‘You don’t want tough, dried-out dough.’
‘Leave it to me, my lover.’ Angela, the matriarch and the acknowledged premier baker in the family, despite what Claire might think, takes over, scooping up the flour and putting it in the packet, pulling the dough from Chloe’s fingers and kneading it on the worktop for her.
‘Let her do it for herself, Mum. She needs to learn.’ Claire is irritated by her mother’s involvement.
Angela is implacable. ‘No point letting her struggle. I was just helping.’
‘It’s great now, Nanny. Look, it’s gone more stretchy.’ Chloe looks from one to another as she points at the smoother dough her grandmother is creating. Her enthusiasm dampens the spark of tension.
‘That’s fantastic, lovely. Really well done.’
‘Now just work it for about ten minutes like that: we want it silky smooth and elastic,’ advises Angela, handing over to her granddaughter. ‘These are going to be really bouncy hot cross buns.’
The three work on in companionable silence, Claire creating the saffron dough by pouring lukewarm milk, liquid gold, on to dried fruit, sugar, yeast and buttery crumbs. The soft, rich dough reminds her of the play-doh she made for Chloe when tiny: sensual; tactual; elastic. The smell is better though: the scent of dried fruit and earthy warm yeast gentler than the saltiness of the child’s dough; and the texture is softer: not scratchy but smooth.
‘Smells good, don’t he?’ Angela looks on approvingly, her own mixture now rounded to a smooth sphere and placed in a bowl, a damp tea towel stretched over it.
‘You’re getting to be a fine baker.’ She says this with a verbal wink; a tacit admission that her daughter has every right not to take her advice now that she is doing well in the competition.
Claire smiles at the compliment, rarely bestowed and all the more precious for it. ‘Thank you! Yes, I’m getting better. Not there yet, though. Not by a long shot.’
‘Well no, but you can get there – can’t she, Chloe?’
Chloe’s delicate face breaks into a grin, nose wrinkling between her freckles, wide eyes sparkling with pride and excitement.
‘Course she can. She’s the best baker and the best mum in the world.’
‘Oh well. I’m getting better. They liked my gingerbread house.’ Claire cannot help smiling, but her kneading becomes heavier as she recalls the result of it being good enough for her to appear on YouTube: Jay bombarding her with emails and texts.
‘Not worrying about it, are you?’ Angela, ever attuned to her youngest child’s anxiety, notes the crease deepening between her eyes.
‘Well, a bit. Well, a lot really. I know I won’t win, I’m not stupid, but I want to do all of us proud.’
She smiles, trying to mask her continual sense of responsibility for Chloe’s sake but failing as her voice trembles. She is back to being seventeen and telling her mother she is pregnant. ‘I don’t want to let you down.’
Angela is all arms, all bosom, as she gathers her daughter, and a concerned Chloe, into her apron. She smells of Pears soap and baking. ‘Oh, my lover, you’d never do that.’
They stand there for a couple of seconds before Claire extricates herself, embarrassed by her mum’s soppiness and wary of scaring Chloe.
‘That’s wonderful, my lovely.’ She gestures at her daughter’s dough, now placed in a bowl with a plastic bag over it. ‘Will you just go and put that by the radiator? Then wash your hands and you can put a CD on?’
Her daughter nods and carries her dough; solemn with responsibility. Then she flies to the bathroom, freed from the responsibility of worrying about her mother, fired by the thought of a dance.
‘So … what’s bothering you?’
There is no point, Claire has long realised, in hiding anything from her mother. She delays her answer as she finishes wiping up the flour.
‘Jay’s been back in touch.’
Angela wrinkles her nose as if someone had farted.
‘He saw my gingerbread house on YouTube.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought baking was his thing,’ Angela notes drily, as she rinses her fingers of flour.
‘I think his sister put a link to it on her Facebook page. Or anyone I know could have done. It’s had quite a lot of hits now. Fifteen thousand. Can’t quite believe it.’ She cannot hide her surprise at the number – or her pride.
‘Oh.’ There is a pause while Angela digests the news and the unfamiliar power of the internet. She dries her hands thoroughly with the towel.
‘Well. You’re not going to see him, are you?’
‘Course not.’ Claire flushes. ‘Why would I do something as stupid as that?’
‘OK.’
‘You don’t believe me.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Her mother gives her a look.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry. No. I haven’t said I will. No.’
Her answer fails to convince her mother.
‘I just know you, my lover. And I know how he gets under your skin.’
‘I know … I know. But it’s so difficult. I’d love Chloe to see him. I’d love him to play more of a role in her life. I’d love him to be a dad to her.’
‘You think he wants to do that?’ Angela looks sceptical.
‘He says that … He says the YouTube clip – the fact it was me making a beach hut for Chloe – made him realise what he’s missed out on.’ She tries to convince herself. ‘If I see him, it’s for Chloe’s sake.’
Angela gives a snort.
‘Mum.’
‘You know what he’s like, Claire. You know how he treated you before. You don’t need that. Especially now you’re doing so well for yourself.’
‘I know.’ Claire smiles, intending to convey reassurance. ‘I know.’
Her mother gives a harrumph and Claire buries her head in a cupboard, suddenly anxious to find some vanilla essence.
17
I know it is fashionable to limit the amount of bread one eats, and perhaps to substitute it with crackers or Ryvita. But never deny yourself everything. Food is there to be enjoyed. And substitutes are rarely quite as satisfying.
Vicki is humming as she potters up and down the aisles of her local Eaden’s: a gentle, insistent hum, half a semitone out of tune. It is early afternoon and the store is as quiet as it ever gets, emptied of the workers who raid the shelves of pastrami on rye or goat’s cheese and roasted vegetable wraps during their lunchtime foray from the office; not yet invaded by the hassled mothers towing disgruntled children as they drop in for an emergency bag of brioche after school.
Vicki is humming in part because she has had an unexpected phone call. The sort of call that has got her mind racing, and opened up the possibility of a different sort of world. Amy Springer, the year three teacher at her old school, St Matthew’s, has rung to say she is just pregnant and due to go on maternity leave in September. The job would be hers for the taking. Of course, she won’t apply for it. It’s Alfie’s pre-school year and the deal had always been that she would give him her undivided attention until he started reception a year later – and that she’d have another baby. But that doesn’t seem to be happening. And perhaps this would distract her: stop her feeling life is standing still while she fails to get pregnant. Yes … it is tempting. And it’s lovely that Amy immediately thought to give her the heads-up. That she thought she was perfect for it. She wonders if she should give Colin Johnson, her old head, a call.
No, of course not. It’s just a flattering fantasy. But she wonders what her mother would say if she announced she was to return to work? She has no doubt she would love it. Frances has always taken it personally that she abandoned her career, after the sacrifices she made in the seventies and eighties to ensure it was a given. Recently, she has stopped asking when she will return but the issue of her not working throbs in the background, as oppressive as an imminent thunderstorm.
Well, she wants no such tension th
is weekend. She turns her attention to her immediate job: concocting something delicious for her mother. A thank you for looking after Alfie; another bid to win her admiration; her approval.
She meanders down the store. It is lovely to be here and to be childless, she realises with a spasm of guilt: to have time to stop and assess the products; to smell the mangoes and press the avocados without Alfie – who refuses to sit in the trolley – pulling at her belt, at her waist, at her handbag and then racing out of sight.
It is an entirely different experience, shopping without a child. A pleasurable experience in which she can allow her mind to wander – to consider what she might bake at the next round, and how she can ensure she wins a YouTube slot as she did for her Battenburg cake (18,928 hits when she last checked, an hour ago). That recipe was more emotionally charged for her than any other and she wonders if her bakes have to be associated with bad memories for her to do herself justice.
Come on, Mrs Eaden, she thinks, as she pushes her trolley to her favourite aisle, the baking aisle, help me out here. What do I have to do to shine: to set myself above the star of the gingerbread house, Karen, or the clear front-runner, Jenny? Jenny’s lovely – though there’s clearly something going on with her husband – but I do so want to win. If I’m not going back to teaching then I need to show my mother I can excel in this field. To win her over, it’s not enough to come second. I need to be the best.
She turns into the baking aisle. It’s bread next. Never her forte. Should she focus on different grains, or different flavourings? What would Mrs Eaden do? What would the judges like?
She appraises the bags of strong flour: organic; rye, granary and a spelt mix, and spends an inordinate amount of time looking at them before selecting a bag of strong white and a bag of organic, stoneground wholemeal. She pauses then adds a third bag: gluten-free, organic bread flour.
I bet you didn’t have a mother like mine, she thinks, as she picks up the organic undyed apricots, giant golden sultanas, flame-red raisins and candied peel required for her hot cross buns. If she uses gluten-free flour, she can bake a cake for Frances. I’m doing it again, she thinks. Baking a cake to make her happy – though this one will have no colouring, no artificial flavouring, no gluten, and, if I can avoid it, no fat or sugar. What sort of cake can I bake to please her? Or could I try bread? A bread made with gluten-free bread flour? No, I’m being stupid. It will still contain yeast – and that gives her terrible bloating.
Her tranquil state of mind is disappearing fast and so she hares back to the fruit aisle to pick up vegetables that will, surely, please her mother. She could abandon the cake idea and make her a Thai salad, high in flavour with soy, red chillies, coriander and ginger; minimal in calories. She picks up peppers, baby corn, beansprouts, sugar snaps, then pauses. The peas say product of Zimbabwe; the baby sweetcorn, Kenya. She puts them back, emphatic. Her mother will only lecture her about the air miles.
What about an apple crumble? English apples; gluten-free flour; oats; minimal brown sugar, fat … No, that won’t work. Will she eat extra-low-fat sunflower spread?
Perhaps it would be best just to make her an apple compote and serve it with some low-fat organic natural yoghurt? Then choose some sustainably farmed fish and serve it with organic, locally produced broccoli? She deliberates, stymied by indecision; wanting to do everything right, to achieve some sort of perfection. Eventually, she selects the choicest vegetables, knowing, as she does so, that, in some way, they will be found wanting. They won’t be as fresh, as flavoursome, as vegetables grown on a friend’s allotment, but they will have to do this time.
The products chosen – and the choices still niggling – she needs some light relief and flits over to the magazine section. She picks up a CBeebies magazine for Alfie, imagining his smile as he discovers the Rastamouse stickers inside. Last night, she had read him a tale of the rapping mouse’s exploits and he had listened intently as she’d stumbled through a rap in a cod Jamaican accent.
‘Sorry it doesn’t sound right,’ she had apologised.
He had shaken his head and produced a new word: ‘It’s awesome.’
And he had snuggled up to her, warm, docile and seriously impressed.
Sometimes I get it right, she thinks as she turns to the baking magazines: Baking World, Baker’s World, Cakes and Decoration, Cupcakes and Pop Cakes. The titles spring out at her in a haze of pastel yellow and pink.
She spends a few guilty minutes rifling through them: trying to assess where her £3.95 would be best spent. None will help her with bread: all are preoccupied with sugar and confection. And, really, though the decorations are technically difficult, the ideas are run-of-the-mill. Staid.
A woman is peering at her quizzically, head cocked to one side, a smile on her lips. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’
Vicki’s face is blank.
The woman elaborates. ‘Vicki? Are you here to promote the competition – not that you need to?’ She gestures at the copy of Eaden’s Monthly she is holding.
Vicki takes the magazine. She had not realised the April issue would be out yet. And there she is, on the front cover, perfecting her gingerbread house alongside Claire and Karen. She looks confident; accomplished. She looks happy.
‘Don’t you look beautiful?’ The woman seems star-struck. ‘Well, you’re my favourite. You remind me of my daughter. I’m going straight home to view your film on YouTube again and to put another comment on the website. I just loved your Battenburg cake.’
‘Thank you … Thank you so much.’ Bemused, Vicki suddenly remembers her manners.
‘I know it’s not very “cool” of me,’ the woman continues, ‘but … I don’t suppose you would … would you mind?’ She draws a Parker ballpoint from her handbag and gestures at the magazine.
‘You’d like me to sign it?’
‘If you don’t mind. I know it’s not very sophisticated. But my daughter will never believe me otherwise.’
‘I’d be delighted.’ Vicki’s ability to speak appropriately seems to have returned. She giggles, self-conscious, excited. ‘I’ve never done this before. My first taste of celebrity!’
‘Your first – but not your last, my dear.’ The woman smiles. ‘I doubt it will be your last.’
Kathleen
His comments had struck her as hugely inappropriate, even though she knew, rationally, he was just trying to be kind.
Minutes earlier she had lain on his couch, in his consulting room in Harley Street, her legs in stirrups, as he examined her to assess why – two weeks after the event she refused to put a name to – she was still bleeding so heavily.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to do a D and C to check you haven’t anything nasty still inside you,’ James Caruthers, Fellow of the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, had informed her, stripping off his gloves and washing his hands vigorously. She had reddened, reluctant to meet his eye after his clinical probing inside.
‘Anything nasty … you mean, my baby?’
‘No – retained tissue; the remains of the placenta.’ He turned to her briefly, then continued scrubbing between his fingers, his manner not unfriendly but matter-of-fact.
Her sorrow had swirled around the room as the gynaecologist had detailed the nature of the procedure and the risks and benefits. The words washed over her: general anaesthetic; risk of infection; bed rest; prevention of sexual intercourse; required to facilitate a second conception in time. He might as well have been speaking ancient Greek or some other equally esoteric language, so alien were the words.
She had stared hard at a silver-framed photograph on his desk: James Caruthers, his elegant wife and their three small boys in prep school uniform. Blond-haired, highly privileged, impervious to life’s difficulties. The youngest had a dimple and an irrepressible smile.
And then she had felt the tears prick, hot and fast. Julie, his nurse, had handed her an ironed cotton handkerchief with a cluck of reassurance. Mr Caruthers had been forced to abandon h
is lecture and his pacing around his wood-panelled study. He had stood, briefly confounded, then perched on the edge of his partner’s desk, freckled hands placed firmly on his thighs.
‘Look,’ he began, and his tone was calm and rational. ‘I think the best thing you can do is to build up your strength in preparation for another pregnancy. Eat some of the food you write so well about: not so much the cakes but the pies and the wholemeal bread. The recipes that are particularly nutritious. Lots of red meat and green vegetables – that sort of thing.
‘I must say,’ he went on, warming to his theme. ‘I think it’s marvellous you have this interest. Mrs Caruthers is really quite a fan. Reads your column every month and says you’re writing a book – is that correct?’
‘Um … Yes. The Art of Baking.’ She was bemused and tried to remember what she was supposed to say about this project that had stalled in the last fortnight, as if her ability to write had also seeped away. She had managed to cobble together a column for Home Magazine – a rehashed ode to the joys of the crumble – but had written nothing good enough for the book. How can she spin sentences about nurturing one’s family with baking when she doesn’t have one? Or rather, one that just comprises George and her?
She looks at the obstetrician afresh, and sees that he is a stranger. Someone who thinks she might want to talk about writing and baking when all she wants is an answer to why she lost her child.
But James Caruthers looks pleased with himself, as if he has found a solution that will make up for the failings of medical science.
‘Well, then.’ He leans back and gives a wide smile. ‘We’re going to tidy you up and have a good look at you. And I’m sure there’s no reason why you won’t be able to have a bonny baby. We might just have to try a little longer; give you some time.
‘But you’re lucky. If things don’t work out quite as you’d like … well, there’s a Plan B, isn’t there? You’ll always have your baking and your writing to fall back on.’
The Art of Baking Blind Page 13