.
Use your fingers.
Don’t pour it in.”
Helena looked at her.
“Do you think I’d tip the whole jar into the pot?”
“I’m just being clear.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
With the salt added, the oats tasted right.
Helena divided them among five bowls.
As she moved the pot aside, she noticed a thin layer stuck to the bottom.
Arthur leaned over.
“Is it burnt?”
“No.” Clara tasted the oats in her bowl.
“It’s just stuck.
Let it soak before you wash it.”
Helena breathed easier and brought the bowls to the table.
“At least we can eat it.”
“It’s good,” Lucas said after tasting his.
Arthur nodded.
“It is.”
Helena was about to smile when Clara lifted her spoon and added, “I told you how to make it.”
“And I cooked it,” Helena said.
“So we both get credit.”
“You were the one shouting loudest when the pot started bubbling.”
“Because neither of you was moving!”
They talked as they ate, and soon the half pot of oats was gone.
When Clara finished her portion, she took out the list, crossed out Bucket: needs checking, and wrote Bucket: does not leak.
Then she noted how much oatmeal they had left.
Helena passed by with the pot on her way to soak it and glanced down at the paper.
“Are you recording who cooked lunch too?”
“No,” Clara said.
“Just the food.”
“Good.”
Clara looked up at her.
After a moment, she said, “Mum, call me before you start supper.”
“I will.
You can stand back and give instructions while I do the cooking.”
Arthur walked past and added, “I’ll look after the fire.”
Clara set down her pen and looked from her father to her mother.
“Let’s start early tonight.”
“Why?” Arthur asked.
“So if you get it wrong again,” Clara said, “we’ll still have time to make it twice.”