‘Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ Stevie stood on tiptoe to give Saul a peck on the cheek, drawing back quickly when he moved his head to try to catch her on the lips. Now, why had she done that, since she was going on a date with him at the end of the week and when a kiss at the end of the evening might be a very real possibility?
Saul cocked his head to the side, his gaze quizzical, but thankfully he didn’t say anything about her lack of enthusiasm. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven, yeah?’
‘That’s great, lovely, I’m looking forward to it,’ Stevie enthused, aware she had gone to the other end of the spectrum and was now over-egging it.
She locked the door behind him and slumped against it. She’d been on the go since seven that morning and now it was nearly eight-thirty in the evening. Practically everything edible had been eaten and if she wanted to open the café tomorrow, she needed to get baking.
Betty, bless her, had popped upstairs for a little lie down and Stevie didn’t blame her – the woman was somewhere in her early eighties, and seeing her so scared and vulnerable made Stevie realise Betty wasn’t a spring chicken. She would also give anything to be able to change into her pyjamas and snuggle up in bed with a hot chocolate but instead she was going to don her apron and have a fight with some dough.
She was halfway through preparing a second batch of Danish pastries which she intended to bake fresh in the morning, when she heard Betty trundling down the stairs.
‘I thought you were resting,’ she said to the older woman.
‘Nah, I managed a quick nap and recharged my batteries. That’ll do me for another couple of hours. Now, what do you need me to do?’
Stevie was a little reluctant to let Betty loose with anything, but she was hardly in a position to refuse. A simple Victoria sponge shouldn’t be too taxing and it would keep Betty occupied while allowing Stevie to judge how capable a cook she was. If she made a hash of that, then there would be no letting her anywhere near the kitchen again.
‘How about a Victoria sandwich?’ she suggested.
‘Right, I can do that.’
‘Do you need a recipe?’ Stevie didn’t have a recipe as such, she simply remembered what was needed and how much.
‘I’m good.’ Betty reached under the island and withdrew a couple of shallow cake tins, then she rooted around until she had assembled the ingredients. So far, so good, Stevie thought, watching her covertly out of the corner of her eye. In a small bowl, Betty beat four eggs, then set it to one side, while she put the rest of what she needed into a mixing bowl.
Stevie chewed her lip. The flour, butter and caster sugar were all going in without being measured. Not good, not good at all. They all had to be exactly the same quantities, otherwise the sponge wouldn’t be right. Two hundred grams of each – lord knows how much Betty had slopped into the bowl. A splash of milk followed, along with a dash of baking powder.
Stevie gave a mental shrug. It was no biggie if the cake didn’t work out and at least Betty felt as though she was helping, so Stevie concentrated on folding and rotating her dough, using a pastry scraper to help. She didn’t usually need one, but today the dough was a tad on the sticky side. That’s what happens when you cook tired and without the love she normally put into her baking, she thought. Tonight, it was more of a chore than a labour of love.
‘What does that say?’ Betty was peering at the digital display on the top of one of the ovens.
‘That one is set to one-hundred-and-eighty. Use the one next to it. Do you want me to show you how to use it?’
‘No need.’ Betty stabbed at the button, and after a couple of beeps, she nodded to herself, and returned to the mixer. The whirr of it filled the room for a few minutes, then Betty switched it off, and poured the mixture out, dividing it equally between the two tins. Then she popped them in the oven and said, ‘What next? I hope you’re not going to use a boring old buttercream and jam filling?’
‘I was thinking of passionfruit and mascarpone,’ Stevie said.
‘Compote or curd?’
‘Er… curd?’
‘Leave it to me.’
This was said with such certainty Stevie was taken aback. Betty seemed to know what she was doing and for Stevie that was a bit of a shock. She’d assumed the older woman wouldn’t have much of a clue in the kitchen, or at the very best, have only amateur baking skills – after all, how to make a Victoria sponge was taught in schools, wasn’t it? But she was fairly sure how to make compotes and curds weren’t, unless things had been different in Betty’s day.
‘You didn’t learn this at school, did you?’ she asked. ‘Was it your mum who taught you to bake?’
‘Good Lord, no! My old mam did a fine roast dinner, but she’d have turned her nose up at all this. Nonsense, she’d have called it.’
‘Where did you learn to bake then?’ Stevie asked, measuring out the ingredients for croissants. These little pastries benefited from being made the night before and sitting in a fridge for a good few hours. She’d pop them into the oven in small batches just before the café opened – there was nothing nicer in the morning than a freshly-baked, still-warm croissant. Except for maybe a pain au chocolat, accompanied by strong black coffee to compliment the sweetness. She’d make some of those next, then some scones, and that should be enough to see them through the breakfast rush. If there was a rush tomorrow…
‘It’s a long story,’ Betty said, wiping a floury forearm across her face.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Stevie said, seeing a sudden flash of sorrow flit across the old woman’s face.
‘Oh, but I want to,’ she said. ‘I don’t talk about that time very often, but you’ve been so good to me…’
‘Betty, you don’t have to,’ Stevie repeated. ‘It’s none of my business and if it’s going to upset you, then I don’t want to know.’
Both of them concentrated on their tasks for a moment and for a while Betty said nothing. Stevie didn’t want to push her; she’d speak when she was ready.
‘We didn’t have much money when I was growing up,’ Betty began. ‘My dad worked down the mines and my mam was a cleaner. She was a damned good one too. Woe betide any of us kids if we made a mess on her step. She used to scrub it once a day and sweep the pavement outside our house, too.’ Betty smiled, her gaze unfocused as she stared into the distance. Then she seemed to shake herself. ‘Anyways, she taught me well, and when I was old enough I couldn’t wait to leave home, so I got myself a job in one of them grand hotels on the south coast. Started off as a general help, mostly cleaning, gradually spending more time in the kitchen than I did seeing to the guest rooms. It was there I learned to cook. But it was baking I was best at and I loved desserts, I did.’ She patted her tummy. ‘I still do.’
Stevie bent her head and tried to concentrate on her flaky pastry to hide her smile. Although fairly tall, no one could accuse Betty of being plump, and the stomach the old woman had just patted was more or less flat. ‘Did you work there for long?’ she asked.
‘A good few years.’ Suddenly Betty’s face closed up and her mouth became pinched, and Stevie could tell the old lady wasn’t going to say any more. She also noticed how tired she looked, and she had a slight tremble in her hands. Poor love, Betty had had a rather traumatic day and it was bound to have had an effect on her. Firstly, being flooded out of her home, then having to be put up for the night by a virtual stranger, then helping in the café when a woman of her age should have been resting (Stevie blamed herself for that – she should have insisted the old lady put her feet up).
‘Right,’ Stevie said. ‘Fancy a brew?’ She dusted her hands off and flicked the switch on the kettle.
Betty nodded, a little uncertainly Stevie thought, and without thinking about it, she leaned down and gave the old woman a kiss on the forehead.
‘You can stay here as long as you like,’ she said to Betty. ‘I’m more than happy to have you here, and if I can do anything to help, I will.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ Betty said, patting Stevie’s hand. ‘You’ll make that young man a fine wife.’
Stevie was too scared to ask which young man Betty meant.