The Art of Baking Blind (10 page)

Shielded by a silver Land Rover Discovery, her bowels slacken. Then, acrid bile spurts into her mouth. Her body is betraying her: her heart pounds and her vision blackens. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. She leans against the solid metal of the car and bends forward, hands squarely on knees. Her breasts encase her as she puts her head down, waits for the faintness to subside.

She does not know how she gets home; driving her Renault Espace on autopilot through country lanes she has known for the past thirty years. She would like to think she drives safely – she always drives safely – and yet there is an uncharacteristic recklessness to her as she careers round corners. Things fall apart. And middle-aged women drive with abandon.

She feels numb. And yet her head spins; thoughts kaleidoscoping as she pieces together a shared lift here, a dinner-party joke there. When did it start? Where is it going? And how could he – how could
she
– do it? Twenty-five years of marriage and twenty-odd years of friendship have proved as fragile as the cobwebs jewelled with dew drops clinging to the hedgerows. That small gesture has blown the one apparent certainty in her life apart.

In moments of crisis, Jenny does what she always does: she cooks. She needs to preoccupy herself. To excise the hatred, the sorrow and the shame. This is a day to pound, to knead, to bash. This is not a day for millefeuille but for tenderising steak with a rolling pin; for pummelling dough; for downing glasses of robust Merlot as she concocts a beef pie that smells of iron and fortitude, that will offer the ultimate comfort, and that she cannot bear to eat.

She rips the brown skin off an onion, discarding its paper-thin coating; cuts swiftly, the knife slipping through the onion's core and prompting extra tears. Olive oil and butter are hurled into the Le Creuset and fizz, the heat on too high. She tumbles diced steak with mustard and pepper, and starts as she watches her fingers: painted with crimson red; transformed by the brightness of the blood.

It is only once she smells the sweetness of the onions softening in butter that she realises this is the same meal she cooked as a seventeen-year-old, for her father and sister on the night her mother died.

And it is then that the tears fall; tears for a relationship that has spanned three decades and for a bereaved teenager, taught to cook by her mother, for whom food has always been love.

10

If you are lucky enough to have a daughter, do pass on your love of baking. You will teach her a desirable skill – and grow even closer as you work together.

‘So, is this how you spend your mornings?' There is a whisper of scorn in Frances's voice as she sweeps into her kitchen, taking in the array of biscuits still resting on the wire racks.

A chill air has entered the room and it is not – Vicki thinks – purely down to the blast of sub-zero wind that whisked through the hall as she let in her mother. The faintest hint of disapproval tinges the atmosphere, imperceptible to anyone other than her daughter who has had a lifetime to become attuned to its every nuance.

‘I've been productive, haven't I?' Vicki is brisk. She smiles as she takes her mother's coat, pulls out a chair and moves trays of biscuits.

‘Coffee?'

‘I'll have a hot water and lemon, darling. Don't worry. I've brought my own lemon. I expect you've used all yours making another tarte au citron.' Her voice tinkles: as delicate and painful as a shard of glass.

Vicki smiles sweetly. She has been in the house two minutes, she thinks, and already she is trying to make me feel inadequate. Well, not this time. She reaches for her own unwaxed organic lemon and shakes it triumphantly. Then washes it with soap, and dries it, for good measure.

Her mother assessing her every move, she places a neat slice in a fine bone china mug, adds boiling water then supplies a silver teaspoon and small saucer for the fruit.

‘You didn't pour
boiling
water on it?' Frances looks pained.

‘Oh … I'm sorry! I'll do you a fresh one…'

Vicki cuts a second slice, chooses an untainted mug, pours the acceptable, just-boiled water.

‘Here you are … I hope this is better.'

Frances, svelte, neat, exacting, glances at her daughter, green eyes narrowed like a newt's.

Does she think that was a dig? Vicki's stomach twists with its habitual tightness. She smiles, and in that gesture tries to convey what she always feels: I only want to please you; I only want your approval. Frances, stirring her hot water, fails to notice the appeal in her eyes.

Vicki waits and identifies, for the thousandth time, with the rebellious pupil summoned to her mother's office. Stop being ridiculous, she tells herself. You are not in trouble. She is only your mother.

Frances lifts the slice of lemon with a teaspoon; presses it against the side of the mug; drops it in the saucer. Then at last, she switches on a smile.

‘So are these for this cookery competition?'

‘Yes.' Vicki is surprised but delighted that her mother is showing an interest. Frances has made a point of downplaying her achievement in getting into the competition, failing to congratulate her – or even acknowledge it.

That failure had hurt. A recently retired head teacher, Frances understands auditions, exams, achievements. Her whole career has been predicated on them. But she only values
academic
success, thinks Vicki. She seems to view her daughter's love of baking as worthless – or, rather, as an embarrassment. It is as if she believes I have chosen to shine at this just to spite her, she thinks. As if it wasn't enough merely to scrape through my A-levels, or abandon my career to look after Alfie. As if I really wanted to annoy her by choosing to excel in the domestic sphere.

‘So, you wanted to ask me a favour?' As ever, Frances comes straight to the point. Vicki imagines her chairing a staff meeting. Efficient, authoritative, intimidating.

Her bowels melt. ‘I wanted to ask if you could help Greg to look after Alfie over the coming weekends of the competition.'

There is a pause during which her mother takes a sip of the almost-scorching water.

‘I think I could do quite well, you see, but it will mean overnight stays for five weekends – and it's a lot to ask Greg to do it all on top of the hours he's putting in at the moment.'

Frances allows her lip to curl while she contemplates an answer.

‘Isn't that what fatherhood's about? Not that your father stayed around long enough to find out.' She cannot resist a dig at both men in Vicki's life.

‘Well, yes, and of course he should do all the childcare each weekend without complaining – but that's not reality, is it?' Vicki feels a frisson of irritation. Her mother really isn't making this easy for her.

‘Besides' – she decides to appeal to her better nature – ‘I thought you might want to support me, and to spend some time with Alfie. He's so glorious at this age and, at this rate, he's the only grandchild you're likely to get so it would be wonderful for you to see him a bit more…'

She feels herself welling up, and busies herself tidying away some biscuits, placing them carefully on baking parchment, filling three tins. Surely you can see how lovely he is, she thinks; surely you can hear what I'm saying? I'm telling you that I don't think I'm able to have another baby. That I'm infertile. Barren. I'm asking for your help.

The memory of another old hurt emerges and she wonders if she dare allude to it. She backs away, the possibility disappearing even as it forms. It's the nuclear option. One day I'll be brave enough, she thinks. But not today. She slams on the tin lid. Let's get this skirmish over first.

Frances, meanwhile, is watching Alfie push a Playmobil ambulance around her chair and flinching as he rams it against the table legs. He's being particularly cute today but Frances looks unconvinced that looking after him would be a bonding experience.

She has frequently commented that children only become interesting when they reach secondary school – when they ‘become intelligent' as she once memorably put it – or, if she is honest, when they become young adults. She has never seen the appeal of infants however endearing she knows, objectively, they are.

Vicki knows all this but still hopes she will make an exception. Did she make one for me? she wonders. In the privacy of her own home, did she kiss the creases of my fat toddler thighs? Did she watch me as I slept, marvelling at my childish peacefulness, just as I watch little Alf? Did she bury her face in the nape of my neck and breathe in my warm, milky smell? Did she stroke my plump cheek and wonder how she had managed to produce someone so unblemished? So utterly perfect.

She has no memory of Frances playing with her: of her entering her imaginary world and absorbing herself in her games. Nor can she remember her responding to her endless questions without irritation; her tolerating the repetition, the inanity. The teacher in her winces now at her mother's sharpness and questions why there was little joint imaginary play; little interaction beyond drawing and reading. If she wouldn't play with me, she thinks, why would she do it for another child?

Of course, she knows her mother is busy. She has been retired for less than a year but shows no intention of slacking. Each week she works as a volunteer at the Bodleian Library. She swims every morning; helps run the local Oxfam; has resumed piano lessons; and is taking evening classes in Italian. She has begun an advanced IT skills course and, in September, will start a part-time MA in child development. And then there's her travel: unconstrained by a partner, and with a carefully accrued private pension, she is planning a trip to Laos and Cambodia this summer, and to Sicily at Easter.

And all of this is great. Of course it is. Her mother has no intention of becoming one of those grandparents conscripted to provide free childcare, their sciatica worsening as they push incarcerated toddlers around in buggies, their features clouded with exhaustion.

And nor would Vicki want this. She accepts and applauds her mother's full life. Frances has worked hard and it can't have been easy bringing up a daughter on her own while scaling the career ladder. So now it's her time to be selfish – not that Vicki would ever describe her as such. But sometimes, just sometimes, it would be nice if she were a bit more engaged with her grandchild. She doesn't expect her to
dote.
She is realistic. But it would be nice if she showed some interest, any interest at all.

Her mother takes her time to answer.

‘Oh, darling, I'd love to. But I just don't think I'd have the time. I can't really commit to that with everything else I've got on at the moment.'

The lie is automatic. And, though Vicki expected this response, she still cannot hide her disappointment.

‘Of course. Stupid of me. Forget I asked. So sorry.' She keeps her head down, continues to put the biscuits in their tin.

But Frances must have heard the catch in her throat.

‘Well, of course, if it's impossible for Greg to do it all, then of course you could call on me. But I can't sign up to five weekends. And I'm sure that's not what you're asking me to do, is it?'

‘Of course not.' Vicki, glimpsing the chance of some support, hurries to placate her. ‘Perhaps just one of the days each weekend, or perhaps just every other…'

‘Every other weekend?' Her mother's anxiety is palpable. ‘Oh no, I don't think I could do a full weekend. Perhaps the Saturday, if Greg could drop him off and pick him up?'

‘Or I could do that. Or you could stay at ours?' Why, thinks Vicki, is she making this so hard for me?

‘Well, I'd rather be in my own space.' Frances gives a sniff, taking in the clutter of toys; making it clear that, if she is going to do her daughter this favour, it will be on her turf – and on her conditions. And so it is agreed. Vicki will drop Alfie off in Oxford before hurtling back to Buckinghamshire. Frances will provide childcare on three Saturdays with Greg, who won't relish the drive but will be relieved he's not shouldering all the childcare, collecting him at 6 p.m.

‘Thank you, Mum.' Vicki's gratitude comes out in a rush. She bends forward to put her arms round her mother, brushes her powdery cheek with her lips, gives her a tight hug.

Frances seems wrong-footed, her body inert, unable to relax into the embrace.

‘Be careful of my drink.' She makes a show of moving the porcelain mug aside, discomfited by this sudden display of affection.

‘Of course.' Vicki moves back, head down, embarrassed by the rebuff.

But her mother isn't finished. ‘So are you going to offer me one of these delicacies?'

 

 

Kathleen

The baby seems to be growing. Much to her surprise, it has been nine weeks since her last period and, warm inside her, her baby – she does not think of it as an embryo – is bedding down, relying on her for life.

There is no sign of it. Every morning she looks at herself sideways in the mirror but her stomach is still flat, or possibly convex. The ‘doyenne of baking with the enviable figure' still exists, much to her frustration. For, without a gently curving belly, she fears she is imagining it all.

Dr Sharp has reassured her, however, as has James Caruthers, an eminent obstetrician whom the good doctor has referred her to in Harley Street. And, of course, she has that other tell-tale sign of pregnancy: morning sickness. Or, rather, constant sickness. Waves of nausea pick her up then spew her forth like a sailor battling the high seas in a small vessel.

She is taking quite a battering.

The only thing that curbs the sickness is sweet carbohydrates. Soft and undemanding. Scones and tea cakes; brioche and buns. And so she is baking. Ignoring the bile that rises as she binds the dough, imagining the relief that comes, all too briefly, when she crams the sweet bread into her mouth.