The Art of Baking Blind (6 page)

It is also not what mummies with only one child do. If she had a car full of children, and a job to get to, it would be more understandable. But she has just one child, as the dull ache of her monthly period reminds her; one child on which to lavish all her time and attention. As things stand, her behaviour is just not acceptable.

All the same, she excuses herself somewhat petulantly, as her Freelander slips its way into the stream of traffic, she does not have it completely easy. This morning, for instance, she could have done with some help from Greg, but where is he? Just like every morning, he was out of the house by a quarter past six. True, as a commercial lawyer he likes to be at his desk by seven fifteen at the latest, and it's his willingness to do this that allows her the luxury of being at home with Alfie. But, even so, she would love it if he could sometimes be around.

He is barely aware of what she is doing today. Of course, he knows she is in the first round of a cookery competition run by the supermarket where they shop, but she is sure he wasn't listening properly when she reminded him of the details last night; nor when she paraded various outfits in front of him, his eyelids sinking before he excused himself and, with an apologetic smile, fell into bed. She suspects that he thinks she will be knocked out at this stage – an idea she has gently nurtured despite there being no elimination element to the competition. At least she hopes this is the reason he shows so little interest. His only concern is that Alfie, and the apparently effortless efficiency with which she runs their home life, will not be disrupted.

‘But what happens if you get past this cake round?' he had queried when she had heard back from Eaden's last week. ‘Who's going to look after little Alf?' Panic had suffused his even features. ‘I can't help with childcare.'

‘Oh, I'm certain it won't come to that,' she had reassured him. ‘And if it does, I'm sure Mum or Ali will step in. You won't be affected at all.'

Oh, yeah, she thinks, as she nips across the traffic and into the side street that leads to Ali's. If I get through this round there'll be competition rounds every other weekend, and her mother, with various weekends away, her volunteering commitments and an Easter holiday booked, might not be up for looking after her feisty grandson after all.

You might just have to do some parenting, she thinks, as she spies a tight parking space and parallel parks with the cool efficiency of a Londoner. The tank eases its way in expertly. She is somewhat surprised. Perhaps it's a good omen.

‘Come on then, boyo,' she says, catching her son's eye in the mirror. His face is pale, his large eyes tremulous. His bottom lip quivers as he steels himself to cry.

A ripple of weariness rolls over her. Perhaps she should cut straight to the bribery. She twists to face him. ‘If you let Mummy go off and do her baking, and if you play nicely with Sam, I'll buy you a Lego helicopter.'

 

 

Kathleen

Well, it isn't a gingerbread house.

When George said he had bought her a house in the country her first, irrational thought had been that it would be a gatekeeper's cottage: something turn-of-the-century, with gables, and scalloped cornicing and rich red bricks looking like gingerbread and softened with age.

It hadn't occurred to her that he would buy something so huge and – though she would not dream of saying this – so pretentious. And yet, if she'd thought about it, it was precisely the sort of monstrosity a grocer's son would buy if he were trying to flaunt his recently acquired wealth and impress a judge's daughter. She had sighed. She loves him because of his background – not despite it. So why does he feel this continual need to prove himself?

‘You do like it, don't you, my dear?' George, ever anxious to please, had put his arm around her as they stood in the grounds of Bradley Hall, the Gothic mansion he was showing her for the first time, and which he had bought for her birthday. A bead of perspiration pricked his brow.

‘Of course, my darling.' She had kissed him on the cheek, and reminded herself that he hadn't meant to be vulgar. He had only done this because he adored her. ‘What a clever surprise!'

‘I thought you would love it, you see,' he had continued, as they had walked up the gravel drive towards some horrifying griffins. He paused, newly nervous. ‘There's so much space. I could imagine you having the most fantastic study. Look.' He gestured to a bay-windowed room on the first floor. ‘It has wonderful views. A room with a view. That's what you said you needed, didn't you? Or was it a room of your own?'

He had flushed; and she had felt a rush of love for a man who had actually listened as she'd talked about Virginia Woolf, and who had read a novel by E.M. Forster, not so much for his own benefit – though he was frank about wanting to better himself – but because he knew it would please her.

‘A room with a view would be just perfect.' She smiled.

‘If we want to publish
The Art of Baking
early next summer, you need to crack on with it rather.' George the businessman suddenly surfaced: more earnest than her and – though he would never put it like this – more aware of her growing value as part of his brand.

‘I've finished cakes.'

‘You can't write a book just about cakes.'

‘No … But I've made a start on biscuits … Then it's bread; pies and pastries; puddings and, perhaps – though I've not decided – a final section on high teas.'

‘Sounds like we need to install you in that room.'

‘Yes … or the kitchen.'

‘Yes,' he had said with a smile. ‘That sounds more logical. We need to get you beavering away in that kitchen.'

They had walked on in companionable silence, Kathleen suddenly excited at the thought of a country-house kitchen with its vast ovens and yards-long tables on which she could roll out complex pastries and lay out tray after tray of biscuits.
The Art of Baking
could be written here – not in some grandiose study or secret garret, squirrelled away under the eaves, but in the heart of her home. The words would flow as the pastry puffed up and dough rose; sections forming in the time it took for a batter to transform into a sponge in the oven. Sentences sometimes stall in her drawing room, as if she needs the scent of melted butter, eggs and sugar to work.

‘I also thought' – George's voice had cut through her thoughts and he had flushed more deeply – ‘that this was just the sort of place to bring up children. I could imagine it filled with our little ones.'

The magenta had tinged his hairline and burnished his ears.

Her throat tightened, and she had smiled and patted his arm; given a laugh that – surely, even to him – must have tinkled with insincerity? How to tell him what he must suspect? That the heir he craved – the Son in his Eaden and Son – seemed to have no intention of materialising any time soon.

‘Oh, we've plenty of time for that, darling.' She had leaned up towards him and planted a kiss on his lips, her own slightly open. I want it too, George, she had wanted to tell him. You know how important family is to me; you must know I so want it. But I can't seem to find the words.

Instead, she had sought to placate him, uttering a line that wasn't an untruth, she reasoned. It just didn't come close to the truth.

‘I don't think we're in any rush, are we? There's plenty of time for babies. Let's just spend a little longer enjoying being the two of us.'

7

When presenting your cake or tart, do take care. A mismanaged flip of the wrist, a moment of distraction, can cause your sponge to crumble or, worse, tumble to the floor. You have taken time to create your cake or pudding so take time over its presentation. Substance and style are required.

‘Oh. My. God.' Claire Trelawney cannot help her reaction as she sweeps up the gravel drive to Bradley Hall, the former home of George and Kathleen Eaden, and the setting for the Search for the New Mrs Eaden competition.

‘Not bad, is it?' The cab driver glances at her in his rearview mirror, taking in her wide eyes, the neat mouth hanging open. She looks gobsmacked.

‘Bloody hell. Did they really live here – and am I going to stay here?' She laughs with incredulity, a bubble of excitement bursting as it wriggles through the nerves knotting her stomach. She cranes forward, peering up at the sandstone Gothic revivalist mansion, taking in its turrets and ornate arcading, its excessively high windows glinting in the rare February sun.

‘You part of the competition then?' The cabbie, who has picked her up from Reading station, slows his pace to let her take in its full splendour. The cab crawls along the gravel so that she can see the croquet lawn on which a stray pheasant struts.

‘Yes. Yes, I am.' Claire – who has been silent through nerves since getting into the cab – laughs at the sheer unlikeliness of the situation. The idea still seems ridiculous.

‘Not used to this sort of luxury, then?' he jokes.

She gives a rueful smile. ‘No, I'm not.'

She takes in gargoyles leering from the roof, and, as the cab growls to a halt, the stone lions flanking the entrance.

‘Nor me, love.' He laughs. ‘Well – enjoy it! A mate of mine's working on the restoration and it's meant to be like a boutique hotel.'

‘Right…'

Claire does not even try to imply she knows what the interior of a boutique hotel is like, nor does she mean to give him much attention. She is too busy gazing at the arched windows – like the windows of castles in Chloe's old fairytale books.

‘Mind you, it was in a complete state when they started: roof falling in; dry rot; terrible electrics. Just goes to show things aren't always as good on the inside as they look on the outside.'

‘Uh-huh.'

She is barely listening.

‘As so often in these cases, it can be a question of all style and no substance.'

He kills the engine, takes the keys from the ignition and turns to face her properly.

‘I shouldn't really say this but their plumbing was up the creek. Shit everywhere, if you'll pardon my French.'

He gives her a wink, like some sort of all-knowing local.

‘Just you remember that.'

*   *   *

Am I really in the right place? thinks Claire as she pushes open a solid oak door and is confronted with Bradley Hall's faded beauty. Entering the impressive hall, she finds no one to greet her and little to suggest this is anything other than an ornately furnished country-house hotel. She pads over the parquet flooring, her trainers making no noise, and peers up the mahogany staircase into a forest of William Morris rose briars.

‘Hel-lo?' Her call is tentative.

She repeats it, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Her voice, soft with its Devonian burr, barely resonates.

Still no answer.

She drops her overnight bag and fumbles in the pocket of her jeans for her mobile and a print-out on which there is a number. Her stomach grips even tighter as the phone rings.

‘Hello?' The voice on the other end is efficient, confident, well-spoken.

‘Ummm. It's Claire Trelawney … I've arrived for the baking competition but I'm not sure I'm in the right place?'

She hates herself for squirming. She looks down at her legs, one crossed over the other. No wonder she feels off balance as well as out of place.

‘Claaaire.' Warmth floods down the phone and into her ear. ‘Fantastic. We've been waiting for you. I'm Cora. Where are you? In the entrance hall?
So
sorry. We're in the kitchen. There should be a sign? Can you see it?'

A piece of A4 paper with ‘The Search for the New Mrs Eaden competition THIS WAY' and a large black arrow is taped to a light switch.

‘Oh, sorry. Yes.'

‘Fantastic. Well, you just follow that and you should be with us in a minute.'

‘OK.' Her relief is so extreme she sounds joyful. But Cora has already gone.

Glancing at the sign, she feels a tiny rush of reassurance, the blackness of the pen, and the confident hand in which it is written, making the situation seem more real. The notice may be temporary but it is Sellotaped firmly. Someone has taken no chances that it will flutter from the entrance, be trodden on and crumpled. It is tangible: the stuff of everyday not of dreams.

Claire has found it hard to keep her usual firm grip on reality for the past four days. Everything has happened so quickly. On Thursday, her mum had rung her at work, itself a rare occurrence, and asked, in a voice tight with nervousness, if she could meet her to pick up Chloe.

‘Everything OK?' Claire's throat had constricted though she kept her tone light.

‘Fine, my lover. Wonderful.' The reassurance had rushed from her. Then: ‘I've got some great news.'

She had lied to her manager; said school had rung asking her to pick up Chloe immediately; fled the fluorescent oppressiveness of the store and hared to her parents' former council flat, her battered Ford nudging forty in her desire to be there fast.

When she arrived, Angela's face glowed with excitement, a beam breaking out across her broad features.

‘But what's the matter?'

Fear had tumbled from her.

‘Nothing. I told you. I've some fantastic news for you. But I'm worried you're not going to like it.' Her mother had paused. ‘I've been meddling – but it's for your own good.'

Bill, her dad, had been grinning too. ‘Spit it out, love,' he'd told his wife, rocking back on his heels in anticipation and then, uncharacteristically, coming forward to hug his youngest daughter.

Their behaviour was making her increasingly nervous.

‘For God's sake, Mum. You haven't tried to contact Jay, have you?'

Incomprehension flooded her mother's face at the reference to Chloe's absent father, who she had repeatedly tried to get to show an interest in his daughter.