by Katey Lovell
Clara looked at the clock, noting it was later than she’d thought. She really should start setting up for the session, especially as it was doubling as a much-needed fundraising event. Deirdre had decided a bake sale was a relatively easy way to bring more money into the club, but Clara wasn’t in the mood for swarms of adults descending on the place. She loved being with the youngsters, finding them much easier to talk to than their older counterparts. They were more straightforward, less prone to game-playing. If they had an issue with you it’d come firing out in a hormone-fuelled rage.
Picking up her bag, along with her mum’s spotty cake tin, she headed downstairs, hoping people wouldn’t laugh her misshapen Smartie cookies out of town. Clara never professed to be a baker and didn’t aspire to be one either, and she’d only brought something along to the event to show her support. If no one wanted to buy them, she’d throw a tenner into the margarine tub they used for collecting money and take them back home herself.
***
Deirdre was flapping. She often got like this when there was an event, keen to show the club in its best light. Plus, of course, there was the near desperation, the need to make as much money as possible from this bake sale to keep the club open and available to as many young people as possible. Clara understood all that, but the tension in the kitchen rubbed off on her as soon as she walked through the door.
‘Oh, Clara. Thank goodness! I thought you were never going to come down.’ Deirdre peeled back the lid of a Tupperware container and examined the contents – mince slices – before adding the box to a pile. ‘I’ve got a system,’ she said, her voice hurried and flustered. ‘Buns and cupcakes near the kettle, biscuits next to the microwave and big cakes and Christmassy goods here on the table.’
Clara cast her eyes over the offerings. There seemed to be an awful lot of buns, plus an abundance of Cornflake Crispy bites, which were Deirdre’s speciality. She made them for every event, every time.
‘I’ve brought some biscuits,’ Clara said, putting her tin near the microwave with a tray full of beautifully iced gingerbread men. ‘They don’t look that appealing, though, I’m afraid.’
‘They’ll be fine,’ Deirdre said, ‘people buy anything at these bake sales. They’re not fussy.’
Clara didn’t rise. Much like the chocolate cake in the corner hadn’t. It was as flat as a pancake.
‘Who brought that in?’ Clara asked, pointing at the paper-thin cake.
‘Oh, that was Joe,’ Deirdre said with a laugh. ‘I don’t think he’s much of a baker. Bless him for trying, though, eh?’
‘It’s not so bad,’ Clara said, surprised at how quickly she jumped to defend Joe’s efforts. The cake was thin, but the chocolate buttercream smothering it still looked tasty and tempting. ‘And, like you said, people aren’t fussy. They’d buy anything if they thought it’d support the youth club.’
‘I hope you’re right, because if we don’t raise some money fast we’ll have to cancel the Christmas disco.’
‘We’ll find the money somehow,’ Clara said optimistically. ‘There’s been a Christmas disco every year since the club opened. We’re not going to start letting the kids down now.’
‘You’re right,’ Deirdre agreed, as she opened a tin. The tempting waft of chocolate brownie flooded out and Clara’s mouth started to water in response. ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’
Clara rummaged in her bag for her purse. It was buried at the bottom, beneath a pile of crumpled receipts, an empty chocolate-bar wrapper and a couple of emergency tampons. Wasn’t that always the way? She took her rubbish and posted it in the bin, and removed the present for Joe, placing it on the work surface until she found the purse. Unzipping it, she took out a newly-minted coin.
‘Well, for starters, can you bag me up a piece of that brownie? And make it a large one. It looks amazing.’ She placed the pound coin in the margarine tub, the two-tone disc mingling in with the float of silvers and coppers.
‘Brianna Moore’s mum made it, so you know it’s going to be good.’
‘Ah, that explains why it smells amazing,’ Clara replied, inhaling deeply to get another hit from the sweet aroma. Mrs Moore had started up a small bakery on the same row as The Club on the Corner, and apparently the orders had been flooding in. She’d been especially busy over the summer with wedding cakes, and Clara imagined she’d be in demand over the Christmas period too, for those who had neither the time nor skills to cobble together a Christmas cake.
‘I’m going to buy the ginger loaf she contributed,’ Deirdre said with a wry smile. ‘And she’s donated a voucher for a celebration cake too as a raffle prize. I was going to ask if you’d stand on the door as people arrive to encourage them to buy a strip or two.’
Clara snorted. ‘Encourage? Bully them into it, more like.’
‘It’s a fantastic prize. Everyone likes cake. We could take a lot of money on that raffle, if we’re lucky.’ She picked up a bag and peered into it, looking most dissatisfied by the contents. ‘French Fancies,’ she said, with a disparaging shake of her head. ‘Shop-bought.’
‘Mr Kipling’s?’
Clara licked her lips. She loved French Fancies. They reminded her of childhood birthday parties, the bright icing drizzled with purest white zig-zagged lines brought back happy memories.
Deirdre shook her head. ‘Own brand.’
‘Oh.’
Clara was momentarily disappointed, until Joe strode into the room, a woven jute bag in each hand.
He held them up proudly. ‘More supplies!’ he announced.
Deirdre smiled half-heartedly. ‘You been busy doing more baking, Joe? You shouldn’t have.’
‘Oh no,’ Joe laughed. ‘It took me hours to make that chocolate monstrosity, there was no chance I was going to do any more baking. I got Mum to make something instead. She hadn’t realised the cake sale was tonight until I told her – she’d written it in the wrong space on the calendar.’
‘Oh, she’s a star finding time to bake like that.’
‘She appreciates the work the club does so she’ll always make time to support it as best she can. Plus, she’s the vicar’s wife. Baking’s what she does best,’ he joked.
‘I’d better go and look for that book of raffle tickets,’ Clara said, picking up her handbag. She didn’t fancy her chances of finding them, though. The stationery cupboard was a disaster area. ‘Are they where they were left after the summer fun day?’
‘In the box with the receipt book,’ Deirdre confirmed. ‘And make sure people buy plenty,’ she added. ‘Don’t let anyone get away with single tickets, make them buy a strip. Channel your inner sales girl.’
‘I don’t have an inner sales girl,’ Clara shouted over her shoulder. ‘I only lasted a day at the one shop job I had.’
‘Well, find your selling mojo somehow,’ Deirdre said sternly. ‘You’ve got a important job today with those raffle tickets. It’s a big day for all of us. Let’s make some decent money to give these kids what they deserve.’
***
‘Thanks for supporting The Club on the Corner,’ Clara said for the umpteenth time, smiling at the family heading home. It was a forced smile now, admittedly, after freezing in the doorway for an hour ushering people in and out of the club.
They were leaving happy, though, and laden down with baked goods, just the way Deirdre had planned. She’d be happy with the proceeds of the raffle too. Clara’s calculations suggested they’d made more than enough to fund the DJ coming to set up his flashing lights and glitter ball and play some of that noise the kids these days class as music. The cakes looked to have gone down well too.
‘Thanks for coming,’ Clara said, as Tariq’s parents left cradling the in-demand raffle prize. Tariq followed, a few steps behind, as though he didn’t want to associate with them. Why is it that teenagers are so embarrassed to be seen with their parents?
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said cheerily as Joe’s parents left for the night, Simone in tow. ‘We hope
you’ve enjoyed the bake sale.’
‘Have we ever!’ laughed Mrs. Smith. She held aloft a bag, which Clara presumed was full of cakes. ‘I’ve bought more than enough for the Knit and Natter group. They meet on a Tuesday and all love a cake. They’ll be delighted with the selection I’ve picked up tonight,’ she said happily.
‘We aim to please,’ Clara smiled, ‘and thank you for your contributions too. Everyone’s been so supportive.’
‘It’s a tough time for charities right now, with so many worthy causes competing for the funding out there,’ said Reverend Smith. ‘But I’ve been talking to Deirdre. Every year the church chooses a local group to benefit from our church community fund. Other local groups are putting themselves forward too, but, I have to say, the parishioners have a real soft spot for the youth club. We’re voting for our 2018 charity of the year next week, and the lucky one will be announced at the nativity service on Christmas Eve.’ He smiled. It was reassuring. ‘It would be worth you making an application.’
Clara was stunned. ‘Really? The church might be able to help us financially?’
He nodded. ‘A significant amount of church funds are set aside to assist local groups that impact positively on the local community. In my humble opinion, The Club on the Corner is a perfect candidate.’
Clara hoped he was right. External funding coming in would lighten the load, maybe even contributing towards paying for another much-needed staff member.
Reverend Smith looked so like Joe, so warm and friendly and trustworthy, and Clara could see why people came to him to offload their troubles. He was the kind of man who would make even the darkest situation seem okay, and when Clara thought about it, she realised that a large part of his job must involve helping people through some of the most challenging periods of their lives.
‘Where can I get an application form?’ Clara asked, hoping beyond hope that they’d be the lucky group to benefit. ‘I can get straight on with it. I’m becoming a dab hand at them with all the funding pots we’ve been applying for lately.’
‘There is a form,’ he said, ‘but you’d also need to make a presentation to the church committee, saying how the funding would benefit you. The meeting’s next Monday, though, so it wouldn’t give you long to get prepared.’
Clara gasped. She had faith in her abilities, but a week wasn’t long, especially not at this time of year with all the club’s other commitments. ‘I’ll be there,’ she said, defiantly, despite the ripple of doubt washing over her.
‘I’m glad to hear it. We did advertise the funding and were surprised The Club on the Corner hadn’t applied.’
Clara vaguely remembered a flyer that she’d promised to look at later, buried somewhere on the office desk. That had been weeks ago now. She’d been so busy she’d not had chance to get around to it.
‘I’ll look forward to your application and keep you in my prayers,’ he said.
When nearly everybody else had left, Clara made her way to the kitchen, where she found Joe and Deirdre clearing away the last remaining cakes. Clara had to hide a smile as she noticed Joe’s chocolate cake, untouched, on the cake plate he’d brought in. It was hardly surprising. It hadn’t compared to the other temptations on offer.
‘Your dad is one of my favourite people right now,’ Clara said, holding up her hand for Joe to high-five. ‘He thinks The Club on the Corner is a possible candidate for the church’s charity of the year.’
A grin took over her face as his palm met hers.
Deirdre’s eyes welled up with tears. ‘Just imagine! Think how much of a difference that money would make.’
‘We’ve got to put together a presentation, though, to prove we’re worthy candidates,’ Clara grimaced at the thought of all the extra work that would entail. ‘And the meeting’s a week today.’
‘Easy peasy,’ Deirdre scoffed. ‘You’re great at all the organisational stuff.’
‘And I’ll help,’ Joe offered. ‘My happiest memories are tied to this place, there’s no way I’m going to let it fade away without a fight. Simone and her friends deserve a place like this to come to, and they couldn’t have better youth workers than the two of you. I’m sure the other charities are worthy, but this place is magical.’
Clara had to resist the urge to throw her arms around him in gratitude. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ Her brain was already whirring as she tried to process the information she’d need to present. Joe’s help would be gladly received and she knew he was more tech-savvy than she was. Mind you, that wasn’t hard.
‘Whatever I can do for this club, I will.’
They quietly set about tidying away, hope hanging in the air. It was only as Clara was spraying the work surface with disinfectant, moving her mittens and wallet out of the way to make sure she didn’t miss a spot, that she realised she couldn’t see her present for Joe.
‘Have you seen a parcel?’ she asked Deirdre, her brow furrowing into a frown. ‘I left it here.’
‘No, not seen a present. Why? What was it?’
‘A stollen? Wrapped in a red ribbon?’ Clara prompted. She couldn’t bear to think of the stollen going missing before she’d given it to Joe, especially after the debacle with the Quality Street.
‘Oh, you mean the fruit loaf? The one with the icing sugar sprinkled all over the top?’
Clara could have cried with relief. ‘Yes! For one awful moment I thought you were going to say it had been sold.’
‘Oh, Clara,’ Deirdre replied, her mouth twitching apologetically. ‘I’m afraid it has. I thought it was one of the donations for the bake sale.’
Clara’s heart sank. After all her efforts and her special trip to buy something she was sure Joe would love, she was still failing miserably. ‘No. That was a gift for someone.’
She looked over at Joe, catching his eye and mouthing the word ‘sorry’.
‘It was there on the side with everything else. I just assumed it was for sale. It went for a good price, though, I think someone paid a fiver for it!’
It had cost almost double that, and taken Clara’s ever-decreasing bank balance deeper into her overdraft, but that wasn’t what was making her heart weigh heavy in her chest. More than anything she’d wanted to share something she loved with Joe.
‘I’m sure whoever you bought it for would be glad that it raised money for the youth club,’ Joe said. His steady voice calmed Clara, just the way his father’s words had earlier. ‘Somewhere that gives hope to so many kids from all different backgrounds. That’s a pretty special present to give.’
And as he smiled, Clara smiled back. Because while she was mourning the gift she was unable to give, she knew he was right. The mishap had given Joe something he’d appreciate just as much as the stollen, if not more.
Joe
Tuesday, December 5th 2017
‘Wow.’ Clara’s eyes were as big as dinner plates, let alone saucers, as she took in the enormous mug of hot chocolate that Joe had placed before her. The extravagant swirl of whipped cream on top resembled a ‘99 ice cream, something that was only accentuated by the milk chocolate flake poking out at an angle. Crumbled chocolate was sprinkled on, along with a mountain of cheeky pink and white marshmallows. ‘This looks calorific.’
Joe grinned. ‘When it comes to food, there’s no point doing anything by halves.’
He gave a nod to the young waitress, who scuttled across with a plate of mince pies and a pot of clotted cream. She placed them in the centre of the table before giving Clara and Joe a side plate and fork each.
‘These can’t all be for us!’ Clara squealed, taking in the quintessentially Christmassy treat.
‘Oh, they can. And they are.’ He picked up a mince pie and placed it on his plate, flinching ever so slightly as the fresh-from-the-oven pastry casing sizzled against his fingertips. ‘Dig in. They’re best when they’re piping hot.’
Clara gingerly placed a mince pie on her plate, before piercing it with her fork. The filling oozed out, dark and rich and sm
elling divine.
‘Ohhhh,’ she breathed. ‘This looks amazing.’
‘The best mince pies in Manchester, bar none.’ Joe took a forkful into his mouth, before letting out a moan of pure pleasure. ‘My mum’s are good, but there’s something about these. The pastry is so buttery.’
‘And they smell like Christmas.’
‘Help yourself to cream. You’ll be blown away by how delicious they are when they’re loaded up.’
Clara added a delicate dollop of cream to the side of her plate, before offering the pot to Joe. He was far less restrained, putting a large spoonful on top of what remained of his first mince pie.
‘Now do you see why I ordered so many? One is never enough.’
‘They’re incredible.’ Clara dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. It came away marked with the sticky residue of mincemeat. ‘How did you find this place, anyway? It’s well off the beaten track.’
Joe had driven them towards the centre of Manchester after picking Clara up from The Club on the Corner and, despite her questioning, hadn’t told her where they were heading, instead telling her she’d find out when they got there.
They’d arrived at the wooden-fronted café situated towards the far end of the city’s popular Northern Quarter when most people were already well into their night out. The bars around the surrounding streets were abuzz with life, full of young professionals letting their hair down with a few pints of craft beer after a hard day at work. The café seemed quiet in comparison, the warm glow of the table lights homely and inviting. There were a few groups sitting at the wooden tables enjoying their enormous hot chocolates, but Joe knew from experience that the café was busier by day. Then the queues were winding out of the door as people waited for their take-out drinks, or crossed their fingers and hoped lady luck would save them a table. By nightfall it was a different place altogether, somewhere book groups met to dissect their latest read or where friends would come to catch up on each other’s news.
