Sweet Treats

by Christine Miles

  She reached out and put her hand on the handle. She turned the knob, and pushed the door.

  She stepped inside. “Miss Clapham,” she called. “Miss Clapham?”

  Chapter 4

  Maudie moved steadily among the customers, delivering pots of tea, cool drinks in tall glasses, and huge bowls of coffee. She removed table numbers, mopped up spills, cleared away the dirty dishes after the customers had left. She frowned briefly at the thought of Bryn next door in Staceys, leaning on the hardware counter and trying to balance the books, but she forgot him as quickly as he’d sprung to mind.

  She felt guilty at her happiness. Jen had asked Maudie to come and help because the café was too busy for her to manage alone. Bryn, Jen had said, was well occupied in Staceys and the café, while busy, didn’t bring in enough to justify them putting all their eggs in one basket. Maudie had parked her little car outside their home, given her brother a big kiss, pressed a bunch of flowers into Jen’s hands, and watched in dismay as Jen dwindled before her very eyes as the cancer devoured her body.

  There had never been any talk of Maudie leaving. She worried sometimes that things in the café weren’t quite as Jen would like them – it had, after all, been Jen’s idea to transform the dingy little space into a café-style eatery, with Miss Clapham’s support every step of the way. Maudie had managed to learn the art of making all manner of coffee, and she’d finally figured out how to attractively wrap a sandwich in plastic for the many people grabbing lunch on the run. In the early days, when Bryn saw how anxious she was about preparing food, serving customers and cleaning up after them, he had suggested they employ another woman for a few hours each day.

  Claudia – wife of Old Tom who was not so old at all if you ignored his limp - had come along, and now it was Claudia who prepared the food and Maudie who took the money and waited on the tables.

  She liked her job, truly she did. But she did wish she could learn not to gabble when she was nervous, trying to sound like an expert in things of which she had no knowledge. She knew there were people who thought she was an empty-headed twit, ready to spout forth with an opinion about anything and everything, and even more ready to cause offense. But it was all accidental, truly it was. She liked people, she liked to talk to people and listen to people and figure what made the world go around.

  That girl who had disappeared behind the closed door of the sweet shop had suffered a deep sorrow. Maudie could spot that kind of thing a million miles away. She wondered what had happened to give her the sad eyes. She wondered why Miss Clapham had closed her doors in the middle of the morning. Quite out of character that was.

  She wondered what on earth she had meant to achieve by showing off the tiny piece of knowledge she possessed about ancient sweets. She wanted the girl – Nina, was it? – to be a friend. Some friend she’d been, Maudie inwardly moaned. Awful! Truly awful!

  A group of young men, probably escaped from university and on their way north to the surf, jostled in the doorway, then lingered at the food display, ogling at the pies and lamingtons and custard squares. A harassed father and a frazzled mother, all wrinkled and creased from a long journey dragged unwilling offspring behind them who instantly transformed from fractious brats into beaming children when paper bags stuffed with sandwiches and cake were pressed into their sticky little hands.

  She loaded a tray with cups and saucers and wove her way between pushchairs and tables behind the counter to where Claudia stacked the dishwasher.

  “What’s it like out there?” Claudia said.

  She swiped at the tray with a cloth, and thumped it against her thigh. “Sweet shop’s shut,” she said.

  Claudia grunted as a cloud of steam erupted from the dishwasher. Perhaps she had heard Maudie. Perhaps she had not.

  Chapter 5

  c. 6000BC, SPAIN: on a cave wall, an artist draws a human figure scooping wild honey from a hive high up a tree.

  A longer note was taped to the weighing scales.

  Nina,

  I have had to leave unexpectedly. Go into the kitchen out the back and you’ll see recipe books and ingredients and stocks of the boiled lollies. The invoice book is above the fire. Everything you need to know is in it. If the pump breaks, get old Tom. He chops the wood and hauls the water. He’ll need a batch of pink and white coconut ice for payment; he likes it fresh.

  The shop is to be kept open every day of the week.

  Cleanliness is next to godliness.

  Marilla Clapham

  Chapter 6

  c. 4000BC, PAPUA NEW GUINEA: Islanders cut sugarcane for its sweet sap.

  Laud Mayor paused at the seat which Miss Clapham had so kindly given him, knowing full well that the gift had been laced with genteel malice. Miss Clapham didn’t like him; no one in the village or its surrounding farms trusted him. Even his name – which the villagers thought he didn’t know about – was a joke. They’d known him when he first came to their village as Nigel Laud. Now that he was the mayor – voted in by the people, no less – they called him Laud Mayor. Could he help it if he was short with a barrel chest and scrawny legs? Could he help it if Miss Clapham was the only one among them all with the slightest ability to provide impetus and drive? Could he help it if he took pleasure in deriding them and minimising their feeble efforts?

  He couldn’t help any of those things at all. They brought all their difficulties upon themselves. They deserved everything they got, even if it was nothing.

  *

  Mrs Potts peered shortsightedly into the mirror. She had hairs on her chin, she could tell. They bristled hard against her fingertips, but she couldn’t see clearly to pluck them.

  She wished she were young again. She wished she could read a good book in bed without her glasses. She wished her hands would return to their youthful steadiness so she could paint and draw to her heart’s content.

  She wished she had drawn more of the pictures in her own head instead of copying the works of other people. She had loved oils on canvas, people – especially women – with men at their beck and call. She’d never had a man in the palm of her hand. Mr Potts had been an escape from her own father. Father himself had never had any thought for anyone other than himself.

  The new girl, Miss Clapham’s girl, wouldn’t last long in this backwater. It would be a good thing too. This place was going nowhere fast. Soon she, Mrs Potts, would be the only person left. Everyone else would have found a life elsewhere.

  Such were Mrs Potts’ inner ramblings as she tottered down the steps to admire her garden. Soon there would be nothing left except herself. And her sprouts.

  Chapter 7

  c.3000BC, CHINA: herbalists extract an intensely sweet medicine from licorice root; IRAQ: Sumerian diners invent toothpicks – the earliest record of dental care.

  Nina sat down hard on the little stool behind the counter. Miss Clapham had gone. Sweet Treats was her responsibility. She didn’t know the first thing about making coconut ice or fudge or toffee apples or peanut brittle or hokey pokey or marshmallow. She had thought Miss Clapham would teach her.

  She read the letter again. A prickle of fear started in her little toe and worked its way up her leg, up her spine. Fire? A pump? Surely Miss Clapham had electricity and plumbing?

  With legs that were wooden she made her way to the back room. She pulled aside the curtain. An enormous fireplace took up the length of a wall. Kindling was stacked in a barrel alongside. A plain kauri table took up the centre of the room. Four large cast iron pots hung from hooks; a butter churn squatted on a tin chest. The kitchen was a testament to Miss Clapham’s personality: immaculate, well-ordered, and terrifying.

  She swivelled slowly around. No electric lights out here, she saw. Kerosene lanterns were cleverly placed – she thought them decorative, but on closer inspection discovered there was no electricity.

  Sudden anger swept over her. How dare Miss Clapham walk out on her and expect that the shop would be kept running? How dare she leave without discussing how she
, Nina, would light a fire or even the kerosene lanterns, or how she would buy the ingredients necessary for making the sweets that someone was even now banging on the door wanting to buy? How dare she? How dare she?

  She swung the door open viciously.

  “Bryn.” The man who stood on the bottom step with a hand outstretched was tall, tall enough that he stood a good hand above Nina on the top step.

  Nina took the proffered hand. She didn’t particularly care for it, with its rubbery palms and ever-so-slightly clammy coolness.

  “I work in Staceys across the way. Thought since we’d be working together, I’d best come over and introduce myself.” Bryn gave a smile which almost made Nina forgive the clammy hand.

  “Working together?”

  “You. Me. Maudie. Only retailers in the village. Have to work together, see?”

  Did the man always start his sentences in the middle? Nina looked out the window and scratched the back of her head. “Any clues on where Miss Clapham is?” she said, then chastised herself. Full sentences, Nina. Full sentences.

  “Nup. Can tell you she’s never just upped and left though. Pity. Can’t think how we’ll survive without her.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Nina said. “If she doesn’t get back here in the next, say, twenty-four hours then I’m pretty sure she won’t have a business to come back to. More fool her.”

  “Miss Clapham may be many things, but nobody could ever call her a fool.” The grin had slipped from Bryn’s face, his voice ominously cold.

  In other circumstances, Nina would have blushed. Today she merely busied herself with straightening the cloth on the bench. She was not off to a good start with this man. If he could be cold, she could be too.

  “You must have work to do,” she said, her manner clearly indicating he was to leave immediately.

  He did not say a word, did not give any sign of his opinion of her coldness. He just, maddeningly, ignored her insult, and disappeared out the door. How like a man, Nina said, gazing at Queen Victoria.

  Queen Victoria gazed into the distance. Nina placed her hands on her hips and shook her head at Her Majesty. “I am not amused,” she said. “Not amused at all.”

  Chapter 8

  c. 2600, EGYPT: the first-known beekeepers produce honey to embalm the dead, make cosmetics, heal wounds, and offer to the gods.

  Throughout the afternoon many customers came. Nina discovered little bits of information – a slate with a simple price list scratched onto its surface, a note sticky-taped to the credit card machine declining transactions less than $10, a stash of pink-and-white striped bags stored on the bottom shelf in the back of the cupboard beneath the bench. She slipped into Miss Clapham’s bedroom for the briefest of moments, half-expecting to find her resting. The bed was made, sheets crisply starched and tucked in tight all around the edges. Beneath the bed was only a hatbox. Positioned with elegance were a writing desk – locked; a jug and ewer – Nina supposed Miss Clapham must truly use it; an uncomfortable-looking chair with a hand-embroidered doily draped over its back, which was in fact the most comfortable seat Nina had ever sat upon.

  By two o’clock, the fudge was all gone. By two-fifteen, the coconut ice had sold out. By three o’clock, there were no soft sweets left to sell. At three-fifteen Nina sold the last toffee apple to a difficult woman with dentures.

  “I have Irish Moss, jubes, aniseed wheels, and raspberry drops,” Nina had said, waving a hand at the colourful jars on the shelf.

  The woman had tsked against her false teeth and shaken her head. “I can buy commercial sweets any time I like,” she said. “Today I insist on a homemade sweet.” She slapped a credit card on the counter.

  “I can only take credit cards for transactions over ten dollars,” Nina said, inwardly shuddering at the thought of working the old click-clack machine that surely deserved a museum of its own.

  “Then charge me ten dollars for this thing,” the woman snapped. “Hurry up. I’ve got a long way to go.”

  Nina pulled a face as Madame Grumpy departed the shop. If she dared wrap those teeth around that apple, she’d never get them out. Nina laughed – a short cynical laugh. Silly woman!

  She took Miss Clapham’s recipe book from the mantle above the fire and scanned its pages between customers. When she shut the door at five minutes after four she stood for a long time in the little kitchen, staring at the range and the big cast iron pots.

  “It is impossible,” she murmured. “How can I ever keep a fire going and cook? And what am I to do if a customer comes in while I’m beating the fudge?” A sudden twisting in her gut gave her a more immediate worry. Where was the toilet? Please, oh please, let Miss Clapham have a nice clean flushing toilet.

  It was in a narrow outhouse, at the very back of the yard, with its door facing the hedge behind. Its gleaming porcelain bowl shone up at her. There was a cistern with a chain, and the floor was not quite covered with a piece of vinyl but Nina felt only relief. It was not a bucket beneath a wooden seat. She would not have to fend off buzzing blowflies or empty the bucket in the dead of night into the garden.

  Miss Clapham’s handwriting was clearly identifiable on the neat piece of cardboard stuck perpendicular to the toilet roll. ‘Psychiatry’s chief contribution to philosophy is the discovery the toilet is the seat of the soul.’

  As she tugged the chain, Nina allowed her thoughts to go where they would. As always, it was Greg who jumped from the edges of her mind right onto centre-stage. He would have loved this. He would have been a very useful pair of hands and feet too. He would be encouraging her to give it a go. All of it.

  *

  Miss Marilla Clapham poured herself a cup of strong black tea from the china teapot. She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into the teacup, and lifted it to her nose. Closing her eyes, she took four deep breaths. The aroma filled her nostrils and calmed her spirit. Taking a sip, she contemplated her options. She’d seen the girl; nobody would come looking for her. And when they did, she’d have done what she had to do.

  Chapter 9

  c. 2000BC, EGYPT: the earliest marshmallows are made by mixing honey with the root sap of the mallow plant that grows in marshes along the Nile.

  Laud Mayor leaned back in his chair, surveying the room. Wide kauri desk. Two uncomfortable and exceedingly ugly chairs across from his own enormous leather seat, intended to make visitors feel minimal and powerless. The cat, Siamese, stretched along the windowsill, soaking up the last of the day’s sunshine. An arrangement of dead flowers, stiff and stubbornly still upright, reflecting his own refusal to ‘please water the flowers’ as his housekeeper suggested in the little note she always tucked beneath his one hot meal of the week on the day she came to clean.

  “Please water the flowers,” Mayor Laud scoffed, and the cat stretched her claws, opened an insolent eye, and promptly closed it again. “Please water the flowers indeed. What is the woman thinking of?”

  Chapter 10

  c. 1200BC, INDIA: the tradition of serving sweets to guests begins – honey, sweet butter, condensed milk, and pieces of sugarcane; EGYPT: temple slaves make ‘honeycakes’, the first candies, from dates, seeds, and nuts, all rolled in honey.

  That evening, having discovered the aerial on his television wasn’t up to receiving anything other than food shows, Bryn took out the accounts and tried to find more than false cheer in the numbers. Honestly, the custom here was dreadful. Miss Clapham said little about the state of affairs, but he did wonder if maybe she had disappeared with the intention of finding a tactful and legitimate way of sacking him. He’d be sorry to think she could not approach him directly – he had thought their friendship could have withstood a serious discussion about the fate of a semi-joined business. Perhaps he should offer his resignation on her return, assuming she did not fire him the moment she dragged her suitcase from the back of her little car.

  Something kept him in this tired old village and he wasn’t sure what. Jen, after all, was long gone – it was three years now,
and Bryn knew people thought he ought to move on. But he didn’t want to. There was something about the sea and the trees and the birds and, yes, even the bees that kept him attached to the village that had been so lively in his youth.

  He’d gone away to earn a degree and he’d returned when he realised that Jen – the bane of his boyhood – was the one for him. She wouldn’t leave, and he couldn’t leave without her. There were no children, but they had dreamed of a tribe of boys and girls. It seemed only decent now to give these unborn infants the same growing up experience that he and Jen had had. His logic was a little bit mad, Bryn admitted, but for now here was where he wanted to be, so here he would stay.

  Anyway, if life had gone according to plan, he still wouldn’t have been able to provide the same childhood experience. The school was now closed, as was the campground that had once overflowed during the summer and brought life and colour to the village. The church stood silent and empty, with grass growing in its gutters and dandelions pressing up through the cracks in the carpark. Even the pub had closed – who had ever heard of a one-horse town with not even a pub to its name?