‘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 grinnin
g 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.
‘That waste of space?’ her mother had virtually spat. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Putting her arm round Claire’s tense shoulders, she had at last managed to spill her delicious secret.
‘You see, my lovely. You know how good you are at baking … Well, I entered a competition on your behalf … that Search for the New Mrs Eaden thing run by Eaden’s? And, well, they want you to take part…’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I filled out an application form, telling them what you could make: cream horns, jam puffs, saffron bread and buns, pasty, stargazy pie, Chloe’s birthday cakes. And, um, I sent them a photo of you. They want the area manager to audition you tomorrow – just to check you can string a sentence together and that you really can bake – and then they want you to go up to the competition, in Buckinghamshire, on Saturday. They want you to take part.’
She hadn’t known whether to feel intense irritation or just sheer incredulity. Standing in their cramped kitchen, her fingers clutching the chipped Formica surface of the units, as if to steady herself, her stomach hollowed then fizzed with adrenalin.
‘But what about Chloe? What about work? I can’t just swan off to some competition. I haven’t the clothes, I haven’t the money…’
‘We’ll sort it.’ Her dad, ever dependable, could barely contain his pride.
‘Of course we’ll sort it,’ echoed Angela. Eaden and Son would pay expenses, including train and cab fares; her parents would look after Chloe for each of the six rounds.
‘But what about work? I can’t lose my job.’
‘You can swap your Saturday shifts, and Cora, the lady who contacted me, said she would talk to them; it’s in their interests to have an employee who’s going to be a celebrity cook and a “culinary consultant”.’ Angela, getting somewhat carried away, had clearly worked it all out.
‘Let’s face it, what’s the worst that can happen?’ Bill had asked, his face creasing with laughter.
‘I can lose my job. I can lose my income. I can get even poorer.’ She had been engulfed by rising panic.
‘Love.’ Her mum had smiled, and she shook her head as she marvelled at how sensible her youngest child was; how sensible she had had to become. ‘If you win this, the world’s your oyster. You’ll be their star employee. You’ll probably be running the whole baking department! They won’t be able to get enough of you.’
That was four days ago. Now, on a freezing Saturday morning after catching the 6.52 Paddington train, it is difficult to mimic her parents’ bravado. And yet she knows she has to show some chutzpah; to be the feisty seventeen-year-old who believed she could take on the culinary world.
This is her chance. Her chance to do something more interesting with her life; to break away from the torpor of the checkout; to offer Chloe a better future. This is her chance not to be scared; to glimpse a future where she does more than survive on little more than the minimum wage and to enjoy a present in which she is not constantly financially sensible. This is her chance to be audacious; her chance to dream – but she is no longer sure if she knows how to.
She pushes open the swing door and follows the A4 signs proclaiming ‘Competition Kitchen’. Peeping through the window in the door she sees a massive hangar of a room, with five work stations and, at the far end, what looks like the judging table.
Despite the vast space, the kitchen is trying to be homely. Pastel bunting garlands the walls; vintage cake stands festoon the oak surfaces; four cream fridges stand guard. The limpid March light filters through windows fringed with potted-out herbs: flat-leaf parsley, rosemary, sweet basil and thyme. Halogen spots direct more reliable beams.
A door at the far corner of the room opens and, to her horror, a line of people enters. She watches as the competition weaves its way into the room: a plump matronly woman; a rich one; a yummy mummy; a middle-aged bloke, trying not to look stressed.
She hadn’t realised she was so late; that, by taking an early morning train rather than leaving Chloe last night, she would automatically feel on the back foot. She takes a deep breath. I can do this, she tells herself, though she barely believes it. I’m as good as them. And then with a bravado that feels hollow: this can be mine.
‘Claire,’ a strong, confident voice greets her from the front of the room, where an elegant, middle-aged woman is standing. ‘Good of you to join us.’
The room turns to look at her.
‘I’m Harriet Strong, one of the judges, and this is my fellow judge, Dan Keller.’
The woman strides towards her and thrusts out a hand, sparkling with an antique cocktail ring. It crushes against Claire’s fingers.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she manages.
Harriet gives a businesslike nod and returns to the front of the kitchen. She smiles, removes a microscopic piece of fluff from her blouse, then waits for their full attention.
‘Welcome to the first Search for the New Mrs Eaden!’ she declares. The room swells with nervous laughter.
‘This is the baker we want you to emulate: Kathleen Eaden.’ She gestures to a large black and white photo.
Claire recognises her immediately. The same face smiles down in each Eaden’s bakery department, and on the boxes of teal polka-dot crockery sold as part of the Kathleen Eaden range. Still, she is struck by how proper she looks. Hardly rock and roll. She wears a pencil skirt and a tweed jacket. Didn’t she live in the Swinging Sixties? Perhaps it passed her by.
‘This photo was taken in 1963, two years after Kathleen married George,’ Harriet explains. ‘She turned out to be a huge asset. As I’m sure you know, by the time they sold Eaden’s to the Marshall Group in 1967, George’s father’s grocers had expanded to 208 supermarkets. Kathleen was key to that exponential growth and success.
‘She was everything an Eaden’s customer aspired to: beautiful, elegant, refined. And women loved her. She introduced them to new ingredients but she did it gently: persuading them that they could bake beautifully and providing recipes that proved they could do it.
‘Her writing style was firm but could be playful. Like her contemporary, Robert Carrier, writing in the Sunday Times, she delighted in writing about cooking. And, crucially, she wasn’t just style and no substance. She baked not only simply but exquisitely too.’
She smiles. ‘So, we have set a high standard – and the winner of the title, and the contract, needs to meet this. Needs to cook as perfectly as Kathleen Eaden.’
There is a pause. Bloody hell, thinks Claire. I can’t do that. What was Mum thinking? Everyone here’s older, more experienced, more like Kathleen Eaden than me.
She takes a deep breath and through eyes that are beginning to well reads the first recipe, on a laminated card: Victoria sponge. She wipes her eyes. The words are still there. She isn’t imagining it. Victoria sponge. The easiest cake in the world. Something Chloe makes on her own and has been doing since she was seven. Child’s play.
‘We thought we’d ease you in gently.’ Harriet appears to be smiling at her directly.
And, like a child, like Chloe, she begins to bake.
* * *
Half past ten and the room vibrates with the gentle hum of collective concentration. Five people all focused on one task; all industrious; all showing a meticulous, unwarranted level of attention.
Jenny, to her surprise, is working with painful deliberation. She can make a Victoria sponge with her eyes shut – and must have made over a hundred – and yet she is weighing everything with exaggerated precision. Golden caster sugar,
self-raising flour – held aloft and sieved into a bowl twice – baking powder, and pale unsalted butter: each is treated as if they were a class A drug or potentially fatal medicine. A gram over? She is taking no chances. She removes a smidgeon of flour.
Of course, she knows baking is about precision: too little raising agent, too little air, too much mixing, too cold ingredients, too hot an oven, too long a cooking time – each of these variables can reduce the perfect sponge to a flat, dry or greasy parody of the garden fête ideal. But, even so, her care is excessive. Holding the instructions, her hand shakes with nerves and she knows she is measuring so carefully to try to dispel these. But she is also being assiduous to try to block out all other thoughts.
Her stomach grumbles with anxiety, not just because this competition has become suffused with importance but because she cannot shut out Nigel’s brutal words last night. She cannot reconcile her knowledge of him as a gentle man, the father of her children and her husband of twenty-five years, with someone capable of such derision. Or perhaps that’s not true. She has always been aware of his sharp side, but it has never before been directed at her. Barbs and put-downs have been reserved for malingering patients and been tempered with a laugh. Now she is in the firing line, and laughter is absent.
It had happened, of course, in the kitchen. She had just brought a fresh batch of blueberry muffins out of the oven and had torn one apart: ostensibly to work out if the buttermilk and bicarb made it more aerated; in reality, to gorge on the jammy blueberries and warm, moist sponge.
Nigel had burst in after a ten-mile run, sleek in his running Lycras. Freezing-cold air blasted into the fug of the kitchen as the stable door flew open.
Despite the sub-zero temperatures, he’d looked exhilarated rather than chilled. His still-handsome face was red and glowing; his top was darkened with sweat patches, and his breathing was shallow and quick. Yet he didn’t cut a ridiculous figure, the archetypal middle-aged man desperate to recapture his youth. If anything, Jenny had thought, his physique was better than thirty years ago: hardened and lean, where before it had had the softness of a studious youth.
The Art of Baking Blind Page 5