Page 65 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Twenty-Nine
POLLY
“S
he’s getting the train. We’ll need to meet her at the station,” the monotone voice announced mid crisp-munch, feet tucked beneath her on the sofa, glued to something calledGame of Thronesthat was going right over Polly’s head. Or more accurately, Annabelle was glued to a character (and his curls) by the name of Loras Tyrell.
Still, it was just about the only thing that seemed to hold her cousin’s interest in 2019. So, Polly would let it go.
She was hoping Ivy would dilute everything, the minute she jumped out onto the platform, taking Annabelle’s mind off the life she’d left behind, and all the festivities that she clearly couldn’t stop imagining were going on in ‘69 without her. Anguish continuously furrowed Annabelle’s brow at the moment and, if she stayed sullen for much longer, it’d end up doing irreparable damage to her much-coveted features. Although, perhaps that would help Letter Z Round Two magnetise himself to Polly? Wherever he might be hiding.
But Polly sighed. There would never be another. The idea was unthinkable. Despite the fact Alex’s face was beginning to blur at the edges, and soon she feared she’d lose its essence altogether, scrabbling in frustration to recall a single detail. Except for the inexplicable way he made her feel. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake that part.
Annabelle blew into the empty crisp bag as if it were a giant bubble and Polly quickly covered her ears to avert the childish BANG her cousin had yet to grow out of. Silly really, when in the first half of the New Year they’d both be turning thirty. She quivered. Kitty’s warning would come to pass. Then again, in some ways it wouldn’t, because they’d both be turning eighty instead.
Only they weren’t – of course they weren’t, she reassured herself with the trace of a smile. Because Aunt Jemima and Uncle Bert were welded to the spot, like a stubborn apple pie crust clinging to a Pyrex dish. The kind of unyielding remnants that not even an entire bottle of Fairy Liquid could shift. All of which meant she and Annabelle would pick up where they’d left off, hobbling back from Tor fair. Perhaps this time Amber Magnolia could magic them up a disguise, though? Polly was determined to evade Wizard Withers and his inevitable offer of a return journey lift.
But what the cousins were surely getting was an extra Christmas in their lives. For that much, Annabelle ought to be grateful. And presumably the boss would give them the day off to celebrate?
Polly’s thoughts careered from one extreme to another. Like a skier slaloming down a great Baked Alaska mountain into the depths of the unknown. She had to get them back on track; gently snowploughing along from cake drop to cake drop, remembering to go with the flow. All of this would make sense in the end, Polly hoped.
Once again, she’d let Annabelle dictate their plans for the holidays – well, as far as plans could be made. Amber Magnolia had informed them they’d be in Blackpool for the festive season, though.Decent of her.Still, Polly might have predicted it anyway, given the latest pattern in cake circulation seemed to be staying a few weeks in a designated area and venturing around it in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree orbit. They’d definitely be able to say they’d seen a bit of England’s green and pleasant land by the time they reached their journey’s end.
Ivy’s train pulled in with great efficiency at a pitch-black 5:00pm and she greeted them with an overwhelming hug, making Polly realise just how much they’d missed her. There might have been an age gap but something about the girl felt like family. It was uncanny how quickly she’d become part of the team. It really couldn’t have been by chance, and Polly sensed a greater meaning to their friendship would be revealed when the time was right.
Ivy scrambled into the back of the limo, Nigel unimpressed to clock her tucking her phone into her back pocket while he dealt with her bags, and soon she was barrelling at her friends with flurries of bake and cake questions, her enthusiasm infectious.
Blackpool couldn’t stay dark for long. The illuminations never ceased to be spellbinding, no matter how many times the women had zipped to and fro from venue to venue, embracing top secret boxes one way – and pressing imaginary brake pedals in the back as Nigel grew evermore impatient with the traffic; wringing empty hands in their laps on the return trip to Sandra & Bill’s ramshackle B&B (yeah, thanks very much for that, Amber Magnolia).
Would the Blackpool Tower security guards sniff an imaginary bomb in their quadruple-tiered Banana, Pecan and Toffee cake, custom-designed especially for the over eighties’ tea dance in the ballroom? Perhaps more worryingly, would the toffee and nuts wreak havoc on false teeth? And how on earth would an organic rosewater and apple cake, no matter its lofty height and exquisitely refined flavours, lure grown men and women away from the drama of a Blackpool casino roulette wheel and the wolves in sheep’s clothing slot machines?
They’d had to laugh, or they’d cry. Heaven only knew what the boss would dream up for them next, and on the betting front, Polly would wager that there were surely more urgent cases elsewhere in town, where screen obsession had reached an all-time high.
That said, the older generation were equally guilty, it seemed, for tapping away on electronic devices certainly hadn’t bypassed them in the way it would have in ’69. Why, Polly had copped an eye-load of senior citizens just yesterday. They’d been rugged up in coats and mittens, flanking the ornate benches of the promenade, ice cream cones in one hand, mobile phones in the other. She supposed Amber Magnolia was simply covering all eventualities by ensuring the Cake Fairies carried out cake drops for every age group, demographic and venue. She’d clearly gone to great lengths to plan the mission and wasn’t prepared to take a chance on assumptions or stereotypes!
Colossal candy canes, reindeer, Christmas trees and giant glittery baubles commanded Polly to return to the heart-warming scenes of the present. The bond between Annabelle and Ivy seemed to grow every time they met. Sometimes that gave Polly a pang of jealousy. Other times she knew that Ivy’s energy was just what was needed. Things always felt less intense when their friend was around.
Unable to pull her eyes away from the window for long, she imagined Blackpool couldn’t help but look glorious on a run-of-the-mill night of the week, or a few decades ago, when a smattering of the wealthier Middle Ham villagers would’ve headed off on their annual week-long coach trip to somewhere quintessentially British by the sea. But during the build-up to Christmas, it was bewitchingly beautiful. How lucky they were to see it.
“We thought it might be fun to do a rollercoaster drop on the way back to our digs,” Polly announced, keen to remind the enrapt duo that she still existed.
Ivy gave her the strangest of looks. “I’m uber-impressed by your dedication and the way you’ve kept this up.” She reached across from her seat to pat Polly affectionately on the knee. “I guess I thought it was all a bit of a pipedream to start with. I mean, I get that you’re minted; you’ve got to be, right?’ She looked from one to the other of the cousins. “But you can’t possibly dot cake around a theme park. You’ll make everyone throw up!”
Polly didn’t dare break the news that actually, there would betwocakes involved in Ivy’s predicted carnage.
“Well, we are,” piped up Annabelle. “No need to flip your wig. It’ll be fine. The sensible ones will eat after they’ve done their loop-the-loops. Anyway, changing the subject… how haveyoubeen? And how were your end of term marks at coll…”
“But it’s a ridiculous idea, on top of the sticks of rock they’ll no doubt have already gnawed through. They’ll scoff the cake as soon as they spot it,” Ivy interjected, running her hands through her hair, her excitable energy mutating into an unnecessary ball of stress. “So that’s like hundreds of people, bellies full of sugar prior to being hurled from 0-80km per hour in, like, two seconds? And that’s before they soar to the height of eighty-eight feet… with a maximum speed of 85km per hour.”
Polly couldn’t help but squirm uncomfortably at the notion. Evidently Ivy had done her statistical homework (if not her historical equivalent) just as she herself had. She winced at Annabelle. Annabelle pouted back. Neither cousin had any idea what was triggering their friend to freak out like this.
Nigel opened the partition window to let them know they were approaching the Pleasure Beach.
“I’ll go,” said Polly, jumping out of the limo and reaching back inside for the neon-iced chocolate blood orange and thyme cake they’d lovingly spent the entire day on.
Ivy made an unprecedented and simultaneous leap and grab for it, only to end up face down on the seat, Polly’s deft moves saving a cake fiasco and a half.
“What the heck?” she mouthed, fairy-stepping away from the vehicle as Annabelle attempted to pull Ivy upright. This wassonot the kind of Christmas present she had in mind, Santa.
