Angel Cake

by Angel Cake (epub)

  ‘You see?’ Frankie says to me. ‘Told you he’d be OK! You worry too much!’ Kurt just grins and puts an arm round my shoulders, squeezing gently.

  Karen Carney has tied on an apron and bustled into the kitchen. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you, Klaudia, for what you’ve done,’ she says. ‘Oh… those cakes look amazing! Shall I ice them, do you think?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s under control,’ Mum assures her. ‘We can manage. Sit down, I will make you some tea…’

  Dan’s mum laughs. ‘Thanks, Klaudia, but I need to keep busy – until James brings Dan back home, anyway. You’ve all been fantastic, but please, let me help!’

  When Mum ices a cake, she just blankets it with a layer of sweet, white icing and adds a ribbon round the sides. When Dan’s mum does it, it’s a work of art. On one, she piles white icing up round the edges like drifts of snow, with a perfect white snowflake piped on top, delicate as lace, dusted with silver. On the other she moulds a leaping reindeer, pulling a sleigh piled high with bright, beautiful 3-D presents.

  ‘They are beautiful,’ Mum breathes. ‘You have a real talent, Karen. It’s a shame we didn’t make more – I thought we’d sell them in slices, but these I think we could sell whole, to take away…’

  As I slide the cakes in behind the display counter, an elderly woman, paying for her order, opens her eyes wide. ‘Those cakes are wonderful!’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them! I was planning to get a Christmas cake from the supermarket, but… well, I don’t suppose I could have one of these?’

  Ringo grins. ‘You could indeed. These cakes are handbaked, packed with fruit and spices, and individually iced by a true artist. You won’t get anything like them, anywhere in the city!’

  ‘How much are they?’ the elderly lady asks.

  ‘I’ll just check…’ I go through to the kitchen to ask.

  ‘What do you think?’ Karen Carney frowns. ‘Is ten pounds too much?’

  ‘Not enough!’ Mum says. ‘We could charge fifteen, twenty maybe!’

  But when I go back through to the counter, it’s too late – Ringo has opened his mouth and put his foot in it. ‘They’re twenty-five pounds each,’ he tells the woman, and my heart sinks. Who pays twenty-five pounds for a cake, especially in the middle of a recession? Ringo doesn’t seem to care. ‘They’re artisan cakes, each one unique,’ he blusters on. ‘Baked to a secret family recipe, hand-iced… a real one-off, luxury product.’

  ‘I’ll take the reindeer one,’ the woman says.

  Ringo smiles as he lifts it into a cake box and ties it up with a flourish of curly ribbon. Half an hour later, the snowflake cake has sold too, to a young woman. ‘I’m getting married in April,’ she explains. ‘It’s not a big wedding, but I want it to be special. Personal. Do you make wedding cakes to order?’

  Karen Carney blinks. ‘Wedding cakes?’ she echoes. ‘Yes, yes, we can do that!’ Karen scribbles her name and phone number on to the cake box, and the woman thanks her and leaves smiling.

  ‘Wow!’ Dan’s mum says. ‘Fifty pounds for two cakes – and all thanks to you, Klaudia!’

  ‘For a wedding cake, you could charge a hundred and fifty pounds, two hundred maybe,’ Mum points out. ‘That is where the big money is. People will always spend on special occasions, one-off events.’

  ‘A couple of orders like that in a week would keep us going,’ Karen agrees. ‘I could make little frosted cupcakes as wedding favours too. I’d never have managed without you today – all of you! Keeping the cafe open was the very last thing on my mind, yet we’ve probably taken more money than ever before…’

  ‘No worries,’ Ringo says.

  ‘We were glad to help,’ Kurt adds. ‘Payback time for all the free cakes!’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Mum shrugs. ‘Just like the bakery back in Krakow, but much more fun!’

  ‘You worked in a bakery?’ Karen blinks.

  ‘It’ll be back to the bakery soon,’ Mum says. ‘If they will have me. The last few weeks have been very bad for Jozef ’s business. It’s all over for us in Liverpool.’

  ‘Oh, Klaudia, no!’ Karen says.

  ‘You can’t go!’ Frankie bursts in. ‘That’s just not fair! Anya doesn’t want to go!’ She drags a hand across her eyes, leaving a trail of smudged eyeliner.

  ‘There is nothing to be done,’ Mum sighs. ‘I am sorry, Frankie. We all are. But now… well, there are no options left to us. Come, Anya, Kazia – we should be getting back. We have a meal to prepare…’

  ‘We’ll never forget you, Anya,’ Frankie says. ‘We’re friends forever, right? The three of us.’

  My friends fold me up in a three-way hug, and that’s bad, because suddenly my throat aches and my eyes sting and I think I might cry.

  Karen hugs Mum too. ‘Thanks for today,’ she says. ‘You’ve been a real friend. And I’m sorry, so sorry, about Krakow.’ She presses a cake box into Mum’s hands, a £20 note tucked under the ribbon.

  ‘No, no…’ Mum protests, so Karen hands the cake box to me, and Mum doesn’t argue any more.

  Just as we’re getting our hats and scarves on, the door jingles and an old man comes in. He’s small and round, with rosy cheeks and a bushy white beard, and the minute Kazia sees him her face lights up. ‘It’s Santa!’ she squeals. ‘From the grotto!’

  ‘Oh, Kazia, it’s just a nice gentleman,’ Mum hushes her, but when I look again at the old man I wonder if Kazia is right. He looks very familiar, and didn’t Ben give the Santa from the grotto a voucher for free cakes?

  Then again, I guess that every plump old bearded guy gets mistaken for Santa at this time of year.

  ‘Come on, girls,’ Mum says. ‘It’s Christmas Eve! What are we waiting for?’

  We step out into the cold air just as the first flakes of snow begin to fall.

  Back in Poland, Christmas Eve is the main part of the Christmas celebrations. We have our own traditions, our own style of doing things, and it doesn’t involve turkey or chocolate yule log or stockings hung over the fireplace. It’s just as well, as we can’t afford turkey or yule log, and we don’t have a fireplace, just radiators that cough and splutter and rattle in the night.

  It doesn’t matter – we like it our way.

  Mum dives into the supermarket on Aigburth Road, stocking up on basics, spending the extra £20. Then we go home, the snow falling softly around us as we walk.

  Dad is there already. ‘It’s finished,’ he tells Mum quietly. ‘The office is tidy now, the keys handed in. All over.’

  ‘Oh, Jozef,’ she sighs, and the two of them hug for a long moment. I see Dad’s eyes shine with tears and I have to look away.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Yip,’ Dad goes on, and his voice is creaky and strange, as if he doesn’t quite trust it to hold out. ‘Told him the rent situation. When the money comes from your mum and dad, Klaudia, we’ll pay him. I promised. Even before the air tickets. He’s a reasonable man – he’ll wait. He wished us happier times ahead.’

  ‘There will be,’ Mum sighs. ‘There have to be.’

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Dad grins then, and his voice is strong and bright and brisk again, and the shine in his eyes is just that, a shine, nothing more. ‘It’s Christmas Eve! Everything starts fresh tonight… we’ll put old troubles behind us! Girls, have you looked closely at the tree?’

  Beneath the thick green branches, a clutch of brightly wrapped parcels have appeared – presents! Kazia pounces on them, grinning. ‘This one’s for you, Anya…’ She hands me one that’s kind of shoebox-shaped. I start to smile, imagining red shoes, sparkly shoes, shiny, pretty shoes. Oh, I wish!

  ‘So… one present, each, to unwrap?’ Dad says. ‘Nothing will spoil our Christmas Eve, hey, girls?’

  Kazia goes straight for the biggest parcel, tearing at the paper, and I open mine. Sure enough, there are shoes… not red or sparkly or spike-heeled, but soft black suede with little heels and delicate ankle straps. Perfect.

  ‘I love them!’ I tell Mum and
Dad.

  Kazia’s present, though, takes my breath away. It’s a wooden dolls’ house, painted in glossy red and white with pink roses climbing up the walls. It’s exactly like the house I once imagined we’d live in, but in miniature.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ Kazia breathes, her eyes wide. ‘You see? Santa knew!’

  I think that the dolls’ house might have more to do with Dad. He made me a Noah’s Ark when I was small, with tiny carved figures of Noah and his wife and two of every kind of animal I could think of. Even after he went away, he’d carve and paint animals and send them to Kazia and me, obscure animals we’d never even thought of, like buffalo, racoons, llamas.

  The dolls’ house, though, that’s something else. It must have taken months to make, with a front wall that opens up to reveal the rooms inside, each one painted and carpeted and fitted with tiny tables, chairs and beds.

  I imagine Dad working on the house, secretly, at the office. I imagine him painting little red window frames and shading in the roof tiles, adding in the climbing roses curling up the shiny white walls, and then coming home to this sad little flat above the chippy. When Dad decided to make a dolls’ house for Kazia, he clearly had no plans to go back to Krakow. I imagine packing the dolls’ house up with bubble wrap and cardboard, ready to ship to Poland. It’s going to be kind of awkward.

  Mum is preparing food for the Christmas Eve feast: beetroot soup with mushroom dumplings, herring in sour cream, spiced cabbage and flat, golden wafer bread. She opens up the cake box Karen gave her to reveal a chocolate layer cake drizzled with runny white frosting.

  ‘So kind,’ Mum smiles. ‘I will miss Karen. Kazia, Anya, will you set the table? The cloth’s in the drawer, candles too.’

  Kazia runs to get them, the big white cloth we’ve used for Christmas Eve ever since I can remember, and the box of cheap white candles from the local supermarket. We had red candles back in Krakow, tall, twisty ones, but this year we can make do.

  I push the sofa back against the wall and Kazia and I drag the kitchen table out into the centre of the living room, so we can take our time and stay warm while we feast. It’s traditional to sprinkle a little hay underneath the cloth to remind us of the stable, so Kazia borrows some from the bag Kurt brought for Cheesy. We smooth the cloth over the top, arrange the candles on saucers and set five places for people to eat.

  There is always an extra place at the table on Christmas Eve, in case an unexpected visitor arrives. It brings good luck, and it’s a ritual we never forget, although guests are rare on Christmas Eve in Poland. It’s a family time, and of course our family are far away in Krakow – Gran, Grandad, Uncle Zarek, Aunt Petra. Still, traditions count.

  Darkness is falling as Mum sets out the food, an odd number of dishes for luck. Usually there are thirteen dishes, but this year money is tight and it’s only five. I can’t help thinking that the table looks bare and empty compared to last year, when every space was filled with bowls and platters heaped with rich, steaming, festive food. There’s no point, though, in thinking that way, today of all days.

  ‘Any sign yet?’ Dad calls.

  ‘Not yet…’ Kazia is stationed at the window, looking out for the first star of the evening. As the youngest child, this is her special task. I remember when it was my job… I’d be at the window the moment dusk threatened, watching so hard, willing the sky to darken, longing to see the first bright star of Christmas.

  In Liverpool, the sky has a dull orange glow and it’s snowing steadily now. Spotting the lamp post across the street will be a challenge, let alone the first star, but suddenly Kazia whoops, jumping up and down. ‘I saw it, I saw it!’ she insists. ‘I saw the Christmas star!’

  That’s all we need for the feast to begin, and Mum lights the candles and Dad breaks the golden wafer bread and reminds us that now all grudges will be put behind us, all troubles are over. Dad is dishing out beetroot soup and dumplings when the doorbell rings.

  ‘Who is this?’ Mum asks. ‘At this time…?’

  Dad is on his feet.

  ‘Unexpected guest,’ he says, and goes to see who it could be.

  There are seven dishes on the table now. Our landlord, Mr Yip, worried after Dad’s visit earlier, has brought some deep-fried sausage and chips up for us.

  ‘Christmas is a special time,’ he says. ‘I don’t celebrate it myself, but I know what the spirit of Christmas is all about. I won’t have you going hungry at this time of year. As for the rent, I’ve talked it through with the wife. There’ll be no rent due this month, none at all. Didn’t you fix the broken window and mend the kitchen cupboard, put new shelves up in the bathroom?’

  Dad smiles. ‘Thank you, Mr Yip,’ he says simply. ‘You have no idea how much that means. Please, stay with us this evening, share our meal, help us to celebrate Christmas.’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Mr Yip grins.

  Mum is dishing up herring with chips on the side when the doorbell rings again. She blinks, setting an extra place at the table hastily just as Dad opens the door.

  ‘Tomasz! Stefan!’ Two young men shuffle in, stamping the snow from their boots, talking in Polish. They clap Dad on the back and set vodka, fruit and chocolates down on the table. They are two of Dad’s best workers, loyal to the end.

  ‘You paid us every week, even though we knew it came from your own pocket,’ Tomasz says. ‘We’re grateful.’

  ‘We know what it’s like to be far from home at Christmas,’ Stefan adds. ‘We wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas, and a prosperous New Year…’

  Before they can sit down, the doorbell rings again. ‘Who now?’ Dad puzzles. ‘So many visitors!’

  Mum ushers Karen Carney into the room, her coat starred with snow. She is carrying Dad’s Christmas castle with its shining towers and bright painted patterns, still draped with Christmas lights from its stay in Heaven’s big bay window. I’m glad to see Karen, really I am, but I can’t help wishing Dan was with her.

  ‘You said it would bring good luck, and I truly think it did,’ she says, setting the castle down beside the window. ‘I thought it was important to make sure it was back where it belongs for Christmas, with all of you…’

  Mum plugs in the fairy lights and the whole thing glimmers brightly in the darkened room. ‘It’s lovely,’ she smiles. ‘Thank you for bringing it back, Karen. Please join us… all of you! Eat! Enjoy!’

  The meal has turned into a kind of buffet, with everyone crowding around, filling their plates, eating with forks and spoons and teaspoons, mixing chips with spiced cabbage and deep-fried sausage with mushroom dumplings.

  ‘Dan is home!’ Karen tells us, in between mouthfuls. ‘James brought him back an hour ago. We talked and talked, all of us together, cleared the air a little. James won’t be coming back, but that’s for the best, I can see that now. And me and Dan… well, we’ll be OK.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I dare to ask.

  ‘He fell asleep, right there on the sofa – he had no sleep at all last night, and he must have walked twenty miles today, looking for his dad’s place. He was worn out. He doesn’t know, Anya, about you going back to Krakow. I’ll tell him in the morning. He’ll be very upset, I know. But right now he needs to rest, and James is staying a while to spend some time with Ben and Nate, so I thought I’d call over and thank you all properly for today.’

  I’m glad, of course, that Dan is home. I’m glad he is sleeping, curled up on the sofa with his dad nearby. But I wish he was here, I really, really do, even if it’s just to say goodbye.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re leaving,’ Karen is saying. ‘I know, Jozef, how hard it is to keep a business afloat at a time like this. I know that you don’t really want to go back to Krakow, and I had an idea –’

  ‘An idea?’ Dad frowns.

  ‘Klaudia, you could come to work at the cafe!’ Karen suggests. ‘You could help me make designer cakes for birthdays and weddings! I couldn’t pay as much as the hotel, but we could build the business together…’
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  Mum’s eyes shine. ‘We’re a good team,’ she says.

  Dad clears his throat. ‘Karen, it’s a wonderful offer,’ he says. ‘But it’s not enough. We’ve lost everything, there’s nothing left. I’ve spoken to my old boss in Krakow, and he will find a place for me in the team, even after all this time. I have to take it.’

  ‘Jozef was a joiner,’ Mum explains. ‘A real craftsman.’

  ‘I can see that from the szopka castle,’ Karen nods. ‘There was an old bloke in the cafe this afternoon, asking about that…’

  ‘Really?’ Dad asks, surprised. ‘Still, I could never sell it, it’s special to our family. Now… let’s put all of that aside, yes? It’s Christmas Eve! I for one would like a slice of this wonderful chocolate cake…’

  The party breaks up after ten. There are hugs and Happy Christmas wishes and then, as soon as they appeared, our visitors are gone.

  ‘We have more friends here than we know,’ Mum says, her eyes soft and misty. ‘So kind, so unexpected…’

  ‘It will be hard to leave these good people,’ Dad agrees. ‘But I don’t see any other way.’

  And the doorbell rings again.

  Mum looks at the table, a wasteground of empty bowls and dishes, with barely a crumb of food left. ‘There’s nothing left to offer!’ she panics. Dad puts an arm round her, and I move to clear the dishes, so it’s Kazia who walks over and opens the door.

  ‘Oh!’ she says. ‘It’s you! I thought you’d never get here!’ She leads an elderly man with a bushy white beard into the room.

  ‘You see?’ Kazia is saying. ‘I told you he’d come! It’s Santa! He’ll fix everything!’

  Dad steps forward, frowning. ‘Sorry… have we met?’

  The old man smiles, and I realize he does look familiar – he’s the old guy Kazia mistook for Santa in the cafe earlier.

  ‘Not yet,’ he says to Dad. ‘I have met your charming daughter before, though I didn’t realize… down at the grotto in town…’ He drops his voice to a whisper, so that Kazia can’t hear. ‘Their regular Santa had a flu bug, and I stepped in at the last minute as a favour to a friend.’