The Art of Baking Blind (29 page)

She sits back down, legs pedalling relentlessly; adds resistance and begins to climb to a rockier track, the beat slow and heavy. She ratchets up the levels until her glutes ache and her legs feel leaden. Next to her, a woman is pedalling faster; she glances over to double-check: her classmate's level of resistance is far weaker.

‘You're at the top, now sprint down,' commands Ben, and she covers three kilometres in three minutes as a frenetic dance track takes over. Head down, legs powering, she imagines herself screeching down mountain roads, or climaxing.

For forty-five minutes, or twenty-one kilometres, she pushes herself in this way: rising and falling, climbing and sprinting; grunting with effort and then with pleasure. Her face glows, droplets of sweat beading on a florid forehead. Damp blooms at her crotch and on the underarms of her Lycra sports top. Nobody said it was glamorous but it is the most efficient way she knows of burning calories.

Later, she pounds up the pool, pushing her body to her standard hundred lengths in groups of eight: backstroke; breaststroke; front crawl once again. She completes eight lengths of sprints, her body surging through the water like an underwater missile, arms rising and falling in a steady rhythm, head twisting to alternate sides. A textbook illustration of apparently effortless swimming; an example of fused elegance and power. Then it's four lengths with a float between her legs; four with a float at her arms; eight with paddles and flippers; a further eight sprints and back to sets of eight once again. Up and down the pool she goes; searing through the water, performing a tumble turn at each end. She thinks in terms of two hundred metres, and in terms of time. Always time. Time and, therefore, calories.

One hundred lengths in, she allows herself to stop. Checks the wall clock and her stopwatch. Thirty-four minutes thirty-two seconds. Two point five kilometres in thirty-four minutes thirty-two seconds. To her surprise, she has achieved a personal best. She allows herself to assess her fellow swimmers: the postnatal mothers desperate to lose their baby fat pushing themselves to try the crawl in the middle lane; the octogenarian gentleman attempting a serene breaststroke at a walking pace; the women her age managing to swim lengths of breaststroke while chatting, and without getting their hair wet.

The ladies of the gym swimming club are vying with one another in their matching red swimsuits and silver swim hats. She gives one a nod of acknowledgement, taking in her increasingly honed arms and well-toned legs as she walks to the pool. She has lost a lot of weight recently. The speculation is automatic: how much has she lost and what does she weigh now? What is her BMI? What is her personal best?

As she leaves to plunge into the jacuzzi, her attention is caught not by another woman's physique but by an incongruous couple: the woman, perhaps in her late sixties, the man in his mid-forties – perhaps even her age. They are holding hands, but it is clear they are not lovers. Rather she is leading him, coaxing this soft-bodied bear of a man into the shallow end with an assiduousness born of years of attention. He gives a grunt of surprise, then a yelp which shocks as it reverberates around the pool, the sound amplified by the water. The breaststroke swimmers turn, their equanimity ruffled; even the octogenarian glances their way. The woman – small, bird-like – is unperturbed, easing her charge on to a giant float then towing him around the pool. ‘It's OK,' she reassures him. ‘It's OK.'

Karen takes in her face, worn with years of anxiety but still capable of experiencing the joy of others. She is looking at the man carefully, assessing if the water is too cold for him, trying to elicit a smile.

The man gives another grunt. Less fearful, but still vulnerable. He clings to the float, shoulders tight with tension.

The woman smiles, and coos at him. ‘It's OK. It's OK.'

He relaxes into the water, his white legs trailing behind him. He gives another yelp – of excitement this time.

The woman smiles, relief erasing her wrinkles; her burden briefly eased. She is, of course, the man's mother.

30

Your little ones will love to shape gingerbread or butter biscuits with you, creating plump teddy bears, stars or hearts. Should you feel inclined to rush their work, then stop. The closeness of that early baking will stand you in good stead in later years.

‘Alfie?'

Vicki watches her little boy for a good two minutes before she disturbs him – so ensconced is he in his imaginary world.

Lying on his tummy, he lines all his vehicles up in size order and by colour. A rainbow of Matchbox cars snakes around the rug and disappears under the sofa. By his side are the chunkier dumper trucks: the cars his small hands would have curled around only a year ago but which are now deemed way too babyish for this more dexterous three-year-old.

‘Now the people,' he chunters under his breath as he lines up the plastic Happy Land figures: children woefully out of proportion for his vehicles, though, this time, he doesn't seem to mind.

Is there something OCD about this behaviour? Should she worry he is somewhere on the autistic spectrum? Oh, don't be ridiculous. She thinks back to the reassurance provided by his nursery, where he now spends three hours each morning, freeing up her time for baking. He is bright, ordered, methodical. And he is just being a boy.

She kneels down next to him then lowers herself to his level. The world looks different from this angle: the fabric at the bottom of the sofa pilled; the odd tendril of fluff swirling like tumbleweed across the floor. She must hoover, she thinks automatically then stops herself. Today, she has promised, she is not going to worry about domestic things but will be guided by whatever Alfie wants to do.

‘So – do you feel like doing some baking?' She watches as he straightens the line of red cars which stretches longer than all the others. Then comes the white and then the green.

‘Why aren't there many yellow cars?' He looks perturbed as he neatens the lone yellow one.

‘I don't know. I've never really thought about it. Perhaps people don't like their cars to be yellow?' The tiny vehicle is a particularly putrid shade.

‘When I grow up, I'm going to have a yellow car.'

He continues to play and she watches his delicate features: that creamy complexion unmarred by a line, or even a freckle. How long can he remain in this state of perfection, without even the smallest of scars?

‘Why you looking at me?'

He frowns, hazel eyes wide open, then presses his face close to hers so that she feels as if she is being subsumed by him. He blows a raspberry on her cheek.

‘Don't do that!'

He bursts into giggles, delighted at the effect.

‘Daddy taught me!'

‘Yes, well … You can only do it if I can retaliate.'

‘What's re…'

‘Retaliate. Do it back. This.' And she grabs him around the waist, pulls up his Thomas the Tank Engine top and blows a loud, wet kiss on his belly.

‘Mummy!'

He is delighted.

‘Me do it back!' And he pushes her over and blows an even more enthusiastic one on her stomach. His breath is warm and the kiss wet with saliva.

‘Enough. I give up.' She wraps her arms around him and laughs into his hair, slightly self-conscious yet relieved she can still provoke such delight merely by playing with her child. After a day ‘sorting' puddings, as Greg put it, she feels calmer. More in control. And invigorated: as if she is more than capable of coping with – no, enjoying – her three-year-old. A day off has lent her perspective: made her miss him and realise how much she should cherish their time together.

‘Do Lego now?' Alfie's eyes gleam as if he has realised that she is determined to make up for her irritability at the weekend and to give him enough attention. Or maybe not enough, for it can never really be enough.

Her heart sinks. She can pretend to match his enthusiasm for Lego for a few minutes but his capacity to play with it seems almost limitless.

‘Lego then baking?' he bargains shrewdly, and she finds herself taken aback. Is he just mirroring what she often says or has he guessed that she lacks his relish for his favourite toy?

‘That sounds like a good deal.' She smiles. ‘Lego then baking. How about I help you make the fire engine and then you help me make gingerbread men – or would you prefer cupcakes?'

‘Gingerbread men.' He is emphatic. It is the option he goes for, without fail.

‘How did I guess?'

‘Always gingerbread.'

‘Always gingerbread,' she agrees.

‘Gingerbread
after
Lego,' he reiterates.

‘Yes, after Lego.' She rolls her eyes and is rewarded by him imitating her action, accompanied by a cascade of giggles.

*   *   *

Later, after she has made the Lego fire engine for him – a vehicle that requires him to be aged five to twelve according to the instructions, but which she still finds tricky – she finally manages to lure him into the kitchen. Rain splatters against the skylight and the French windows, making it feel even toastier than usual, and secure.

Though she knows the recipe by heart, she brings out
The Art of Baking,
and shows Alfie the photo of Kathleen proudly displaying a plate of cooked gingerbread men and women.

‘They're too big,' he tells her.

‘Too big?'

‘Yes. They're grown-ups. I want to do babies.' And he runs to the drawer and rummages for the boy and girl biscuit cutters.

And so they make a wealth of biscuits, the smaller cutters doubling their numbers, and the remaining scraps re-rolled to make baby hearts and stars. Some of the dough seems to get eaten, Alfie squishing it into his mouth before she can stop him.

‘No. No more – you might get tummy ache,' she remonstrates, worrying vaguely about the raw egg binding it.

He pops in another scrap and laughs, dough seeping between his teeth. ‘Mummy. It's the best bit,' he tells her seriously, then beams, mouth wide open. ‘It's deeeeelicious.'

Watching him like this, she wonders if it is possible to love him more. Certainly, today he has been at his most golden: ever loving, sparky, interesting but also, oddly, more compliant. Must be because she's given him her undivided attention, she thinks with a pang of guilt; or perhaps Kathleen Eaden was right and it's because they're baking? Doing something both of them love – she even more than him, if she's honest – which allows them to chat, and eat and investigate. To exist in their own happy bubble while the rest of life chugs on, oblivious.

‘Why do you look sad?'

Alfie is staring at her, inquisitive.

‘I'm not sad, my darling. I'm happy.'

‘You look sad. Like when you saw Max's new baby sister.'

‘Did I?' She gulps. Was she that transparent? ‘I wasn't sad then, lovely, and I'm not now.'

She finds herself beginning to explain to him that sometimes people can be overwhelmed with good emotions, but she loses him quickly, his eyes flickering to the cooling gingerbread men before she has finished the sentence.

‘Never mind,' she finishes. ‘Now, how about we try one of those?'

 

 

Kathleen

The baby is staying tight inside her. Tight, tight, tight. Every hour she checks between her thighs but there is no blood. Then she makes herself wait two hours. Oh, thank goodness. Her inner thighs remain dry.

The baby kicks again. A flutter or a kick? A flutter kick. Perhaps she – for she feels as if she is having a girl – is learning how to swim. She imagines taking a little girl, her little girl, for swimming lessons and watching her streak underwater like mackerel spied from a fishing boat or a baby dolphin.

The flutter kick comes again. Perceptible. Definitely there. Perhaps you're a strong one, she addresses her belly. A strong one, and determined. Kick. There it is again.

She panics that the stitch will not hold, that her girl will break it with all this kicking, but Julie, now visiting her three times a week, reassures her. ‘It's a good sign, all this action. It's when they're quiet for a long time that you start to worry.'

She can be quiet too, Kathleen wants to tell her. Sometimes I can wait hours without feeling a kick. And then, in the middle of the night, I lie, rigid with panic, fearing that she is no longer alive.

31

For the most indulgent of trifles, simply steep Madeira cake in kirsch, scatter with fresh cherries or raspberries, coat with a layer of melted chocolate, and then add home-made custard and velvet pillows of cream. Top with toasted flaked almonds or dark chocolate curls. Omit jelly and please do not think of including tinned mandarins or peach halves. This is a very adult, very sensuous, dessert.

‘I am SO excited.' Vicki is practically trembling as she climbs the final flight of stairs, close on the heels of Cora.

The bakers, gathered for the pudding stage of the Search for the New Mrs Eaden, are being given unprecedented access to her recipe archive in the hope they might find inspiration there.

‘I can't believe we're actually going to see Kathleen's writing. That we're going to get to touch her things,' she pants as they near the attic rooms at Bradley Hall, which currently house the recipe collection. ‘It's going to be the closest we get to a master-class with her. Just incredible. Such a privilege.' She stops to catch her breath.

‘She was only human.' Jenny is amused by her hero-worship; the self-conscious way in which she refers to her by her first name and then blushes.

‘Oh, I know…' Vicki is unconvinced. ‘But she was something special—'

‘She was lucky,' Claire cuts in, as they pause, slightly out of breath, half a flight from the former servants' quarters. ‘I bet you could have been a Mrs Eaden, written books like her and got them published, if you'd managed to marry a millionaire who happened to develop a chain of supermarkets.'