The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  I shook my head.

  ‘An apple,’ she said in disgust, popping her glasses back on.

  ‘Fresh fruit is far better than sugary cakes,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘One apple.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘To share. A bite for her and a bite for me. So embarrassing. I used to think that that girl must have been so rich to have a snack like that.’

  My heart went out to her; I could just imagine her and her sister looking longingly at Cake Girl over their apple core.

  ‘And really, how much does it cost to whip up a few fairy cakes and make them pretty?’ Pixie shrugged. ‘So that’s what I want to do from now on. Make food that looks as good as it tastes. Or better perhaps, in my case.’

  ‘Pixie, you are such a hard worker, I have no doubt you can achieve anything you set your mind to. And I’m sure you already impress Tom.’

  She pulled a sceptical face.

  ‘There’s nothing Gloria doesn’t know about making food look lovely,’ I said, inclining my head to the office where Gloria had just gone for a sit-down. ‘She was a food stylist, remember. Go and pick her brains.’

  While I go and pay the ultra-fit Chloe a visit, I added to myself. I nipped back to the office, collected my phone and a notepad, checked Gloria was comfy and passed Mags badgering Dave.

  ‘Hey, good looking, what you got cooking?’ She peered into his mixing bowl, stuck a finger in the pale yellow mixture and tasted it.

  Dave hastily shoved a sheet of paper under a bag of flour. ‘It’s, er . . .’ he began croakily. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘It’s top secret.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mags, sounding injured. ‘In that case, I’ll be in the office.’ And she swept off to sit with Gloria.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Dave, pulling a face.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, patting his arm. ‘I’m sure it’ll be worth it.’

  Chloe was humming to herself as she greased two cake-pop tins when I went over to her station.

  ‘Chloe, isn’t it?’ I said, making a show of reading the name badge on her vest top. ‘Do you mind if I take your picture for Facebook?’

  ‘Verity? Course you can, we can do a selfie if you like?’ She beamed rather disarmingly at me, wiped her hands on a cloth and pressed herself to me ready for a close-up.

  ‘No, just a shot of you will be fine,’ I said, easing myself away.

  She giggled. ‘Pixie is always going on about you lot here, about all your funny little ways.’

  I raised my eyebrows, not sure if I wanted to know what she meant.

  ‘So,’ I said with my best welcoming smile while I snapped away, ‘what brought you here today?’

  Chloe’s smile faltered. She began sifting flour into a glass bowl and glanced sideways at me.

  ‘I’m here because I want to make my son proud of me.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said, jotting a note on my pad.

  ‘Every couple of months at nursery they have a little cake sale. I used to just take in a packet of chocolate mini rolls or something, just to show willing, you know. But then we had a letter come home saying no shop-bought stuff allowed.’

  ‘How ridiculous.’

  ‘I know, yeah? So I did my best, made a batch of butterfly cakes and took them in. They got a bit squashed on the bus because I didn’t have a tin big enough so I had to use a tray covered in tin foil. Bloody nightmare.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘As I got closer to nursery the foil wouldn’t stop flapping in the chuffin’ wind. Helen . . .’ Chloe paused to point out the yummy mummy I’d spotted earlier in the Cath Kidston dress. ‘Her over there, she pulled up in her big flash car, lifted some white cardboard boxes out of the boot, the sort you get at a cake shop. And as I got level with her car the foil lifted and there were my butterfly cakes, all smashed up like they’d been punched, and you know what she said?’

  Chloe’s voice had lowered to a whisper and her lips were pursed like she might cry.

  I shook my head mutely.

  ‘She laughed and said, “Oh bless.” I felt that big.’ She pinched her thumb and forefinger together.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I didn’t let her see me cry, I took my boy into nursery and dumped the squashed cakes at the back where nobody would see them and I’ve been practising baking ever since.’

  ‘Well done you for not being defeated by her,’ I said. This Helen sounded like a terrible snob.

  ‘So now I’m going to make my boy proud,’ Chloe said with a gleam in her eye. ‘And I’ve bought some new cake tins.’

  I took one more photo of her cracking eggs over a bowl and then left her to it.

  Before long I arrived at Helen’s workstation. She seemed to have had some sort of accident with the flour, or maybe the icing sugar. Either way, everything was coated in white powder, including her lovely dress.

  ‘What’s that girl making?’ she hissed, pulling me to one side and gesturing towards Chloe with her head.

  ‘I couldn’t tell from what she’s done so far,’ I replied. Which was true.

  ‘I’m sure I spotted ice-cream cones in her bag,’ said Helen, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘What if she has?’ I sniffed, thinking that if Helen was going to be snooty about Chloe’s choice of ingredients then I was going to nip it in the bud straight away.

  ‘It won’t matter anyway,’ she said with a heartfelt sigh. She dropped a whole packet of butter into a pan of boiling water. ‘Chloe can make anything look good. Even her squashed butterfly cakes tasted delicious.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Her little boy is at the same nursery as my daughter,’ she explained. ‘We both made cakes for a cake sale. Mine tasted like cardboard and hers were as light as a feather.’

  I suppressed a smile, making a mental note to tell Chloe, and lifted my phone up in camera-mode. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, brushing the powder off her dress halfheartedly for the picture. ‘I think I try so hard to make nice cakes that I beat all the life out of them. My little girl gets through beakers of milk when she tries to swallow my sponge. But Chloe . . .’ Helen gazed at her rival. ‘Seriously, that girl can’t put a foot wrong. She’s so naturally beautiful. Do you know I don’t think she even wears foundation? Flawless skin, absolutely flawless. And as for her figure, she’d look good in a paper bag. Her son has the most adorable manners I’ve ever come across and my husband fancies the pants off her. I envy her so much.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell her, then?’ I said softly, thinking that with a bit of prodding these two could be friends.

  Helen gave a sigh. ‘I’ve tried to be friendly towards her but she just seems to take it the wrong way. I’d really like, just the once, to do something to impress her.’

  I began to laugh. ‘Helen, you won’t believe this, but I think she feels pretty much the same about you.’

  ‘Me, but . . .’ She blinked at me furiously. ‘Really?’

  I looked through the white flour and icing sugar haze and caught Chloe shooting worried glances in our direction.

  ‘Look, I’ve got an idea,’ I said with a sudden flash of inspiration.

  The person sharing an oven with Chloe had already complained that she’d prefer to be near a window because of her hot flushes, so it wasn’t difficult to persuade her to swap with Helen.

  Chloe glared at me when I helped Helen move her things across. ‘You are kidding?’ she muttered.

  ‘Trust me on this,’ I whispered, ‘and go easy on her, her husband is apparently your biggest fan. After Helen herself, that is.’

  Her eyes flickered at that and she smiled stoically as Helen began to unpack her ingredients again.

  ‘Oh, my word,’ I heard Helen say as I left them to it, ‘those roses are adorable. How did you do those?’

  Oh, I’m good, I mused, smiling to myself. I should be some sort of ambassador for world peace . . .

  By the time the contestants had had their allotted three hours, the air was filled with t
he mouth-watering aroma of vanilla, cinnamon, ginger and lemon, mixed with the irresistible smell of freshly baked sponge cake. Mags ushered them all downstairs for a well-earned cup of tea and one of Tom’s delicious petits-fours, giving us the chance to look at all the finished cakes.

  ‘Look at this three-tiered thing covered with glitter,’ said Pixie.

  ‘Hmm, very sparkly,’ I agreed. ‘What about this one?’

  I pointed to a gingerbread house studded with hundreds of different types of sweets.

  ‘It’s a good job smells don’t have any calories,’ murmured Gloria dreamily as she passed me on the way to the front. ‘Otherwise I’d pop.’

  She’d abandoned the wheelchair because she couldn’t see anything, she’d claimed. So she was hobbling on her crutches and I held my breath, hoping that she didn’t slip on any greasy blobs on the floor.

  ‘Dave’s looks interesting,’ said Pixie with a grin.

  I joined her to look at it. It was tall and round and covered in meringue that he’d browned with a blowtorch.

  ‘Some sort of baked Alaska?’ I guessed.

  Pixie shrugged. ‘Don’t know but it’s a beast.’

  Chloe had made a row of cake pops in the shape of roses in pots. She’d made the pots from flat-bottomed ice-cream cones and the red roses themselves were beautifully decorated in ornate icing and edged with glitter.

  But the winner wasn’t hard to spot. A lady called Carey had recreated the tea party from Alice in Wonderland in cake form. The circular cake had a table in the centre set with tiny teacups and plates piled high with party food. There was even a dormouse peeping out of a teapot. Everything was made from fondant icing in vivid colours and each detail was true to the story. It was the most intricate and beautiful cake I’d ever seen and even Tom was hesitant to cut into it for spoiling the look of it.

  ‘Some of these cakes are incredible,’ he said to me as he wielded a knife over a giant cupcake iced to look like a basket of flowers. His eyes glittered with possibilities. ‘And today has sparked off loads of ideas. I can’t wait to get in the kitchen and do some experimenting.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ I smiled, happy to see him so enthusiastic. He was a chef first and foremost, not a cookery school teacher. And while he might stay here for a while, his heart would always beat for the frenetic pace of a restaurant kitchen. The cookery school simply didn’t test his skills like fine dining did and I’d just have to accept that. I rested my hand lightly on his arm and squeezed. ‘Your eyes dance when you’re happy, it’s good to see.’

  We smiled at each other and for a second the noise of the room faded away until Gloria coughed loudly and asked Tom to cut her a sliver of Dave’s creation.

  Pixie dragged me off to see Helen’s towering croquembouche laced with spun sugar and decorated with tiny fresh flowers. I didn’t know what she had been worried about; it was amazing. Pixie and I snapped a loose piece of caramel off the side of the plate and licked our fingers like guilty kids in the corner.

  Once Gloria and Tom had dutifully cut into and tasted everyone’s entries, Pixie was dispatched to bring the contestants back up to hear the result.

  Half an hour later, Carey had sobbed with joy and made the longest winner’s speech outside of the Oscars. And for a short while the contestants lingered, chatting and tasting each other’s cakes. When they finally left, I spotted Chloe and Helen laughing and talking away across the car park, at which point Helen had pointed to a black Range Rover and both women had jumped in.

  Dave was still mooching about, taking an age to pack his things away.

  ‘Are you sad you didn’t win, Dave?’ Pixie asked, leaning her elbows on his workstation.

  ‘Not at all, I’ve had a lovely day.’ He grinned.

  ‘Well, I’m sure your special lady will appreciate it,’ said Mags with a sniff, examining her nails.

  Dave turned as pink as Mags’s dress.

  ‘I hope so, Mags, because this is a raspberry and lemon cloud cake. I chose this recipe because it reminded me of someone I admire greatly. The lemon is sweet but with a delicious sharpness, which makes me all of a tingle. The swirly meringue on the outside reminds me of her lovely hair, all feminine and swept up like every day is a celebration. And the cloud part . . .’ He cleared his throat and shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Well, it’s because when I’m with her I feel like I’m on cloud nine.’

  My chest heaved hopefully; that was the longest speech I’d ever heard him make. I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  ‘Who is this virtuous creature?’ said Mags sourly.

  ‘Oh and lastly,’ he added, reaching for her hand, ‘I’ve used the raspberries to represent your lovely red nails.’

  ‘My nails . . . Me? You made this cake for me?’ Mags stuttered, looking down at their joined hands.

  He nodded, a wide smile spreading across his face.

  ‘Oh Dave, come here.’ Mags puckered up and launched herself at him.

  ‘I think this makes me the winner,’ said Dave in a muffled voice, barely visible through a sea of pink chiffon.

  Chapter 26

  On Thursday afternoon Gloria gathered us in the Aga kitchen for a meeting. Even though the cookery school had been operational for a week and a half, we hadn’t had a chance to sit down together since the open day. And after two days of competitions and this morning’s Chinese Cuisine for Beginners, it was a relief to have the cookery school to ourselves for a few hours.

  It was a warm afternoon and Mags had smothered her freckly shoulders and nose in sun cream in the hope that we could sit outside, but Gloria was suffering with a headache so we’d compromised. The doors to the deck were open wide, letting in a gentle breeze, and we’d turned the tables from a lecture-room style to a more convivial meeting-room arrangement.

  ‘Probably as well,’ Tom joked, pouring water from a jug topped with ice cubes and lemon slices into several glasses. ‘I trade on my pale and interesting look.’

  I grinned at him as he handed me a glass; he was so white that his skin was almost blue. ‘You told me you were the outdoors type.’

  ‘I am – my complexion just didn’t get the memo; five minutes in the sun and my shins look like streaky bacon.’

  ‘Ooh, bacon,’ Pixie moaned, clutching her stomach. ‘Don’t, I’m starving.’

  ‘Have a spring roll,’ I laughed, pushing the plate of extras from this morning’s course across the table to her. ‘You’ll pass out at this rate.’

  Since meeting Cheryl, Pixie had decided that the love handles (her words) had to go and had imposed an impossibly difficult regime on herself. Impossible in the sense that she worked here, in a cheese shop and at a pub, none of which were ideal if you were trying to avoid calories. She chewed her lip for a second, eyeing up the crisp pastry.

  ‘They’re not much bigger than a mouthful really,’ she said, convincing herself more than anyone. ‘If you’ve got a big mouth.’

  ‘Remember Mags’s principle of pleasure,’ said the lady herself with a wink.

  The corners of Pixie’s mouth lifted up slowly. ‘Or as my granddad would say, “Eat now or forever hold your peas.”’ And she took an enormous bite of a spring roll.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard your pleasure principle,’ said Dave, opening his notepad.

  ‘Life is for living so take pleasure where you can,’ Mags said gravely, and then leaned across and added in a stage whisper, ‘and I’ll explain that in more detail later.’

  Dave chuckled and turned pink, probably wishing he hadn’t asked, or at least not in public.

  Mags had been busy modelling at her nude art class last night, so sharing a slice of the cloud cake with Dave had been postponed until tonight. And to make the occasion even more special, Dave was treating her to dinner at a nearby hotel first. No wonder she’d been frothing with excitement all day.

  She had popped round last night before going out and had gushed about Dave and his lovely cake-baking gesture and shared with us her hopes for
a less lonely future. And Dave seemed to be on top form this afternoon; he was normally so serene and laid-back, but he had a perky spring in his step too. It was early days, of course, but it warmed my heart to see their happiness and I was keeping everything crossed that love would blossom between them.

  ‘I’m not getting too much pleasure at the moment,’ said Gloria breathlessly. ‘So shall we get on?’

  She was poking a chopstick repeatedly down her plaster cast as if her life depended on it. The toes that were peeping out looked chubby and red.

  ‘Should you be doing that?’ I asked.

  ‘The itching is torture,’ Gloria puffed.

  Mags looked at her sharply. ‘Glor, are you OK?’

  ‘It must be twenty-two degrees out there and my leg is trapped in a plaster of Paris prison. It’s hot, I’m hot. So no,’ she sighed, ‘not really.’

  ‘Oh chuck, you poor thing.’ Mags tipped more ice into Gloria’s water glass.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ I whispered as discreetly as I could. ‘I can take you home if you’d rather. You don’t look very comfortable.’

  Gloria shook her head adamantly.

  ‘I’m too hot and irritable and my head hurts. But at least here I’ve got company, which distracts me a little.’

  I smiled at her sympathetically and she squeezed my hand.

  ‘Here,’ said Mags, passing Gloria’s handbag to her. ‘Why don’t you take some painkillers?’

  Gloria nodded, and took two tablets with a sip of water. ‘Right, sorry, everyone, whinge over. Do start, Dave. Let’s have the figures.’

  Dave coughed importantly. ‘Firstly, I’d like to say congratulations to you all on such an auspicious start to trading. There are teething troubles to be expected in any new business, but in all my years of working with new companies I can honestly say I’ve never come across such a team that manages to be harmonious, supportive and united in the goals of the business as this one.’