‘Hey, calm down … You’re just tired – and nervous.’ Claire seeks to reassure while keeping an eye on her own mixture. The custard bubbles: thick, smooth and unctuous. She removes it from the heat.
‘Why not get something else done while your milk infuses.’ She darts to Vicki’s work bench and glances at her list. ‘Here – the choux pastry. You could make that and put it aside. At least then you could tick something off.’
She takes in the worktop, strewn with broken eggs; cluttered and chaotic. Vicki’s bread dough is proving but her burnt custard has put her behind.
‘All right,’ Vicki sniffs and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Not doing very well at this,’ she says.
‘You’ve had a crappy eighteen hours,’ Claire tells her. ‘Time to put it right.’
‘I guess…’ Vicki offers a watery smile.
‘Come on.’ Claire tries a joke. ‘Don’t make it too easy for the rest of us.’
Her competitor laughs, involuntarily. ‘Oh, Claire. You’re brilliant. You don’t need me to muck up for you to do well.’
‘Well, so are you. And you’re not going to muck up. Come on. Pretend you’re psyching yourself up in front of thirty six-year-olds. What was it you said? That you had to put on a show in front of them? That you couldn’t let them see you were nervous?’
‘Something like that,’ Vicki mumbles.
‘Right. Well, you just need to treat Dan and Harriet like those six-year-olds – and do the same.’
Like a chastened child, Vicki does what she is told, measuring the water, butter and salt for the choux pastry; binding the eggs; weighing the flour. She brings the butter and water to a rolling boil then beats in the flour to form a stolid lump of dough. Then, bit by bit, she adds the eggs – the consistency changing from thick scrambled egg to a smooth, camel-coloured paste. She tastes the mixture and recoils: warm butter, salt and egg seep through her mouth but the effect is unpleasant. Too savoury; too raw. And yet, when baked, this will be transformed into the lightest of pastries: a crisp ball of nothingness to be filled with whipped cream or ice cream, that is integral to some of the lightest, most frivolous of desserts.
Placing it to one side, Vicki decides to go back to creating her crème patissière. But the smell wafting from the infused vanilla pod reminds her of the lotion she used to massage a baby Alfie – before he was capable of jumping up from a nappy mat and wriggling free of her caress.
Oh, this is hopeless. Despite her best intentions, she is finding it impossible to focus. Her mind clouds with emotions: guilt at leaving Alfie, grief over her abortion and the row with her mother, and sorrow for Kathleen. All this baking seems irrelevant: a mere pastime compared to the important stuff of life: making, and tending to, babies. She splits a yolk, and watches as the streak of gold slips into the bowl of white albumen, tainting the fluid as it dances through it; forcing her to start again.
Oh, bloody hell. She reaches for a new bowl and three fresh eggs then takes a minute to try to compose herself. Alfie’s face swims into focus: his big hazel eyes, his face, bleached of colour, his cherry-red bottom lip that jutted out as he called after her, as she retreated from the ward, smiling reassurance as she did so: ‘Mummmmmeeee…’
I never wanted to be the sort of mother who left her children, she thinks savagely. How could I have left him when he needed me? A wave of self-loathing picks her up then immerses her. How could I have left him in his hospital bed?
Kathleen would never have done that, she thinks automatically. She gave up everything for Lily. A second thought shoots through her with cold certainty: but I’m not Kathleen, am I? And who knows what sort of mother she would have been if her experience hadn’t been so traumatic, so extreme.
I’m not very good at just being a stay-at-home mummy, her deep, dark voice persists. It’s what you wanted, she chides herself, and you’re so lucky to have it. I know, she thinks. I know, but I’m not very happy and I’m far from perfect at it.
I need to do something else, she realises as she separates the eggs successfully and the orange yolks flop into the bowl. The truth, which she has long known, finally surfaces: I want to apply for Amy’s job. I need to see if I can go back and teach.
40
Baking is a means of cherishing your loved ones. Of developing an enjoyable, desirable skill. Baking can introduce one to new flavours and cultures. It can educate and open up a whole new world.
The four and a half hours are up. Four cake stands are piled high with millefeuille, choux buns and tartlets, bulging with cream and crème patissière. Fat scones – Mike’s huge wedges designed for fuelling walks; Vicki’s petite morsels – nest in napkin-lined baskets, their tops shiny with egg wash, sprinkled with sugar. Platters of poached salmon sandwiches jostle with home-cured ham and green tomato chutney; jewel-like jam glistens next to golden-crusted clotted cream.
The judges are taking their time deliberating over who should win and the bakers have been told to relax and mingle with their families and supporters. Groups are spilling out of the house, where they watched events via a live feed.
‘Mum, you were wonderful!’ Emma rushes across the lawn to Jenny and flings her arms around her, closely followed by Lizzie. Vicki watches with envy as the three women form a tight knot then release each other with a laugh. She has never experienced such unrestrained, such unconscious mothering.
Mike is being hugged too; grabbed by two children, Pippa and Sam it must be, and then by a woman to whom he bears an uncanny resemblance: it must be his sister. And Claire is the centre of attention in her world: engulfed by a middle-aged couple and a young girl.
‘Mum, you were awesome,’ Chloe cries as she dances round them and then performs a cartwheel. Despite her exhaustion, Vicki bursts out laughing.
Mike’s daughter, Pippa, is watching Chloe with interest, and breaks away from her father to sidle up to the older girl, clearly awestruck. Claire introduces her parents to Mike, and Vicki sees, for the first time, the look of frank admiration Mike gives Claire. Shyly, the two groups merge into one.
Everyone has these big supportive families here, thinks Vicki, somewhat mournfully, and flicks to a photo sent by Greg while she was baking. Alfie is nestled on the sofa, clutching Dog, his threadbare teddy. ‘All well, Mummy. We love you! Good luck!’ is the message and Alfie, who seems to be beaming, is giving her the thumbs up.
One small boy and his dad. Well, it might have to be enough. No, she rephrases that: it might be enough. And then, she begins to smile. Walking across the grass, a little tentatively at first then, as she notes her beam, with quiet resolve, comes the person she least expected – but the one she now realises she most hoped for.
‘I hope you don’t mind my coming?’ says Frances.
And Vicki finds that she is smiling through tears.
* * *
The deliberations continue and Jenny, enjoying a glass of bubbly with her girls, hardly hears her mobile.
Then Emma’s phone goes off: a fierce, insistent ring.
‘Is your mother there?’ Nigel’s voice, irascible and strident, can be heard by all three of them.
‘Nigel?’ Jenny takes the phone which Emma hands over. Then: ‘Oh … Oh … Oh, Nigel, I am sorry.’
‘What is it?’ Emma and Lizzie whisper their concern, and try to gain eye contact. But Jenny, preoccupied, is still talking.
‘No … Well, I can see you do want me to hurry back, but I just can’t do that. I’m in the middle of the competition … And I can’t help you after this. I’m sorry, Nigel, but I can’t do this any more.
‘I quite understand, but perhaps Gabby could help? I’m sure she’ll be a more willing nursemaid and she did encourage you to enter. No … No, Nigel, I can’t … and I can’t listen to this any longer.’
She takes the phone from her ear and holds it away from her as a torrent of anger spills out, polluting the gentle swell of chatter.
‘Goodbye, Nigel.’ She puts the phone to her ear and then, with su
dden determination, abruptly kills the call.
‘What was that about?’ Lizzie finally ventures.
‘Your father. He’s torn his cruciate ligament training for tomorrow and needs six weeks’ bed rest.’
The girls look dumbstruck.
‘I told him I couldn’t hurry back to help.’
‘Well done you!’ Emma gives her a huge hug, though Lizzie seems bewildered.
‘I think I’ve done more than that.’ In her daughter’s arms, she looks suddenly fearful. ‘I think I might have just left him.’
Emma’s whisper is ferocious. ‘Even more well done.’
* * *
Oblivious to all this, Claire, surrounded by her family and Mike’s, is fizzing with excitement. She has just been asked to talk to Eaden’s chief executive about developing a West Country bakery range.
She thinks she could just about manage that. How difficult could it be after what she has just done? She takes another sip of champagne then chinks her glass with Angela.
‘This is the life, isn’t it?’ Her mother smiles.
‘I could get used to this, Mum. I really could.’
There is, Claire has realised, a whole new world out there to experience: a world of croquet lawns and cookery demonstrations; of champagne tastings; of basking in the admiration of kind men like Mike. A world in which she can dream.
In front of her, Chloe is demonstrating cartwheels to Pippa and patronising the younger girl. She watches her stretch tall and turn three in quick succession. Then she stops, and runs across the lawn, legs and arms whirling.
‘Daaaaaaaaad!’
A man, with the slow strut of a peacock, a suntanned face and golden green eyes is sauntering their way.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Angela emits a growl. ‘Did you invite him?’
‘No … at least, I don’t think so. Obviously, he knew you and Chloe were coming to the final. Perhaps I was unclear…’
She wants him to disappear immediately.
‘All right?’ Jay smiles at Claire and flings his arms around Chloe. Angela gives a stiff nod of acknowledgement.
‘What are you doing here?’ Claire is bemused, and suddenly aware of the contrast between Mike and Jay.
‘I thought … as we were getting on better … I could come: help you schmooze.’ He tries a smile, then falters. ‘Chloe suggested it, but perhaps it’s a bad idea?’
A retort is on the tip of her tongue but she bites it down, aware of her daughter’s upturned face, already clouded with confusion.
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she says for Chloe’s sake. ‘But can we have a quick word, first? Won’t be a moment, lovely,’ she tries to reassure her daughter, kissing her freckled cheek.
She needs to get Jay away from the marquee and her new friends. This is her new world, not his. He belongs to the sand dunes of her youth not the kitchens and croquet lawns of her future. Seeing him, she wonders if she has finally outgrown him.
She takes him by the arm, leading him away but trying to do so kindly. He jerks his arm free with an angry flourish.
‘Don’t be like that,’ she tries to placate him, as they continue walking across the lawn and up a mound towards a clump of trees that will offer some privacy.
‘You’re making me look stupid.’ He is suddenly sulky. ‘I thought it would be a good surprise.’
‘Oh Jay, you thought you’d be in on the action.’
‘I did not.’ He looks hurt.
‘Jay … This is me, remember? I know what you’re up to. I’m flattered you’ve come all this way for me but I don’t think it was just for me, if you’re honest. I think you thought you’d come because it would be a laugh.’
There is silence as he seems to judge his next move.
‘Well, where’s the harm in that? Perhaps you should try it some time.’
His pride is hurt and he is becoming bolshie.
‘None. There’s no harm in that; except that you can’t be in my and Chloe’s life just for the fun bits. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Oh, spare me the lecture.’ He moves as if to leave her but something – perhaps her steeliness; perhaps the fear of looking even more of a fool – stops him. He stands, shifting his feet, waiting for her to have her say.
‘Being a parent – and being a partner – is about being there for the shit bits and the boring bits, not just the fun bits: the YouTube clips; the winning competitions, if I manage that; the swanning around in posh houses, drinking champagne.’
‘Don’t patronise me.’
‘I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I just don’t think you realise what Chloe – and I – would really like from you.’
‘Don’t I? Well, look.’ He wrenches up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a fresh tattoo, the word Chloe, written in an italicised font, curling around his bicep. His skin is freshly pink from the pinpricks.
‘I did that to show my commitment: to show you how much she – and you – mean to me.’
Claire swallows. It is the most stupid thing he could have done. The grand gesture that was meant to proclaim his maturity has actually done the reverse. She wants to soothe the poor, raw skin, to kiss it better, and to gouge out the tattoo at the same time.
‘Being a parent isn’t about having your child’s name tattooed on your arm,’ she says, and she speaks more in sorrow than anger. ‘It’s about being there to take her to hospital when she has a high temperature; holding her over the loo when she throws up; changing her sheets if she wets the bed; helping her with her reading; picking her up from school. Playing with her. Listening to her worries. Baking. Trying to give her a happy life.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got it all sewn up.’ He kicks at the turf with his trainer.
‘No, I haven’t. Of course I haven’t.’ She struggles to keep her voice even, her frustration mounting. ‘I try but I can’t give her everything. Chloe needs you to be there for her too.’
‘And what about you?’
She looks at him gently. ‘I don’t know, Jay. As Chloe’s dad, of course I need you, but as a partner? No, I don’t think I need you that way.’
There is a pause.
Shit, she thinks. What have I done? He looks so beautiful when he’s crestfallen. If he smiles at me in that lazy way of his then I’m done for: I’ll sleep with him tonight. Would that be so bad? Wouldn’t it be sexy and celebratory; wouldn’t it allow me to feel like Karen? But I’m not her and I don’t want to be like her. It would feel like a step backwards. As he looks up at her through those long lashes, the arguments flicker through her mind.
‘Cla-aire…’
A strident voice breaks the tension. Vicki is marching across the grass towards her. ‘Sorry to interrupt – but they’re going to announce the winner!’
She runs up the slope and gives Claire a hug, beaming at Jay in a way that suggests she is oblivious to having interrupted something.
Saved by Vicki, thinks Claire. By this funny, posh woman that I cannot help liking; by a new friend who told me – what was it? – not to go backwards and repeat old mistakes but to move onwards and upwards in life.
‘God, I’m terrified,’ Vicki confesses as she links arms with Claire and the two of them start to march down the hill.
‘Come on – Jay, isn’t it? You’re going to miss the excitement!’ Vicki stops their march, races back and grabs him by the hand as though he were a three-year-old.
Claire doubts he has ever met anyone so oblivious to his feelings. He looks steam-rollered and manages to extricate his hand gently.
‘It’s all right, I’ll follow you. You go ahead – I’ll come on.’
‘Come on. Race you,’ Vicki challenges her – and, fuelled by champagne and, on Claire’s part, a desire to escape turbulent emotions, the two of them run across the grass.
* * *
The others are waiting when they dash in. Jenny and Mike are standing to the left of the tasting island on which the cake stands are arranged, Mike wearing an air of wry resig
nation; Jenny outwardly calm though her smile looks a little fixed.
Claire and Vicki push their way through to the front to stand alongside them and to the right of Dan and Harriet. In front of them, the cake stands are slightly depleted. Claire recognises her éclairs and notes that her tartlets have disappeared altogether. She glances at the tier alongside it – Jenny’s, she thinks – and tries to assess if more has been sampled. Can she read anything into this?
The general babble diminishes and then stops abruptly with a few giggled ‘shushes’. Harriet holds up one hand and silence descends.
This is it, thinks Claire. The whole point of the competition. The announcement of the winner. Any moment, the New Mrs Eaden will be revealed.
‘Thank you.’ Harriet looks particularly gracious. ‘As you know, this is our inaugural baking competition held in honour of Kathleen Eaden, who sadly passed away last December.’
Oh no, we’re in for a long speech, thinks Claire.
‘We weren’t sure if we’d find anyone to match her. But we have! All four bakers would have made Mrs Eaden proud but one in particular had what we were looking for: her intense passion, her compulsion even, to bake.
‘This baker combines a quiet accomplishment with moments of culinary genius and has developed throughout the competition into someone who knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she excels when she bakes.’
Not me then, thinks Claire with a rush, but the disappointment is expected and is mingled with joy when she takes in the announcement and the swell of cheers that greets it.
‘Our New Mrs Eaden,’ says Harriet, ‘is Jenny.’
41
There are many reasons to bake: to feed; to create; to impress; to nourish; to define ourselves; and, sometimes, it has to be said, to perfect. But often we bake to fill a hunger that would be better filled by a simple gesture from a dear one. We bake to love and be loved.
Well, the best woman won, thinks Karen as she watches the live YouTube feed on her laptop in the kitchen.
Jenny appears to be crying: fat tears that spill from her eyes and draw a path through the pressed powder on her cheeks. Vicki is also blubbing. Well, that’s no surprise. Claire is smiling and her beam, as she hugs Jenny, seems genuine. Mike embraces them all in one group bear hug and then gives Claire a second squeeze.
The Art of Baking Blind Page 30