Last Orders at the Star and Sixpence

by Holly Hepburn

  ‘What?’ she asked, lowering her fork.

  ‘How much do you know about Laurie?’ Gabe asked, after a few seconds of silence. ‘I mean really know, other than what he’s told you?’

  Now it was Sam’s turn to frown. ‘I know we share a father. Why?’

  Gabe’s expression was brooding as he pushed the last few scraps of ham around his plate. ‘Just a feeling I have. A hunch that something is not quite right.’

  She stared at him. ‘What on earth do you mean? I know you don’t always see eye-to-eye, but, as I’ve said to you before, he’s still family. If there’s something going on, I need to know.’

  He avoided her gaze, concentrating instead on loading his fork. ‘It’s nothing. Forget I spoke.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sam demanded, her suspicions rising. She’d known Gabe still bore a grudge over Laurie’s interference in his food orders, but she’d assumed he was professional enough not to let it affect their working relationship. ‘Tell me.’

  There was a long silence, then Gabe sighed. ‘Like I said, nothing.’ He gestured to the clock on the wall. ‘Hadn’t you better hurry up? The marquee people will be arriving soon.’

  Much to her annoyance, Sam saw he was right. ‘We’ll come back to this,’ she told him, scooping up as much food as her fork could hold. ‘I won’t forget.’

  Gabe nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s fine. Maybe I’ll have something to tell you then.’

  He stood up and loaded his plate into the slender dishwasher before escaping downstairs, and Sam didn’t have time to dwell on the mystery as she was swept up into the hurly-burly of organising the Extravaganza.

  She barely saw Nessie, other than to share a harried look with her as they passed each other from time to time, and Laurie was nowhere to be seen; Sam assumed he was out in the village, dreaming up places to hide the chocolate eggs.

  ‘Where do you want this?’ Martha from the village bakery asked, her arms laden with the biggest simnel cake Sam had ever seen.

  ‘In the marquee, next to the Bake Off table,’ Sam replied, pointing to the bunting-festooned tent in the centre of the village green.

  Martha winked. ‘Maybe I’ll enter it into the Bake Off instead. I know Franny’s got her eye on the Star Baker award again this year.’

  Sam laughed. ‘You know you’re not eligible. Amateur bakers only – definitely not people who own a bakery. And certainly not the head judge!’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ Martha said, half-pouting. ‘It’d be worth it to see the look on Franny’s face when she realises she hasn’t won.’

  ‘But what would we put on the Guess the Weight of the Cake stall?’ Sam asked.

  ‘True,’ Martha sighed. ‘Ah well, I suppose I’ll just have to hope someone else bakes up a storm. It’s too bad Gabe isn’t eligible, either – I wouldn’t mind sampling his profiteroles, if you know what I mean.’

  Sam didn’t trust herself to respond to the blatant innuendo. ‘See you later for the judging.’

  The morning passed in a blur of activity, driving Sam from one job to the next and leaving her no time to feel tired. But by the time midday arrived, her aching calf muscles and tender back were telling her she’d done a full day’s work already; even so, she couldn’t relax until retired rocker Micky Holiday had cut the bright yellow ribbon and declared the Extravaganza open.

  Sam crossed the green to where Nessie stood watching proceedings with an air of worried preoccupation. ‘Come on. I think we’ve earned a coffee, don’t you?’

  The momentary hesitation on her sister’s face hurt Sam’s heart.

  ‘Only if you want to,’ she added. ‘I’m sure we’ve both got plenty to be getting on with.’

  ‘No,’ Nessie said quickly. ‘No, I could use a break. I’m sure you could too.’

  Sam couldn’t help noticing the way Nessie’s eyes stayed glued to her face, never straying down to her belly. She swallowed the sudden lump that formed in her throat. It was only natural that Nessie would be wounded by the pregnancy, but surely by now she should have accepted the reality of the situation? How much longer could they go on tiptoeing around, pretending everything was fine when it so clearly was not?

  Sam forced herself to smile. ‘Let’s do it later. I should probably check that Laurie hasn’t been mugged by chocolate-crazed kids anyway.’

  She walked away before Nessie could argue and took a deep lungful of fresh spring air to calm her jangling nerves. She wasn’t angry with her sister; how could she be? But she couldn’t help wondering how Nessie was going to cope when the baby arrived. Would she refuse to look at it then too?

  Sam found Laurie herding a cluster of village children around the green, searching out the eggs he’d hidden. Most of them were stood around the tree at the far end, gazing up at what looked a lot like a nest in the upper branches.

  ‘Really?’ Luke said as she approached, his freckled face perplexed. ‘Up there?’

  Laurie nodded. ‘Yep. The Easter Bunny left a whole bag of chocolate in those branches.’

  The reminder of the prize made Luke grin and he immediately started to look for a way up. ‘Challenge accepted!’

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Sam said, catching his arm as he stepped forward. ‘No trips to A&E today, thank you very much. If there are any eggs up there, they can stay there for the birds.’

  A chorus of disappointment rose from the assembled children.

  Sam gave Laurie a hard look. ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’

  He shrugged in a way that suggested he was bored. ‘Of course not. I was only messing with their heads.’

  But you were willing to let Luke climb up anyway, Sam thought, and something about his attitude reminded her of Gabe’s question earlier that morning: How much do you know about Laurie?

  ‘Connor could do with a hand in the cellar,’ she said, reaching a snap decision and offering a silent apology to her aching legs. ‘I’ll take over here.’

  If Laurie was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘Yes, boss.’

  Sam watched him amble towards the Star and Sixpence, then turned her attention to the children, who stood with their baskets in hand, awaiting directions. ‘I don’t know why you’re all staring at me,’ she said, grinning at their expectant faces. ‘I’ve got no idea where the eggs are. You’ll have to sniff them out!’

  Luke’s face lit up. ‘I bet I know where we can look. Follow me!’

  ‘Stay on the ground!’ Sam called as they scattered towards the war memorial. ‘No climbing!’

  Luke waved an arm to show he’d heard and led his hunters on the charge.

  Sam checked her watch; it was almost time for the Bake Off judging. With an inward sigh, she rubbed the small of her back and trudged towards the marquee. At least there was the promise of cake in her immediate future.

  Martha and Father Goodluck were already there, studying the entries and having whispered conversations behind their hands. Sam grinned as she noticed a number of tense-looking bakers hovering nearby; the Bake Off was a hotly contested competition, although Franny had won for the two years Sam had been involved. The postmistress was also standing near the table, but Sam knew from experience that she was watching out for foul play.

  ‘How’s it looking?’ Sam asked Martha and the vicar. ‘Any early front-runners?’

  Father Goodluck smiled. ‘There is one shaped like St Mary’s – if I was a cynical man, I’d suggest that was a shameless attempt to sway me.’

  Sam glanced at the table – there was an exquisite replica of the village church, complete with a towering steeple, gingerbread vicar and several sugar paste gravestones dotted around the base. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not all about presentation,’ Martha reminded her. ‘It has to taste good too. Many is the time I’ve bitten into an overbaked sponge that was drier than my Rob’s beard.’

  ‘That one looks delicious,’ Sam said, pointing to a comparatively modest cake covered in white icing and glacé cherries. ‘I wonder what it is.
’

  Martha peered at the label beside the plate. ‘Cherry Bakewell cake.’

  Sam’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that breakfast had been a long time ago.

  Father Goodluck gave her a look of amused sympathy. ‘Shall we start tasting?’

  An anxious hush settled over the marquee as Martha began to cut into the cakes. One by one, Sam and her fellow judges sampled each slice, commenting in undertones on the texture and flavour and deciding which cakes weren’t quite up to standard. By the end, they agreed on third place, but there was some debate over the winning entry.

  ‘It has to be the church,’ Sam said, glancing over at the now partially destroyed cake. There had been chocolate sponge inside the grey icing, with a secret surprise of tiny Tom Thumb drops that glistened like jewels.

  ‘It was clever,’ Martha conceded grudgingly. ‘And the sponge was very light and moist – not overloaded by the buttercream on the outside.’

  Father Goodluck reached out to pluck a morsel of the cherry Bakewell cake from his plate. ‘But this one was a little slice of heaven. An almond sponge, cherry jam in the middle and fondant icing on the top – it’s better than even Mr Kipling could manage.’

  Sam gave the cake a curious glance; Father Goodluck was right – it was exceptionally good. And there was definitely something to be said for a simpler idea, baked to total perfection. The church ticked all the right boxes for aesthetics and cleverness, but the cherry Bakewell just edged it in the taste tests.

  ‘Okay,’ she conceded to Martha. ‘I give in. The cherry Bakewell is the winner.’

  The other woman grinned. ‘You know it makes sense,’ she said, reaching into her folder for the winners’ labels. ‘And I’m pretty sure that means there’s an upset on the cards . . .’

  She turned to the assembled crowd and raised her voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, as always, the standard was exceptionally high in this year’s Little Monkham Bake Off. But the judges and I have reached a decision. In third place, we have this fantastic coffee and walnut cake.’

  There was a delighted shriek from Mrs Harris as Father Goodluck stood the third-place label beside her cake. Martha smiled and beckoned the grey-haired old woman forwards to stand next to the table.

  ‘In second place, we have this truly magnificent reconstruction of St Mary’s Church.’

  But there was no happy shout this time. Muffled whispering broke out and Sam felt her heart sink as she realised what that must mean: the church cake was Franny’s entry.

  ‘Could the baker who made this cake make themselves known?’ Martha called, in a tone so cheerful that Sam suspected she’d known all along who had baked that particular entry.

  Grudgingly, Franny stepped forwards and joined Mrs Harris, ignoring the other woman’s excitedly proffered handshake. Father Goodluck’s smile slipped a little as he slotted the second-place label onto the table.

  ‘And in first place, we have this delicious cherry Bakewell cake,’ Martha went on. ‘All the judges agreed that it tasted as wonderful as it looked.’

  There was an excited squeak that made Sam’s jaw drop; Ruby was the last person she’d expect to produce a cake like that, especially since she’d always maintained life was too short to bake when the delights of Martha’s shop were only a few minutes’ walk from home. But then Ruby stepped aside and Sam saw the look of pink-cheeked pride on the face of Micky Holiday and the penny dropped. Ruby hadn’t baked the cake; her rock star boyfriend had.

  A shout of laughter beside her told Sam that Martha had worked out the truth too. ‘Congratulations, Micky!’ she called, stepping forwards to shake his hand. ‘Who knew that the lead singer of the Flames was also a star baker?’

  Beaming with pleasure, Micky took his place beside Franny and Mrs Harris. And Sam was entertained to see that Franny seemed to be having some kind of internal battle; on one hand, she was furious at coming second, but, on the other, she was a besotted fan of Micky’s. It must be hard for her to decide which emotion came out on top. And then she seemed to reach some kind of conclusion, because she threw her arms around Micky and planted a big kiss full on his lips.

  Grinning, Sam joined the three winners. ‘The local paper will want to take a photo,’ she murmured to Micky. ‘Especially now you’ve come out as being a bit handy with a spatula. Would you rather I made an excuse? I don’t mind.’

  Micky laughed. ‘Once a PR, always a PR, eh, Sam?’

  ‘I always look after my clients,’ she replied, patting his arm. ‘Even when they’ve retired.’

  ‘Did you like the cake?’ he asked, and Sam thought she detected the faintest hint of nervousness behind the words.

  ‘Loved it,’ Sam said, without hesitation. ‘Although I can’t imagine where you got the recipe. Did you win it in a poker match or something?’

  ‘Nah,’ Micky replied. ‘I stayed at this old house in Yorkshire last year – Ponden Hall – and the owner served that cake up for tea. I knew by then that I wanted to slow down a bit, stop touring and find somewhere to settle down, so I figured I’d get the recipe and give it a whirl when I had more time.’

  ‘You certainly did that,’ Sam said, with a laugh that was both incredulous and admiring. From the corner of her eye, she saw the photographer hovering. ‘So how do you feel about the world knowing you’re a master baker?’

  Micky dropped her a knowing wink. ‘Believe me, I’ve been called a lot worse.’

  *

  It was much later. The village green was clear once more, both of chocolate eggs and the family of stalls and tents that had sprung up earlier in the day. The cakes were long gone, devoured by appreciative friends and neighbours, and the weight of Martha’s monster simnel cake had been more or less guessed. A few stalwart villagers, including Franny, Henry, Ruby and Micky, were sitting in front of the Star and Sixpence fireplace, which neither Sam nor Nessie had found the time to light. Gabe had left the kitchens to join them and Laurie was sitting off to one side, nursing a pint of Thirsty Bishop. The conversation was gentle and warm; Franny seemed to have forgotten her disappointment in not winning the Bake Off and was cheerfully sharing culinary tips with Micky.

  Sam let the chatter flow over her, stifling a yawn as she leaned very slightly into Gabe beside her. He looked tired too, although she suspected he wore his exhaustion much better than she did; he’d worked flat out all day to ensure the pub’s diners left full and satisfied and yet she could still picture him heading out for a night on the town. Whereas all Sam could think of was her bed.

  ‘I think we can chalk today down as a success,’ Nessie said, swirling her red wine around her glass and smiling. ‘None of the children overdosed on chocolate, at least.’

  Laurie let out a barely concealed snort. ‘No thanks to Sam.’

  Ruby stopped listening to Franny’s conversation with Micky and turned her head to stare at Laurie.

  Sam blinked in confusion. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ he said. ‘I had the kids running all over the village on wild goose chases, looking for eggs where there weren’t any. But then Sam came along and basically gave the whole game away.’

  ‘Because you were encouraging them to climb trees and disturb birds’ nests,’ she pointed out. ‘Neither of which is safe or kind behaviour.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Nessie asked Laurie, frowning.

  He shrugged. ‘I might have suggested there were eggs in the trees, but I wasn’t actually going to let them climb up to check. Sam totally overreacted.’

  Franny was listening now too. ‘There are some rare breeds of birds who nest in those trees. I would have been very upset if they’d been damaged as part of a game.’

  Laurie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t going to let the kids go up to check. It was just a bit of fun.’

  ‘But it’s not the kind of behaviour we like to encourage in Little Monkham,’ she said severely, in a tone that made Sam want to wince.

>   ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Laurie muttered. ‘Because that might involve fun.’

  A deep frown of displeasure creased Franny’s forehead; clearly she wasn’t going to let the matter go without making her outrage clear. ‘Samantha was quite right to stop you, Laurence. Someone could have been hurt.’

  ‘But no one was,’ he said, his voice growing louder.

  ‘Thanks to Samantha,’ Franny insisted. She fanned her face with one hand and Sam noticed a fine layer of sweat had started to bead on her upper lip.

  ‘Are you too warm, Franny?’ Sam asked. ‘Can I get you some water?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Franny snapped, glaring at Laurie. ‘If some people would stop throwing toddler tantrums when they get told off then I’d be a lot better.’

  Laurie let out an incredulous laugh. ‘Tantrums? You’ve got a nerve, after the way you acted when you didn’t win first prize earlier. All the toys came out of the pram – I thought you were going to punch poor Micky here.’

  ‘That’s enough, Laurie,’ Nessie said firmly. ‘Let’s not ruin a lovely day with an argument.’

  His gaze whipped around to her, and Sam saw the flash of something cross his face. ‘I don’t know why you’re pretending to care so much – you’re leaving!’

  Ruby gasped and Sam felt as if she’d been punched in the chest. She twisted around to stare at Nessie. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Nessie said, but her suddenly rosy cheeks told a different story. ‘It’s just—’

  ‘She’s been headhunted by McBride Breweries,’ Laurie went on, spreading his hands. ‘She made me promise not to tell you, but I’ve seen the letter and it’s all there in black and white. They’re offering her a fortune to go and work for them.’

  Franny made an odd wheezing sound and Sam thought she knew exactly how she felt. ‘Nessie, is this true?’

  ‘Partly,’ her sister admitted, with a wretched look at the stunned faces around her. ‘But I wasn’t going to take the job. I mean, how could I?’

  Her gaze came to rest on Sam’s bump for the first time and Sam understood.