The Art of Baking Blind

by Sarah Vaughan

  The move buys her time. She turns back to Jake, whose sobs have become quieter, a gentle riff filling the silence.

  ‘He boasted about it?’

  ‘On Friday night. I bumped into him in town. At the Wetherspoons. Don’t think he said it to everyone … least I hope not. But to me and Sam. “Your mum’s hot,” that sort of thing …

  ‘I told him to lay off and he just said, “Well, she don’t mind. She puts it about.”’

  He winces; glances at her to gauge her reaction. She looks pale, and angry.

  ‘I tried to deck him, but he just laughed. He laughed at me. And he said, “I’m talking from experience, Mummy’s boy.”’

  The confession comes out in the rush of a sob. For a moment, a blub fills the Porsche. He wipes a bubble of snot away with his sleeve.

  ‘I tried to deck him again – and got kicked out. Later he sent a text saying: “Sorry, mate. Only joking.” But he wasn’t, Mum. I know he wasn’t.’

  ‘Of course, he was.’ The lie is automatic.

  ‘Don’t fucking patronise me. I’m not stupid.’

  His eyes, huge and hazel, fill with tears and resentment. ‘I know, Mum. I know…’

  You’re fooling no one, Ma. You’re fooling no one. Can’t she try, just one last time?

  But there’s more. ‘You were always flirting at the pool with him.’

  She sighs, relieved. ‘Oh, flirtation … You know what I’m like; that’s just harmless…’

  ‘And there was that time I came home early on a free period … He was cycling out of our drive and he ignored me. I couldn’t work out why he was here and didn’t want to see me …

  ‘When I came in, you seemed a bit flustered. You’d been baking – custard tarts, I think, my favourite – and a couple had been eaten. I remember being surprised that you’d tasted them, let alone had two, and you said he’d dropped by with some information about Livy’s swimming and you’d given him a couple. To be honest, I was jealous – I couldn’t work out why you’d chosen to give the gym lifeguard a coffee, spend time with him. I was jealous you were giving him fucking custard tarts baked for me …

  ‘Then you went upstairs for a shower and I realised the real reason you wanted him and how fucking stupid, how fucking juvenile I’d been.’

  She is silent. There seems nothing to say. He appears to have conclusive proof. In other circumstances, she would lie but she knows she will not convince Jake. She watches Southampton wake up through her windscreen; dog walkers and joggers returning with the Sunday papers, early churchgoers, dressed smartly for 9 a.m. services, walking briskly across the street. Outside the solid cocoon of her 4×4, life continues. Inside, life has been turned upside down and now appears to be suspended. Yet the digital clock marks another minute.

  It is she who breaks the limbo. ‘You’re not stupid. You’re very astute.’

  She watches him take in the confession. ‘I’m very, very sorry.’

  She is not the type to go in for self-flagellation; to prostrate herself in front of others. If there is to be self-recrimination – as she knows there will be – it will be done alone, in the privacy of her bathroom with the taps running.

  Nevertheless, her apology feels inadequate: four words that cannot convey the depth of her penitence.

  She repeats it, as if repetition will make things better. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Jake.’

  * * *

  For the rest of the day, she is numb. She listens as Oliver contacts an old college friend – a criminal QC specialising in getting celebrities lenient sentences for driving offences – and secures his agreement to represent Jake at his juvenile court hearing. She expresses relief as her husband tells her that Jake is likely to get a £300–£400 fine for driving without insurance and eighteen months’ disqualification before he can take his test. She cooks carefully, lovingly, dutifully: roasting a chicken, making buttery mashed potato, green beans and wine-rich gravy for a son who has refused to eat all day but who, by early evening, is quietly ravenous. She watches as Oliver – having expressed his fulsome disappointment in his son but still ignorant of his wife’s role – drives back to London. She checks on Jake, hunkered under the duvet, monosyllabic and exhausted, but safe, under her roof; in bed by 9 p.m.

  It is only once she is sure he and Livy are asleep that she retreats to her sanctuary: her bathroom, minimalist and spa-like; as sterile as that of a boutique hotel; little evidence of her complex personality here. She wraps herself in a waffled bathrobe, scrutinising her stomach and thighs as she does so, checking her hip bones jut out at a definite angle so that her thumbs can rest between them and her flesh. Then she takes in her face: hard, lined, cloaked in exhaustion. She slumps to the floor, warmed by the under-floor heating but still shaking – chilled by distress and fear.

  The retching does not seem to be enough, tonight, or it does not satisfy. She has been incapable of eating and finds herself vomiting pale saffron liquid: her stomach juices. Distressed, she seeks oblivion in a bath, the water just about bearable; a degree or two from scalding. She lowers herself gingerly, then relents and turns the cold tap, submerging herself so that the water roars in her ears, a momentary distraction. Her hair unfurls like seaweed, swirls around her: no pre-Raphaelite Ophelia but a tense, reddening Medusa.

  When she emerges – gasping for air – the tears come. Hot, angry sobs of guilt, of shame, and of self-pity. Despite her frantic scrubbing, she cannot rid herself of the smell of the police station: the stench of bleach and institutional hot dinners; anxiety and despair.

  She plunges under the water again, frantic to cleanse every orifice. She tries to scrub at her nostrils, but ends up spluttering. She emerges then sinks back, her shoulders covered, her hands clutching them in a parody of a lover’s embrace.

  The image that stays at the front of her mind as she lies there, cocooned in the water, is not of Jake, his voice breaking as he detailed Jamie’s taunting; nor of Oliver, his manner cold and efficient as he managed to pull the necessary strings. It is not even of Jamie and herself, stretched across her marital bed one bitter December afternoon – perhaps the day when Jake spotted them – her body still resonating like a bowed viola after a particularly satisfying bout of lovemaking.

  It is of a figure she has sought to block from her mind for thirty years. The custody officer at Southend police station. A man of medium height but broad-shouldered. Strong and compact: someone who you would not want to take on in a fight. His eyes were dark and knowing. They had sized her up the moment she been dragged, handcuffed, into the station. But it is his belt buckle that she most clearly remembers: matt, brass, heavy; a belt that could cause damage, and which pressed into his flesh, delineating his stomach and groin.

  ‘I can see a way to dropping the charges,’ he had leered. ‘A quick blow job and no one’s the wiser.’

  ‘You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking,’ she had spat with the bravado that she wore as standard at seventeen.

  ‘Suit yourself. It’s your first time in here, isn’t it? For shoplifting? The beak are coming down hard on that at the moment. Clever girl like you doesn’t want to blot her copybook. Get yourself a record. But if you make my night more interesting, we could wipe the slate clean…’

  He had unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, already priapic, thick and winking. With a meaty paw he had gripped the back of her head.

  Thirty years on, it is the smell of it she remembers; sour with dried urine, white sediment unfurling underneath the foreskin. That, and the taste.

  She hurls herself at the toilet bowl, and retches once again.

  34

  There will be moments in your life when the very last thing you feel like doing is baking. But do not leave it too long. On the rare occasions I have felt disinclined to bake, I soon miss it and find I am like a ewe separated from her lamb.

  ‘She’s not doing it.’

  ‘What do you mean she’s not doing it?’

  ‘Karen – she’s dropped out of the competition. Th
e Search for the New Mrs Eaden.’ Vicki has wasted no time in phoning Claire to pass on the news.

  ‘What do you mean, she’s dropped out?’

  ‘Just that. She phoned Jenny to say she was giving her a clear run and wasn’t taking part any more. Jenny rang me.’

  Despite her excitement, Vicki cannot quite get rid of her irritation that Karen didn’t see her as the major competition. OK, so Jenny is the likely winner but it would have been courteous if Karen hadn’t been quite so explicit about thinking this and if she had contacted them all.

  ‘But, did she say why?’ Claire still seems to be struggling with the concept that anyone would want to bow out of the contest. ‘I mean, she was so good. She won at puddings, didn’t she, and her YouTube hits are the highest. No offence, but I thought it would be her or Jenny who’d win.’

  ‘Her son’s in trouble with the police for stealing her car and writing it off.’ Vicki still can’t believe it, and stating the bald facts only makes them more incomprehensible.

  There is a pause while Claire digests this. When she speaks, she too is incredulous.

  ‘Karen’s son’s a joyrider? Oh. My. God.’

  ‘I know. Well … it was her car, not anyone else’s.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it much better.’ Claire gives a low whistle. ‘She must have been really pissed off.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Vicki is surprised by this turn of events. ‘Jenny said she was being hugely supportive. He has a court hearing in a fortnight and Karen wants to be able to focus entirely on him – hence dropping out.’

  ‘That’s lovely of her … and totally understandable.’

  ‘Yes, but maybe a bit surprising? I don’t know about you, but I didn’t think she seemed the least maternal. She never talked about her kids, did she? Not like me and you going on about them all the time. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? We made all these assumptions but we didn’t really know her at all.’

  Kathleen

  Twenty-three weeks, twenty-four. She reads that her baby is the size of a bag of sugar. She visualises it, then sends Mrs Jennings to bring one from the kitchen. She weighs the paper bag of Tate and Lyle in her hand. One pound feels heavy. Solid. Tangible. A decent, substantial weight.

  The baby’s foot flutters. Oh my darling, she thinks. Stay in there. Stay in there and remain safe. She reaches to check her inner thighs again. No tackiness; no blood seeping from her. She looks at her Rolex. Ten o’clock: two hours since she last checked. She needs to stop this recent tic; this obsessive checking. She promises herself not to look again before midday.

  What to do? Think about something positive, she reminds herself. The cherry blossom in full bloom just below her window; the late April sunshine, bursting in on her. ‘This bed thy centre is,’ she murmurs, quoting Donne. ‘These walls thy sphere.’

  Think about The Art of Baking. And here she smiles. Completed – and with a publication date for early September, a month after her due date. Time enough to get herself back on to her feet and help with its promotion, she had reassured George. And, yes, of course she wants to do that. After months spent lying alone, as stiff as a board, she wants to sing of the joys of baking and its place at the heart of one’s family. She thinks she can manage to play at being Mrs Eaden again.

  She stretches out like a cat and points her toes in a parody of exercise, luxuriating in a moment’s satisfaction. One project is finished. And, if she can do that then perhaps – please, perhaps – the second – growing her baby – can be achieved.

  She crosses her fingers automatically. The guilt of the past two years – the fear that she killed her three earlier babies by virtue of having a weak cervix, and the self-loathing that has come with this – is beginning to ease slightly. I can do this, she prays, as she resists checking her thighs. The baby kicks. We can do this, she corrects herself, stroking her belly and giving it a gentle pat of reassurance. Now just stay in there a little longer. Just stay in there, warm and tight.

  The most recent Home Magazine is by her bed, containing not just her column but a pattern for newborn bootees. She looks at it but will not knit them – nor order baby clothes from Peter Jones. But when George buys a cot – chosen to match the Ercol furniture she loves and she knows he cannot stand – she thanks him and refuses to listen to the inner voice that continues to mutter that, by doing so, she risks tempting fate.

  A Celebratory Tea

  The Duchess of Bedford conceived of the idea of afternoon tea in the 1840s, and, one hundred and twenty years on, it may seem somewhat outmoded. We have no real need of afternoon tea; not in these days when we can just grab a biscuit to nibble alongside our mug of instant coffee. And we may feel we have no time for it with our increasingly busy lives.

  But many delightful traditions, though not the least bit necessary, are highly pleasurable. Afternoon tea is one such. Served between 4 and 5 p.m., an occasional afternoon tea will not only restore and revive but cherish and comfort. It will spoil and delight, nurture and sustain.

  For form’s sake, you will need to make at least some pretence of offering something savoury. Thinly sliced sandwiches will suffice if filled with smoked salmon and cream cheese, finely cut ham and mustard, thin slices of cucumber and butter, or poached salmon and dill mayonnaise.

  The savoury element dispatched with, we can focus on the more joyful elements: the scones, the biscuits and the exquisite little cakes. Prettiness is important and so I use a triple-layered cake plate and pile up lemon, raspberry and chocolate macaroons; mini fruit tartlets; and the tiniest of chocolate éclairs or mini Paris–Brests.

  For those unsatisfied by such fripperies, you may wish to serve something more substantial such as a ginger cake or almond-encrusted Dundee cake. For my part, I prefer something unashamedly decadent: the richest of chocolate cakes or a strawberry-and-cream-filled gateau. A substantial piece of whimsy.

  To drink, one must serve Darjeeling or Earl Grey – and one must use a teapot. This is about the ritual of teatime. Serve with a small jug of milk or slices of lemon and remember: it is not milk in first. Or abandon such anxieties and, for an intimate afternoon tea of sheer decadence, serve with a glass of chilled champagne.

  Kathleen Eaden: The Art of Baking (1966)

  35

  Nowhere is the alchemy of baking more evident than when making choux pastry. For this raw, salty dough puffs up into the most ethereal of cases, ready to hold an unctuous treat.

  Vicki is in a state: a full-on, frenetic panic in which her kitchen is sprayed with flour, every surface is cluttered, and she cannot think straight.

  The competition final is a day away and nothing is going right: her choux pastry is thick and heavy, her mini sponge sandwiches, coloured with raspberry and cocoa, are too lurid. Her millefeuille, inelegantly, irregularly shaped, lack the necessary finesse.

  She has worked until two in the morning and then been up since six, when Greg slipped from the house suggesting she have a lie-in. She is running on adrenalin, sugar and caffeine. Too much of all three. And she feels sick.

  It is as if she has to finish her school reports, oversee the key stage one nativity, and prepare for an Ofsted inspection all in the same evening. She is never going to manage it.

  ‘Mum-meeeeeeee…’

  It is Alfie, calling from the garden, with his habitual plea for attention.

  ‘Can you come and play football?’

  ‘Not now, lovely, I’m busy…’

  ‘But you promised…’

  ‘I didn’t promise anything, Alfie, no. I said I might play later after I’ve finished.’

  The distinction is lost on her three-year-old who stomps back up the garden, his head down, his shoulders hunched, in an almost comic display of fury.

  Vicki feels a momentary twinge of guilt at being pedantic and dismissive. But she hasn’t the time to worry about it. She decides to try her choux pastry again and begins to assemble the ingredients: plain flour tipped on to a sheet of greaseproof paper, water, butter an
d salt placed in a medium-sized saucepan; three free-range eggs, beaten lightly. She heats the butter and water mixture, tipping in the flour as it comes to the boil and removing the pan from the heat. Then, with a wooden spoon, she begins to beat furiously. ‘Come on,’ she mutters under her breath, as what appears to be a culinary disaster coalesces, beginning to form a smooth, heavy dough. ‘Yes, yes, that’s better.’

  A sporadic thud begins to sound in the kitchen. Vicki is so preoccupied, she doesn’t initially register it and then takes a few moments to realise what it is. Alfie, who had been kicking his mini football ineffectively around the back of the garden, is now ramming it against the back of the house and the frame of the open French windows.

  ‘Alf-ieeee…’

  The ball hurtles into the kitchen, thudding against the units and skittering around her feet.

  He laughs hysterically: great gulps of laughter. Then he sees her anger.

  ‘Alfie Marchant. I am furious!’

  She abandons her dough and chases after him, whipping up the garden, fired by fury.

  He turns, half fearful, half hopeful it is a game, then sees the look on her face and begins crying. Still running, he stumbles on a tuft of grass, picks himself up, then tries to hide himself in his wigwam, flattening his small body and wriggling backwards as if he can worm his way out of sight.

  She reaches in and hauls him out.

  ‘Ow. You’re hurting me.’ He tries to pull his arms free where she is holding them. She grips harder, her fingers leaving angry red marks in the crook of his elbows.

  ‘I’ll hurt you more if you don’t behave.’ Where had that threat come from – and that choice of a language? The answer is automatic: she hears her mother uttering it. She kneels down, pulling him with her and turns him over, as if to slap the back of his legs.

  ‘Muuuuuuu-meee.’

  As she raises her hand, it is as if she were observing herself. Where is calm, kind Miss Taylor, as she was known at St Matthew’s? The whole situation seems so ludicrous, so unlike her, that she stops instantly.