A Spoonful of Sugar (11 page)

Then, on the Thursday, Jamie came home from work with some news.

‘I’ve been asked to give a talk at a GP conference next week,’ he said. ‘Someone’s dropped out and they want me to replace her. It’s quite a big deal.’

‘That’s amazing,’ I said, beaming with pride at my clever husband. ‘Did you say yes?’

‘Not yet,’ Jamie said. ‘Because it’s in London.’

‘Oh, man,’ I said. ‘London?’

Jamie nodded.

‘So you don’t want to leave me on my own with Clemmie but you want to go?’ I said.

Jamie nodded again.

I was torn. Much as I didn’t fancy looking after a boisterous toddler when I couldn’t even tie my own shoelaces, and there was always the risk the baby could come early, I didn’t want Jamie to miss out on this chance.

A thought struck me.

‘I’ll go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and stay in Claddach with Clemmie. That way, Mum’s around if I need her and you can go to London.’

Jamie gave me a hug.

‘Are you sure?’ he said.

‘Of course I’m sure,’ I said. ‘Now shush – I want to watch
Britain Bakes
.’

Like every week, when the episode aired, everything went crazy. June was giving interviews left, right and centre, her injured foot propped up on a cushion. Amelia was still making the most of her fifteen minutes, and Harry and I even did a couple of interviews, though Harry did most of the talking. She was a natural at all this media stuff when I just got a bit tongue-tied.

And then, on Friday, thrillingly, we all got to go on
This Morning
. Harry and I did a live link-up from Edinburgh – I was just too pregnant to travel to London – but Wilf, Ronald, Amelia and June all made it to the studio.

It was all very good-natured until the very end, when the handsome silver fox presenter put on his serious voice and fixed us all with a glare.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Tell us what you all think. Is this a set-up? Are you all in on it?’

We all looked back at him in surprise.

‘Are all these accidents just set up to boost ratings?’ he said.

Amelia shook her new sassy haircut out of her eyes and glared back at him.

‘Absolutely not,’ she said in her clear, cut-glass voice. ‘We’re victims here and we want to know who’s targeting us and why.’

‘Will you go to the police?’ said the silver fox. In the studio in Edinburgh, Harry and I exchanged a glance.

‘I will,’ said Amelia. ‘I will.’

‘Man,’ Harry said in a low voice as the silver fox thanked us for the interview and slickly linked to a piece about vasectomies. ‘Shit just got real.’

Nineteen

Despite all the hoo-ha all week, once we arrived in Claddach on Saturday for bread week, it just felt really normal.

Clemmie and Jamie had come up with me for the weekend. Jamie would head to London on Monday, but for now he was here and I was thrilled to have them both there.

Of course Amelia hadn’t gone to the police – I suspected her production company contacts had talked her out of it – but her declaration had made the press go even crazier for everything
Britain Bakes
related. Peter was getting a lot of attention – his good looks and cutting comments combined to make him the Simon Cowell of the baking world and he was loving every minute of it. Uncharitably I thought about how much kudos this would give to his new show, and it only convinced me more that he was definitely the one behind all the accidents.

Harry, Wilf and I all filed into the tent on Saturday morning – a sorry-looking trio, but one that was determined to do well.

‘I’m known for my complicated, eight-strand plaited loaf,’ Peter told us all, looking very pleased with himself.

Wilf groaned.

‘I should have known he’d make us do that one,’ he hissed at me. ‘He’s so bloody proud of it. I’d have practised if I’d thought about it.’

I smiled and Wilf gasped.

‘You guessed!’ he said. ‘You cow.’

I giggled and Harry turned round, raising an eyebrow in my direction. She obviously didn’t believe for one minute that it had been a lucky guess, but I didn’t care. I had perfected that loaf and I was going to show off all my hard work.

Actually, we all did pretty well and the morning went by in a flash. The atmosphere in the tent was really calm as we all made our dough. Bread meant a lot of waiting around so when we waited for our dough to rise, we all had a cup of tea and chatted with Peter and Lizzie about baking. It was, surprisingly, a very nice day. No one mentioned the accidents and I was glad – I quite wanted to put it all behind us and just get on with the competition.

When the time came to plait our loaves, Wilf made a right old mess of it, Harry did hers quite well and mine was – well, though I tried to be modest, I was actually very proud because it was a triumph.

‘That is absolutely gorgeous,’ Peter said when the judges arrived to taste it. ‘Well done.’

I brimmed with pride, and promptly forgot all the horrible things I’d said about Peter over the last few days.

‘It’s not as good as one of mine, of course,’ he added.

Nope, I hadn’t forgotten everything.

The rain had cleared up over the last week and though it wasn’t as warm as it had been, the sun had come out again so we all ate lunch together outside the cafe, looking over the loch.

There was a bit of a breeze so the water was full of windsurfers, skimming over the little white-tipped waves, and the colourful bunting strewn between the marquee and the cafe – and on every tree, lamp and signpost as far as we could see – fluttered prettily.

Clemmie ran around like a mad thing, enjoying all the space and fresh air, and Mum looked on dotingly. It was just a lovely, lovely day.

But, of course, that wasn’t going to last.

In the afternoon we were baking sweet buns. I was doing my iced fingers, Harry was doing a complicated chocolate chip brioche thing, and Wilf was doing hot cross buns even though Easter was months ago.

‘I love hot cross buns,’ he said defiantly. ‘I eat them all year round.’

‘I love hot cross buns too,’ Lizzie said, giving him a fond smile. ‘I can’t wait to try yours.’

We all mixed and kneaded our dough in companionable silence, giving each other small smiles as we worked.

Then there was a small kerfuffle as Wilf tipped his bag out onto the floor.

‘Buggery bollocks,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten my cinnamon.’

‘Hot cross buns without cinnamon?’ I teased, leaving my buns on my bench and wandering over to see if I could help. ‘Nice.’

I gestured to Wilf’s canvas bag.

‘Check the corners,’ I said, getting ready to wiggle my fingers and make a jar of cinnamon appear in the bag. But Wilf was too fast. He turned the canvas inside out and showed me the corners.

‘It’s empty,’ he said. ‘It must be in my car somewhere – I definitely put it in the bag this morning. No biggie, I’ll just go and check.’

He blew me a kiss and disappeared out of the back door of the marquee towards the cafe car park.

‘Is he okay?’ asked Harry, coming over to have a nosy at my buns. ‘They look good.’

‘Forgot his cinnamon,’ I said. ‘And thank you. I’m pleased with them.’

I put the tray of buns back in the proving drawer.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I asked Harry. ‘I’ll go and get some from the cafe. I need a wee anyway.’

‘Ooh, yes please,’ she said. ‘Get a drink for Lizzie and Peter too. Might make us look good.’

I made a face.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get anything for that grumpy git.’

Harry gave me a look.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll get one.’

I wandered out of the tent in the same direction Wilf had gone, and headed to the cafe, enjoying the sun on my face and the cool breeze.

I ordered the drinks from Suky and while I was in the loo, she made them all in takeaway cups and carefully put them in a cardboard carrier.

‘Are you doing okay?’ she asked. ‘You’re not overdoing it?’

‘Actually it feels pretty relaxed today,’ I said, picking up the drinks. ‘I’m really enjoying myself.’

‘And nothing untoward has happened?’ Suky said, coming round the counter to open the cafe door for me. ‘Everyone’s still in one piece?’

I laughed.

‘Yes, we’re all still fighting fit,’ I said. ‘Ooh.’

The baby kicked me firmly in the ribs and I breathed in sharply.

‘Even this one,’ I said.

Suky bent down and smacked a kiss on my bump and then opened the door to let me out.

‘Good luck,’ she called.

I walked slowly back to the tent and gave out drinks to Peter, Lizzie and Harry. Then I put Wilf’s on his bench and looked round.

‘Where’s Wilf?’ I asked. ‘He was only going to get his cinnamon from the car. Is he not back yet?’

Harry shrugged.

‘I’ve not seen him,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you see him when you went to the cafe?’

‘No,’ I said. I’d walked past the car park but I didn’t remember seeing Wilf.

‘Oh no,’ Harry said, frowning. ‘Do you think something’s happened?’

‘Noooo,’ I said. ‘No way. It’s lovely outside, maybe he’s just taking a break.’

I looked round the virtually empty marquee and thought about how full it had been on the first day.

‘We should go and look for him, right?’

Harry nodded.

‘I think so,’ she said.

Twenty

‘That’s his car, I think,’ I said, pointing to a red hatchback in the car park up ahead. ‘He’s not there, though.’

Together, we walked up to the car, tried the doors and peered inside. Nothing.

‘Can you hear him?’ I asked Harry.

She shook her head.

‘I’ve got a sense of him,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘But that could just be because it’s his car.’

I looked round the tiny car park, down towards the beach and back up towards the cafe.

‘Maybe he’s gone to get a drink,’ I suggested. ‘It’s possible I missed him when I was in the cafe.’

Harry shrugged.

‘Maybe,’ she said, unconvinced. ‘I’ll go and look up there, you go down to the beach. Perhaps he just wanted a break.’

‘Okay,’ I said, thinking about Wilf’s unfinished hot cross bun dough. It really hadn’t been a convenient time for him to take a break.

Harry hurried off towards the cafe and I waddled at a much slower pace, past the marquee and down to the beach.

It was a lovely day so there were a few people hanging out on the shore of the loch. Some teenage boys were playing football, and nearby some teenage girls watched them with interest, while pretending to be completely not bothered about the game. I grinned to see them – that had been me once.

Mostly the people on the beach were windsurfers, their shiny black wetsuits making them look like seals in and out of the water. I squinted along the shore in both directions, but there was no one who looked anything like Wilf.

Disappointed not to have found him, I turned and wandered back up the path to the cafe.

‘Esme?’ Harry was racing towards me, breathless and eyes wide with anxiety.

‘What?’ I said, worried that she’d found something awful. ‘Have you found him?’

‘Not yet,’ she said, taking my hand and pulling me up the gently sloping path. ‘But I can hear him – just faintly. I need your help.’

She led me back to Wilf’s car and we stood, our hair whipping our faces in the wind, listening intently with the magical bit of our minds.

‘There,’ said Harry. ‘Did you hear that?’

I concentrated. I wasn’t nearly as good as Harry was at this sort of thing.

‘There, again,’ Harry said. ‘Like a moan?’

‘It’s the wind,’ I said. I couldn’t hear anything other than the bunting rustling in the trees and distant shouts from the windsurfers on the water.

‘It’s not,’ Harry said sharply. ‘Listen.’

I listened again, but still I couldn’t hear anything.

‘Shit,’ said Harry suddenly. ‘Shit. He’s in the car.’

‘We checked the car,’ I said, walking over and peering through the window again. ‘He’s not here.’

But Harry had gone round the back.

‘He’s in the boot,’ she called. ‘Wilf! Wilf! Can you hear me?’

She knocked on the lid of the boot and rattled it, but it wouldn’t open.

‘He’s in there, Esme,’ she said. ‘He’s locked in the bloody boot of his own car.’

This time I did hear a moan, and not just with the witchy part of my mind.

‘He must have been out cold,’ I said, beginning to panic. ‘That’s why we couldn’t hear him before. What should we do, H?’

Harry bit her lip.

‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘I’ll get help. You talk to him. Don’t let him go quiet again.’

She spun round and raced towards the cafe. Terrified that Wilf was suffering, I knocked on the boot again.

‘Wilf?’ I called. ‘It’s Esme. Harry’s just gone to get help. Are you okay?’

I was scared he wouldn’t answer – how much air would there be in there? – but he moaned again and I heard him gasp, ‘Esme.’

‘I’m here,’ I said. ‘What are you doing in there, you doofus? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. It’s a bit of a drastic way to get out of making hot cross buns.’

Wilf said something that I couldn’t quite make out, but I was giddy with relief that he was responding to me.

‘Keep talking, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Keep talking.’

There was a shout and Harry, Portia and one of the burly men who took care of the marquee came charging down the path.

‘Is he alive?’ Portia shouted, waving her clipboard wildly. ‘Oh bloody hell, is he alive?’

‘He’s okay,’ I said. ‘I think.’

I turned to the man.

‘Can you get him out?’ I begged. ‘Please get him out.’

He produced a crowbar from behind his back and I winced.

‘Wilf,’ I called. ‘This man’s going to lever your boot open. Get ready.’

‘Go ahead, Phil,’ Portia said to the man. He stepped up and I clutched Harry’s hand.

With a groan, the boot creaked open. We all froze, scared to look inside, and then breathed out in relief as Wilf sat up slowly. He had a cut above his eye and his dark skin had an ashen sheen to it.

‘What happened?’ we all said at once. ‘Are you okay?’ I added.

Phil gave Wilf his arm and helped him climb out of the boot – then caught him as his legs gave way.