Page 3 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Two
ANNABELLE
The posh name was but a guise. Annabelle had grown up in a council house – and still not managed to escape. But then appearances could be deceptive, for look at Polly, playing Cinderella to her ugly brothers over the road in their giant farmhouse. This sprawled across a huge plot, the same space that was occupied by Annabelle’s cosy home and five other shoebox-sized houses opposite. Annabelle’s maternal uncle had certainly got first and last dibs when it came to the Williams’ village property, but at least Annabelle was blessed with parents who were very much alive; and who doted on her. And didn’t she, as their only child, know it?
Jemima and Bert Williams had suffered a multitude of miscarriages, making Annabelle their everything. Sometimes, particularly when she compared her luck to Cousin Polly’s, she saw their doting for what it truly was; the only way they knew to count their blessings, showering her with an incessant outpouring of love.
She felt for her folks. The loss of a baby, no matter how tiny her siblings might have been, was such a cruel and seemingly random business; the creation and bloom and hope of a new life wiped out so fast, while the world continued to spin, with seemingly no time or space for grief. But increasingly often, Annabelle was left feeling smothered, unable to breathe without feeling their watchful gaze or anxious mollycoddling.
Who was she kidding? Her life was one stifling mess, with no knight in shining armour in sight. Sure, she’d dated here and there. But, like Polly, she’d refused to settle. Perhaps she had her parents to thank for that. Jemima and Bert were joined at the hip and the notion of such dependency deterred her. If that was what marriage entailed, then the perfect male was the only way forward, so she didn’t die of boredom! Her parents had never spent a night apart since their nuptials, did everything together, even finished one another’s sentences.
Okay, if she was honest with herself, she was shit scared. And yet, even that was being economical with the truth. She was racked with guiltandshit scared.It was just so much easier to flirt and leave the rest to her imagination.
Easier for her. Easier for Polly.
She couldn’t bear to leave her cousin behind; couldn’t handle the unfairness of in-your-face loved-up coupledom, not after everything Polly had been through, and especially not after everything Polly had done for her.
Polly was attractive, for sure, but easy on the eye in a less instantaneous manner, meaning the bolshier, blonder, and all-round chattier Annabelle was the girl the lads had always made the beeline for. And now she felt done in from carrying that burden.
Besides any of that, her status as only child forged an independence she was proud of. What would happen if she let in someone else, with their inevitable demands? It was hard enough to face the constant barrage from her parents:‘What time will you be shutting up shop today?’ ‘Mind you look sharp – and both ways – when you cross the main road; those blessed tractors might appear to be slow but…’ ‘Annabelle? You had your mother beside herself for a moment… but thank you for pegging out the washing, very thoughtful, my dear, what with my aches and pains…”
Annabelle halted the circling dialogue in its tracks before depression could get a look in. Her father had been incapacitated by his back for as long as she could remember; her mother suffered terribly with her nerves, an affliction that simply wasn’t talked about. Yet another reason, on the growing list of excuses for not putting her personal happiness first.
Small wonder that cake and all its charms had always captivated her. What else could bolster and comfort with the promise of better days ahead like a generous chunk of pastel-hued chequerboard Battenberg, or an uplifting wedge of fruit cake laced with a dash of almond essence – if you could get your hands on such a luxury – or the sweet, plump berries of a jam tart.
True, she could have turned to dope, moonshine, or letting certain males of the village species have their way with her. But none offered the balm of her beloved cake. Some things are just mapped out by the heart, and while the previous decades of rationing might still haunt her parents, Annabelle loved nothing more than the frivolity of the fanciful. Even if she and Polly had somehow unwittingly signed themselves up for bi-weekly lectures at the Women’s Institute.
One December morning, too many years ago, their Yule log-making demo had turned into a unanimous vote – unanimous with the exception of Kitty – that they should bring their wonderful wares to the weekly get-togethers. This meant a life sentence of lacklustre lectures on everything from Argyle jumper knitting to collecting vintage cars (ideas for your husband’s birthday, of course).
“Let’s have a little competition, shall we?”
Today’s WI guest speaker reminded her that she was currently sat on a wobbly school chair in the village hall next to Polly and trying her damnedest to stay awake. Why hadn’t she had the sense to save the last of that marmalade tea cake and gobble it up to keep herself going?
The huddle of women whooped and cheered – apart from Annabelle and her cousin.
“I thought that would liven you lot up,” the speaker chuckled. “Well then, the tables are set; there’s some oasis for each lady, and pretty piles of flowers to share: play nicely, girls! Whoever makes the best floral arrangement will have their basket displayed on a select stained-glass window ledge ofmy choicein the church this Sunday.” The gathering remained so silent that you could have heard a crumb of spongy green oasis drop. “And,” the speaker took a deep breath, buoying herself up for the next bit. “That person will also win…” she took two pieces of twig and began to drum them on the table as the ladies started to hum like a swarm of bees. “A free strip of bingo tickets for Friday night, here in this very same hall!”
“Ooh,jump and jive, thirty-five,” screamed one lady.
“Eighty-five,” bellowed another voice from the front. It was Mabel Matthews, eldest of the village regulars. “For that, I’m definitelystaying alive.”
A cacophony of laughter and applause thundered around the room. Annabelle might only be twenty-nine, but she immediately started hankering over the number thirty-one:get up and(bloody well)run.
She turned to Polly, whose strained smile said all the same things, and sprint is exactly what they did, not stopping until they reached the bakery doorway, where they burst into their own peals of laughter. Kitty would go ballistic at the leftovers she’d now have to entice several volunteers to deal with, but that was a minor detail.
Today’s talk had been a wake-up call of the weirdest sort. Annabelle would seize its neon flashing warning with both hands. Life just had to have more in store for her than this, and, if life wasn’t prepared to deal her a better hand – like, yesterday– then she’d flipping well do it herself.
