Page 5 of The Cake Fairies
Chapter Four
ANNABELLE
The bakery’s rich aromas anchored Annabelle to the village and she surrendered to the comfort of routine, spatula in hand. Their cosy working hub really was the linchpin of rural life, offering up a reason to smile – however briefly – to every inhabitant of Middle Ham. From the farmers’ wives who’d barrel in to peruse their rustic loaves, right through to the children who’d beg their mothers to stop for an afternoon treat in the shape of a most satisfyingly chewy gingerbread man on the way home from school. And then there were the local farm labourers, mostly men, who’d pretend to be eyeing up the brownies and meringue nests, positioned at bust height along the top layer of the glass serving counter. Polly thought her cousin was being paranoid, insisting they button their work overalls right up to the neck, but Annabelle was savvy enough to know better. These sweat and dung-encrusted gawpers never left with anything sweeter than the gelatine surrounding a pork pie, or the chutney in a crusty white bread roll.
This morning they had orders up to their ears thanks to the weekend’s grand village wedding; a triple-tiered traditional rich and boozy fruit cake, and an avalanche of supporting-act fairy cakes to deck the pristine white tables at the village hall. No time for the thoughts of escape that had been increasingly swimming in Annabelle’s head. Besides, at least she had a career to take her mind off things.
The novelty!
Most of the village women were house-proud wives; dusting, sweeping, buffing, beating (rugs, mats, and eggs), slaving away over hot stoves, laying fires and cleaning grates, occasionally pruning a rosebush to add some much-needed colour to their lives. Some hadn’t upgraded to a washing machine yet; battling on with boards, wringers, and hands that had turned into another variety of prune altogether.
She had much to be thankful for, even if she and Polly found themselves flitting fairy-like around their own homes after business hours to make up for the ineptitude of others.
She’d known the real sentiment of jumping for joy, the moment Polly had asked her to come on-board at the bakery as her right-hand woman. Although they were equal partners, Annabelle knew that she owed her cousineverything; happily assuming the position of second fiddle, obeying Polly’s culinary demands. Without her cousin’s benevolence she’d be playing full-time housewife to her parents. There weren’t a host of opportunities for a teenager who’d been forced to give up school aged fifteen due to her mother’s frequent trips to the local mental institution. Yes, Jemima might well be stable these days, particularly with care – of sorts – from Bert. But her father’s back had taken such a hammering from his years digging peat on the moors that he was lucky if he could get out of bed most days. And that, sadly, was that.
On the other hand, much as she begrudged Kitty’s unsubtle remarks; the woman was right. Annabelle was loath to admit it, but soon she’d be three decades old and heading into her fourth. What a sorry state of affairs. She was still a singleton with not the faintest rustle of a romantic breeze on the horizon. She couldn’t keep using the excuse that she was her parents’ moon and stars. One day they’d be gone and all she’d be left with was an empty house. Again, she wasn’t being ungrateful, but it was nothing more than a shell belonging to the council, and a small one at that. Of course, Polly would be glad of the refuge if she ever felt brave enough to escape her situation, and they could shack up together and make it cosy.
How that would set tongues wagging!
But the likelihood of Polly’s brothers kicking her out on her ear was looking slimmer by the day. Their lack of culinary and household skills would provide Morecambe and Wise with an entire career’s worth of comedy content, and those boys knew it.
Neither could she keep using Polly as her get-out clause for a second date. At some point one of the cousins would have to meet their romantic match, else they really would ‘fester and die as spinsters’, as Kitty had so cruelly put it.
Count your blessings, Annabelle.
Her parents’ favourite saying echoed in her head and all around the pantry. And yet she craved change like she craved the fragrant, quilted bite of the bakery’s bestselling bread and butter pudding. Settling wasn’t an option.
“How’s the marzipan?”
The tension in Polly’s voice woke Annabelle reluctantly from her daydream. Here they were, putting their hearts and souls (well, when she wasn’t away with the fairies) intosomebody else’s dreams. At least she hoped to God that this bride had secured herself one of the better examples of males in the vicinity. She didn’t really know the couple who’d be tying the knot at the parish church that Saturday, which was unusual since this was a village where everybody knew everybody else’s business. A trickle of townies had started to infiltrate the perimeter, expanding Middle Ham’s boundaries in a most welcome fashion; an elasticated belt on a community that was fit to burst with the mundane.
But what about their own dreams? Annabelle refused to believe that a modern-day woman couldn’t have it all. It was the age of Twiggy and free love; why shouldn’t a careeranda meaningful relationship be on every female’s agenda?
Their entire business prided itself on bringing a pleasurable smile to everyone else’s lips and, while she adored what she did and couldn’t imagine a day without the yeasty tang of fresh cottage loaves, or the stained-glass twinkle of her handcrafted fruit tartlets, reality bit hard: their lives were being lived in reverent service to others.
“Hello? Anybody home? I want to get on with icing that monster now so we’ve plenty of time to decorate,” Polly chivvied.
“Oh. Er. Yes. It’s absolutely… good to go.”
“Wonderful. That’s what I like to hear. An organised kitchen is… well, it’s an organised mind.”
Liar.The wobble in Polly’s words told Annabelle her cousin was edging toward the very same level of confusion and inner turmoil affecting her. Something was in the Middle Ham air, all right. She knew her too well, had spent practically every day of her life with Polly, often suspecting they were twins separated at birth.
Yet there it rested between them daily; a parasite of an unspoken word. It lodged uncomfortably between the lardy cakes and the Swiss roll as they went about their business, pretending it didn’t even exist.
Destiny.
Where was theirs going?
The facts were brutal: they’d sailed through their twenties in the blink of an eye. There wasnobodyleft to marry, hardly helped by the fact that Annabelle wanted Polly to hook up with Mr Right first. As silly as it seemed, Annabelle always felt compelled to let Polly take her pick of any potential romantic encounters. She feigned disinterest herself, in the hope Polly would finally be smitten. And, on top of that, Annabelle also felt beholden to her cousin financially.
But Annabelle badly wanted the Happily Ever After; wanted to wake up to the love of her life lying beside her every morning (and preferably not snoring), to be a mum and share her heart with a child, or with children, if she were blessed.
Something really did have to give. And soon.
Polly cracked a succession of eggs into her large beige baker’s bowl in the background; as if to regain Annabelle’s attention. If things stayed the same, their lives would become as appetising as stale cake. Annabelle decided. She would test the water next week; dip her foot into a micro-puddle, verbalise the Mad Hatter idea that had taken hold of her brain. Tor Fair night was perfect. Polly would be jubilant, expectant, and receptive to all things bright, shiny and new.
She carefully lifted the hefty cake sitting on the kitchen worktop before her, and gingerly transported it to the back room for Polly to begin the Herculean icing task that lay ahead, something new indeed playing out in her imagination:The Great Escape.
