15
Chicken Stew
The light faded fast in the country. The chill grabbed hold of you quicker too. But inside Philippe’s “safe house”, as he called it, the air was warm and rich with fresh baked bread and chicken gravy.
A new fire crackled in the stone hearth in the living area, while the three of us sat close together at the dining table, halfway through a meal.
“Here, more stew,” Magda said, ladling another helping of chicken, dumpling and veg gravy on to my plate before I could refuse. She sawed a couple of thick wedges off a tiger loaf baked for a giant and pushed them over on a side plate. “More bread,” she said.
The stew was nom. The bread double-nom. But I was already towing. Still, there was no arguing with the woman.
“I don’t know what they feed you in England,” Magda said, “bu
