Page 54 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twenty-Four
ANNABELLE
Today’s Blueberry Drip drop had been her least favourite cake deposit to date. Maybe it didn’t help that they’d had the unexpected success of calming a nightclub full of narcotics abusers. And then there were the cockle-warming scenes on the streets of Westminster, where the cutting and sharing of the churros cake among the needy had created such an air of tranquillity, that not only had every demographic magically abandoned texts, phone calls and Internet trawling, diving into wallets and purses to help those without a roof over their heads, but the Cake Fairies had also inadvertently elicited a heartfelt, televised promise from a band of MPs to propose a local, twenty-four-seven soup kitchen later that week.
Annabelle, Polly and Ivy had even managed to unwittingly insert themselves into the shiny black-railinged background of a live Downing Street broadcast, when the Prime Minister had made an impromptu appearance.
Quite how Ivy was taking all this was anybody’s guess. Then again, she’d spent most of the excursion intent on capturing gleaming churro-dipped close-ups for Instagram, filtering and airbrushing and perfecting until the goodies looked like something out of a Littlewoods catalogue. Well, if catalogues did food. Annabelle guessed that was a no-brainer, since everywhere stocked seemingly everything nowadays. And while that was technically defeating the object of their mission, there was no doubt that Ivy was spending less and less time on her blessed contraption while in their company. A definite call to rejoice!
They’d done their drop via a churros con chocolate cart which had been left in reception for them that morning. “I didn’t get a chance to catch any details about the mystery benefactor, except she’ll be back tonight to collect the contraption. Apparently, your batter and sauce are all pre-made and it’ll pump out an ‘inordinate amount of goodness’”, Cecil had made rabbit ears with his fingers in the air. “She said she wished she could do something a little more ‘loaves and fishes’”, there he went again with his bejewelled digits, “with the churro cake itself so the sweet joy would surge even further across the city, but this would have to suffice.”
Now, how would they ever recreate that level of success elsewhere?
Tired of being in perpetual cat-fight mode, Annabelle retracted her claws for the day, opting for the soft churro-like padding of velvet paws and niceties instead. Try as she might, she couldn’t explain her swinging pendulum of emotions. All she knew was she was happy to quit playing alley cat defending her territory.
Stamford Bridge and its legions of Chelsea football fans: a potent mix that she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. Amber Magnolia had prepped them with videos of police riots and hardened hooliganism; beer bottles and every home-made weapon imaginable (and, indeed, previouslyunimaginable) in the thuggish hands of overzealous supporters who’d forgotten it was only ever about a humble leather-stitched ball.
“Worst case scenario, of course.” The old bat had failed to reassure them.
Sure enough, there had been expletive-heavy venting on the Tube, when the mostly peacock-blue supporters assembled en-masse, but by and large it was of the jovial kind. And, once again, their elder had been right, most of these (mainly guys) were more concerned about getting their social media fill than sparking up World War Three, as the train clickety-clacked its way to the stadium.
“We can’t do the drop here,” Polly whispered, tugging anxiously at the ends of her red waves in their loose ponytail, evidently as keen as Annabelle that they keep as low a profile as possible. “I can’t say I relish the thought, but we’re going to have to take this baby closer to the pitch.” She tilted her head at the cake which sat in its customary melange of boxes on her lap.
But it turned out the journey had lulled them into a false sense of security. On arrival at Fulham Broadway, the fans moved like a single-celled organism, sweeping up everything and everyone in their wake. Even the scant few police appeared to twitch, grabbing tightly hold of their walkie-talkies as if they were comfort blankets.
Oh, bloody hell.
Polly had already been swallowed up in the throng a few metres ahead, leaving Annabelle a helpless spectator, waiting for her cousin’s form to hopefully reappear somewhere in the distance. The current shape of the cake didn’t bear thinking about.
Respite came at last and she doubled over to catch her breath, miraculously now shoulder to shoulder with Polly at the edge of the chanting crowd; filled with wonder at the novelty of a little space. Heaving blue chests flashed before them, a never-ending carpet of masculinity rolling out to the stadium’s entrance, but there definitely wasn’t a letter Z among this lot.
Just as she’d suspected, it didn’t take long for a ruckus to flare up. In the distance, and to the right of the stadium, semi-hidden by a trickle of merchandise stands, a group of Millwall fans clad in buttermilk and custard-hued tops were provoking their hosts with a flick of their black and white football scarves.
“At least it’s not fists or bottles,” Polly observed, although from this distance it was impossible to shake off their uncanny resemblance to a swarm of menacing wasps.
“Never underestimate the wince-inducing nip of fabric on the butt,” said Annabelle. “God knows how many times I’ve been on the receiving end of one of your tea towels in the kitchen.”
“Actually, that’s a fair point,” said Polly. “And in that case, instinct tells me somewhere in the vicinity of those market stalls is where we need to drop the cake, and then run for our blimming lives.”
They definitely seemed to be taking bigger gambles with their planting of treats. This was crazy. Annabelle would like to see Amber Magnolia standing here in the path of danger, putting her money where her mission was.
They picked their way slowly – and then a little faster – toward the scuffle which had already grown to the size of a rugby scrum (the irony!) involving at least a dozen men. Where were the cops when they needed them? The closer they got, the more the scarves flicked and flapped; first at faces, then at privates. It was the most ridiculous sight and, before long, the yellow stripes were swiping at additional ammunition from the nearby market stalls.
“Stand back, girls!” one of the stallholders shouted in their direction. “I’m not being sexist,” though he really was. “But this is no place for either of you.” Annabelle kept walking toward him, defiant and unperturbed, Polly trundling after her. “I’m serious. You need to peg it before this ends in tears! Go. Grab an officer while you’re at it and send them this way if they’ll risk their lives… but run… now… fast as the freakin’ gingerbread man… I mean, woman.”
“We won’t be going anywhere just yet.” Annabelle frowned at the short, rotund guy whose stand she thoroughly intended to highjack after that ridiculous display –for an even more ridiculous display of her own. “Give us a little cover, mate, so we can put this thing together.” She gestured at the boxes that Polly had sensibly divvied out between them and elbowed her way through the canvas shielding the rear of the stall, Polly stumbling in after her in blatant admiration of her street trader banter.
“Now look here. I can’t have you two on the stand like this. I’ve had enough responsibility flung at me today ’cos Pops is poorly. I ain’t even a salesman: I’m a chippie by trade. Not that there’s anything left to trade. Look at ’em! They’re pilfering everything now. It’ll be Pops’ effing bazookas next!” he cried. “And mum’s the word on the latter, all right? They’re supposed to be banned but they keep him in bread and butter. Bestsellers they are, those noisy buggers.” Annabelle could only stab a guess that they were some kind of spectator’s trumpet. “An entrepreneur’s gotta do what an entrepreneur’s gotta do,” he added, as if reading her mind. “Anyways, I’m going off at tangents here and you two are the most obstinate females I’ve ever encountered. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when it all backfires in your pretty faces.” He shook his head, jowls flapping in the manner of a dog who’d just jumped out of the River Brue after a thoroughly reed-encrusted bath. “And what the devil is that, when it’s at home?” He pointed to the boxes. “Just when I thought I’d seen it all, outside this football stadium.”
“I can virtually promise you order will be restored in a moment,” said Annabelle, avoiding all eye contact, failing spectacularly to convince either herself or Polly of their chances of success, as she unearthed their blueberry-studded sponges from the cardboard and began to press their layers together. These merry men were worse than the over-excitable villagers at a Middle Ham jumble sale, which was saying something.
“You can’t put that here,” the guy flapped. “They’ll be flinging that about in a moment, too. Locusts they are.Did you just see those two?They’ve only been and stripped next door’s stand completely bare!”
“Maybe,” said Polly with a sigh, complicit with the no-eye-contact game. Somehow, they had to keep the faith. Pretty impossible, when a group of oafs was lobbing every item of football couture imaginable at one another, although from a pain point of view, everything but the scarves seemed totally pointless.
Yes, this was definitely their most unpredictable drop to date. Still not a hint of law and order as far as the eye could see but, typically, enough handheld screens capturing action to supply every TV network in the world with the breaking news of yet another British football fight.
“Have you by chance got any of those bazooka things left?” asked Polly.
