The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Not at all,’ Della reassured him. ‘There’ll just be more space – and hundreds more books, of course. We’ll be able to put on lots more events too. You will be coming to our opening party, won’t you, Mr Sinclair?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he enthused.

  Meanwhile, Roxanne continued to dust and tidy, in between flitting back and forth like an efficient waitress with coffees for the electrician and joiner. Only when lunchtime rolled around did she manage to persuade Della that she could man the shop without trapping her hand in the till, and shoo her out of the door for a short break. When an extremely posh and glamorous young woman came in, saying she needed advice on the best kind of gravy to make for roast lamb, Roxanne managed to locate 200 Classic Sauces and Gravies for Every Occasion. The woman was thrilled.

  ‘It’s my first Sunday lunch for my fiancé’s parents,’ she said with a tinkly laugh, ‘and I’m petrified. Bet you wouldn’t be fazed by that.’

  ‘Oh, it’s always pretty stressful with the prospective in-laws,’ Roxanne said, omitting to mention that she had never had any in-laws, and the only gravy she had ever made – when she had been round at Amanda’s, trying to be ‘useful’ while her friend prepared a huge roast dinner – was an unappetising grey, and no one wanted any. ‘Erm, I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ Roxanne added, as she slipped the woman’s purchase into a brown paper bag, ‘but did you try looking for a recipe online?’ Her eyes flicked to the door in case Della had reappeared. To mention such an option seemed treacherous – yet Roxanne was genuinely curious. Although she had never dived into such waters herself, she was pretty certain the internet would be awash with gravy recipes.

  The woman laughed. ‘My mother-in-law’s an incredible cook, and they like everything done properly, in the traditional way. And she’ll be so impressed if she sees this book lying about.’ That was the crux of it, Roxanne decided: these retro books harked back to a more leisurely time, before speedy bish-bosh cooking, or simply grabbing something from the supermarket chill cabinet to sling on a plate. The woman thanked Roxanne profusely as she left.

  Della returned, seemingly relieved that the shop had suffered no visible damage in her absence, and shooed Roxanne off for her own break.

  Upstairs, at Della’s kitchen table, Roxanne settled at her laptop. Elsa had sent her the pictures via a file transfer service, which struck Roxanne as impressively professional. She pinged off an enthusiastic thank-you email and clicked through the images, pleasantly surprised by what she saw. Of course, she looked unhinged in the ridiculous garb, but that was the whole point. On a positive note, since Sean’s party, a few pictures of her dance floor cavorting had reared up on Facebook (‘Still got it, Rox!’ someone had jeered), and Elsa’s rain hood photos were certainly less harrowing than those.

  Roxanne made a sandwich and settled down to tackle her first two blog posts. Her plan was to choose one piece of clothing in turn – ‘the rain hood that folds up teeny-tiny’, ‘the nylon trousers of doom’ – and write a brief and hopefully amusing account of how it felt to wear said items in public.

  Despite the fact she didn’t consider herself a writer – being more of a visual person – the words sort of tumbled out, perhaps because she had decided to just relax and not stress about it too much. All her adult life, Roxanne had been reverential about fashion, yet there was something wonderfully liberating about poking fun at clothes and, indeed, at herself for caring so much about them.

  What can I say about this ghastly garment? she wrote. Wearing a double layer of trouser feels quite wrong. However, I can say from personal experience that it’s preferable to becoming so drenched in a downpour that your freezing wet pants are stuck to your bottom. Available in black, navy and, for the particularly adventurous, mud brown and slime green. Suitable for: a country hike if you are unlikely to bump into anyone you know. Unsuitable for: a first date.

  She rattled off a similar post about the rain hood: If you can imagine wrapping your hair in cling film you are part-way there. However, on the plus side, what other accessory folds up to the size of a piece of chewing gum? Just for fun, you can experiment with wearing it in various styles (turban, bandana, etc). It can also be handy for wrapping your sandwiches or dressing a freshly-administered tattoo …

  Having quickly re-read her efforts, she emailed her posts to Marsha with an accompanying note:

  Hi Marsha,

  Hope all’s good with everyone. My first two blog posts and pictures are attached. I hope they’re the kind of thing you had in mind. Would you mind crediting the photographer? Her name is Elsa … Roxanne paused to check the name on the file transfer … Bramley. It would mean a real lot to her.

  Many thanks,

  Roxanne

  Feeling pleased with herself for having had such a productive day so far, she now had an urge to call Sean but, as he would probably be shooting, made do with texting him instead: Missing you sweetie. Give me a call when you’re free? xx.

  That afternoon, she set off for Heathfield, the lively market town where Della had lived before returning to Burley Bridge. Roxanne was keen to do a grocery shop for her sister – to be as useful as possible – and she also wanted to pick up a small present to thank Elsa for the photos. Burley Bridge had its gift shop and gallery, but she hadn’t spotted anything that would be particularly enticing to a sixteen-year-old girl.

  Having managed to convince Della that she was indeed capable of navigating country roads safely, Roxanne had borrowed Della’s car. She drove over the hills with the window open, relishing the solitude for once. Although she was enjoying the novelty of being back in her childhood village, it was, admittedly, pleasing to escape it for a few hours.

  She passed the golf course that Mark, Della’s ex, had used as his alibi whilst conducting his affair with Polly Fisher. There had been another, even more startling discovery at around the same time Mark’s infidelity had come to light – that Della had been the result of their mother’s affair with Rafael, a Mallorcan artist. It had become known when Della had discovered an affectionate pencilled note from Rafael in one of their mother’s vintage cookbooks. However, although Della and Rafael met up occasionally, and got along pretty well, Roxanne knew that he would never be regarded as Della’s dad in any real sense. That would always be the quiet and unassuming William Cartwright, who passed away a decade ago.

  The afternoon had turned mellow and golden by the time Roxanne parked near the medieval Heathfield Castle, where Della used to work in the gift shop. Having also borrowed her sister’s wicker shopping basket – a pleasing accessory, Roxanne noted approvingly – she browsed the cheery independent shops clustered around the town centre, and wandered into a cookware store with the intention of choosing something for Della. However, it was Elsa who sprung to mind when her eyes fell upon a net bag of dog-themed cookie cutters. There were dogs of various breeds, plus a bone and a kennel – ideal for cutting out home-baked treats. She also selected a gift box of mugs for Della, each featuring the cover of a classic cookbook, making them perfect for the shop.

  Onwards then to buy rolls of cellophane and ribbons in an array of jewel-bright shades, which Roxanne felt would be ideal for packaging up the canine cookies and, hopefully, convince Michael to let his enterprising daughter have a go at selling them in the bakery. Was she muscling in? Roxanne wondered. She hoped her contribution wouldn’t be viewed that way. She merely wanted to encourage Elsa and thank her for helping out with the blog photos.

  Roxanne’s phone bleeped, and she paused to read a rather belated reply to her text to Sean – but then, he wasn’t really the texting type. Hey darling, it read, miss you, crazy busy here, what you up to? Sxx. With a shrug, she slipped her phone back into her bag. No point in regaling him now with her adventures in Heathfield’s quaint cookware shop or stationery store. Instead, she made her way to the supermarket, where she ticked off everything from the list Della had given her, adding some treats from the deli section and a bottle of wine for a casual suppe
r for the two of them. Della had tried to foist a wad of tenners on her, but Roxanne had refused. It felt important to contribute during her stay.

  On her arrival back at Burley Bridge, Roxanne decided to stop at the bakery before it shut for the afternoon to surprise Elsa with the cookie cutters. She loved to choose and give presents, hence her having gone to great lengths to choose the perfect birthday offering for Sean, several months before the actual event. That lavish photography book was still sitting there, barely touched in her flat, she reflected as she parked at the bookshop and strode towards the bakery. ‘These are perfect!’ Elsa exclaimed, setting out the cutters reverentially on the counter. ‘Thank you so much.’ She was still in school uniform – white shirt, navy pleated skirt and striped tie worn ultra-short – with her light brown hair pulled into a ponytail. ‘I’ll make some tomorrow,’ she added. ‘Dad, you don’t mind if I stay off school to—’

  ‘I do mind actually,’ he called out, striding through from the kitchen in his navy blue stripy apron worn over a black T-shirt and jeans. ‘See what I have to put up with?’ he added with a chuckle.

  His daughter pulled a face, and Roxanne laughed. ‘So, how’re you doing?’ he asked. ‘Managing to readjust to country life without too much trouble?’ Michael’s eyes met Roxanne’s and he smiled.

  ‘You know, I really am,’ she replied. ‘Only three days here and I feel like a different person already.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said warmly.

  ‘Dad – look what Roxanne’s bought me,’ Elsa exclaimed, and Michael’s gaze dropped to the array of cutters.

  ‘Hey, that was sweet of you …’

  ‘Just a little thank you,’ she said. ‘Elsa was kind enough to take photos for my blog …’

  ‘Yes, she mentioned that,’ he said with a bemused glance.

  Roxanne looked around at the beautifully calligraphed cards that had been placed on the shelves to denote the various bread varieties. Walnut sourdough, sesame and poppy seed cobbler, wholemeal plait … she could still hardly believe such speciality loaves were baked right here in Burley Bridge. ‘Did you write those labels?’ she asked, turning to Elsa.

  ‘Yeah.’ Elsa grinned.

  ‘Well, you obviously have a real flair. Maybe you could bake more treats and pipe designs on them with some kind of dog-friendly icing?’

  Her face lit up. ‘I’d love to do that …’

  ‘And perhaps you could wrap them with this?’ Roxanne added, hoping she wasn’t overstepping the mark now as Michael looked a little nonplussed. She pulled the roll of clear cellophane from her bag, plus reels of fine satin ribbon.

  ‘They’ll look so pretty,’ Elsa enthused, turning to her father. ‘If they work out okay, can we start selling them in the shop? What d’you think, Dad?’

  He mustered a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Perhaps he was just tired, Roxanne mused. All those 5 a.m. starts must take their toll. ‘Let’s get the sourdough workshop out of the way first,’ Michael added, ‘and then we can think about new lines to stock. I just don’t have the headspace right now.’ He glanced at Roxanne and frowned. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure this is such a great idea …’

  ‘The dog treats?’ She glanced at Elsa, whose disappointment was apparent. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to interfere—’

  ‘No, no – this workshop …’

  ‘But that’s next week, Dad,’ Elsa reminded him. ‘There’s loads of time to get ready …’

  He shook his head distractedly. ‘Yes, but that’s not the point. I mean, I know Della has all kinds of events at the shop – but it’s the kind of place people want to hang out in. It’s like someone’s living room. We’ll just be cramming a few people into our kitchen …’

  ‘Our kitchen’s fine, Dad,’ Elsa protested.

  ‘It’s still just a kitchen, though, isn’t it? We’ve invited the whole village to spend the evening staring at our oven, Els. Does that seem like a sensible thing to you?’

  ‘They won’t be staring at the oven!’ his daughter exclaimed, while Roxanne shifted uncomfortably, caught as she was in a small father–daughter dispute. ‘They’ll be watching you,’ she added, ‘showing them the right way to knead, and then they’ll have a go themselves …’

  He shrugged, looking genuinely perplexed. ‘But does anyone really want to see that?’

  ‘I do,’ Roxanne declared, as convincingly as she could muster.

  ‘Dad,’ Elsa asserted, ‘everyone wants to know how to bake …’

  ‘Do they, though, when they can buy perfectly good bread from a shop? And if they do start making their own, turning out perfectly decent sourdough every day – because it’s ridiculously easy actually – then what’ll be the point of us?’ Although he clearly meant it as a joke, it missed its mark as Elsa’s face fell. He set about gathering up the paper linings from the empty bread baskets.

  Roxanne stepped quietly towards the door. ‘I’ll let you get on then,’ she murmured, casting Michael a glance and thinking, Talk about quashing your daughter’s enthusiasm. Was there really any need for that? Their goodbyes were a little lukewarm as she left the bakery.

  However, as she strolled down Rosemary Lane, Roxanne started to wonder whether Michael’s reticence was understandable. While Elsa’s gung-ho nature seemed endearing, perhaps it was a different matter to be subjected to it every day. Clearly, she had cajoled her dad into hosting a workshop he didn’t want to have – in the very kitchen his wife’s new boyfriend had fitted. Roxanne had the impression now that Michael would be far happier being left alone to bake his loaves in peace. It was too easy to judge a person, she decided, and what did she know about raising teenagers anyway, let alone those whose mum had made a shocking departure from their lives?

  Roxanne’s own mother had certainly been far from perfect. She had conducted an affair, been somewhat slap-happy with a fish slice, and perhaps too frequently attached to a clinking glass of gin. But at least she had been there.

  She stopped and glanced back. What a thing Michael had been through, she reflected: being persuaded to move to a village and set up a business, and then left in the lurch to graft away at all hours to try to make it work. Would it freak him out to ask him out on a dog walk, just as friends? she wondered. Della had mentioned that he popped into the bookshop regularly while Jude took care of the bakery, so perhaps he’d appreciate a stroll in the hills. He had certainly given the impression that he could do with the odd break now and then.

  Roxanne paused, then strode back to the bakery and pushed open the door. She glimpsed him in the kitchen, sweeping the floor.

  ‘Michael, hi!’ she called out.

  ‘Oh! Roxanne …’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to creep back in like that …’

  ‘Everything okay?’ He looked a little taken aback.

  ‘Yes, uh … I just wondered …’ She was fidgeting awkwardly now, like a teenager, as he came towards her. How ridiculous. People met up for walks together constantly in Burley Bridge; if yoga classes were mandatory in London, then dog ownership was here. It was just what people did. ‘It was lovely having Elsa’s company on my walk yesterday,’ she continued. ‘I’ve sort of taken on walking Stanley duties, you see. Della’s so busy with the shop, she doesn’t really have time …’ She paused, realising she was babbling. ‘Erm, I don’t suppose you’d like to join me sometime and bring Bob too?’

  ‘Oh, er …’ Michael looked surprised, but not entirely horrified. ‘Yes, that’d be lovely.’

  She beamed at him. ‘How about tomorrow? I imagine your mornings are terribly busy but—’

  ‘I could do late morning,’ he said, ‘about eleven-ish?’

  ‘Yes, perfect.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll call for you, then. If that doesn’t make us sound about ten years old?’

  Michael laughed, his eyes crinkling, the warmth having returned to his smile. ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said.

  And so, Roxanne realised, would she – very much.
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br />   Chapter Nineteen

  Next day, Roxanne was delighted to be greeted by an overcast but mercifully dry morning, which meant that no hideous waterproof clothing was required. It wasn’t that she minded terribly what she looked like here. Indeed, her make-up bag had barely been unzipped since she arrived. However, where Della’s nylon trousers were concerned, Roxanne could now safely say that she had at least ‘tried’ them and, like their mother’s rather sinister-looking salmon mousse, once had been quite enough.

  ‘So, are you glad you decided to come up here?’ Michael asked her as the two dogs ran ahead, with the diminutive Stanley gamely trying to keep up with the rangier, long-legged Bob.

  Roxanne glanced at him. ‘Yes, I really am. It’s funny – I’m friendly with this elderly lady back home who lives downstairs in my block. Isabelle’s a real Londoner through and through. When I was talking to her about possibly coming up here, she said, “London will always be here for you if the countryside gets too much”, as if I might suddenly snap and run, screaming, onto a King’s Cross-bound train …’

  Michael laughed. ‘Maybe she forgot you grew up here.’

  ‘Yep, I think so.’ Roxanne nodded. ‘I was an indoor sort of girl really, always drawing and reading and dreaming, but I did appreciate being able to go out and wander from a very young age, and no one ever worried where I was.’ She omitted to mention that, along with turning up her music and dancing alone in her bedroom, it was one of the tactics she used to escape when her parents were in the midst of a row.

  ‘What about when you were a teenager?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I was desperate to get away then,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I can understand that. Even all this beauty and peacefulness can become a bit too much sometimes.’

  ‘D’you find that?’ She wasn’t sure whether he was joking or not.

  ‘Sure,’ Michael replied. ‘I mean, I grew up in Canterbury. It’s hardly London but, you know, there was always plenty going on …’

  ‘And then you moved to York?’ she prompted him.