The Art of Baking Blind (33 page)

‘That doesn't make it much better.' Claire gives a low whistle. ‘She must have been really pissed off.'

‘I don't think so.' Vicki is surprised by this turn of events. ‘Jenny said she was being hugely supportive. He has a court hearing in a fortnight and Karen wants to be able to focus entirely on him – hence dropping out.'

‘That's lovely of her … and totally understandable.'

‘Yes, but maybe a bit surprising? I don't know about you, but I didn't think she seemed the least maternal. She never talked about her kids, did she? Not like me and you going on about them all the time. Just goes to show, doesn't it? We made all these assumptions but we didn't really know her at all.'

 

 

Kathleen

Twenty-three weeks, twenty-four. She reads that her baby is the size of a bag of sugar. She visualises it, then sends Mrs Jennings to bring one from the kitchen. She weighs the paper bag of Tate and Lyle in her hand. One pound feels heavy. Solid. Tangible. A decent, substantial weight.

The baby's foot flutters. Oh my darling, she thinks. Stay in there. Stay in there and remain safe. She reaches to check her inner thighs again. No tackiness; no blood seeping from her. She looks at her Rolex. Ten o'clock: two hours since she last checked. She needs to stop this recent tic; this obsessive checking. She promises herself not to look again before midday.

What to do? Think about something positive, she reminds herself. The cherry blossom in full bloom just below her window; the late April sunshine, bursting in on her. ‘This bed thy centre is,' she murmurs, quoting Donne. ‘These walls thy sphere.'

Think about
The Art of Baking.
And here she smiles. Completed – and with a publication date for early September, a month after her due date. Time enough to get herself back on to her feet and help with its promotion, she had reassured George. And, yes, of course she wants to do that. After months spent lying alone, as stiff as a board, she wants to sing of the joys of baking and its place at the heart of one's family. She thinks she can manage to play at being Mrs Eaden again.

She stretches out like a cat and points her toes in a parody of exercise, luxuriating in a moment's satisfaction. One project is finished. And, if she can do that then perhaps – please, perhaps – the second – growing her baby – can be achieved.

She crosses her fingers automatically. The guilt of the past two years – the fear that she killed her three earlier babies by virtue of having a weak cervix, and the self-loathing that has come with this – is beginning to ease slightly. I can do this, she prays, as she resists checking her thighs. The baby kicks. We can do this, she corrects herself, stroking her belly and giving it a gentle pat of reassurance. Now just stay in there a little longer. Just stay in there, warm and tight.

The most recent
Home Magazine
is by her bed, containing not just her column but a pattern for newborn bootees. She looks at it but will not knit them – nor order baby clothes from Peter Jones. But when George buys a cot – chosen to match the Ercol furniture she loves and she knows he cannot stand – she thanks him and refuses to listen to the inner voice that continues to mutter that, by doing so, she risks tempting fate.

A Celebratory Tea

 

 

The Duchess of Bedford conceived of the idea of afternoon tea in the 1840s, and, one hundred and twenty years on, it may seem somewhat outmoded. We have no real need of afternoon tea; not in these days when we can just grab a biscuit to nibble alongside our mug of instant coffee. And we may feel we have no time for it with our increasingly busy lives.

But many delightful traditions, though not the least bit necessary, are highly pleasurable. Afternoon tea is one such. Served between 4 and 5 p.m., an occasional afternoon tea will not only restore and revive but cherish and comfort. It will spoil and delight, nurture and sustain.

For form's sake, you will need to make at least some pretence of offering something savoury. Thinly sliced sandwiches will suffice if filled with smoked salmon and cream cheese, finely cut ham and mustard, thin slices of cucumber and butter, or poached salmon and dill mayonnaise.

The savoury element dispatched with, we can focus on the more joyful elements: the scones, the biscuits and the exquisite little cakes. Prettiness is important and so I use a triple-layered cake plate and pile up lemon, raspberry and chocolate macaroons; mini fruit tartlets; and the tiniest of chocolate éclairs or mini Paris–Brests.

For those unsatisfied by such fripperies, you may wish to serve something more substantial such as a ginger cake or almond-encrusted Dundee cake. For my part, I prefer something unashamedly decadent: the richest of chocolate cakes or a strawberry-and-cream-filled gateau. A substantial piece of whimsy.

To drink, one must serve Darjeeling or Earl Grey – and one must use a teapot. This is about the ritual of teatime. Serve with a small jug of milk or slices of lemon and remember: it is not milk in first. Or abandon such anxieties and, for an intimate afternoon tea of sheer decadence, serve with a glass of chilled champagne.

Kathleen Eaden:
The Art of Baking
(1966)

35

Nowhere is the alchemy of baking more evident than when making choux pastry. For this raw, salty dough puffs up into the most ethereal of cases, ready to hold an unctuous treat.

Vicki is in a state: a full-on, frenetic panic in which her kitchen is sprayed with flour, every surface is cluttered, and she cannot think straight.

The competition final is a day away and nothing is going right: her choux pastry is thick and heavy, her mini sponge sandwiches, coloured with raspberry and cocoa, are too lurid. Her millefeuille, inelegantly, irregularly shaped, lack the necessary finesse.

She has worked until two in the morning and then been up since six, when Greg slipped from the house suggesting she have a lie-in. She is running on adrenalin, sugar and caffeine. Too much of all three. And she feels sick.

It is as if she has to finish her school reports, oversee the key stage one nativity, and prepare for an Ofsted inspection all in the same evening. She is never going to manage it.

‘Mum-meeeeeeee…'

It is Alfie, calling from the garden, with his habitual plea for attention.

‘Can you come and play football?'

‘Not now, lovely, I'm busy…'

‘But you
promised
…'

‘I didn't promise anything, Alfie, no. I said I might play later after I've finished.'

The distinction is lost on her three-year-old who stomps back up the garden, his head down, his shoulders hunched, in an almost comic display of fury.

Vicki feels a momentary twinge of guilt at being pedantic and dismissive. But she hasn't the time to worry about it. She decides to try her choux pastry again and begins to assemble the ingredients: plain flour tipped on to a sheet of greaseproof paper, water, butter and salt placed in a medium-sized saucepan; three free-range eggs, beaten lightly. She heats the butter and water mixture, tipping in the flour as it comes to the boil and removing the pan from the heat. Then, with a wooden spoon, she begins to beat furiously. ‘Come on,' she mutters under her breath, as what appears to be a culinary disaster coalesces, beginning to form a smooth, heavy dough. ‘Yes, yes, that's better.'

A sporadic thud begins to sound in the kitchen. Vicki is so preoccupied, she doesn't initially register it and then takes a few moments to realise what it is. Alfie, who had been kicking his mini football ineffectively around the back of the garden, is now ramming it against the back of the house and the frame of the open French windows.

‘Alf-ieeee…'

The ball hurtles into the kitchen, thudding against the units and skittering around her feet.

He laughs hysterically: great gulps of laughter. Then he sees her anger.

‘Alfie Marchant. I am furious!'

She abandons her dough and chases after him, whipping up the garden, fired by fury.

He turns, half fearful, half hopeful it is a game, then sees the look on her face and begins crying. Still running, he stumbles on a tuft of grass, picks himself up, then tries to hide himself in his wigwam, flattening his small body and wriggling backwards as if he can worm his way out of sight.

She reaches in and hauls him out.

‘Ow. You're hurting me.' He tries to pull his arms free where she is holding them. She grips harder, her fingers leaving angry red marks in the crook of his elbows.

‘I'll hurt you more if you don't behave.' Where had that threat come from – and that choice of a language? The answer is automatic: she hears her mother uttering it. She kneels down, pulling him with her and turns him over, as if to slap the back of his legs.

‘Muuuuuuu-meee.'

As she raises her hand, it is as if she were observing herself. Where is calm, kind Miss Taylor, as she was known at St Matthew's? The whole situation seems so ludicrous, so unlike her, that she stops instantly.

She doesn't know what to do with her hand, and finds herself drawing Alfie up into her arms and clinging to him.

‘Little Alf, I'm so sorry,' she whispers, confounding him with this sudden change in behaviour. They sit, her hugging him fiercely, stroking his hair and whispering reassurances; him mute, unable to read her mood swings. She is mortified. Why is she behaving like this? It is the closest she has ever got to smacking him.

She carries him back to the house, though he is too heavy for this now and, in normal circumstances, would be running. He holds on to her, dimly aware that this infantilisation is for her benefit.

As she staggers up the garden, she keeps up a steady stream of endearments but her kindness is tempered. She cannot resist the odd admonishment.

‘Mummy's sorry she was so angry, but you know you mustn't kick your football inside…'

Alfie whimpers softly.

‘Oh, but my boy, I am so very sorry.'

When they reach the kitchen she sees that she was interrupted before her choux pastry was properly formed and that her dough is lumpy. She needs to whisk in the eggs but she should have done so immediately.

‘I'm going to have to start again now!' The cry, irrational and childish, escapes before she can stop herself.

Alfie, incapable of reading his erratic mother, pulls away.

‘Oh, uuuurrrrrgh.' She bends down to hold him and tries to breathe more deeply. It isn't his fault. He's only three. She is overreacting. Her heart races. Calm down, she tells herself. Try to breathe deeply.

She glances at the clock. Ten past ten. Anxiety shoots through her as she contemplates just how much she has to achieve. What can she do with Alfie? She hates herself for fobbing him off on Ali or her mother; feels both guilty and inadequate for being unable to prepare for this competition while looking after him properly. Kathleen Eaden would have managed it, she thinks with a burst of resentment: her daughter Laura spent hours in the kitchen helping her mother bake. But Alfie can't help with these more complicated recipes. Or perhaps it's her fault: the outstanding teacher lacks necessary patience. Either way, she needs some help today.

‘Let's just let you watch some CBeebies and I'll contact Granny and see if she'll look after you.' She reaches for this option.

‘Not Granny, no.' Alfie looks anguished. ‘Want to stay with you, Mummy.'

‘Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not able to give you enough attention today, so I think you'll find it a bit boring. You like going to Granny's, don't you?'

She doesn't give him time to answer.

‘Of course you do. I'll give her a call now. I'm sure she'll love it.'

Beaming broadly, she leaves him in front of some animated vegetable puppets singing about the joys of compost, and dials her mother's number. Please say yes, she wills her as the number rings out. Please say yes. Don't make me feel terrible about this but, please, just help me.

‘Vicki?'

‘Mum. Are you OK? Good. Look, I'm ringing for a massive favour. You know the final's tomorrow – yes, yes, of the Search for the New Mrs Eaden – well, I desperately need to do lots of practice; yes, yes, I do; I know I do; I'm not being perfectionist, or not just being a perfectionist. I'm finding it impossible with Alfie here. So … you know what I'm going to ask, don't you? Please, Mum, could you take him? Please, I need some help here.'

There is a pause, so lengthy Vicki wonders if her mother is listening.

‘Mum?'

‘I'm just thinking, Victoria.' Her tone is tetchy. ‘Is there no one else available? What about his nursery?'

‘I tried but there aren't any spare spaces today. They're fully booked … No, they can't “just squeeze him in”, they need to maintain their staff/child ratios.'

‘And Ali?'

‘Well, Sam's at nursery today so I can't ask her to look after my child if she's free.'

‘Couldn't you?'

‘No, I couldn't … and I've asked her for too many favours recently.'

‘I'm sure she'd help you out, just this once.'

‘No, she wouldn't, Mum. And I can't ask her. But, even if I could, I don't think she'd do it for me.'

There is another pause.

‘Mum?'

‘Victoria … I'm thinking.'

Vicki waits, watching the second hand of the kitchen clock revolve a full seven seconds before her mother answers.

‘You do realise I had things arranged. I'm supposed to be doing a shift in Oxfam this afternoon, and I've got my book club this evening. You'd collect him by then, though, wouldn't you?' A note of panic enters her voice.

Vicki squirms with embarrassment.

‘It's just I've got to be in Buckinghamshire overnight, in case there are any hiccups. Greg was going to get back here for eight. But is there any chance you could hold on to him overnight? It would just mean I could spend as long as possible practising. You were going to look after him tomorrow, anyway.'