| |
With that, the session was over. Still rubbing her aching chest, Dorothy escaped. She quickly made her way to the food section and purchased a bottle of water. She commandeered a vacant chair in the corner of the room, and sat sipping her drink and asking herself what had just happened.
As if Noel mentioning love and marriage was not weird enough, he had thrown in a reference to the clairs for good measure, followed by a side order of the Space Ache. Well that was the last time she would get within ten yards of a fecking mystic!
With trembling hands, she extracted her diary from her bag. Utilising one of the spare pages at the back, she jotted down everything she could remember from her session with Noel. As luck would have it, it was almost ten minutes before Pat and Gemma tracked her down to the corner. She had just put the diary away and finished her water. They had spotted her having the reading, and were dying to know if she had received any interesting predictions for the future.
‘Ma, you’ll be delighted to hear I’ll be getting married again, and apparently he’ll be gorgeous,’ Dorothy announced brightly, hoping her mother would not notice she was not exactly on top of the world. Far from noticing her daughter’s less than harmonious condition, Pat was thrilled to hear about the prediction.
She immediately pulled out her phone with the intention of calling Joey and sharing the good news. She put it away again when her daughters reminded her Dottie had yet to meet the love of her life, hence there would be ample time to alert Daddy nearer the wedding.
They were intending to have lunch downstairs in the restaurant, but as they were already in the food section, decided to have a nose around first. Dorothy pretended to admire the relishes and other preserves on display at a nearby stall, although her mind was still reeling from the exchange with Noel. After staring blindly at the produce for five minutes, she purchased four jars out of guilt, confident she would find a home for them.
By now, she had amassed a number of bags, and still had her massive cathedral to carry. She decided to put her purchases in the car, and went to see if Gemma had anything she wished to stow away. Armed with a selection of goods, Dorothy left the hotel and made her way to the car park at the rear. By the time she had safely packed the shopping into the Focus and taken a few deep cleansing breaths, she had managed to successfully gather her scattered wits.
She toyed with the notion of calling Bel in order to share with her what had happened, but decided against it. She would have to omit the part about the clairs because otherwise Bel would think she was a nutter. Besides, her friend would be enjoying Sunday with her family, and would be less than impressed to receive a phone call about a tarot card reading of all things.
Dorothy was forced to have a serious word with herself, and was feeling better by the time she returned indoors. She discovered her mother standing in front of a chocolate stall, clearly struggling to make up her mind.
‘I can’t decide what to buy for Daddy,’ Pat fretted. ‘You know how he loves chocolate.’
Under normal circumstances, Dorothy would have resisted the temptation to try the merchandise because she had not indulged in chocolate since her birthday. Since the day was shaping up to be the polar opposite of normal, she could not help feeling chocolate might be exactly what she needed. It was a shame there was nobody hovering nearby with a strong cup of tea, but you couldn’t have everything.
The girl who was running the stall had had the forethought to provide a plate of samples. Dorothy grabbed the first one that came to hand and popped it into her mouth. It was a raspberry truffle covered in dark chocolate. For the first time in almost an hour, she felt her shoulders relax. She thought her heart might actually have slowed down as well, as she closed her eyes and savoured the sensation of the magical sweet dissolving in her mouth. The Space Ache gave a little hum as if it was happy. It hummed earlier as well. It hasn’t done that for a long time. Well it needn’t think I’m going to start eating chocolate again just to keep it happy.
‘Lord, that is amazing,’ she murmured, and opened her eyes. ‘Did you try one, Mum?’
Pat obligingly chose a different variety, which the vendor informed her was called an almond butter crunch. Dorothy noticed the chunk formed part of a rectangular slab. It reminded her of the large pieces Bel and Gerald had brought home for her and the twins from a holiday in Switzerland or Germany, or somewhere efficient like that.
‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Pat. ‘I’ll have to get some of that for Daddy. It’s delicious!’
Gemma’s head appeared between their shoulders. When she saw they were sampling chocolate, she elbowed her way in and dived on the plate before her mother could eat them all. This time it was a white chocolate strawberry truffle.
‘Wow,’ was all she said after she had devoured it, then stared hard at the assortment artistically displayed before her. ‘Which ones shall we buy? I don’t want to go home empty handed.’
‘What’s your name?’ Dorothy enquired of the stallholder.
‘Aileen Lynch,’ was the reply in a distinct Wexford accent. The vendor was a slim, mousey girl, who looked as if she rarely ventured outdoors, despite living in one of the sunnier counties. She was simply attired in faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. Aileen was clearly a girl who did not spend much money on herself. She was not wearing a scrap of makeup, and her brown hair hung limply around her heart-shaped face. Her big blue eyes gazed at them, for all the world as if they were a newly discovered species.
‘Well, Aileen Lynch, did you make these yourself?’ Dorothy smiled.
‘I did, yes,’ was the softly spoken response. ‘It’s my business. I handmade them all in our kitchen at home.’
Dorothy picked up one of the bags and turned it upside down, searching for the price tag. She whistled when she saw it. These were not cheap chocolates, although this made sense as Aileen was making each one by hand. In some ways, it was surprising she could afford to sell them for anything less than twenty euro a bag, given the time and effort that must go into their manufacture.
‘So you don’t have a shop or premises, or a business plan, or a marketing campaign, or a strategy, or a website?’ Dorothy enquired, trying not to sound like a professional interrogator, but extremely curious about this girl.
‘Eh...no...I don’t have any of those things. I just like making chocolates,’ was the meek rejoinder.
Pat picked up the plate and popped another sample into her mouth. She closed her eyes and emitted a little moan of pleasure. ‘It’s like tasting a handful of heaven,’ she announced to nobody in particular.
‘Indeed it is, Ma,’ Dorothy agreed, then turned back to Aileen. ‘We’ll take everything you’ve got. If you could pack it into a box for us, we’ll be back to collect it after lunch. We’re heading downstairs to the carvery. I’d also like to speak to you on a matter of business.’
‘Are you considering investing in this girl, Dottie pet?’ Pat asked, as she happily poked among the merchandise, tutting at prices, and admiring the multitude of cellophane packages tied up with rainbow coloured ribbons.
‘I certainly am, Ma, I certainly am.’
‘That’s great news, pet. Daddy would love to have a chocolate shop in the family. I’ll just give him a quick ring.’
Pat scurried off to call her husband and tell him about the great treasure they had discovered in Wexford. She did not forget to share the card reader’s prediction regarding Dorothy’s forthcoming nuptials. Joey was not even remotely interested in his daughter’s card reading with some ‘tree hugger’, although he was pleased to hear about the chocolate. He instructed his wife to find him something with butterscotch or caramel, or possibly even Turkish Delight.
‘Daddy’s thrilled, Dottie. Shall we go for lunch?’ Pat returned looking flushed.
Assuring Aileen they would be back shortly for the stock, and asking her to make a list of everything she was putting in the box, as well as the all-important prices, they dashed downstairs.
‘She’s the quietest Wexford girl I ever met,’ Pat declared cheerfully, as they stood in line for their lunch. ‘Usually they’re mad yokes.’
When they returned forty-five minutes later, having indulged in some delicious salmon cutlets and salad, Aileen’s stall was empty except for a stray ribbon or two and a sprinkling of crumbs. She had packed everything into three boxes, clearly feeling this would be a more practical solution since there were three customers. On top of each container she had placed a handwritten list itemising the contents, together with the corresponding price. There was a calculator to hand, and she had just completed the final tally and was writing it at the bottom of the page.
‘You’re very organised,’ Dorothy told her warmly.
‘Cara helped me,’ Aileen blushed, and indicated another girl.
It transpired Cara was running the neighbouring cake stall, and had offered to give Aileen a hand because she was having a slower day than she would have liked. Pat was delighted to meet yet another lovely girl, and descended upon her stall with the clear intention of sampling her wares.
Dorothy fished out her wallet and extracted a wad of cash large enough to settle the bill for the chocolate. They had purchased an enormous amount of highly calorific food, yet it would undoubtedly disappear like dirty dishes at Hogwarts once it was divided up between family and friends. It was highly unlikely she would have to worry about it going to waste.
She had a meeting with her financial adviser coming up, and wondered if the guru was a chocolate lover. Claudia Healy was so slim and elegant she certainly did not look like a woman who overindulged. Yet folks could be deceptive. It was possible she might subsist on a diet of booze and pizza, and just happen to have a fabulous metabolism.
Dorothy also wanted some of the treasure for Saul and Ryanna, and she mustn’t forget Patrick or Helen. While Helen might be the kind of woman who would choose wine over chocolate any day of the week, Patrick certainly struck her as the sort of man who would happily indulge in something called ‘chocolate peanut butter cups’ or ‘cherry fantasy’. She resolved to keep one full box for herself even if the others tried to take it away from her.
When the dirty money side of the transaction had been settled, she and Gemma turned to their mother. They quickly located Pat over at Cara’s stall holding a plastic fork and a paper plate containing a sliver of cake. There was a tear running down her face.
‘Mum!’ they exclaimed together, making her jump.
‘Your granny used to make a porter cake that tasted exactly like this,’ their little mother told them sorrowfully. ‘It must be twenty years since I last tried anything as good as this recipe.’
Her daughters agreed the porter cake was very nice, but not half as delicious as the snow-capped lemon fairy cakes Gemma discovered loitering at the back of the stand. Dorothy’s eyes roved across the produce and did a quick calculation. In addition to a few plates of cupcakes and four enormous porter cakes, there were fifteen or so fancy cakes on display.
Some of them were only a single layer with thick frosting or icing sugar sprinkled on the top. Many of them had two or more layers sandwiched together with delectable looking fillings clearly visible through the cellophane wrappings. Everything was beautifully presented. There were a couple of loaf shapes as well, one of which was a scrummy looking cherry cake, thick with fruit. This was calling her name, and she did her best to resist the idea of it.
‘Girls, this is Cara. She’s from Coolock. She’s only in Wexford for the day because she thought she might get some good business at this fair, but it’s been slow due to the fecking credit crunch,’ Pat quickly updated them before returning to her porter cake.
Cara O’Shea had indeed hoped to sell all of her homemade produce, and justify the expense of travelling to the southeast, leaving her toddler son in the care of her mother. At the outset, she had been optimistic because she had gotten a good deal from the fair organisers. So far, she had barely made enough to cover the rent on the stand plus the petrol she had used to get there. If things did not pick up in the next hour, she would be at a loss.
She would end up returning home with stock she would have very little chance of selling before it went stale. She would inevitably end up giving it away. Cara was close to tears. She had not managed to get a break for more than ten minutes all day, when she dashed to the bathroom while Aileen at the next stall watched hers.
Aileen might look timid and not have much of a head for business if her performance earlier was any indication, yet none of this had not prevented her from selling every last piece of merchandise to these obviously wealthy, vaguely eccentric, certainly short, but pleasant enough women. Cara sent up a little prayer.
‘Please, God, let them buy a few cakes from me. At least enough to cover the petrol and ingredients.’
Dorothy gazed at the cake stall and the young woman behind it for a few minutes as she mulled it over. Cara was very unlike Aileen. Her hair was boyishly short, and she had plenty of womanly curves. She was wearing a shirt that looked inexpensive yet trendy, and she was fully made up. Tearing her eyes away from Cara’s blue nail polish and extracting her mobile, Dorothy called Mia Patterson, one of the founders of M&P Catering.
‘Hi, Mia, Dorothy here. I’m calling on the off chance you might be catering an event requiring a substantial amount of delicious homemade cake.’
‘How did you know?’ Mia sounded surprised.
‘Know what?’
‘Know we needed cake.’
‘I didn’t. I saw the cake and I thought of you, that’s all. What’s going on?’
‘We’re catering for a fiftieth wedding anniversary this evening,’ Mia told her, ‘and they have the extended family coming from all over the world. The thing is, Dorothy, the couple don’t want modern desserts. They’ve asked for a selection of cake to be served with the coffee, ideally with an Irish flair. No matter how hard we try, we’re struggling to provide what they ask for. We can’t even use our usual bakers because they’re closed for refurbishment. We already had a few disasters with a fruitcake that reduced Patsy in tears, and now we’re seriously considering popping down to the local supermarket. What the clients will think of us if we show up with shop bought cake is anybody’s guess.’ She trailed off on a sob.
‘Fear not, my child, for Auntie Dottie is here with enough cake to feed all the mad Americans who are bound to turn up,’ Dorothy told her cheerily. ‘I bet they’ll love the porter cake and be killing themselves trying to get the recipe. That’s a compliment in the States, by the way. If somebody asks you for the recipe, they’re not trying to set up in competition or anything.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Poor Mia sounded near hysterics at the other end of the line.
Dorothy quickly explained where she was and who she was with. Then she agreed to call back once she had arranged everything with Cara. She returned to the stand.
‘Hello, Cara, my name is Dorothy Lyle.’ She smiled at the young woman even though she was starting to feel tired. ‘I’m a shareholder in a catering company based in Ringsend. They’re booked to do a large party this evening and need plenty of cake. Unfortunately for them, they’ve run into a few problems in that department. If I bought all of this, would you be able to deliver it to their premises on the way back to Coolock? I realise it’s a little out of your way.’
Gemma immediately opened her mouth to protest, although her mother beat her to it. ‘They can’t have it all, Dottie,’ Pat stated flatly. ‘I promised Daddy I’d bring him home the strawberry one, and Gemma wants the Victoria Sandwich for Gordon and the kids. You know full well if we don’t bring a chocolate one home for Orla, we’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘I have cookies as well,’ Cara unexpectedly volunteered. From a hidden shelf beneath the stall, she produced a small plate covered in foil. Then she picked up a cardboard box off the floor near her feet and showed them a dozen bags of cookies. Again, they were wrapped in cellophane with accompanying swanky ribbon, and little handwritten labels displaying names like: ‘cranberry & white chocolate’, ‘rum and raisin’, and of course, ‘double chocolate chip.’ It transpired the cookies were even better than the cakes. Dorothy was surprised Cara did not stick to making those. Apart from the reduced costs and labour involved, they would be so much easier to transport.
In addition to the lemon fairy cakes, one of the large porter cakes, and four bags of cookies, the Lyles set aside three of the remaining fancy cakes for themselves. With a twinge of guilt that was fairly easily suppressed, Dorothy earmarked the cherry cake for herself, and hoped Jamie would not be too cross when he saw it.
Cara set their choices to one side then pledged to deliver the remainder of her stock to M&P in Ringsend no later than five o’clock. As she had sold every last morsel, she would be able to leave within the hour, and would make it in plenty of time.
Dorothy’s seemingly bottomless wallet appeared. She paid Cara, and handed over the M&P business card in case she got lost. She also put the girl’s number into her phone as a precaution. Gemma and Aileen obligingly helped to pack the cakes safely into the transport crates. Pat idled away a few minutes at a sweet stall while Dorothy got back on the phone to Mia with an update. When Cara assured them she could manage the rest of the stock alone, and thanked them profusely for everything, the three Lyle women wished her good luck and bore Aileen away to be interrogated.
