Page 9 of The Cake Fairies
Polly let her back slide down the side of the van to the tufty grass beneath her, picked at the piece of black ribbon decorating her wrist, unravelled it and scooped up her hair, tying it roughly into a ponytail.
Annabelle was by her side again so quickly, Polly wondered if she’d time travelled. She was handed a gleaming tray of brandy snaps, the sight of which made Polly want to break down and cry (in a good way). Meanwhile, her cousin was wasting no time in chomping her way excitedly through her own hotdog. Aunt Jemima and Uncle Bert had a blanket ban on fast food – and Americana in general – in their humble abode, and, when Annabelle’s rare moments of Stateside opportunity knocked, she seized them.
“Nothing really changes here, does it?” Polly wished she could extract her hapless words mid-air. Why had she come out with that? Now she’d never hear the end of it. It wasn’t that Annabelle’s world bakery domination idea wasn’t a good one. But Polly couldn’t help the girl she was. Dreaming was fun, until it took you out of your comfort zone.
She licked her lips, agog to know how these brandy snaps were created. What she’d give, to get her hands on the secret recipe. But then she supposed they wouldn’t be so special if they were readily available in her bakery six days a week.
“Honey, I have beentryingto share my wisdom with you this evening, if only you’d flipping well listen,” said Annabelle, swiping at the blob of mustard oozing its way out of the bap and onto her wrist.
“No. Not that. It’s no good pressing on with the idea of moving here. My mind’s made up and you know it. I mean the people. It’s the same old everything, just everyone’s a year older… a bit wrinklier, a bit fatter, a bit balder… a bit greyer.”
“Exactly. And I’m loath to remind you, but that’ll be us in another decade, my dear,” Annabelle patted Polly’s thigh as if to impress her point. “It’stoodepressing, and all the more reason to get ourselves spinning around. As soon as you’ve got your sea legs, anyway.”
Polly chewed on, deep in thought, relieved the tirade of business ideas had stopped dead in its tracks. Within minutes she felt semi-new, blood sugar levels raised; a little fire (courtesy of the generous amount of ginger) in her belly. That was the power of baked goods and it never ceased to amaze her.
“Hang on just a minute. I don’t think I’ve seenthathere before.” Annabelle stood, her hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the dipping sun, napkin-encrusted hotdog dangling precariously close to her prized hairdo.
“What is it, what are you looking at?” asked Polly.
“That strange little tent over there, the one with the red-and-white stripes; I swear it wasn’t there five minutes ago. Did you spot it while I was getting our food? Oh, and it’s got a sign on it, too. Normally the little marquees selling knick-knacks are gathered at the entrance, not all the way over there in the heart of the action.”
The sunset’s stream had changed tack already so that Polly, too, could make out the small wooden board whose simple painted words stated,Amber Magnolia. “What the heck?”
“Must be one of those dressing rooms for a VIP funfair person,” said Annabelle. “You know, like they have in the posh theatres for the stars.”
“Hmm… it is intriguing. I haven’t spotted anything new here for years – which begs the question, do they maintain the machinery?” But Polly briskly batted the wheel’s image away, and concentrated on polishing off her brandy snap crumbs.
“Maybe it’s one of those fortune tellers?” Annabelle’s pitch raised a notch. “Oh, we should go… at least poke our heads inside to check it out. It looks fun. Plus, there could be a chair. You really do need to sit somewhere properly for a while. Your bagand your arsemust be getting damp from the grass. Come on, take my hand and we’ll slowly wander over, see what it’s all about.”
“I don’t know. I’m not up for tea leaf readings and all that jazz… these people only invent their predictions anyway, charge the earth and then send you home with a pack of lies – some of which can be rather malicious. I think I can write my own life story: I work in a bakery in the tiny, uneventful village of Middle Ham. I was born there, I’ll die there. The end.”
“Polly! That’s awful.” Annabelle’s face was a picture of utter dismay.
“What? I’m only telling it as it is.”
“That doesn’t have to be the way the story ends at all, and deep down you know it. You’re just stubborn. Whatever happened to your sense of adventure?”
“I guess I threw it out with the potato peelings,” Polly said.
“I rather guess you did.”
Indecision kept them in limbo a while, but the strange little tent remained there, pegged to the spot, its painted name glinting in the copper sun, beckoning them over.
Annabelle stood spontaneously, taking several bold steps in its direction. Polly followed suit, in awe of the medicinal properties of her treat, gathering up the remnants of their snacks, casting about for a bin. She sauntered off to deposit their rubbish and felt the strangest swirl in her stomach; that long-lost feeling of excitement, fused with trepidation, fused with purpose. Long-lost because she’d only experienced this particular combination once in her life: the day she’d decided to open a bakery.
“We’ll take it all with a healthy pinch of salt,” said Annabelle, rubbing her hands together as Polly strode over to her. “This Amber whatshername might not even be in.”
Annabelle winked and Polly smiled back gratefully, thanking her lucky stars for her well-timed yet genuine wobble. It had bought her some time. Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad move, after all. What was the worst that could happen, in the unlikely event that somebody was at home? And at least it had distracted Annabelle from the Ferris wheel. Arm in arm they picked their way across the lumps and bumps of anthills and badger holes until they reached the tent.
They parted the curtains and peeked inside. A rosy-cheeked, elfin, corkscrew-curled woman rose to greet them. Her beam was radiant, almost illuminating the candy-cane velvet panels of her tent with its glow.
“Finally!” she cried, clapping her hands together. “It’s only taken you ten years.”
