A Summer Escape and Strawberry Cake at the Cosy Kettle: A feel good, laugh out loud romantic comedy

by Liz Eeles

‘Caleb’s in my class and he’s an absolutely lovely boy,’ she gushes. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I live with his father.’

  Oops, that doesn’t sound quite right.

  Jemima instantly leaps to the wrong conclusion. ‘It’s lovely that Caleb has a mother figure in his life. It’s terribly sad that he lost his mum so early.’

  ‘It’s very sad, but I wouldn’t describe myself as a mother figure. His dad and I aren’t really together. We live together, but his mother owns the house and I’m a lodger. So, even though we are technically living together, we’re not really “living together” living together, if you know what I mean.’ I peter off, feeling like a prat. We’re not having sex. That’s the shortcut I’m looking for but couldn’t possibly say out loud. Even though you sometimes imagine what it would be like, whispers a voice in my head.

  Jemima’s smile falters a little but she quickly recovers. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s good for Caleb to have you around. Is he looking forward to the holidays?’

  ‘I imagine so. He’s finding school a bit challenging so a break will probably do him good.’

  ‘Challenging in what way?’

  Jemima pushes her new book into her handbag while a silent debate goes on in my head. How can I answer her question when I faithfully promised a small child that I wouldn’t say anything? I promised on Caleb’s life and, while I’m not superstitious like Luna, if I broke that promise and something bad happened to him, I’d never shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible. Luna would definitely blame me. She’d probably get herself a voodoo doll and stick pins in it.

  ‘It’s always difficult starting a new school,’ I say, wondering if proper parents ignore these kinds of promises when a child’s happiness is involved. Or is ‘never ever renege on your promise to a child’ rule number one in the parenting handbook?

  Jemima gives me a reassuring grin. ‘Absolutely. But children are very adaptable.’

  ‘It can take a while for other children to accept a newcomer though.’

  ‘Indeed, but all the children at Honeyford Vale Primary are lovely.’

  Jemima seems oblivious to the fact that at least a few of her ‘lovely’ children are lunch-stealing bullies.

  ‘Surely not every single child can be lovely?’

  ‘Yes, they are. We’re very lucky.’

  Oh, come on, Jemima. I’m telling you in code but you’re not picking up the signals. I try again. ‘I dare say a few of the existing pupils might take advantage of a new boy.’

  Smiley Jemima finally cottons on that all might not be perfect in her primary school paradise. ‘Is there something in particular you wanted to raise about Caleb?’

  Caleb’s ghostly white face as he pleaded with me to stay silent suddenly swims into my mind. ‘I get the impression that some of the other boys are being a little unkind to him sometimes,’ I say, choosing my words carefully.

  Jemima frowns. ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘Not really but maybe you could keep an eye on Caleb to make sure he’s settling in OK?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll give Mr Purfoot a ring about it.’

  ‘There’s no need because I’ll be seeing him later,’ I gabble, panicky at the very thought. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention any of this to Caleb. He doesn’t like me interfering.’

  ‘If you think that’s for the best.’

  I have no idea if it’s for the best, Jemima. Not a freaking clue. But I nod and cross my fingers that she’ll be able to nip any bullying in the bud, very quietly. Hopefully, she won’t let on to Caleb that I said anything because his trust has been hard-earned and I’d hate it to slip away. But mostly I hope she won’t let on to Daniel that I’m keeping such a big secret about his son from him.

  ‘Who was that?’ asks Millicent, who passes Jemima leaving the shop as she comes in.

  ‘It’s Caleb’s teacher. She was buying Day of Desire, which makes three copies I’ve sold just this morning. They’ve been flying off the shelves ever since I ordered them in.’

  ‘Ah.’ Millicent gives me a sideways glance before inspecting her fingernails. She definitely looks shifty. I come out from behind the counter and stand in front of her.

  ‘Is everything all right? Is there a problem with the parade?’ Crikey, I hope not. A lot of my time’s being taken up with reassuring Becca about her bake-off arrangements and I’m kind of relying on Millicent to chivvy up the book club.

  ‘It’s all fine,’ she says, fiddling with the mother-of-pearl buttons on the cuffs of her blouse. ‘So Day of Desire is proving popular and selling well, is it?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Millicent takes a deep breath. ‘I may have been a tad hasty in my judgement of that book. I assumed it would be awful and you said I should give it a try and I thought you were being ridiculous but I did read it’ – she runs out of air and takes another breath – ‘and you were right. It is a wonderful book. A really wonderful book, actually.’

  My face breaks into a huge grin as I resist the urge to say ‘I told you so’.

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Millicent, ‘I wanted to tell you now, rather than in front of everyone at book club. I’d rather not admit publicly that I was…’ she whispers, ‘wrong.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Millicent. You’re not the only person in town who judged the book by its cover and has since found out they were a tad hasty.’

  ‘I know! Everywhere I go people are talking about it. It’s become a local sensation and everyone wants to know who April Devlin is. You’ve certainly done well in championing it, Flora.’

  ‘That’s my job,’ I say, simply, feeling like a proper bookseller who’s discovered the Next Big Thing. Well, in Honeyford, anyway.

  I pick up a sheet of paper from the counter and wave it at Millicent. ‘Have you heard about the Best Book I’ve Read survey that we’re running, with the winner to be announced on Charter Day? Why don’t you vote for Day of Desire?’

  Millicent sniffs as if there’s a bad smell under her nose. ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Flora. It’s not exactly Brontë or Dostoevsky, is it.’

  ‘You’re not voting for the best book you’ve ever read. It’s for the best book you’ve read in the last three months.’

  ‘Oh, in that case…’

  Millicent takes the pen I offer and fills in the survey form in small, neat writing before slipping it into the collection box next to the till. There’s quite a pile of completed forms in there already.

  ‘Now you’ve expanded your reading horizons, Millicent, maybe you’d like to try out some of the other books in the shop that you might not have considered before? Who knows what surprising gems are waiting to be discovered?’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Oh, by the way, I got an email from Sebastian Kinsley, saying that he’ll be arriving at Oxford Station at quarter to twelve on Saturday. Did he email you too, and is your husband still able to pick him up?’

  ‘Yes and yes. I spoke to Malcolm on the phone and he’s going to give Mr Kinsley lunch. He’s being very helpful, actually.’

  Since turning up at Millicent’s house, Malcolm has been falling over himself to help with Charter Day and I’m beginning to think I might have misjudged him. Maybe he really is keen to make amends and help me build up my business?

  ‘Talking of Charter Day,’ says Millicent, grimacing, ‘did you know that Stanley is threatening to dress as Spartacus in the parade? Or should I say undress. Can you imagine? Honeyford does not need eighty-year-old men in loincloths parading through its streets and heaven knows what a man of discernment like Mr Kinsley will make of the whole thing.’

  ‘Does Callie know?’

  Poor Callie. Whenever Stanley is planning one of his more madcap schemes, the first thing anyone asks is ‘does Callie know?’ But I’m feeling rather worried at the thought of a near-naked Stanley marching behind a Cosy Kettle placard. Coffee, cake… and senior-citizen nudity. That’s not the homely image we’re going for.

  Millicent snorts.
‘I shouldn’t think she knows. I doubt she’d allow her grandfather to display his wares to all and sundry.’

  ‘Probably not, though I’m not sure she could stop him because Stanley is a force of nature. I quite admire him, actually.’

  ‘He is one of a kind and I suppose he can do what he wants. But I’m not walking anywhere near him if he’s got his wrinkly backside hanging out. I know we’re friends, but there is a limit.’

  ‘Of course – and he’s very fond of you.’

  ‘He’s got a funny way of showing it, embarrassing me in front of people.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s the last thing he wants to do,’ I assure her, though I’m not so sure.

  By the time Millicent leaves she’s calmed down about the parade and the prospect of seeing Stanley’s bits. I, on the other hand, am feeling more anxious by the minute about Charter Day in general, and talking to Caleb’s teacher in particular. Have I done the right thing?

  In the end, I’m so jittery I raid the box of herbal teabags that Luna insisted on giving me for work and I give chamomile a try. It’s horrible. But I carry on drinking until I’ve drained the cup. Right now, I can do with all the help I can get.

  Chapter Twenty

  Charter Day has finally arrived, The Cosy Kettle has never been so busy and I am incredibly relieved. I was convinced that hardly anyone would turn up but all the chairs are taken and people are standing and chatting in little huddles.

  In front of them, laid out on a long trestle table covered in gold paper tablecloths, is a fabulous display of Honeyford home baking – and my mouth is watering. Plump Victoria sandwiches, oozing jam and buttercream, are jostling for space next to rich fruit cakes, crumbly apple strudels, deep treacle tarts and cheesecakes dripping with fruit.

  ‘Has that judge made his mind up yet?’ asks Stanley, pointing at John, who’s been running his own bakery for years and enjoys sampling his own products, if his very baggy shirt is anything to go by.

  ‘Not yet. It must be hard choosing the best one. Which cake is yours, then?’

  I’m joking, but Stanley jabs his finger at a large foil plate that has a round, iced cake sitting on it. White icing has pooled in a dip in the middle of the cake, and doesn’t quite reach the edges, which are slightly charred.

  ‘It’s pound cake,’ Stanley declares, proudly, ‘and I made it all myself from scratch.’

  ‘That’s very impressive. I didn’t know you were a home baker.’

  ‘I’m not. This is the first cake I’ve ever made. My Moira was a magnificent cook and Callie’s taken over the cooking since her gran died. But I thought it was about time I had a go. It was all going so well until the smoke alarm went off. And then I dropped it when I was getting it out of the oven, but I gave it a good wipe-over with the tea towel.’ I make a mental note to avoid the pound cake as Stanley squints at the groaning trestle table. ‘Which of these is Dick’s then? He reckons he’s a bit of a Jamie Oliver on the quiet.’

  When I point out a coffee sponge layered with walnuts, Stanley walks over to it and gives it a sniff.

  ‘Not bad,’ is his considered opinion. ‘Though I saw him loitering near the cake mixes in Tesco and he walked off sharpish after spotting me. Just sayin’. Anyway, what’s the prize for winning?’

  ‘Free coffee in The Cosy Kettle for a month, plus a fabulous trophy. What do you reckon? It’s right at the back, there.’

  Stanley stares at the trophy and whistles through his false teeth. ‘My Moira would have loved that. It’s a real beauty.’

  He’s right. Becca has excelled herself with the inaugural Honeyford Bake-Off trophy which she’s sculpted out of copper wire. When she first suggested making the trophy, I was worried it would be a bit meh. But Becca proved me wrong in spectacular fashion. She turned up a week later with dozens of wires intricately twisted and wound around each other to form the shape of a kettle.

  ‘I like making stuff,’ was Becca’s only comment when I heaped praise on her for such an amazing creation. It made me wonder how many other talents are hidden beneath her anxious and unassuming exterior.

  Today her trophy has pride of place in The Cosy Kettle, next to Moira’s beloved copper kettles that gave the café its name.

  ‘Good day to you, Mistress Flora!’ booms suddenly in my ear and I jump, spilling the coffee I’m holding.

  Alan has come into the café and he’s already parade-ready, in full costume – mustard tights, a knee-length bronze tunic caught in at the waist with a wide yellow sash, a long, yellow fur-edged jacket with puffball sleeves and a feathered hat.

  ‘Gosh, Alan, you look magnificent,’ I splutter.

  ‘Though I don’t fancy your wife’s chances much,’ sniggers Stanley.

  ‘Pray tell, fellow, what dost thou mean with thy most strange remark?’ asks Alan, taking off his hat and giving Stanley a sweeping bow. He gets full marks for being in character, if not for the historical accuracy of his costume.

  ‘You’re Henry the Eighth, aren’t you? That bloke who kept chopping his wives’ heads off?’

  ‘I’m Henry the First,’ hisses Alan, his round red face clouding over. ‘The king who granted Honeyford its charter nine hundred years ago.’

  ‘Oops, my bad,’ says Stanley, giving me an eye-roll. ‘I could have sworn you were the other fella, but at least I got the Henry bit right.’

  ‘Huh,’ grunts Alan, wandering off and wedging himself, as best as he can with his huge puffball sleeves, into a corner.

  ‘That bloke’s totally barking, don’t you think?’ says Stanley, rather more loudly than I’d like. ‘And his put-on actory voice is so—’

  ‘Oh, look, John’s made his mind up!’ I grab Stanley’s arm and lead him closer to the trestle table where John is clearing his throat and preparing to speak.

  ‘Thank you to everyone who’s entered the town’s first ever bake-off,’ says John, to a cheer from the crowd. ‘And thank you to Flora and Becca for inviting me to be Honeyford’s answer to Paul Hollywood.’

  Alan gives an even louder grunt.

  ‘The standard has been incredibly high, your cakes taste wonderful and some of you could definitely give my bakery a run for its money. Right, on to business. First, I’ll announce the bakers who were highly placed, then the winner, and then, most importantly, we can all tuck into these fabulous creations.’

  There’s another cheer from the crowd as John starts reading from a sheet of paper. ‘Three bakers were highly placed – Melanie Milton for her sticky choc-chip sponge, Dick Pomfrey for his coffee and walnut cake, and Patricia Benn for her citrus chiffon gateau. But the winner of the Honeyford Bake-Off is…’

  He pauses, and we all lean forward, but John is in no mood to tell us quickly. He’s watched the Strictly Come Dancing results show and he wants to ramp up the tension by making us wait.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ shouts Stanley. ‘I’m eighty, you know, and I need to find out who the winner is before I pop my clogs.’

  ‘It’s Shelley Holloway,’ declares John, ‘for her amazing organic carrot cake with courgette and beetroot frosting.’

  ‘Less a cake and more a vegetable patch,’ grumbles Stanley beside me, but the café erupts into applause when Shelley steps forward to accept Becca’s wonderful work of art. Stanley’s still muttering beside me. ‘I can’t believe Dick was highly placed for a cake mix. I was robbed.’

  ‘Never mind.’ I pat his skinny arm. ‘Are you going to carry on baking?’

  ‘Doubt it. It’s much less faff to nip to Sainsbury’s for a Battenberg. Oops, looks like it’s your turn.’

  John is beckoning me forwards. ‘Excuse me, everyone!’ he shouts above the chattering of the crowd. ‘It’s time for a few words from our bookshop and café owner. Flora, over to you!’

  ‘Thanks, John,’ I say, feeling a bit wobbly as all eyes turn to me. ‘Thank you for being such a brilliant judge and a special thank you to Becca for not only organising this competition, but also for making the magnificent trophy.’
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br />   There’s an ‘ooh!’ from the crowd and Becca dips her head in embarrassment.

  ‘Slices of bake-off cakes are now on sale and profits will go to the community centre, so please start buying. And don’t forget that there’s lots going on in the bookshop this afternoon – a raffle and Book Surgery, and we’ll be revealing the best book that’s been read in Honeyford in the last three months. There will also be a talk from our VIP guest, the bestselling author S.R. Kinsley.’ I pause for another ‘ooh’ from the crowd. ‘So I really hope you’ll stay for a while now and come back later.’

  I’ve hardly finished speaking before people descend on the cake table like vultures. Fingers crossed we’re going to raise loads for the community centre. Things have gone really well and, for the first time today, I relax and my shoulders drop. Becca has played a blinder and I’m so glad I put my faith in her. I made the right decision and that gives my confidence a real boost.

  ‘Congratulations, Flora,’ says a deep voice behind me. When I turn around, Daniel is standing there in a white shirt with his hands in the pockets of his black cord trousers. ‘It all seems to be going well. I’m really pleased because I know how much it means to you.’

  ‘Thanks. It really does. Is Caleb with you?’

  ‘He’s with Luna, helping to marshal her tarot card customers into an orderly queue. Her mystical skills are in demand.’ When he smiles, I feel wobbly again. ‘No Malcolm, then?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s feeding S.R. Kinsley and bringing him over later.’

  ‘I expect your husband’s keen to get here, what with it being decision day.’

  Daniel’s brown eyes meet mine and I don’t know what to say. Just like I still don’t know what I’m going to say to Malcolm later. It makes sense, I suppose, to go back to him and see how it goes, especially as he’s trying so hard to be supportive. But, on the other hand…

  Fortunately, I’m saved from saying anything at all by Katrina, who sidles up with a huge slice of oozing chocolate cake on a paper plate.

  ‘Hi, there. What a lovely spread. Alan’s already had a large piece of the chocolate ganache gateau and he sent me up for seconds.’ She notices Daniel and does a double take. ‘Who’s this?’ she asks, flicking her hair over her shoulder with her spare hand.