The Great Witches Baking Show

by Nancy Warren

  The blanket was more interesting. It was made of wool in greens and blues with a hint of red in a curious pattern. The police couldn’t trace where it might have been bought from, or the wool, and decided it must have been knitted by hand. It was exquisite work. I couldn’t imagine having the time, patience or skill to knit something so fine.

  There was no note in the box, no locket broken in half so I might one day find my birth mother, who’d have the other half. The only clue to where I came from was that blanket.

  I kept it draped casually over a chair in my little living room. Too small for a bed, it was a pretty throw and the only link I had with my birth family. Probably because I saw it every day and knew its pattern so intimately, I recognized it immediately when I saw it again.

  I saw my baby blanket one day when I was watching The Great British Baking Contest. They always filmed at Broomewode Hall, a Georgian manor house that wasn’t open to the public. Broomewode Hall was the seat of the Earl of Frome, Robert Champney and his family. The Champneys made money by letting their estate be used for the show and doing weddings, the way a lot of those old British aristocrats did to make ends meet. During one of the behind-the-scenes segments on the show, Lady Frome showed them around her home.

  As the camera panned around the great dining hall and Lady Frome described the paintings, I was instantly transfixed by a woman in an oil painting who seemed to be wearing my baby blanket! I saw now that, in fact, it was a shawl. But the pattern was the same. I was certain of it.

  And from that very moment, I began my quest to find out more about Broomewode Hall. Lord and Lady Frome guarded their privacy tenaciously, and it was impossible to get access to them and their family home. Besides, what would I say? “I think one of your ancestors once wore my baby blanket? The best way I could think of to spend time there was to qualify as a baker on The Great British Baking Contest.

  I’d done it. Against incredible odds, I’d been chosen as one of twelve bakers. It was one step toward finding out who I really was. All I had to do now was figure out how to get the rest of the way.

  Chapter 2

  It was a beautiful April day. Sunlight dappled across the pale green leaves and new shoots, while daffodils and tulips stood like royalty on top of a carpet of bluebells. It was the perfect weather for our first day of filming. The famous tents stretched across the green lawn in front of me. I was so nervous, I wanted to turn around, run back home and throw up. I hadn’t thought this through. People I knew and millions of strangers would watch me cooking on television. I was terrified of making a massive fool of myself. Maybe they wouldn’t even wait until the end of the first episode, but chuck me off the show after I failed to master some British baking delicacy I’d never heard of.

  My brain was so addled, I didn’t think I’d be able to tell the difference between a wooden spoon and a Bundt pan. Everything I’d ever known or thought I knew about baking slipped right out of my head. It was as though someone had taken my carefully collected file of recipes and turned it upside down over a trash can.

  I stole nervous glances at the other contestants gathered on the lawn for our pre-filming pep talk. None of them looked nearly as nervous as me. They looked like bakers. Professional. Confident. Experienced. Their brains filled with old and original family recipes, their arm muscles honed by years of beating egg whites by hand, fashioning marzipan animals and kneading their own bread—no doubt from the grain grown on their own farms and allotments.

  I was such a lightweight by comparison, I was bound to be the first one voted off the show. What had I been thinking? At least Gina had done my hair and makeup for the show earlier that morning and helped me choose my outfit for today. She’d styled my long, dark hair in loose curls and used powders and potions to make my hazel eyes stand out. I was wearing a purple cotton blouse over jeans. She said it would look good on camera and flatter my complexion. If I was going to embarrass myself on international TV, then at least I’d look my best while doing it.

  We were an assorted bunch—of different ages and backgrounds. A grandmotherly type smiled at me as though she could see how scared I was. I knew from the information package we’d been given that her name was Maggie Wheelan and she had five grandchildren. She must have been baking long before I was even born and so had decades more experience. Her glance passed on from me, as she no doubt dismissed me as competition.

  A male voice beside me said, “You look like you’re trying to remember how to turn an oven knob to the on position.”

  I laughed. “Right now I can’t even remember what an oven is.”

  The speaker was a bit older than me, probably in his early thirties, and wore a red shirt patterned with cars and trucks. His red hair was spiky, and his green eyes twinkled as though he wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

  I wasn’t fooled. Every one of us here had worked our butts off to make it this far. We were all hoping to be crowned Britain’s Best Baker.

  As though he’d followed my train of thought, he said, “I just hope I’m not the first one voted off.”

  “Me too. Anything but that.”

  He grinned at me. “Well, we can’t both be voted off first, so let’s be friends instead. Then, if one of us goes, the other can bang on to the TV cameras about what a great person we were, maybe squeeze out a crocodile tear or two.”

  I laughed. “Deal.”

  He held out his hand. “I’m Gerald Parterre, but everyone calls me Gerry.”

  “I’m Poppy Wilkinson.”

  We’d already been told a little about our fellow contestants. What I knew about Gerry was that he was a home renovation specialist who’d been baking since he was a child. When he finished a customer’s renovation, he always baked them a cake to celebrate. I thought he sounded nice and was thankful to find a friendly face.

  “You must be the youngest,” he said to me, then leaned in. “Also the prettiest.”

  “I’m twenty-five,” I told him and ignored the rest of his comment. I was the girl-next-door type and knew it. The prettiest woman on the show was undoubtedly Florence Cinelli. She was film-star gorgeous with a mane of reddish-brown hair, wide-set eyes and a generous mouth enhanced by flawless makeup. Her clothes could have been featured on a runway in Milan. She made me feel that five minutes in the morning with toothbrush, hairbrush and washcloth wasn’t enough of a beauty routine. I was too intimidated to do more than just nod in her direction. How did she keep her red nails so pristine while baking? She wore a cherry-red dress that showed off gorgeous legs and high heels. How was she going to bake in heels?

  Maggie, the grandmother, began going around and introducing herself to everyone, and we all followed her lead. I could barely remember my own name, but I tried to concentrate as I shook hands with Gaurav, a research scientist who’d just returned from visiting his family in India and found the weather chilly. I told him he’d soon warm up when the ovens were going.

  Evie was a bit older, fiftyish, I supposed. She was an administrator for the NHS and told me she liked to bring in spices from Jamaica, where she’d been born.

  Hamish MacDonald was a Scottish police officer. He looked tough and no-nonsense and then melted my heart when he admitted his specialty was his granny’s shortbread recipe. He lived near Fort William and raised Shetland ponies.

  There wasn’t time for more. Donald Friesen, the series producer, approached, and with him were the big stars of the show, Elspeth Peach and Jonathon Pine. I got such a thrill seeing the two star bakers. As you do with celebrities, I felt as though I knew them. Then Elspeth turned her gaze to me and smiled as though she knew me, too. She gave a tiny nod, and I felt a shiver run down my back.

  “Attention, everyone, please.” Donald Friesen was intense and energetic. I knew from Gina that he’d just turned forty and was an ambitious company man. Being series producer to the baking contest was his life. He had short black hair and wore a snappy teal suit and shiny black loafers. He reminded us to be ourselves, forget all about the came
ras that would follow us around, and act naturally. Yeah, right, like it was going to be that easy. “It’s meant to be fun!” he said. “So focus only on your workstation and whatever you’re baking.”

  Although this was a competition, they didn’t want us to appear to be competitive. It reminded me a little bit of a yoga teacher who had once said yoga was all about you and your mat. As though people weren’t peeking at the other yogis, seeing who could stretch further, hold the pose longer or who looked better in their skintight yoga gear. If people were competitive at yoga class, I couldn’t imagine how bad it would get on a televised contest.

  “Oh, and don’t forget that all of you will be mic’d,” he continued. “So you might want to remember to take it off when you go to the bathroom and try not to say things you wouldn’t want the sound guy to overhear.” There was nervous laughter from all of us. Donald smiled, and I saw for the first time how his pale skin was pockmarked around his chin and mouth.

  The tent where we’d be filming was a vast expanse of crisp white calico erected across the gorgeous green lawns of the estate. Its floor was laid with long planks of polished pine, where I hoped I wouldn’t drop my cake with nervousness. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to step into that tent knowing that more than a million people will end up watching you baking under pressure while trying to keep your cool, remember your recipe, look like you know what you’re doing, and pretend you aren’t terrified that you’re going to be the next one sent home. Let’s just say that my stomach was in knots and my hands were clammy with sweat.

  Donald called over the hosts and judges and introduced them. There was a shiver of excitement as Elspeth Peach and Jonathon Pine came forward to meet us all. They were huge celebrities, and they’d be deciding who stayed and who went in the weeks ahead. Up close, Elspeth Peach seemed as perfectly put-together and as genuinely nice as she did on TV. “It’s so wonderful to see someone so young who is so accomplished at baking,” she said to me. I thanked her and said, “I hope I hold up under pressure.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she said. Then she held out her hand. As I shook it, a feeling like an electric shock went up my arm. She’d been about to move on, but she turned back and stared at me, still hanging on to my hand, which felt hot. “Are you a…?” Then she shook her head and laughed. “No. Of course, you’re not.” She finally let go of my hand and spoke to Gerry.

  That was strange. I wondered how that sentence would have ended. But I had no time to think about the bizarre interlude as I realized that one of the two comedian hosts was reminding me that I was American. They were called Jilly and Arty, perfect comedians’ names. No doubt they’d use that as the basis of little jokes as the show progressed. I’d better get used to it.

  Jilly had been in a hit comedy show a decade or so ago. She had a mass of red curls and square blue glasses, but behind the lenses, her eyes looked sad.

  I knew, again from Gina, that Donald had recruited Arty, as he was so popular with the younger demographic. He’d begun in stand-up and had co-written and starred in a quirky TV comedy that became a hit. He had long blond hair, big blue eyes and, Gina said, was famous for flirting with everyone.

  My workstation was on the left-hand side about halfway down. I walked up to it feeling as though it were the first day of school. Blood was pounding in my ears. I was finding it hard to swallow. The counter was pristine, my supplies neatly labeled and arranged, pencils sharpened and waiting to be used. Everything was yet to come. I just hoped that I could take the pressure.

  A man I hadn’t seen before walked toward me. “Name’s Gordon,” he said. “I’m your sound guy.”

  I nodded a nervous hello. He tested my mic and twiddled with some wires. “Nice to meet you,” I finally managed. “I guess you’re the one who’ll overhear me say embarrassing things. I’ll try my best to keep it together.” Gordon was a pleasant-looking guy. Somewhere in his thirties, he had a nice face, brownish-blond hair, blue eyes and a close-cropped beard.

  “How you feeling?”

  “Well, I can barely string a sentence together, let alone a cake.”

  “You’ll be fine. The camera loves a pretty face. You’ve nothing to worry about.” Now that he’d finished adjusting the mic, he patted my arm and moved on. Gina was running around doing final touches to makeup and hair. As Gordon walked away, she said, “Ooh, I think Gordon likes you. Look how long he spent talking to you.”

  I put my hand over my mic. Already there were things I didn’t want Gordon to hear, and I’d only been mic’d up for five seconds. “Stop it. I’m not a man-magnet.”

  “Well, not usually,” Gina agreed. “But I’ve just done your hair and makeup. And I, Pops,” she said, leaning in, “am an artist.”

  “The real man magnet is Florence Cinella,” I said, motioning with my head to where the gorgeous Florence was currently surrounded by Arty the comedian; Donald Friesen, the series producer; Gerry, who’d promised to be my friend; Gaurav; and Hamish.

  “True. I’d offer to touch up her makeup, but it would be like taking a crayon to the Mona Lisa.”

  “You’re so good for my confidence.”

  Gina laughed. “You’ll be fine. Keep your cool and don’t panic. After the first challenge, it will get easier.”

  The director, a woman named Fiona, marshaled everyone to their places, and the moment we’d all hoped for arrived.

  The four hosts lined up at the front of the tent. As anyone who’s watched one of these programs knows, there are always two comic relief characters and then two master bakers. Elspeth Peach was well into her seventies and an absolute legend. She was known to be kind but thorough. Jonathon Pine was going to be the tough guy of the two. We’d been warned he could smash a contestant down like an undercooked soufflé with only a word or two.

  We’d already been given the first challenge ahead of time so that we could order our ingredients and have a chance to practice. Still, there’s no pressure like trying to cook something with an oven you’re not familiar with and mixers and pans and tools that are not your own. As any cook will tell you, equipment and utensils all have their own unique personalities. Some need a little bit of extra love and encouragement to work the way you want them to; others are stubborn, and you need to adjust to their set speed or temperature. It takes time and patience to get to know your tools. And here we were, presented with brand-new equipment. I imagined if I lasted long enough, they would become like old friends, but at the moment, we’d barely even been introduced, and I certainly didn’t trust them to do my bidding. And yet, I had no choice. I’d have to put my faith in them.

  I stood by my station, trying to control my shaking hands, and took a little peek at the eleven other contestants. We were a good mixed bunch of ages and backgrounds, and I knew from the contestant pack that we did a wide range of jobs too. I’d get to know them all—if I made it through the day, that is.

  Jonathon Pine stepped forward. “Bakers, your first challenge will be a technical one. We want to see a perfectly airy sponge cake, and we want it to be something that could feature in a fairy tale or children’s story. We’re looking for interesting flavors and some artistic imagination. You have two hours. Your time starts now.”

  Naturally, I’d run to my best friend, Gina, when I first discovered what this challenge was going to be in hopes of learning from her stylist’s artistic eye. She wanted me to do Sleeping Beauty, but that seemed too obvious. Besides, I wanted to make use of my American heritage. “Pocahontas?” she suggested doubtfully. I shook my head. We discussed ideas for ages, but it was my father, on the phone from Nice, who suggested Persephone.

  My dad loved the mythical legends of Ancient Greece and Rome, and the story of Persephone was one of his favorites. Persephone was a beautiful young woman, the daughter of loving Demeter, the goddess of earth’s fertility and harvest, and Zeus, the king of all the Olympians. Persephone lived a happy, fruitful life when Hades, the god of the underworld, captured her and took her to Hell to be his wife.
Her mother searched everywhere for her daughter and was so upset to have lost her that she turned the earth to winter. The gods forced Hades to bring Persephone back to the earth. If she hadn’t eaten anything when imprisoned, she’d be allowed to return to her mother, but Persephone had eaten a few juicy pomegranate seeds, and so the gods judged that she could only return to her mother and live above ground for half the year and spend the remaining half with Hades.

  I thought this was a perfect story for a cake. It was a good talking point and allowed me to create summer on one side of the cake and winter on the other. Pomegranate would make for a gorgeous pink sponge. I just hoped I’d get the balance of bitterness and sweetness just right. And that I’d been inventive enough.

  I began weighing out my ingredients, keeping my eye glued to the electric scales. Even a few ounces over or under could make all the difference. I was determined not to make any silly mistakes. It’s bad enough trying to make a cake under that kind of pressure, but to add a sprinkling of extra torture, the judges and comedians wandered around and joked with the contestants. This was a big part of what made the show fun as a viewer and absolutely terrifying as a contestant. Jonathon and Elspeth were heading my way, with Jilly in tow. The camera edged closer. I sifted my flour with renewed vigor.

  “I understand you’re going to flavor your filling with pomegranate,” Jonathon said. Was he frowning? Had I been too clever? No doubt I had. Still, Maggie had chosen Sleeping Beauty, so at least I was original.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I was inspired by the myth of Persephone, who was kidnapped by Hades.” I explained the story, trying to remember what I’d practiced in my head and keep my voice from shaking.

  “Goodness me!” exclaimed Jilly. “That’s like the worst diet ever, being sent to hell for snacking on a few pomegranate seeds.”