The Studham Jelly That Wouldn’t Budge

I was halfway through unloading the KP Window Cleaning van in Studham when Mrs Fenella Brindle opened her front door and asked whether I thought a jelly could sense fear.

“Depends,” I said. “Is it yours or the jelly’s?”

“Mine, mainly. Come and look at it through the window.”

That was a new one. Usually people invite me to look at what the birds have done.

On her kitchen worktop sat an upside-down rabbit-shaped mould, surrounded by a serving plate, three teaspoons and a handwritten card that read: PLEASE RELEASE NICELY.

Fenella was hosting a little pudding afternoon for her neighbours. Nothing grand, she explained. A few chairs in the garden, everyone bringing something, and an excuse to get people talking after a week of shutting their doors against the rain.

The jelly belonged to her new neighbour, Mr Oswin Pelling.

“He used to make one every Sunday when his children were small,” she said. “He offered before he’d even taken his coat off yesterday. Now he’s convinced he’s forgotten how.”

Through the glass, I could see Oswin standing beside the fridge in an apron with enormous strawberries on it. He gave the mould a cautious tap, then bent down until his nose was level with the plate.

Nothing happened.

I got on with the windows, but each time I moved along the house, the situation had developed. At the first pane, they were gently shaking it. At the second, Fenella was consulting an elderly cookery book. By the kitchen door, Oswin had put his coat on over the apron.

“I might nip back for a packet of biscuits,” he told me.

There was something about the way he said it. Not a man changing his pudding plans. More a man quietly withdrawing from the whole afternoon.

Beyond him, I could see the garden table laid with mismatched bowls. His was the only contribution already labelled, in careful handwriting: Oswin’s Sunday Jelly.

“Give it another minute,” I said. “I spend half my working life persuading things to come off surfaces.”

Fenella looked at my cleaning kit.

“Not with any of that,” I added quickly.

I washed my hands while she fetched a bowl of warm water. My mum had owned a mould much like this one, although hers had produced a rabbit with one permanently shortened ear. I remembered the brief warm dip, the plate held firmly on top, and the hopeful turn.

Oswin took his coat off again.

We dipped the mould, dried the outside and turned it together. He lifted one edge.

There was a small, undignified noise.

Then a magnificent pink rabbit landed on the plate and trembled from nose to tail.

“Well,” Oswin said, straightening up. “There you are.”

By the time I’d finished the last window, the garden was filling. A woman carrying a crumble asked him how he’d managed the rabbit’s whiskers. Someone else wanted to know where he’d found the mould. He pulled out a chair and began telling them about Sunday teas with his children.

Fenella brought me a little bowl before I packed away.

From the van, I watched Oswin lean across the table, laughing as the rabbit’s last remaining ear slid gently into the custard.

I’d arrived to clean the windows. It was lovely to leave with everyone sitting on the other side of them.