Page 2 of The Cake Fairies
Part one, 1969
Chapter One
POLLY
Cake was as vital to Polly Williams as the air that she breathed; as life-giving as any emergency cup of tea. She could never understand how anybody went a day without it. It might be 1969; the rest of the country might have its groove on. But the small, sleepy Somerset village where Polly lived would always be a decade behind everywhere else, stuck resolutely and mysteriously on a quaint timeline of its very own. Here, cake comforted, grounded and hugged as tightly as ever, despite the psychedelic and flower-powered tidal wave of change and liberation elsewhere.
These two had always co-existed: Middle Ham’s reluctance to get with the programme, and Polly’s enduring love affair with cake. Way back, when she’d been a babe in arms. And just as much now that she was a tall, willowy, moderately attractive, red-headed woman – given to too much introspection, particularly over her inadequacies.
Ever since she’d bypassed crawling for the multi-tasking efficiency of the bottom shuffle, Polly had adeptly grabbed at wedges of unsupervised Victoria sandwich with her podgy toddler hands, and surreptitiously swiped tea cakes from the plates of her mother’s astounded guests, stuffing the best bits in her mouth, saving up the rest in her pockets to scatter for the hens in the yard.
Cake was even better halved and shared – with her vivacious, dinky, blonde cousin who lived across the road. And though a not-too-insignificant demarcation line of wealth tried its best to divide them, Cousin Annabelle had forever been Polly’s partner in saccharine crimes. From the tender age of eighteen months, they’d hoovered up rich pickings of buttery shortbread crumbs at family get-togethers, though actually ‘carpet swept’ would have been closer to the mark, before either house had had a vacuum cleaner. And they’d graduated to their experimental teenage years of leaky pineapple upside down cake together, and beyond.
Polly and Annabelle were inseparable.
But then you needed a bond as close as this one in a place where the weekly highlight was a broken-down combine harvester on the B road, or an unruly herd of cows who’d spilled onto the vicarage green to tear up the daffodils.
“You’re heading for thirty, girls.”
That was Kitty Withers’ standard opening line the moment either cousin presented their wares at the weekly Women’s Institute meeting. The battleaxe loved nothing better than adding candles to each girl’s imaginary birthday cake as the years ticked by.
“It’s high time you bagged yourself a man apiece, lest you fester and die as spinsters.”
When would that woman change the record? Not that she was hip enough to recognise a shiny black Beach Boys disc if it bit her on her ample backside. In fact, Kitty had one of those unfathomablederrièresthat gave her the appearance of the rear end of a pantomime horse.
And little did the irritating madam realise that, mere hours ago, her nothing-to-write-home-about son had been chatting them up over the counter; his beady little eyes mesmerised by Polly’s hands in particular, and the intricate way she was shaping her dough. Not to be outshone by Kitty’s husband, an equally beady specimen complete with wizard-ish pointed grey beard, whose penchant for cream horns was enough to sour all the dairy toppings and fillings of the bakery in one fell swoop.
Half of Polly felt sorry for Kitty and her ilk; for their blissful ignorance of the meandering eyes of many a village male, tied down by holy matrimony when they were barely out of their teens. The other half of her decided that the matriarch of the WI deserved it, in her steadfast and stalwart twinset and pearls. If it wasn’t for Polly and Annabelle’s injection of sweet and tender-crumbed fun every Wednesday afternoon at half three on the dot, what did any of these Victorian villagers have to look forward to? Kitty’s pitiful seasonal attempts at plum jam hardly counted; she should be singing their professional praises, not tearing their Sahara-esque private lives to pieces.
Polly laid out a selection of Danish pastries and loaf cakes from the wicker basket cradled in her arm, hiding her weekly disdain – as well as the rumble of her stomach – as Kitty rudely sniffed at the air.
“Anyway, I shan’t be requesting the presence of you or your cakes for the next fortnight, which will give you ample time to mull over my pearls of wisdom. And you really should, unless you want to end up like Old Mother Mabel over there.”
Kitty cast her hand out wide to gesture in the direction of the eighty-five-year-old spinster, as if she were booby prize in a game show. Kitty’s own wedding band and sapphire engagement ring glinted in the afternoon trickle of sunshine, backing up her unsolicited advice and crudely reminding them how successful she’d been at following the rules in her own game of life.
“You’re rejecting our bakes?”
Annabelle folded her arms in contempt, eyes narrowed.
Well, this was a first in a decade-long career, although with the growing demand for their flamboyant birthday cakes – Polly’s personal specialty, the chocolate button-spiked hedgehog – it was a more than welcome opportunity for them to regroup and catch their breath.
“Who needs cake when you have the Costa Blanca? I’ll be far too busy sipping sweet sangria on my sun lounger to be co-ordinating activities for this bunch of desperate women.” Kitty flicked her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes around the room and patted at her beehive of a bun.
“I beg your pardon?”
Polly’s back went ruler straight. How dare Kitty talk about the village ladies like that? Okay, Polly often referred to them as gossips – particularly when the weekly news Chinese-whispered its way up to the bread counter – but they were kind-hearted, hardworking folk. They were the very weave that held the community together, passing on traditions to future generations, as well as old wives’ tales; always ready to drop everything and help in an emergency; from the big (the year the River Brue spectacularly burst its banks and a number of local homes flooded), to the smaller spoonful of sugar-type touches that warmed the cockles and gladdened the heart. Polly loved this aspect of her village. Empathy radiated from Middle Ham’s every corner, and, despite its slower pace of life, it mostly soothed the soul. It certainly wasn’t the female villagers’ faults they were living the same old lives that had been handed down to them on a plate, with a lack of options, equality, or imagination. These women were Polly’s beloved customers. Without them she wouldn’t even have her small shop. Their very plight – for that would be a kinder word than their ‘desperation’ – was actually Kitty’s salvation; that was the irony. Why else would they let her clip-clop about dishing out orders, as if she were a blimming sergeant major?
“Spain, sweethearts,” Kitty trumpeted, interrupting Polly’s thoughts. “Not that I’d expect any of you country bumpkins to be able to find it on a map. There’ll be no more caravanning in Cornwall for Kitty Withers, as from this weekend. My husband and I are moving up in the world.”
Polly swallowed hard to disguise her astonishment and the nervous laughter that threatened to erupt. Unbeknownst to Kitty, a trio of females were fervently shaking their heads in dismay at her candour in the background, their hands parroting Kitty’s words in mockery. Served the outspoken woman right, and Polly could have group-hugged them all for it! Her brilliant village allies. They truly did have each other’s backs come rain or shine; fringing the walls of the hall like whimsical bunting that softened every one of Kitty’s brutal blows. And yet none of this comradeship could completely shake off her mood. Aside from a couple of distant relatives who had emigrated to America way back when, she didn’t know of anybody who’d travelled abroad – at least not anyone from Middle Ham.
“Benidorm. It’s the new Blackpool.” Kitty re-affirmed her good fortune with a smile full of one-upwomanship and quickstepped away to the new arrivals at the front door, clutching her clipboard to her ample breast.
Polly tried not to imagine the toffee-nosed snob cavorting in the balmy Mediterranean Sea with her utter perve of a husband. But she couldn’t stop thinking of the opportunities that she would have to bag a sultry Spanish suitor, if only she could play stowaway in the Withers’ suitcases.
“Blimey, they really did break the mould when they made that woman.” Annabelle shook her head in disbelief as she perfected the cake display, using mismatched china from the village hall’s tiny kitchen, with a handful of sunshine-yellow dahlias anchoring everything together in a picture of elegant whimsy.Hyggewas alive and kicking decades before anyone in England had even realised they were doing it.
Polly snapped out of another reverie and sighed in surrender to the dreary afternoon ahead. Why couldn’t they just skip the boring bit and fast forward to the convivial cake and chit-chat? She made a final discreet check that everything was laid out ready for the tea interval to her exacting standards. Satisfied, she looped her arm through her cousin’s and dragged her to their seats of choice for today’s dried flower arranging lecture. Right at the back of the room.
If only they’d thought to bring missile-sized popcorn to hurl. That would have livened up the dull and dutiful proceedings. Polly blushed, petrified her thoughts were written across her face. She’d always been the sensible one, but just lately something had started to unravel. As she zoned in and out of the florist’s lengthy introduction, she felt she too was like a flower whose roots were untethering themselves and leaving behind all that she’d come to accept as her lot in life.
“So, we start off with one of these green spongy things called an oasis,” the elderly guest speaker continued in her broad Somerset twang, and Polly’s mind drifted off yet again with an agenda of its own.
Of course, it was Annabelle’s bakery too. Upon her parents’ untimely passing, eleven years ago, Polly had received a much smaller inheritance than her brothers. She’d shrugged off her cloak of grief quicker than most after such a tragedy, and asked Annabelle to open up a much-needed community bakery with her. And, while she still lived in the farmhouse, the whole village was aware that her carefree air was assumed. The roof over her head depended entirely on cleaning, washing and cooking for her three older brothers until they found themselves unfortunate brides. But the male contingent of the Williams family was sadly lacking in the looks department. So, the hunt for elusive wives continued, although, as Polly reminded her brothers, sometimes you actually had to travel beyond the village to find gold.
Why then hadn’t she taken her own advice?
Call her a fool, but Polly Williams was starting to believe there really was something else she was meant to do with her time on planet Earth, and it definitely wasn’t poking dried poppies and foliage into holes, as the florist was smugly demonstrating now.
For who in their right mind would agree to spend ten years cleaning up after three grown men, only to waltz down the aisle in a pavlova of a dress, declaring they’d do it all over again for one other lucky guy, forsaking all others? Assuming, that was, she ever found him.
