Page 8 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Seven
POLLY
The reassuring fug of brandy snaps, fried onion-flecked hotdogs, and candyfloss greeted Polly as Wizard Withers opened the car door to let her out; a bizarre yet delicious assault on the nose which made a welcome diversion from his seedy grin.
She marvelled at how this evening had hardly started, but here she was, already dodging Annabelle and her conversation, seeking out anything and everything to take her mind off her woes. It hadn’t always been like this, but a feeling of despair had been washing over Polly since her twenty-ninth birthday, pushing her relentlessly towards the dot on the horizon that was her thirtieth.
She wanted change badly. She needed change badly. But Polly’s fear – or one of the many that were rapidly consuming her life – was greater than her ability to pursue that change. While the whirling promise of the carousel, its gilt-edged horses prancing to merry organ music, couldn’t fail to lift her spirits, the joy promptly slipped away as soon as she was home again.
Now the cousins thanked Kitty profusely for her charity in giving them a lift, pretended they hadn’t heard all her poison arrows of critique during the ten minute journey, and Polly was only too happy to allow Annabelle to drag her away, into the heart of the field – even if that meant they were edging perilously close to a certain giant wheel. The heaven-sent perfume continued to fill the air and she felt herself begin to relax, just a little.
“Well, it was definitely worth putting up with Kitty to get an extra half an hour out of the evening, but if I’d had to listen to another lecture on the dangers of hitchhiking, or ‘the more grown up and civilised things we should be doing with our time instead,’ or ‘the merits of wearing a long skirt paired with sensible flat shoes so as not to come across as a hussy,’ I’d be running over to the strongest man stall over there, ripping that hammer from its chain and bashing her buffed-up bonnet –andher barnet. What a show-off! It’s hardly surprising her old man is always coming in to eye us up for his just desserts.”
“Annabelle Williams!”
“Just saying, cousin dear.”
“Well, I did try to forewarn you against taking that husband of hers up on his offer. There’s always a price to pay with his wife, and tonight’s was being treated to her rundown of the menu for the Mayor of Glastonbury’s banquet. Trust her to wind up on the invite list. At least we didn’t have to hear about balmy Benidorm and our snail trails of cake crumbs again.”
“You’re right. I’d much rather teeter along by foot in the dark for the return journey than take a chance on another motorist, ta very much. Listening to the highlights of her evening on the return leg would be more excruciating than a morning at Sunday school.”
For the first time since she’d snubbed Annabelle’s pie-in-the-sky suggestion, Polly sensed the equilibrium between them was restored. “Can you imagine what folk would pay if we bottled this and sold it in the bakery?” She sniffed at the air and closed her eyes to fully revel in the bliss, even permitting herself a giggle before exhaling a giant breath of relief.
They’d lost sight of the dastardly contraption’s orbit now – at least until it reappeared like a mirage – and she found she could almost block out the screams of its passengers who were no doubt stuck at the top. She swore the guy in charge of the big wheel’s control booth did it on purpose, just to freak his customers out all the more while he feasted on his chocolate-covered honeycomb from the sweet van next door.
It was no use, though. On the subject of food, she could no longer ignore the Pied Piper allure of her beloved brandy snaps. Was it any wonder? An annual ginger and syrup-fuelled treat so wondrous that it made a gingerbread man seem as enticing as a cardboard cut-out. None of which was to downgrade the thrill that was a Middle Ham Bakery creation, complete with raisin buttons and fondant face.
“Can we?” Polly gave Annabelle her very best puppy dog eyes.
“Only if you’ll promise to put on your big girl’s pants and go on the wheel with me. Who knows what rich, exotic pickings of men will be waiting for us at the bottom – or the top?” Annabelle smiled.
If Polly’s heart sank, she knew better than to show it. She’d cross her fingers behind her back, get her brandy snap fix and then feign indigestion. Yes, that would nip the tomfoolery swiftly in the bud.
“Okay. You win.” She lied to her cousin; a smile that she hoped was non-mischievous commandeering her face.
“This way, slow coach!” Annabelle yanked her along as if she were out for walkies. She could only hope that her heels would be kind to her.
They’d barely taken a dozen strides when the big wheel peeped menacingly over the top of the infinitely gentler, yet majestic horses – why couldn’t Annabelle settle for their grace instead, thought Polly. She tried to block out the memory of her last rotation in the wheel’s terrifying clutches, one year ago to the day.
She knew she was letting herself get middle-aged and boring as a fart before her time, but the lack of control had horrified her when that seat had damn well stalled at almost the highest point of its clock face. Annabelle’s urge to swing the pair of them as if their buttocks were welded to nothing more dangerous than a piece of playground apparatus at the park, had left her emotionally black and blue. In her real life, in her day-to-day existence, she’d known exactly where she stood (sat): baker extraordinaire, orphan-but-semi-okay-with-it, cook and cleaner and general skivvy to a trio of ungrateful numpties. But that pesky wheel had thrown her out on the ledge; a metaphor for the uncharted.
Oh, she’d smiled a toothy smile as she’d begged the panic not to churn up the contents of her stomach and hurl them at the ant-like crowd below. Meanwhile Annabelle continued to flirt with the far-too-young nineteen-year-old guys and their over-oiled quiffs in the seats above them, exuding cool, calm, collected and chat-up-able with expert ease. “Let’s get your fix then.”
“Hmm?” Polly couldn’t seem to keep her voice from trembling as past and present engulfed her. It wouldn’t be so bad if someone could guarantee they’d go round the blooming thing without a hitch – or a glitch. She’d close her eyes, she’d count sheep inside her head, she’d—
“Polly? Your snaps are waiting! Quick, let’s go now while the queue’s short.”
Bugger. It would have to be the world’s tiniest queue, wouldn’t it? All of which would mean she’d snaffle the goodness down too quickly, lulling herself into a false sense of security before paying a very wicked man very good money to strap her into that colossal, demonic, iron mechanism and scare her out of her wits.
She edged herself over to the food queue, anyway, resigned to her fate. At least the sugar would help her gear up for this. And then there was the shandy stall next door. A swig or two of fizz would settle her nerves a bit more, help her to mask her fear, joke along; get jovial with the juvenile delinquents, and jaunty with the kind of jesters who enjoyed firing themselves up to the dizzying heights of the clouds.
“Are you okay? You’re pale as you like!”
Polly could well have used Annabelle’s line of enquiry as an excuse, her carte blanche for playing along with a sudden onslaught of sickness; except she really did feel unsteady, and not just because of her skyscraper footwear.
“Stay right here,” Annabelle ordered, yanking her to the side of the food van and propping her up against it. “I’ll barge my way to the front of the line. We’ll get some grub inside you in a jiffy. Have you even eaten anything today? Don’t tell me… too busy whipping up gourmet stew for those useless cousins of mine.”
“That would be accurate.” Polly frowned as her light-headed state continued, and Annabelle shook her own head in frustration as she went to get the snaps.
