Page 16 of The Cake Fairies
Part Two, 2019
Chapter Eleven
POLLY
“W
here in the flaming hell are we?”
Somehow Polly managed a whisper through her chattering teeth, hardly daring to look around her, her pulse a thumping mess, her words thrashing about like the swell of an uncontrollable tidal wave. Her hands were instinctively back to their mime artist impersonation; this time across the solid surface of a round table, where a steaming cup of tea was beckoning her attention. Cautiously, she lifted her head to take in the sight of Annabelle, arms wrapped around – oh my God, it wasthat blasted red folder, meaning none of it had been a dream… unless that was, too? And she’d landed right in the middle of another one?
As Polly slowly came around, she raised her head higher, eyelids fluttering so ferociously she was in danger of sending out all the wrong signals to all the wrong men. Behind her stunned cousin, there were tables of animated (and not so animated) people. Those who were with company could immediately be divided into two distinct groups: in conversation or glued to mobile phones; the latter very much in the majority.
So, Amber Magnolia was right. And this probably wasn’t a dream. On closer inspection, the people were wondrously diverse too. The vague memory of trailing after Annabelle through the night sky, as if she were Wendy on the coattails of Peter Pan on their way to Neverland, completely freaked her out. Could they really have travelled through time? She’d tackle that possibility later.
Tea first. Everything looked better after a cup of tea.
Polly looked around, taking in the bare-faced cheek of the people here. While the melting pot of ethnicity filled her with instant joy, she couldn’t understand how anybody would meet up with a friend for a cuppa, only to stare at a screen, fingers pushing at buttons instead of embellishing a chat with gesticulation. Talk about the height of rudeness. And they were doing it all around her, she realised as she made a quick panoramic turn.
If this was the year 2019 – and the alien fashion sense and almost cartoonish glut of thick eyebrows immediately told her it was – then she wanted out of here as quickly as possible. She couldn’t help but raise her hand to her forehead to check her own brows were still of the pencil-thin, over-plucked, and all things hip and happening variety. Phew.
“What… just… happened to us?” Annabelle squeaked, her eyes bloodshot and wild, snapping Polly’s attention back to the way they’d been cast out to sea with not a life jacket between them. But Polly was determined to remain calm. It was essential that one of them got a grip on this, and quick-smart. Somehow all the tea was helping. Here she was, sipping away, semi-impressed that it came accompanied by a miniscule chunk of something strongly resembling a square of chocolate-covered flapjack. Yes, it was. She bit into it and closed her eyes, losing herself momentarily in the sugar rush. Wasn’t that just the most ingenious way of enticing your customers to buy cake? It was even studded with flecks of dried strawberry!
She scanned the vista properly now. There was so much to take in, she didn’t know where to start. The sensory overload was hardly helped by the red double-decker buses whizzing up and down the chaotic street outside. The street which strongly hinted that they were stranded in a café in London.
Bloody hell. The Big Smoke.
And there her head went off on its rampage again. This really was too much. She thought through it all again. First there had been that bump of a landing, cushioned by the padded dark leather seats, which were quite regal, like something out of a castle. She wriggled, enjoying the brief distraction of the luxury. Then came the overwhelming noise around her, the meeting and greeting, the whirring machines, the screaming toddlers – a worryingly hefty number of the latter adrift in buggies and highchairs and gripping electronic devices of their own, so their parents could presumably trawl their screens without interruption. She’d skip over the detail that someone might have witnessed their bizarre appearance (or had they suddenly pinged into full view while Amber Magnolia fiddled with the tuning button on a celestial television set?). She’d also skip over Annabelle’s white-as-a-sheet face, and her glassy, bloodshot eyes. Her own were almost popping out of her head at the three colourful counters in the distance, dripping in rainbow-coloured fondant and tender-crumbed goodness.
The mystic Amber Magnolia had been right about a lot of things, Polly could see that already. And it meant this was probably (definitely) not a dream. Yes, it was a pretty divine counter – and a pretty divine encounter – there was no denying it. Hadn’t the woman just told them they’d think they’d died and gone to heaven?
“She might have given us more notice,” ventured Polly, teeth still on edge despite the scent of warm gingerbread that seemed to be wrapping itself around them, maybe, for all she knew, wafting from invisible holes in the walls. It reminded her of the strange pillar of light that’d hugged her into oblivion, while something had catapulted her into the night sky. Goosebumps dotted her arms. “Talk about lulling us into a false sense of security, with those Jammie Dodgers.”
“She’s a bitch of the highest order,” said Annabelle. “How could she do this? She ought to be locked up. I… I can’t even put words to what just… it all happened so quickly… one minute I was listening to—”
“Cowmight be kinder.” Polly sloshed tea into Annabelle’s cup, encouraging her to drink up and then take a nibble of the complimentary oaty goodness. She took the liberty of adding two of the trendy golden sugar cubes to Annabelle’s brew. They’d been sitting expectantly in a bowl and, if she were ever to prise that folder away from Annabelle, she’d need to enlist their help. “Call me naïve, but I sense she’s somehow got our backs. It’s not like she took our money or anything.”
“No, she just made us flippin’ levitate – against our own will, I might add – out of a tent like a pair of circus freaks in a cannon; a quick wave at Jupiter, Saturn and The Plough… and… and… now we’re—”
“In London,” Polly whispered, hoping Annabelle would keep her voice down. They didn’t need to attract any unwanted attention. “By the looks of it, anyway, and in a place called The Toadstool, according to the menu.” Polly tapped at the sleek laminated leaflet standing proudly in the middle of their table. She was curious as to what goodies it had to offer. “Hey, you did want to open a store here.”
“I said Bath… or… Bristol… or Exeter. London’s miles away.” Just when Polly thought Annabelle’s face couldn’t get any paler, it did. “Well, you might want to stay here, but I can’t leave Mother and Father. They’ll be distraught… sending out search parties all over the village. Oh, what are we going to do? I don’t have enough money for a train fare.”
Something told Polly that Annabelle wasn’t quite grasping the fact that they had not only travelled in distance, but in seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months, years, decades, and a whole new millennium, too. In the distance, a tall and surreally blonde-haired man rushed out of the door, trundling a suitcase on wheels behind him. Evidently, he’d just remembered he had a plane to catch.
“We’re going to order some of that cake. That’s what we’re going to do.” Polly clapped her hands together in the manner of Middle Ham’s jolly-hockey-sticks Brown Owl, the woman who ruled the village’s Brownie pack. “We can’t tackle anything without at least another two cups of tea and a fat chunk of cake. Have you even seen the kind of stuff that…” Polly halted the2019that was about to trip off her tongue. “Erm, that his place has to offer? Just take a look at that lot behind you.”
She winked at the glorious bounty, mouth already watering to sample a morsel of everything.
“How can you even think about food at a time like this? Honestly.”
Annabelle stubbornly declined the invite, and now Polly wondered if perhaps this was denial: first stop on the journey of grief for all they’d left behind – temporarily, she hoped – although she couldn’t deny that a sense of liberty that’d already begun to bubble away in her stomach. And suddenly there was another flurry of butterflies, just thinking of the possibilities a brand-new life free from her demanding brothers might bring.
“And what ifthisturns out to be the best thing that ever happened to us… as well as a chance to help other people… cake depositing, or whatever it is that the strange woman wants us to do? We really ought to open that thing and see what this is all about, before we attempt to hop on any trains home.” Polly nodded at the folder they’d been lumbered with.
“Well you’ve changed your tune. And the term was ‘cake dropping’,” Annabelle corrected her. “And it’s the most raving bloody mad idea I’ve ever heard. We slave away, rushing around on our feet all day creating sugary masterpieces for any old Tom, Dick, or Harry to pick up from a public bench? I can see it might work with books, but it’ll never be the same with cake.”
“I can’t see why not.”
