The following evening, soon after the bakery had closed for the day, Michael was demonstrating how to make a sourdough loaf. The workshop was taking place at the back of the bakery, a gleaming space fitted out with immaculate stainless-steel ovens, marble worktops and sleek beechwood shelving holding fat glass jars of ingredients and pots of utensils. Rows of wooden chairs had been set out, borrowed from the Red Lion – everyone was always helping each other out around here – and bowls of various doughs placed on the worktop. There were far too many chairs, it turned out, as only Roxanne, Della and Frank – plus Frank’s son Eddie, Irene Bagshott and Joan and Vincent from the gallery – had turned up.
‘I think the weather must’ve put people off,’ Frank murmured, at which Roxanne nodded. An hour earlier, the heavens had opened and the torrential rain hadn’t stopped yet.
Roxanne glanced at Michael, who had thanked everyone warmly for braving the rain and was now announcing, ‘Okay. I should start by explaining that this kind of bread-making takes an entire day.’ It was already 6.30 p.m. Did that mean they would all be sitting here, heads nodding at one a.m. with Eddie, a nine-year-old, in their midst?
Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Michael had prepared doughs at various key stages of the process – a ‘here’s one I made earlier’ sort of approach. It reminded Roxanne of Blue Peter, only the host here was rather more attractive in his fresh white T-shirt, striped apron and slim dark jeans than any of the presenters she remembered.
Anyway, never mind Michael’s eye-pleasing qualities. Roxanne had only decided to attend as a supportive friend; and now she was doing her best to make up for the poor attendance by giving his demonstration her unwavering attention. In fact, as she was discovering, the chemistry behind bread-making was really quite fascinating. Who knew that, instead of a handy little sachet of yeast, which cost – well, Roxanne had no idea how much it was, she had never had occasion to buy such a thing – you could make your own sourdough ‘starter’?
‘It’s also called the mother,’ Michael explained, wafting a jar of evil-looking bubbling stuff in front of everyone, ‘and it’s a natural raising agent. In other words, it’s what makes the magic happen.’
‘What is that stuff?’ Irene asked, wrinkling her nose.
Michael smiled. ‘It’s made from water I boiled potatoes in, and I’ve added flour, sugar and salt. Flour contains natural yeast and microorganisms, and when it comes into contact with the water, then it starts to metabolise and amazing things begin to happen.’
‘Like what?’ Eddie asked eagerly.
‘Carbon dioxide is produced,’ Michael explained, ‘which creates bubbles. It’ll start to bubble away and smell a bit beery until, in around three days, you’ll see fermentation starting to happen …’
‘Cool,’ Eddie muttered.
Roxanne leaned forward, genuinely amazed. This wasn’t like cooking. This was a scientific experiment. She had no idea this kind of thing could happen in a kitchen.
‘When I’m making a loaf,’ Michael continued in his soft southern tones, ‘I take a bit of my starter out of the jar and chuck in more flour to feed it, to keep the process going. And that’s all you do. It just goes on and on, indefinitely really. This mother’s about nine months old …’
Nine months? That made her rotting kale look positively juvenile! ‘You invented this?’ Roxanne asked.
‘Oh, no,’ he said with a wide, disarming smile, ‘it’s an ancient process …’
‘I just thought, with you being a chemistry teacher …’
‘Well, yes, I am attracted to that side of baking. The simple reactions, the release of carbon dioxide causing all those bubbles. Really, if you just follow the process, it’s pretty much idiot-proof.’
Roxanne glanced at Della and Frank, who were holding hands, she noted. Eddie seemed completely relaxed about this, and was now watching Michael with interest. He was a handsome boy with a mop of wavy light brown hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks.
She turned her attention back to the demonstration, wondering what Sean would say if he could see her now.
Now Michael had taken a dollop of starter and was mixing it with his hands into a bowl of flour until it all gunked together. It was oddly attractive, all this vigorous squishing and squeezing and clearly not minding about getting all messed up. Sean flickered into Roxanne’s mind once more, hectoring her about Jessica peeing on his socket board, and she quickly pushed the thought away.
‘Now here’s one that’s been rising all day,’ Michael added, turning his attentions to another bowl of dough. ‘I’m going to show you how to knock it down, then give it a little light kneading …’
It was all so casually done, as if it were effortless.
Now everyone was invited up to the counter and given their own lump of dough to knead, whilst Elsa lifted a freshly baked loaf from the oven. There were others, too, which had been baked earlier and were flavoured with tomato, fresh basil and pumpkin seeds, sitting there all tempting in a wicker basket.
‘Am I doing this properly?’ Roxanne asked, surprised at how much she was enjoying herself.
‘That’s perfect,’ Michael replied.
She laughed. ‘It’s so easy. I always thought you had to be terribly macho with bread, and pummel the hell out of it …’ She dropped the dough into a tin with a satisfying thud.
Meanwhile, as everyone’s loaves were put in the oven to bake, Elsa and her brother Jude offered around glasses of wine and soft drinks. Michael sliced the ready-made breads into bite-sized chunks. Elsa set an extravagant cheeseboard on the worktop, and everyone started to tuck in.
‘Oh, these are delicious,’ Roxanne enthused. ‘You’ve made it look so simple!’
‘Well, it is really,’ Michael replied. ‘You could get a loaf started before you set out to work in the morning, you know …’
She smiled, deciding not to mention that she was usually charging about, trying to find keys, purse and unladdered tights. Instead, she allowed herself the luxury of snacking on more bread and cheese.
‘So, d’you think you’ll turn into a baker now, Rox?’ Della teased her.
‘I’ll have a go,’ she replied, ‘as long as Michael can guarantee that starter stuff doesn’t get out of control and start bubbling up and flooding over.’ Roxanne sipped her white wine and turned to him. ‘I have these terribly fussy neighbours below me. I can’t imagine they’d be too impressed if it escaped from its jar and started dripping down through the cracks in the floor.’ She looked at Michael, and he laughed.
Elsa went around refilling everyone’s glasses and soon, their own batch of loaves was ready. Jude obligingly took them from the oven, placed them on the cooling rack and, as soon as they were ready to handle, wrapped them in crinkly brown paper for everyone to take home.
As Michael busied himself with clearing up, Roxanne was aware now that perhaps they were overstaying their welcome. After all, he had been up since five.
Perhaps sensing a mood change too, Della and Frank drained their glasses and pulled on their jackets, and Irene, Joan and Vincent were already making their way out.
‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ Della said, thanking Michael warmly. ‘C’mon, Eddie, you’re staying at mine tonight.’
‘On the camp bed in the living room?’ His green eyes shone with delight.
‘Yes, of course, darling.’ She took his hand.
‘Could you stay a minute, Roxanne?’ Elsa asked. ‘I have something to show you.’
Roxanne paused and glanced at Michael, who was gathering up plates. ‘Is that okay, Michael?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said as Della, Frank and Eddie said their goodbyes. ‘She’s been desperate to show you.’
Elsa opened a cupboard and lifted out a Tupperware box, removing the lid with a flourish. ‘What d’you think?’
Roxanne gazed at the canine-friendly cookies decorated with finely piped eyes, mouths and collars. ‘These are amazing,’ she gasped. ‘So professional. Honestly, did you really make them yourself?’
‘Yes, of course – the icing’s just cream cheese and a little bit of tapioca.’ She glanced at her father. ‘Dad suggested that.’
Michael smiled and raked back his hair with his hand. ‘They’ve worked out pretty well. I reckon we can package them up like you suggested and start selling them in the shop.’
‘I’ll write a blog post about them,’ Roxanne added. ‘It’s supposed to be about style in the country and, well, these are pretty stylish, I’d say.’ If Elsa seemed delighted by that, she was a little less thrilled when Michael handed her a floor brush. Unsurprisingly, she soon scampered off upstairs, with the excuse that she needed to check the YourStyle website to see her pictures online. Jude had long since disappeared.
‘I’ll help you clear up,’ Roxanne offered, keen to assist as everyone else had gone home. ‘This is beautiful,’ she added. ‘The whole place, I mean. You should be so proud of what you’ve done here …’ She broke off, her cheeks blazing. What a stupid thing to say. Michael’s wife’s new boyfriend had built this kitchen.
She glanced at him as he started to load the dishwasher, wondering if the heat had suddenly intensified in here.
‘I can’t believe I made a loaf tonight,’ she continued, more to break the awkward silence than anything else. ‘At least, I did the kneading part, and it’s actually turned into something I’d want to eat. Amazing!’ She tailed off, feeling foolish now, and unsure whether Michael was even listening. Had they really shared that lovely moment with the rainbow, up on the hill?
‘It reminded me of those anti-cellulite mitts we had in the nineties,’ she rambled on, grabbing a cloth from the kitchen and wiping a dough splodge off a chair. ‘They were a craze in my office, all the women kneading away at their thighs, and nothing happened, of course, apart from a few bruises …’ She beamed at him. ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are to be a man!’
He smiled briefly and muttered something she didn’t catch, and started to sweep the floor. She stood there, gripping a plastic spatula, wondering what to do next. ‘I liked the way you explained it all tonight,’ she struggled on, ‘about feeding the starter with a spoonful of flour, like a pet …’ She paused, conscious that she was going on a bit now. She hadn’t reached the ripe old age of forty-seven without becoming aware of some of her less appealing character traits, like babbling when she was uncomfortable. ‘D’you ever name it?’ she asked.
‘Sorry?’ Michael gripped the floor brush and blinked at her.
‘Your sourdough starter. You were saying you feed it, and I wondered if …’ She stopped. ‘Oh, never mind.’ She looked at him, and their eyes met for a moment. ‘Can I help with anything else?’ she asked.
‘Er, no thanks – I think we’re fine here.’
Hmmm. Clearly they weren’t. ‘Um, are you okay, Michael?’ she ventured tentatively as he recommenced sweeping. She looked around the kitchen, overcome by a wave of sadness for him. All that effort he’d put in for tonight, and for what – seven people to turn up, and one of those to put her foot in it?
He turned back to face her. ‘I suppose I’m just a bit disappointed, that’s all.’
‘Oh, it was fascinating, though …’
‘Thank you, but I was only making bread.’ A beat’s silence hung between them. ‘Anyway, thanks again for helping,’ he added, which Roxanne interpreted as, And could you leave now, please?
‘You’re welcome,’ she said, feeling rather hurt as she picked up her paper-wrapped loaf, relieved now to say goodnight.
The rain had stopped, and the air felt clammy and damp. She should have learned from last time, she decided now; the brandy snap fiasco should have taught her a lesson. Something was telling her loud and clear that she and the fine art of baking would never be a perfect match.