A Spoonful of Sugar (12 page)

‘Phone an ambulance,’ Harry said to Portia, who was already pulling out her BlackBerry. ‘Wilf, can you walk?’

Wilf nodded, obviously not up to speaking yet.

‘Let’s go to the cafe,’ Harry said. ‘The paramedics can come there.’

Phil half carried, half dragged poor Wilf up the path to the cafe with the rest of us hurrying behind.

‘Just going to find the judges and tell them what’s happening,’ Portia muttered, disappearing off to one of the caravans.

We went into the cafe and Phil helped Wilf onto one of the sofas, then said he would look out for the ambulance.

Harry and I fussed over Wilf, who was very bleary-eyed and confused. He blinked up at us and gave us a faint, bewildered smile.

‘Is it finished?’ he murmured. ‘The competition?’

‘Don’t worry about that now,’ I said, taking his hand. ‘You had a bang on your head and you’re going to have to get it checked out.’

Wilf put his hand up to his forehead and winced as he touched the enormous bump that was forming.

He squinted at Harry and me.

‘I was trying to find something,’ he said slowly. ‘I was leaning into the boot and someone pushed me.’

‘Really?’ I said, shocked. I’d still been hopeful that it had just been an unlucky accident. ‘Are you sure?’

Wilf nodded.

‘They shoved me in and when I tried to sit up, they pulled the lid down on my head,’ he said. He sounded incredulous that someone would do such an awful thing, and I couldn’t blame him.

He looked at me, his brown eyes sad.

‘Why would someone hurt me like that?’ he said. ‘They could have killed me. If you and Harry hadn’t come along when you did …’ His voice trailed off as he considered the alternative.

Harry gave me a horrified glance over the top of Wilf’s head.

‘Don’t think about that now,’ she said, falsely bright. ‘No need to worry about that at the moment. Oh look, the paramedics are here. They’ll make you feel better. Over here!’

She stood up and waved at the two women in their green jumpsuits who were just coming into the cafe.

I watched as they raced over to Wilf, feeling sick. This was getting really nasty.

Twenty-one

Harry and I went to see Wilf in hospital later that evening. He was sitting up in bed, looking quite happy. Apparently he was quite the celebrity and the nurses and doctors kept coming to ask for his autograph.

The cut on his forehead had been stitched and he had concussion, but he was going to be fine, he assured us.

‘Are you coming back to the competition?’ Harry asked, pulling up the only chair next to Wilf’s bed and sitting down. ‘Portia’s doing her nut.’

Wilf chuckled.

‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

I very pointedly stood so my bump was in Harry’s face. With a sigh she stood up and let me sit down instead.

‘They’re waiting to see what you want to do,’ I told Wilf. ‘If you don’t want to come back, then Harry and I will go straight into the final. Which seems ridiculous.’

Harry perched on the side of Wilf’s bed.

‘It is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Because you’re going to come back, aren’t you? They’ve said we can finish this week’s round tomorrow if you’re up to it.’

But Wilf shook his head.

‘I’m not coming back,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

‘But, Wilf,’ I began.

‘I can’t, Esme,’ he said. ‘I was in that boot for an hour. I couldn’t breathe; I was terrified I was going to die. My life was flashing before my eyes. And someone did that to me.’

‘When you put it like that, I suppose I can understand,’ Harry said. ‘It must have been so frightening.’

Wilf shuddered.

‘It was,’ he said. ‘But what’s more frightening is that I didn’t die. And if that’s what whoever did this intended, then I’m scared they’ll try to finish the job.’

I stared at him, horrified at the thought.

‘Nooo,’ I said. ‘Surely not?’

‘I’m not going to take the risk,’ Wilf said. ‘I’ve got a nice life, you know? Good job, nice friends, a family. Winning this stupid competition isn’t that important.’

‘It’s not a stupid competition,’ Harry said. I gave her a cross look. Now really wasn’t the time to start bigging up
Britain Bakes
.

Wilf gave us both a small smile.

‘I’m not coming back,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

It was clear he wasn’t going to change his mind, so I decided to put my Miss Marple hat on again.

‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?’ I said, wondering if he’d mind if I took notes. ‘Are you sure someone pushed you? Could you have tripped and overbalanced?’

‘I suppose,’ Wilf said doubtfully. ‘But I’m fairly certain someone gave me a shove.’

‘Did you see anyone?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone there.’

‘Do you think it was a man?’ I said, thinking of Peter. ‘Could you tell?’

‘Could have been anyone,’ Wilf pointed out. ‘I was leaning right into the boot, it wouldn’t take much to tip me over.’

‘So it could have been an accident,’ Harry said.

‘No,’ Wilf said. He suddenly didn’t look so sure. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. But I know I’m not coming back to the competition.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ I told Harry on the way back to Claddach. ‘Someone pushed him.’

‘You don’t know that,’ she said, turning the car off the main road and heading up towards home. ‘He said himself that he couldn’t be sure.’

‘I think it was Peter,’ I said. ‘I’m positive. He could easily have sneaked out of the marquee and shoved Wilf into the boot – no problem at all.’

Harry shook her head.

‘I don’t know, Ez,’ she said. ‘It’s crazy accusing people without any evidence.’

She pulled into the drive of our mum’s house and fixed me with a firm look.

‘You listened in to him, didn’t you? What did you hear?’

I shrugged.

‘Nothing,’ I admitted. ‘But maybe I just wasn’t listening at the right time.’

‘Or maybe you weren’t listening to the right person,’ Harry pointed out. ‘Or maybe there is no right person and this has just been the unluckiest baking competition in the – admittedly short – history of baking competitions.’

She was right, I thought as we went inside. I had absolutely no proof that it was Peter. But what I did have was a whole week in Claddach – and Mum to babysit. I would make it my mission this week to get some proof that it was him who’d bashed poor Wilf on the head and shoved him into the boot of his car.

The next day, Harry and I once again went to the marquee and filmed our reactions to the judges telling us that we’d both be going into the final of the competition.

‘It’s not the usual route to the last round,’ Lizzie said, kindly. ‘But you’re both good, strong bakers and you both deserve to be here.’

She was definitely right that Harry deserved to be in the final, but I was very aware that I was winging it. But I fixed my face into a serene smile nevertheless and pretended to listen intently as Lizzie went through our challenges for the final week. Really, though, I was watching Peter. He wasn’t needed for this bit so he was chatting to one of the crew members as Lizzie explained we’d be making afternoon tea. Then he disappeared out of the back door. I wondered where he was going and why, and I decided I’d keep an eye on him this week – just to see if he had anything else planned.

Twenty-two

It was actually a really nice week, all things considered. Mum fussed over me, and I got so spend lots of time with Clemmie too. Harry and I baked every morning, practising our recipes for the afternoon tea that would be the grand finale of the competition. It had an Alice in Wonderland theme, so we both re-read the book, which was one of our favourites from childhood, and swapped ideas. It was a lot of fun.

But hanging over me like a cloud was the conviction that Peter was to blame for all the accidents and I was still determined to try to find some proof that would convince Harry I was right. Plus there was a nagging worry that if I didn’t confront him before the final on Saturday then something awful would happen to me or to Harry. And that wasn’t a risk I wanted to take.

When the latest episode of
Britain Bakes
aired, things went crazy once more. The press swarmed all over Claddach again, and Harry and I were asked to do interview after interview. Portia, who was loving all the attention, sprang into action and refused to let me do any press at all unless they came to me.

‘No, no, absolutely not,’ I overheard her barking down her BlackBerry. ‘I don’t think you’re understanding quite how bloody pregnant she is …’

So we did radio, TV and magazine interviews all from the home comforts of the cafe, which was absolutely perfect.

Peter and Lizzie were equally in demand. More so, in fact. Peter was promoting his new show left, right and centre, and they were both on television all the time. I kept an eye on Peter though, hoping he’d slip up and reveal something untoward, or that I’d catch him plotting his latest nasty trick.

Eventually, on Thursday afternoon, I saw my chance. We’d all done an interview for a daytime chat show, and we were milling about in the cafe chatting and drinking tea. It was raining again, soft drops brushing against the cafe windows and inside it was cosy and welcoming. Clemmie was asleep on one of the sofas, Harry next to her, stroking her hair and talking to Louise on the phone, and Portia was snoozing in an armchair, still clutching her clipboard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter head to the cafe door. He glanced round, took an umbrella from the stand at the door, and went out into the rain.

I stood up.

‘Harry, can you keep an eye on Clemmie for me?’ I said. ‘I just remembered I have to pop into town.’

Harry nodded, not interrupting her conversation, and I waddled as fast as I could towards the door. I grabbed my waterproof coat and a golf umbrella and went after Peter.

They make it look easy on those cop shows, don’t they? Following suspects. Well, let me tell you, it’s not. Especially when you’re not in a city but instead in a small town on a rainy weekday afternoon. And you happen to be enormously pregnant and consequently not as fast as you might ordinarily be.

Peter was hunched down in his coat, holding his umbrella at an angle to stop it blowing the wrong way round. He wasn’t paying me any attention luckily. I tried to look as though I was just casually taking a walk even though the weather was blowing a hoolie and the rain was whipping into my face.

I followed him at a distance, diving behind lamp posts – as though they’d hide my, erm, blooming figure – whenever Peter looked like he might turn round.

A bus went by, zooming through a muddy puddle and splashing my legs, which made me swear, and when I looked up, Peter had disappeared.

‘Oh bloody hell,’ I said out loud. This never happened to the cops on
The Wire
. I stood for a moment and looked at the shops, wondering which one he might have gone into.

There was a bakery close to where I was standing – an old-fashioned one with sticky buns and those funny pastry things with coconut on the top displayed in the window. Maybe Peter had popped in there to check them out.

There was no one in the bakery except for the man who ran it. He’d owned it as long as I could remember, and I had no idea what his name was, so in my head I called him Mr Bun. I was fairly sure that wasn’t actually his name.

Anyway, I waved to Mr Bun then scoured the street for signs of Peter. A movement across the road caught my eye. It was him! He was in the sweet shop. Again it was one of the old-fashioned-style shops, but whereas Mr Bun’s bakery was old fashioned because it was old, the sweet shop was one of the new retro-chic stores that had arrived in Claddach to serve the needs of the artsy-fartsy crowd that came. It had shelves lined with glass jars of brightly coloured sweets, home-made fudge on the counter, and a stripy sign outside that said: ‘Claddach Sweet Shop est. 2012’. It was Jamie’s favourite shop and I always had to drag him out of it when we came up.

I crossed over the quiet road and pressed my nose up against the window like a little girl. Peter was buying chocolate caramels. He obviously had a sweet tooth. He handed over his money and came out of the shop, clutching a pink and white striped paper bag. I pulled my hood down low over my forehead and turned away, tilting my umbrella so he wouldn’t see it was me loitering.

Peter walked down the street a little way, then went into the hardware store. What was he doing in there? Maybe I’d got this all wrong and he wasn’t plotting some terrible thing to happen to me or Harry at the final. I watched as Peter selected a pie dish, fairly similar to the one June had, the one that had landed on her foot. The shop assistant wrapped it in paper and put it in a bag, and Peter came out of the shop into the rain once more. I legged it as fast as I could – which wasn’t actually very fast – in the opposite direction. I was hopeless at all this sneaking around.

When I felt like I’d gone far enough, I paused and peeked out from under my umbrella just in time to see Peter disappear into the tiny Waitrose on the corner. It did seem as though he was simply doing his shopping. I decided to go and see what he bought, then go home. This was a waste of time.

I prowled up and down the aisles until I clocked him by the herbs and spices. He selected a glass jar of cinnamon and headed to the till. I lurked behind a display of organic quinoa and sighed. Perhaps I had got this all wrong after all. He was just a chap doing a bit of shopping, filling up on essentials like, erm, cinnamon, caramels and pie tins …

A thought struck me and I stood up a bit straighter. Amelia had caramel in her hair, June was hit by pie tin and Wilf was bopped on the head when he went to find his cinnamon. What on earth was Peter up to? Was he gloating about the accidents he’d caused? This was awful.

‘Oh. My. God,’ I said out loud. A woman browsing the grains next to where I stood looked at me in alarm.

‘Are you okay?’ she said, glancing at my bump. ‘Do you need to sit down?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assured her. ‘I just forgot something.’

I looked over the top of the quinoa display at the tills. To my horror, Peter had gone. Shit. Never mind, Claddach wasn’t exactly huge, I’d track him down. I imagined marching up behind him, putting my hand on his shoulder and saying …