The Captain and the Baker

by Catherine Curzon

  Jake shook the thought out of his head. He could do this.

  He marched up the gangplank and ignored the squeak of his shoes on the oozy wood, all the while unleashing a stream of swearwords as he went on deck.

  “Holy crapping hell, a fucking pirate ship! What next, host a dinner in the belly of a fucking whale? Fuck me! Jesus, this is a nightmare! Ride me sideways, what the balls is that? A fucking fiberglass cod? What the fuck is this?”

  Fionn gave him a thumbs-up, motioning for him to venture farther.

  “Go inside!” she called. “Cameras are all rigged and ready, go and have a poke around! Isn’t it brilliant? A pirate ship for the captain of London cuisine! Captain Jake!”

  Jake went through the door, or perhaps hatch was the better word for it. Inside, he found a mottled, wonky sign saying Please wait here to be seated, me ‘earties! Flanked by two fiberglass cods balancing on their tails, complete with pirate hats and eyepatches.

  “Fucking hell, it’s Cornish Disney World!”

  Leading down from the entrance there was a double-width staircase with elaborate carved newel posts and bannisters depicting mermen and mermaids, starfish and seahorses. Jake ran his hand over the carvings. So what had this been, a nautical-themed Cornish restaurant?

  Jake padded down the stairs into a huge dining area. Dust-heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows, which gave it a slightly 1970s bistro vibe. The walls were the wooden ribs of the ship itself, and Jake stroked the grain.

  “It’s naff but it has bloody potential!” Jake said through gritted teeth.

  I’m going to look like a fucking joke.

  Captain fucking Jake.

  All the chairs were upside down on the tables, giving him a forest of chair legs to peer through until he spotted doors at the other end of the ship.

  Kitchen. Has to be.

  In the dim light, he noticed a large wooden panel covering the wall beside the kitchen door and he realized it could be lifted to create an open kitchen. Now that was a nice touch. Jake loved showing diners how it was done.

  He opened the kitchen door and felt for the light switch inside. Suddenly, the large room was illuminated and Jake was, unusually, impressed. The whole place felt unused and abandoned, but the kitchen had been left clean. There were no horrifying gobbits of congealed fat, colonies of fungus or rotten food in sight. As Jake banged about from fridge to freezer, and peered inside the ovens—followed by a cameraman who peered inside with him—he saw that the kitchen’s equipment wasn’t new, but some of it didn’t look too ancient. And it had at least been well looked after.

  And if he got a team of good cooks, then they were off to a good start, because the food was the most crucial aspect of any restaurant. Even if there were giant, anthropomorphic fish by the front door.

  Jake planted his hands on his hips and smiled.

  You bastards, you thought you’d thrown me a curveball. I’ll show you!

  Jake was more than ready to take on the challenge. Even though, in the silence, he could hear water lapping against the hull of his new restaurant.

  Captain Jake indeed.

  Chapter Four

  Jake was impressed by Porthavel’s showing at the village hall. A chance for locals, without cameras recording every second, to be conned into thinking they were included in proceedings. Fionn would lay down the law and filming would go on happily without anyone swearing at seagulls or mooning in the background of key scenes.

  But as Jake got comfortable on the stage of the village hall, with the cut-out wooden scenery for Widow Twanky’s laundrette from Aladdin behind him, he was handed a cake. An iced bun studded with glacé cherries.

  Jake glared into the milling audience. Was this Locryn’s doing? What a way to troll him.

  And as he surveyed the faces that were turned up to him, he spotted him. Locryn Trevorrow was sitting toward the back of the hall, engaged in happy conversation with the people around him. He knew then that he was right.

  It was Locryn’s bun.

  And it was light as air.

  Jake didn’t want to enjoy it, but he did. And as he ate it, he knew he could never, ever bake its equal. Or even come close. Jake could manage a pedestrian sort of cake, a pleasant sort of bun, but nothing like this. Locryn deserved his place as a baker of renown.

  Even if he is fucking annoying.

  Jake held up the crumb-lined polka-dot paper case to Fionn as she joined him on the stage. “Fuck me, Locryn does good cake. Have you tried it?”

  “Do I look like I eat cake?” It was a fair point. She didn’t look like she ate much, despite being the queen of culinary programming. “If I get those urges I pour another wine. Don’t get a taste for it.”

  But it was bloody good. Jake hid the empty case in his pocket.

  “Standing room only,” Jake whispered, jerking his thumb at the audience, which had now run out of chairs. “You’d think they’d be jaded about cookery shows, living in the same village as Locryn!”

  “That’s just cake, though. No Michelin stars for cake!”

  Even cake as good as this.

  “No Michelin stars for novelty pirate restaurants either,” Jake remarked coldly. “You still haven’t told me whose idea it was!”

  “Your ratings need a boost before they start to dip, Cap’n Jake.” She shrugged one bony shoulder. “Your boost just happens to be shaped like a pirate ship.”

  “Just don’t make me look like an idiot,” Jake replied. “Yeah, you’d get great ratings for that, especially if I do an accidentally-on-purpose pratfall into the harbor. But I’m a professional, Fionn. I don’t do theme park caffs.”

  She blinked, her mascara-heavy lashes not so much fluttering as slamming.

  “It’s a Christmas special. You’re lucky it’s not Santa’s grotto.”

  A keen runner with a headset and a clipboard peered over the edge of the stage. “It’s seven-thirty, the hall’s full to bursting. Shall we start?”

  “Go on, Captain,” Fionn purred, shirking the spotlight as ever, even as she was happy to reap its rewards thanks to Jake’s efforts. “Your public awaits.”

  Only then did he realize how many people in the audience were enjoying Locryn’s buns.

  So to speak.

  Jake got up from the chair. “Evening, Porthavel! How are you all today?”

  The audience looked at him a little suspiciously. Then one of them cleared his throat. He was a white-haired man, rosy cheeks peeking out from a white beard, wearing a little blue sailor’s cap balanced on his round head.

  “Sure we ain’t too naff for you, boy?”

  Jake strained to hear him. “Sure you…” Then it dawned on him. What he’d said on the ship.

  Well, I’m supposed to! It’s part of my schtick!

  Jake threw a quick glare behind him to Fionn, then he left his chair and dropped down onto the edge of the stage and swung his legs back and forth. “Now what’s your name, sir?”

  “Captain Cod,” he said. Of course. What else would it be? “Word is you’ve got boats of your own?”

  “I have, yes. One on the Thames, one at Whitstable, one at York.” Jake rubbed his palms together and said, “And I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr.…erm…Captain Cod, none of them are pirate ships with giant fiberglass codfish. Wearing hats.”

  Captain Cod. Fiberglass cod.

  Oh fuck.

  “And?” He folded his arms tight across his barrel chest. “We was happy to see you, boy, but you stood on the deck of my old boat and used some very choice language in front of the market. And there’re kiddies at that market. You want to be ashamed of yourself, you do!”

  “Yeah, Mr. Brantham, you bloody well do, effing and jeffing like that!” A worthy lady in a mohair jumper covered in pompoms jabbed her finger at Jake. “Such shitty language! I was shocked.”

  “You have all seen my shows, haven’t you?” Jake spread his hands and gazed around the room. “I don’t dub the swearing in afterward!”

  But t
he crowd looked unconvinced, and their murmurs of complaint were growing louder. Then a screwed-up ball of paper flew out of the audience and bounced off Jake’s shoulder, followed by another, then a third, as he was stoned by Locryn’s bright, cheery bun cases.

  “Hey, come on!” Fionn stood safely out of range of the paper missiles. “Jake loves it here already and he’s going to turn that boat into a restaurant to be proud of, but he needs your help. The program needs a community spirit like yours to make it work. Whether you want to help with the renovations or even train with Captain Jake in the kitchen, there’re so many opportunities for everyone in Porthavel. Jake, why don’t you tell the villagers about some of the trainees you’ve taken on after your other shows? It doesn’t stop when the cameras are turned off, does it?”

  “Captain Jake?” Cod shook his head, clearly not convinced. “We’ll see about that!”

  Jake gripped the edge of the stage and ran his gaze across the audience. “When I see potential in someone, I want to nurture it. Bring out the best in people. I’ve done my shows all over the country and I must have taken on twenty, twenty-five cooks and helped them into work. Some in my restaurants, some in my friends’. There was one lad, I remember, he was spinning candyfloss on Barry Island. Where is he now? He’s a chef at the Dorchester. Because. He had. Potential.” Jake thumped his fist against his knee with each word. Please don’t chuck me into the sea. “How many of you here tonight will end up working on…on Captain Cod’s pirate ship? How many of you might go from there to—to who knows where? Maybe you’ll end up swearing on the telly like me one day too! But that’s not going to happen if you throw all this shit at me, is it?”

  “Why don’t you ask your wife why we’re throwing shit?” The suggestion came from a man in a beanie hat who was sitting on the front row. “Ask her about the wicker cod!”

  “Wife? Wicker cod?” Jake shook his head. Had he misheard? “Sorry, I don’t know who—wife? Do you mean Fionn, the producer?” Jake looked over his shoulder at Fionn and suppressed a shiver.

  “Ask her!” Another ball of paper hit Jake.

  What has she said?

  “Fionn, could you tell the good people of Porthavel that you’re not my wife? And what the hell’s this about a wicker cod?”

  Was it some sort of nautical-themed hanging basket she’d seen in the village?

  “I’m not his wife, I’m the producer of Wreck to Restaurant,” Fionn told them. “And I didn’t— it was a joke. Come on, I don’t really think you’re going to build a wicker cod, do I?”

  “Standing on the harbor,” said an elderly woman with ruddy cheeks and a thick gray perm, “crowing into her phone about weird-beard yokels. If that’s what you think, you London folk, you can fuck off and take your fucking swearing with you. Bollocks to London and bollocks to the telly. You’re just here to laugh at us and nobody laughs at Dave and Zoe in this village!”

  Jake raised his eyebrows at Fionn and hissed, “For fuck’s sake! You can’t reference The Wicker Man. It’s offensive to yokels!”

  “Boo!” The jeers increased until they were deafening and the missiles began again. Then a figure rose into the hail of paper, his hands raised for calm.

  Locryn Trevorrow. The voice of fucking reason.

  “Please, can everybody just—” He cleared his throat then spoke again, his voice cutting through the catcalls. “Porthavelans, that’s enough! Is this how we welcome our guests?”

  The missiles stopped and the catcalls ended in silence. One by one the audience shook their heads.

  “Sorry if we got off on the wrong feet,” Jake said. “You guys in this village, you’re great, and I want to be part of that.” Do I bollocks. “Zoe and David won the competition because the people of Britain love them. They want them to have the best wedding this side of the Tamar Bridge. Yes, it’s going to be on a pirate ship, and it’s going to be in your village. I want you all to be a part of the show. All of you.”

  But maybe not the sweary lady in the pompoms.

  “What Fionn said wasn’t meant to cause offense,” Locryn told his grumbling peers, though Jake knew better. “And we shouldn’t hold it against her or Ja—Captain Jake. Instead, let’s show them that Porthavel is the sort of village where we work hard and we work together. This is an amazing opportunity to be part of something wonderful, so let’s start by picking up our litter, shall we?”

  Chairs scraped back. Someone fetched a broom, someone else fetched a dustpan. Another fetched a bin bag. Jake watched as the village pulled together, and he hopped down from the stage to help. He saw Fionn standing with Locryn and wondered for a worrying moment exactly what they were plotting, but it didn’t take long to find out.

  “There’ll be a sign-up form for those who want to take part in the show on the café counter from tomorrow,” Locryn told the villagers. “And everybody’s welcome to help Zoe and David have a wedding to remember. Nobody deserves it more than they do!”

  There were nods of agreement then.

  “Too right, they do!”

  “Lovely young couple like that.”

  “Great!” Jake vaulted back onto the edge of the stage. “So, sign up, let us know what you want to help with and…let’s give Zoe and David the best Porthavel wedding ever!”

  This time the shouts were cheers, but Jake couldn’t help shooting a warning look at Fionn. That sort of palaver, going on about wicker bloody cod, could cause havoc, and it was the last thing a man who was supposed to be relaxing needed. She met his gaze as the audience began to depart, her expression utterly unapologetic.

  Jake zipped up his leather jacket, hiding inside it as if it were armor. Then he said to Fionn, “No more bad-mouthing the locals. Please, Fionn.”

  She turned away from the remaining villagers and dropped her voice to a whisper to tell him, “I had a hidden camera rigged up, Jake, never fear. We’ve got all this on tape, it’s going to make for fab telly!”

  Jake shook his head. “No. Oh, hell, no, Fionn, that’s not going on air. I’m exec producer on this, and I’m putting my foot down. Absolutely not. They didn’t know they were being filmed! That’s not fair!”

  And I’ll look fucking ridiculous!

  “But— Jake, sweetie, don’t you love a redemption arc? Suspicion and distrust turns to success and the endless gratitude of the yokels?”

  “Not like that.” Jake shoved his hands into his pockets. “Nice old ladies swearing their cardies off. No, we can’t broadcast it.”

  Fionn shrugged. “Probably a good call. Don’t want Locryn to come out as the hero of your story, after all.”

  “No, we don’t.” Jake sighed. “I better have a word with him, actually. You go on, Fionn, I’m going to finish here then go home and swear at my reflection.”

  Then have a nice, calming bath and try not to think about being immolated by furious Porthavelans in my own pirate ship.

  She awarded him with a red wine-scented air kiss on either cheek then swept from the room, her mobile already clutched in her skinny hand. Jake watched Locryn say his own goodnights to the locals as he tied his rainbow scarf into a casual knot, the now empty cake box tucked beneath one elbow.

  “Erm…Locryn?” Jake crossed the room to him. “Can I have a quick word?”

  “Of course.” He beamed. “Sorry about all that, Captain. But I’m not sure weird beards was a great opening gambit, I’m afraid!”

  “Yeah.” Jake scrubbed his hand back through his hair. “Just wanted to say thanks for calming everyone down. Could’ve got hairy! And for arranging the sign-up sheet. You don’t have to do all this, you know. I really fucking appreciate it, but…”

  “I know you won’t let your producer make Porthavel into a punchline,” Locryn assured Jake with a smile. “And if there’s anything I can do to help with the cake, just let me know. Happy to advise on the matter of building a convincing wedding boat cake.”

  Advise?

  Ad-fucking-vise?

  “Locryn, how can I put this? Wreck
to Restaurant is my show. I do the food. And that includes the wedding cake. I’m a Michelin-starred chef, for fuck’s sake. I’m more than capable of making a wedding cake, and that includes one shaped like a fucking boat!”

  Locryn blinked, and for a second, Jake wondered if he might be about to be on the receiving end of a rant of his own. Did Locryn ever rant? He must. His mouth opened, then closed again, a smile playing about his lips when he said, “I suppose I did master your goujon recipe, so perhaps you’re right. Otherwise, that might suggest that a baker like me has it in him to be a chef like you, mightn’t it?”

  “Look here, Locryn.” Jake wagged his finger at him, and he had to blink to avoid the lure of Locryn’s dancing blue eyes. “Have I ever gatecrashed any of your shows? Have I? Have I driven my big old London bus into the middle of Porthavel and knocked your chocolate crispie cakes flying? No! So stop trying to weedle into my program! It’s getting on my tits!”

  “I don’t want to be on your program and I certainly don’t need to be,” Locryn told him. “What I want is for a very special couple to get the wedding and the cake they deserve. You should’ve heard what your producer was saying this morning! If you think you can come into our village and make their wedding into a punchline, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing. I take my job seriously.” Jake puffed out his breath in frustration. “It’s not my pissing fault I’ve ended up with the set of Carry On, Treasure Island, is it? Do you think that was my idea? Then I’ve got Captain Birdseye’s idiot brother up in my grill because I dared to suggest it was naff!”

  “Idiot? How dare you talk about Cod like that?” Locryn shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I think you and I had better do our best to avoid one another, don’t you? I don’t think we’re ever going to get along.”

  “I’ll be very happy to avoid you.” Jake turned up his collar and zipped his jacket up even farther. “I’d avoid this entire place if I could, but the people have decided, haven’t they? Jake Brantham, condemned to Locryn Trevorrow’s unfriendly little corner of Cornwall for months—months! I wish I’d never come here, Locryn, but I didn’t have the fucking choice!”