The Great Witches Baking Show

by Nancy Warren

  Everyone laughed, and I tried to join in, but inside I was a wreck. I was working hard to present the world of winter moving into a world rich with spring and summer in a sponge cake. In. A. Sponge. Cake.

  I began to crack my eggs, but my hands were slippery with sweat. Almost in slow motion, I felt one egg slide from my grip. Oh no, I was about to drop an egg in front of the judges and on national TV. But just as I watched it tumble to the ground, Elspeth leaned forward and caught it.

  “Gotcha!” she exclaimed and calmly handed me back the egg.

  “Thank you,” I managed to stutter.

  “Phew, that was close,” Jonathon said and laughed, but where the camera couldn’t see, he glared at his co-host. “Lucky for you, Elspeth has lightning reflexes.”

  Elspeth looked stricken as though she’d done something wrong. Maybe they weren’t supposed to help us poor contestants even to stop an egg from smashing to the ground. I wiped my hands on my apron. I needed to get a grip. Literally.

  “Yes, you wouldn’t know it, but Elspeth is a black belt in Judo,” Jilly joked.

  The two judges moved on, but I sensed that Jilly remained behind. Don’t look at the camera, I reminded myself. I knew I was blushing hard. I had the mixer going, and I was adding sugar into the eggs as they were beating. “It’s quite a process, isn’t it?” Jilly said. “A lot of people reckon sponge is easy, but it’s much more complicated than they think.” Arty joined us, and I worried that he’d start making fun of me. Of the two comedians, his tongue was sharpest.

  “Yes,” I said. “The secret to sponge is incorporating enough air to give a lightness to the texture, which you do by beating the eggs. But then you have to be careful not to overcook it or undercook it, or you’ll ruin all your good work by making it either too dry or too heavy.” As I heard the words echo in my head, I cringed. Who did I think I was? Telling anyone how to make a sponge. But we were encouraged to do that kind of thing, to throw out little hints for the home cook. Presumably, if my sponge turned out to be a complete disaster, the viewers wouldn’t listen to my tips anyway.

  “Not too dry, not too wet, not too heavy. Sounds like me ordering a martini,” Arty said to the camera.

  Jilly smiled at me before leaving with Arty to speak to my neighbor baker, Florence Cinelli, the film-star gorgeous one. Jonathon certainly seemed to enjoy her company. “And you’re a drama student?” he asked, as though it was her schooling that interested him.

  “Yes. In London. I love cooking for my flatmates.” She looked so glamorous and in control as she beamed at Jilly. I heard her talking about her antics as a film student and laughing a rich, warm laugh. She was an excellent storyteller, and I was sure the viewers at home would find her charming. I stole another quick peek at the other contestants. They all seemed perfectly calm and collected, like they knew exactly what they were doing. Gerry caught my eye and smiled. I rolled my eyes. I had to focus on the monumental and overcomplicated task I’d set for myself. Sweat prickled the back of my neck under my hair. I knew I had to work faster.

  Then I heard a cry of distress and turned to see Evie dumping her batter into the garbage. Naturally, the camera was taking it all in for the home viewer. She wailed, “I forgot the bloody sugar. I put the batter in the tins and then I turned around and saw the sugar sitting there. I’ll have to start all over again.”

  The cameras edged closer to Evie. The production manager said, “Sorry, lovely, can you just repeat that last line for the viewers but take the swear word out of it?”

  She grimaced.

  Okay, so I wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure. I felt sorry for Evie, as I knew the viewers loved to see this kind of silly mistake. But I was also so glad it wasn’t me who’d forgotten the sugar. Not yet, anyway. Evie looked as though she might cry, and Maggie, the grandmotherly one, leaned over and said to her, “You’ve still got plenty of time. Take a deep breath and begin again.” She was so nice.

  The next hour passed in a blur, all my concentration poured into remembering each ingredient, each step of the recipe. I tried to ignore the cameras as they zoomed in on me as I placed the mixture into the oven. It was a rule. We had to have a camera filming every time we put anything into the oven or took it out. Once the door was shut on my cake, I stood for a moment, watching my tins, wishing them well. I had to laugh at myself, but I always wished my baking well.

  Finally, the huge sponges I’d labored over were ready to come out of the oven. They were golden brown. Perfect. I heaved a sigh of relief. I took the marzipan I’d made earlier out of the fridge and began to roll it out. I’d practiced manipulating its soft texture into brown trees and dry grass for the autumn side of my cake, and using food coloring to turn it into green, pink, and purple blossoms for spring. I knew I didn’t have time to fashion individual flowers, so I was going for sort of an Impressionist style. I hoped the judges would understand and not think I’d just made a mess of it.

  When Arty called out, “Five minutes, bakers,” I wanted to scream with fear and frustration. How could there only be five minutes left? I’d made just one tiny rose when I’d planned to make six. Well, there was nothing I could do about it now. I spread the thick pomegranate buttercream across the golden sponge, taking care to keep the sides neat and tidy, and assembled the marzipan trees and single flower across its peaks.

  The clanger went off, signaling the end of the first round. I realized I’d been holding my breath. I stood back from the table and surveyed my work. Not bad, I thought. Not bad. My cake wasn’t perfect, but I knew it was passable. Now I had a moment to see what the others had done. Every single contestant looked worried. But when I took a closer look at Gerry, he was absolutely gray. I followed his gaze to his cake and soon understood why: the middle had all but collapsed. He looked up and caught my eye. “It’s not bloody cooked in the middle!” he exclaimed. But it was time to take our cakes to the front table to be judged. I gripped mine like I was holding a newborn baby, terrified in case it fell from my sweaty clutches. I’d seen that happen before.

  We watched as Elspeth and Jonathon each took a forkful of the sponges. It was excruciating. I knew they were making comments about the texture and presentation, but I couldn’t focus on the words. When they got to my cake, I heard buzzing in my ears. One day, I’d tune into the program and find out what they’d said. I eventually tuned back in and heard the judges saying my cake was airy and light with just the right amount of sweet bitterness from the pomegranate buttercream. I breathed out a huge sigh of relief. They didn’t hate it.

  They had plenty of brilliant things to say about the crumbly softness of some of the other contestants’ sponges and a few sharp words of criticism too. Elspeth seemed really sorry when she shook her head over Gaurav’s sponge. “Overbaked. I’m afraid it’s rather dry.” She turned to Jonathon, who agreed. “Yes. Definitely dry. I’m afraid you’ve overbaked your sponge. Decorations were good, though. I liked the reggae band. A Day of the Dead theme was a good choice.”

  Two contestants who seemed to have made an unlikely alliance, retired beekeeper Euan and hairdresser Priscilla, were both almost gripping onto each other as they were being judged. “Very nice texture,” Jonathon said of the beekeeper.

  “Perfectly pleasant,” said Elspeth of Priscilla’s cake.

  The police officer named Hamish, who’d told the cameras he baked to deal with the stress of his job, received high praise from Jonathon, but Elspeth was a little less forthcoming. But thankfully the judging was soon over. To my huge relief, my cake came fourth, which I was pretty pleased about. I didn’t expect to even come close to the top five so early on in the show.

  The sweet grandmother, Maggie, who’d smiled at me earlier, took first place. She’d made some beautiful sugar flowers for her sponge; I was in awe. Maggie beamed as she was told she’d won, moving her gold-rimmed glasses from their chain around her neck onto her nose as if she couldn’t believe the news. She seemed like such a lovely lady. Gerry’s was the second from last.
Fortunately for him, Evie never recovered from the sugar disaster. She came in at the bottom.

  We barely had time to recuperate from that ordeal before we were told to tidy up everything up before lunch, after which the day’s final challenge would be set.

  While we tidied and prepared for the next round, Gerry was inspecting his oven. I walked over. “Never mind,” I said. “We’re all still getting to know our equipment. You’ll do better this afternoon. At least you weren’t last!”

  He looked up, red-faced and fuming. “My oven’s no good. I’m telling you, I set it to the correct temperature. I’ve made that sponge hundreds of times. There’s something wrong with my oven. And I’m going to do something about it.”

  Gerry called over the show’s electrician, Aaron Keel. He was a tough-looking guy with a shaved head and an anchor tattoo on his beefy arm. He took out a flashlight, looked into the oven’s depths and began to tinker about in there. “I can’t find anything wrong,” he said to Gerry. “It’s working perfectly.”

  “That can’t be true!”

  “Listen, mate, we test the ovens every morning. Did you notice that lovely smell as you walked in today? The crew bakes a Victoria Sponge every morning in every oven to make sure they are working perfectly.”

  “There’s nothing worse than a poor loser,” said a man walking by. He was another contestant, Marcus Hoare. I’d chatted with Marcus when all the contestants were first introduced. He was a banker from London, and I didn’t warm to him at all. His crisp white shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, collar stiff with starch. His short blond hair was combed back into a single glossy wave with Brylcreem. He had a serious face and a long nose, on top of which small, round black glasses sat. In short, he was pompous and uptight, and this came across in the ordered decoration of his cake, its neat sections and surgical precision.

  “That was so mean,” I said as Marcus walked away.

  Gerry stared after him, first in surprise, then with growing awareness. “I know him.”

  “You do?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a contractor. I’m in and out of a lot of houses. I renovated his kitchen.” He sent me a cheeky glance. “Marcus Hoare has a beautiful wife.”

  Something about his tone made my eyes widen. “Gerry. What are you saying?”

  He chuckled. “Well, I’m not saying that I had an affair with the lovely Mrs. Hoare. But if I did, I might have billed Marcus Hoare for the hours I spent with her, too.”

  Chapter 3

  We were supposed to have a whole lunch hour to eat and recoup our nerves for the next round, but Gina had warned me the reality was snatching twenty minutes to scoff a sandwich and tea. The lunch buffet was pretty impressive, though: rows of freshly made sandwiches, an array of flaky pastries and muffins bursting with blueberries. We also got to try the other contestants’ cakes, though the crew were quick to get their forks in too. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I knew I had to keep my strength up, so I loaded a paper plate and poured myself a reviving cup of hot, milky tea. I’d barely taken a bite when Gordon came up to me and asked to take off my mic.

  “I was watching you in the first round,” he said. “Pomegranate was a bold move, but you really pulled it off.”

  “Oh, thank you. I can’t tell you how nervous I was.”

  “You shouldn’t be. The camera loves you, that’s for sure. I know everyone at home will be rooting for you. You’re very likable.”

  I blushed. “It’s hard not to feel like a wooden puppet when you’re talking to the judges and the camera’s on you. It took all my strength to just keep stirring.”

  He pointed to my mic pack. “Remember that these are always on—some people are already giving away more about themselves than they should.”

  He gave me a knowing wink and strode off. Some of the contestants had already returned to their workstations to try and work out recipes or rearrange their ingredients. Others went off to have a cigarette break or just to sit and chat. I knew that I should try and mingle a bit and make some friends, but I had a plan of my own and tried to scuttle away without being seen.

  I’d barely made my way toward the bridge that crossed the stream and led to the main grounds of the manor house when Gerry called my name. “Poppy? Hold on.”

  I liked Gerry, but right now, I wanted to slip away unseen. Him bellowing out my name was not helping. I gritted my teeth and tried to look pleasant as he came up to me.

  “I thought you might want to practice your modest but delighted expression on me in case you win best baker today. Frankly, I think you’ve been far too modest. Your cake was brilliant. Traditional but with that lovely surprise twist.”

  “Oh,” I said, flattered. ‘That’s very kind of you to say.” I smiled and tried to think how I could still slip away. But Gerry was my strongest ally, and I liked him. “What are they going to do about your oven?” I asked.

  He made a face. “Nothing. The electrician tested it, said it was fine and that it was my cake that was the problem. The cheek of it.”

  I tried to make him feel better by reminding him that we still had two more challenges to show off our skills before the first episode was over.

  He nodded. “One thing we can say for certain is that Evie’s in trouble.”

  “Don’t count your soufflé before it’s risen,” I said. “She could still outshine us this afternoon.”

  “I know. I know. But the poor woman was in tears. If that dear grandmother hadn’t taken her in hand, I think she’d have done a runner.”

  “I agree. That’s a tough blow to come back from. Still, I’m sure you’ve watched as many past episodes as I have, and you know it’s never over until the judges make the final decisions.”

  I shuddered. Even just thinking about the public way that we amateur bakers were about to be judged made me feel sick to my stomach. At the end of every episode, one poor soul would be sent home. Honestly, I didn’t even mind if it was me, but not on the first one. Not before I’d even had a peek at Broomewode Hall. I had bigger fish to fry than baking.

  Knowing I needed to get away alone, I looked down and was almost blinded by Gerry’s beautiful pure white sneakers. Bingo. “I’m going for a walk in those woods there,” I said. “I need to get some air and clear my head. You’re welcome to come with me?”

  He looked dubiously toward the path leading into the woods. “What do you want to go in there for? It’ll be full of dirt and mud.”

  “I know. But it will be private, and the cameras won’t follow me.”

  He looked down at his clean white shoes. “Darling, in these shoes, neither will I. Bought them specially for the show.”

  Phew. Exactly what I’d counted on. “Okay then. I’ll see you later.”

  He grinned at me and turned back toward the tent. I felt a little guilty that I’d been less than truthful, but for what I had to do, Gerry would only be in the way.

  Anxious to get going before anyone or anything else held me up, I strode purposefully toward the woods. The track was soft underfoot, and once I’d entered the wood, it felt shady and cool. The ground was covered with a bright carpet of bluebells, their dewy green scent filling my nose. I breathed deeply. I felt completely cut off from the bright lights and the madness of the filming crew. Before today, I’d no idea how many people it took to make a simple television show. I still didn’t know what half of them did. They all seemed to be so busy and so stressed, running around doing jobs I really didn’t understand. Here, it was quiet, and I realized that I hadn’t lied. I did need to get away and take a minute. Once I was out of sight, I slowed my pace but not too much. I wanted to get a glimpse of Broomewode Hall. I guess if anyone was watching, it might look like I was a burglar casing the joint. But I didn’t want to steal anything. All I wanted was to find someone, anyone, who might have information about my birth parents.

  I set off in the direction of the big house so that I could quickly walk the perimeter of the manor and get a sense of the place. If I found the
kitchen door, I thought I might knock on it another day when I had more time. My baking this afternoon would have to be spectacular so I’d make sure and have time to return. So no pressure then.

  I was going so quickly, I actually burst out of the woods onto the manicured lawn with the most stunning view of Broomewode Hall. It really was a glorious manor house, its golden stone glowing in the morning light and the lead-paned windows reflecting the blue vista. As I was admiring the view, a man, or one who had been a man, strode around the corner. He stopped when he saw me. For a few seconds, we stood in silence, looking warily at each other. I was no expert on historical clothing, but he must have been an aristocrat. His outfit was elaborate, shiny black shoes with gold buckles, black breeches and a red cape lined with a thick layer of fur. His head was bare, but a sword hung at his side.

  “And who are you?” he said, in a curt, imperious tone as though he were used to commanding people.

  I felt a stirring of pity as I always did when I met spirits who seemed doomed to walk the earth. From his costume, I imagined he’d been alive several hundred years ago, and the sumptuous fabric of his attire probably meant that he’d been rich, important and probably titled. How difficult it must be now to have no substance at all.

  Ghosts didn’t usually realize that I could see them. Normally I made the first move. I said, in the soothing tone I used for spirits, “My name is Poppy. I won’t harm you or try to chase you away.”

  He looked both taken aback and slightly amused at my words. “Well, Poppy, you’re trespassing. I suggest you turn around and go back to wherever you came from. We are not open to visitors.”

  He spoke in a very modern way for a ghost. I narrowed my gaze and moved closer to get a better look at him. Normally if I concentrated I could see a shadowy line around the outside of the ghost, as though the difference in time zones or eras left a slight hazy rim around their edges. He said quite sharply now, “Are you listening? You can’t be here. This is private property.”