The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  ‘Er, I guess not?’ she suggested. ‘Shame you didn’t have any treats to bribe her with. I met this lovely girl from the village. She bakes these home-made dog cookies—’

  ‘Charging about, she was,’ Sean cut in, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘crouching down by my light stands, has a pee …’

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘… then another pee on a socket board so the damn thing’s fused, and it’ll probably stink forever …’

  ‘Oh, Sean.’

  ‘… and only then does she finally sit on the rug – no, it’s not sitting, it’s more of a squat, and she does a sh—’

  ‘No!’ she gasped, gripping her phone. Michael glanced back again briefly, and she fell silent.

  ‘Rox?’ Sean snapped.

  She continued to plod down the hill, picturing his face, his mouth set firm, jaw clenched, puddles of wee all over the floor. ‘That’s terrible,’ she muttered, a bubble of mirth starting to build in her now as Michael rounded a corner, out of sight. ‘But, come on – don’t you find it a little bit funny?’

  Silence. The effort of displaying no emotion whatsoever was giving her a pain in the side of her head.

  ‘Well,’ she added, when no response was forthcoming, ‘at least that’s him out of your hair once and for all. That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way. So, thanks for that, Rox. Thanks for dishing out my number when, actually, I could have spent the afternoon prepping for tomorrow’s shoot instead of having my studio used like a giant dog toilet.’

  And with that, he ended the call.

  Roxanne frowned and thrust her phone back into her pocket, wondering whether she had deserved that telling off. Seemingly, yes. In giving out his phone numbers, she had chalked up yet another misdemeanor – along with burning his birthday biscuits, guzzling too much champagne at his party and haranguing the DJ for 70s pop.

  Trying to shrug off her unease, she hurried after Michael and the dogs, and by the time she caught up with them they were nearing the end of the path. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, clipping Stanley’s lead onto his red leather collar.

  Michael flashed a quick smile as they made their way along the roadside towards the village centre. ‘Oh, it’s no problem – really.’

  She grimaced. ‘That was Sean. Dog trouble again.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ he said, amusement flickering in those light blue eyes.

  ‘It went on a bit longer than I’d imagined. The call, I mean.’

  He nodded and smiled briefly. ‘Really, it’s fine. I’d better get back, though. Jude’ll be wondering where I am, complaining about child exploitation at nineteen years old …’ He paused. ‘Are you coming to the sourdough workshop at the bakery tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she said quickly, adding, ‘It’ll be fine, you know. But I realise Elsa’s sort of pushed you into it …’

  He grinned. ‘And I’m pushing you into coming, aren’t I? I imagine it’s not quite your thing …’

  ‘Maybe it could be,’ she said, hoping she sounded convincing as they said goodbye.

  Roxanne stood for a moment, watching as Michael and Bob crossed the road and disappeared into the bakery. She did want to show her support at the bakery tomorrow. However, Sean’s tetchy call had somehow knocked the wind out of her, and when she glanced back up at the sky, there was just a wash of pale grey and the rainbow had gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The following evening, soon after the bakery had closed for the day, Michael was demonstrating how to make a sourdough loaf. The workshop was taking place at the back of the bakery, a gleaming space fitted out with immaculate stainless-steel ovens, marble worktops and sleek beechwood shelving holding fat glass jars of ingredients and pots of utensils. Rows of wooden chairs had been set out, borrowed from the Red Lion – everyone was always helping each other out around here – and bowls of various doughs placed on the worktop. There were far too many chairs, it turned out, as only Roxanne, Della and Frank – plus Frank’s son Eddie, Irene Bagshott and Joan and Vincent from the gallery – had turned up.

  ‘I think the weather must’ve put people off,’ Frank murmured, at which Roxanne nodded. An hour earlier, the heavens had opened and the torrential rain hadn’t stopped yet.

  Roxanne glanced at Michael, who had thanked everyone warmly for braving the rain and was now announcing, ‘Okay. I should start by explaining that this kind of bread-making takes an entire day.’ It was already 6.30 p.m. Did that mean they would all be sitting here, heads nodding at one a.m. with Eddie, a nine-year-old, in their midst?

  Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Michael had prepared doughs at various key stages of the process – a ‘here’s one I made earlier’ sort of approach. It reminded Roxanne of Blue Peter, only the host here was rather more attractive in his fresh white T-shirt, striped apron and slim dark jeans than any of the presenters she remembered.

  Anyway, never mind Michael’s eye-pleasing qualities. Roxanne had only decided to attend as a supportive friend; and now she was doing her best to make up for the poor attendance by giving his demonstration her unwavering attention. In fact, as she was discovering, the chemistry behind bread-making was really quite fascinating. Who knew that, instead of a handy little sachet of yeast, which cost – well, Roxanne had no idea how much it was, she had never had occasion to buy such a thing – you could make your own sourdough ‘starter’?

  ‘It’s also called the mother,’ Michael explained, wafting a jar of evil-looking bubbling stuff in front of everyone, ‘and it’s a natural raising agent. In other words, it’s what makes the magic happen.’

  ‘What is that stuff?’ Irene asked, wrinkling her nose.

  Michael smiled. ‘It’s made from water I boiled potatoes in, and I’ve added flour, sugar and salt. Flour contains natural yeast and microorganisms, and when it comes into contact with the water, then it starts to metabolise and amazing things begin to happen.’

  ‘Like what?’ Eddie asked eagerly.

  ‘Carbon dioxide is produced,’ Michael explained, ‘which creates bubbles. It’ll start to bubble away and smell a bit beery until, in around three days, you’ll see fermentation starting to happen …’

  ‘Cool,’ Eddie muttered.

  Roxanne leaned forward, genuinely amazed. This wasn’t like cooking. This was a scientific experiment. She had no idea this kind of thing could happen in a kitchen.

  ‘When I’m making a loaf,’ Michael continued in his soft southern tones, ‘I take a bit of my starter out of the jar and chuck in more flour to feed it, to keep the process going. And that’s all you do. It just goes on and on, indefinitely really. This mother’s about nine months old …’

  Nine months? That made her rotting kale look positively juvenile! ‘You invented this?’ Roxanne asked.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said with a wide, disarming smile, ‘it’s an ancient process …’

  ‘I just thought, with you being a chemistry teacher …’

  ‘Well, yes, I am attracted to that side of baking. The simple reactions, the release of carbon dioxide causing all those bubbles. Really, if you just follow the process, it’s pretty much idiot-proof.’

  Roxanne glanced at Della and Frank, who were holding hands, she noted. Eddie seemed completely relaxed about this, and was now watching Michael with interest. He was a handsome boy with a mop of wavy light brown hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks.

  She turned her attention back to the demonstration, wondering what Sean would say if he could see her now.

  Now Michael had taken a dollop of starter and was mixing it with his hands into a bowl of flour until it all gunked together. It was oddly attractive, all this vigorous squishing and squeezing and clearly not minding about getting all messed up. Sean flickered into Roxanne’s mind once more, hectoring her about Jessica peeing on his socket board, and she quickly pushed the thought away.

  ‘Now here’s one that’s been rising all day,’ Micha
el added, turning his attentions to another bowl of dough. ‘I’m going to show you how to knock it down, then give it a little light kneading …’

  It was all so casually done, as if it were effortless.

  Now everyone was invited up to the counter and given their own lump of dough to knead, whilst Elsa lifted a freshly baked loaf from the oven. There were others, too, which had been baked earlier and were flavoured with tomato, fresh basil and pumpkin seeds, sitting there all tempting in a wicker basket.

  ‘Am I doing this properly?’ Roxanne asked, surprised at how much she was enjoying herself.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ Michael replied.

  She laughed. ‘It’s so easy. I always thought you had to be terribly macho with bread, and pummel the hell out of it …’ She dropped the dough into a tin with a satisfying thud.

  Meanwhile, as everyone’s loaves were put in the oven to bake, Elsa and her brother Jude offered around glasses of wine and soft drinks. Michael sliced the ready-made breads into bite-sized chunks. Elsa set an extravagant cheeseboard on the worktop, and everyone started to tuck in.

  ‘Oh, these are delicious,’ Roxanne enthused. ‘You’ve made it look so simple!’

  ‘Well, it is really,’ Michael replied. ‘You could get a loaf started before you set out to work in the morning, you know …’

  She smiled, deciding not to mention that she was usually charging about, trying to find keys, purse and unladdered tights. Instead, she allowed herself the luxury of snacking on more bread and cheese.

  ‘So, d’you think you’ll turn into a baker now, Rox?’ Della teased her.

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ she replied, ‘as long as Michael can guarantee that starter stuff doesn’t get out of control and start bubbling up and flooding over.’ Roxanne sipped her white wine and turned to him. ‘I have these terribly fussy neighbours below me. I can’t imagine they’d be too impressed if it escaped from its jar and started dripping down through the cracks in the floor.’ She looked at Michael, and he laughed.

  Elsa went around refilling everyone’s glasses and soon, their own batch of loaves was ready. Jude obligingly took them from the oven, placed them on the cooling rack and, as soon as they were ready to handle, wrapped them in crinkly brown paper for everyone to take home.

  As Michael busied himself with clearing up, Roxanne was aware now that perhaps they were overstaying their welcome. After all, he had been up since five.

  Perhaps sensing a mood change too, Della and Frank drained their glasses and pulled on their jackets, and Irene, Joan and Vincent were already making their way out.

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ Della said, thanking Michael warmly. ‘C’mon, Eddie, you’re staying at mine tonight.’

  ‘On the camp bed in the living room?’ His green eyes shone with delight.

  ‘Yes, of course, darling.’ She took his hand.

  ‘Could you stay a minute, Roxanne?’ Elsa asked. ‘I have something to show you.’

  Roxanne paused and glanced at Michael, who was gathering up plates. ‘Is that okay, Michael?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said as Della, Frank and Eddie said their goodbyes. ‘She’s been desperate to show you.’

  Elsa opened a cupboard and lifted out a Tupperware box, removing the lid with a flourish. ‘What d’you think?’

  Roxanne gazed at the canine-friendly cookies decorated with finely piped eyes, mouths and collars. ‘These are amazing,’ she gasped. ‘So professional. Honestly, did you really make them yourself?’

  ‘Yes, of course – the icing’s just cream cheese and a little bit of tapioca.’ She glanced at her father. ‘Dad suggested that.’

  Michael smiled and raked back his hair with his hand. ‘They’ve worked out pretty well. I reckon we can package them up like you suggested and start selling them in the shop.’

  ‘I’ll write a blog post about them,’ Roxanne added. ‘It’s supposed to be about style in the country and, well, these are pretty stylish, I’d say.’ If Elsa seemed delighted by that, she was a little less thrilled when Michael handed her a floor brush. Unsurprisingly, she soon scampered off upstairs, with the excuse that she needed to check the YourStyle website to see her pictures online. Jude had long since disappeared.

  ‘I’ll help you clear up,’ Roxanne offered, keen to assist as everyone else had gone home. ‘This is beautiful,’ she added. ‘The whole place, I mean. You should be so proud of what you’ve done here …’ She broke off, her cheeks blazing. What a stupid thing to say. Michael’s wife’s new boyfriend had built this kitchen.

  She glanced at him as he started to load the dishwasher, wondering if the heat had suddenly intensified in here.

  ‘I can’t believe I made a loaf tonight,’ she continued, more to break the awkward silence than anything else. ‘At least, I did the kneading part, and it’s actually turned into something I’d want to eat. Amazing!’ She tailed off, feeling foolish now, and unsure whether Michael was even listening. Had they really shared that lovely moment with the rainbow, up on the hill?

  ‘It reminded me of those anti-cellulite mitts we had in the nineties,’ she rambled on, grabbing a cloth from the kitchen and wiping a dough splodge off a chair. ‘They were a craze in my office, all the women kneading away at their thighs, and nothing happened, of course, apart from a few bruises …’ She beamed at him. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are to be a man!’

  He smiled briefly and muttered something she didn’t catch, and started to sweep the floor. She stood there, gripping a plastic spatula, wondering what to do next. ‘I liked the way you explained it all tonight,’ she struggled on, ‘about feeding the starter with a spoonful of flour, like a pet …’ She paused, conscious that she was going on a bit now. She hadn’t reached the ripe old age of forty-seven without becoming aware of some of her less appealing character traits, like babbling when she was uncomfortable. ‘D’you ever name it?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry?’ Michael gripped the floor brush and blinked at her.

  ‘Your sourdough starter. You were saying you feed it, and I wondered if …’ She stopped. ‘Oh, never mind.’ She looked at him, and their eyes met for a moment. ‘Can I help with anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Er, no thanks – I think we’re fine here.’

  Hmmm. Clearly they weren’t. ‘Um, are you okay, Michael?’ she ventured tentatively as he recommenced sweeping. She looked around the kitchen, overcome by a wave of sadness for him. All that effort he’d put in for tonight, and for what – seven people to turn up, and one of those to put her foot in it?

  He turned back to face her. ‘I suppose I’m just a bit disappointed, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, it was fascinating, though …’

  ‘Thank you, but I was only making bread.’ A beat’s silence hung between them. ‘Anyway, thanks again for helping,’ he added, which Roxanne interpreted as, And could you leave now, please?

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, feeling rather hurt as she picked up her paper-wrapped loaf, relieved now to say goodnight.

  The rain had stopped, and the air felt clammy and damp. She should have learned from last time, she decided now; the brandy snap fiasco should have taught her a lesson. Something was telling her loud and clear that she and the fine art of baking would never be a perfect match.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As Roxanne strolled back to Della’s down Rosemary Lane, she became aware that something else didn’t feel right. The whole Sean thing, that’s what it was; the Jessica-pooing debacle. She wouldn’t call him back, though. She would leave it for now. All Roxanne really wanted, as she let herself into Della’s flat, was to curl up in that pristine guest bed.

  Instead, she tried to settle down to watch TV with Della, Frank and Eddie. Keen to get to know Eddie a little, she gently quizzed him about what he liked doing – playing football, or computer games? – all the while conscious of behaving like the slightly awkward child-free visitor.

  ‘Eddie, Roxanne asked you a question,’ Frank prompted h
im, arm slung around Della, who was snuggled close to him on the sofa.

  ‘Oh, er …’ He reddened.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m acting like I’m interviewing you,’ Roxanne said quickly, mustering a wide smile. Eddie smiled too, and seemed to relax a little. But really, you could tell he just wanted to watch TV in peace – it was some comedy box set which was clearly a favourite among the three of them. And so, Roxanne made her excuses and retired to bed, at 9 p.m. – in other words, earlier than the nine-year-old in the house.

  She undressed quickly and climbed under the sheets, but she couldn’t relax. She couldn’t stop thinking that the distance really wasn’t doing her and Sean any good – but then, if they couldn’t survive her spending a little time with her sister, then what hope was there, really?

  She reached for her phone, dithering over whether to call back, to apologise for … what exactly? Giving Tommy his number? She had already said sorry for that. For laughing, then, like any normal human being? Irritated now, she placed her phone on the bedside table. She got up to fetch her laptop, and started to write a blog post about Elsa’s doggie treats, but that didn’t flow easily either. Instead, she emailed Amanda, detailing all that had happened since she arrived here – the dog walk soaking, the foldable rain hat, the unsettling incident of Della trying to set her up with the village baker, and the enjoyable walks they’d had together since. Roxanne didn’t mention that moment with the rainbow. She had yet to try to make any kind of sense of it herself.

  It felt good, though, to get most of it down – almost like talking. Roxanne signed off her email to Amanda with a flurry of kisses and turned off her light. Soon the TV was turned off, and Eddie’s chatter subsided. The velvety silence – the kind you only ever noticed in the country – seemed to settle over her, bringing sleep.