The morning of the Spring Fayre dawned with a brilliant blue sky, just like it did in all the picture-perfect village scenes on TV. No doubt Audrey was in charge of weather arrangements too or maybe she was friends with someone who was. Ella gave the blue postcard on the pinboard a quick smile.
‘Sorry, Tess,’ she said, giving the kitchen a quick once-over to make sure she’d left nothing out that might cause temptation. ‘I’ll come back for you later.’ With cakes on display and no doubt lots of other goodies, Tess might be – no scrub that, would be – a liability. Better to come and retrieve her later when Ella’s stint on the tombola stall was over.
Bets was bang on time and already on the doorstep.
‘Morning. Can you believe this weather? I swear Audrey’s a witch. Now, what do you want me to carry? Has Geoffrey already been?’
‘Yes, bless him. Poor man, I think he’s been up since about six o’clock running around the village. He took all the bottles about twenty minutes ago.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I never want to see another raffle ticket or bottle of strange-coloured liqueur again in my life.’
‘Me neither, but thank you for coming to help. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ The night before, after Devon had stomped off, Ella had called in the cavalry and Bets had come round immediately to help, which was just as well as she had immediately pointed out that Ella was throwing away all the winning raffle tickets.
Bets gave her a quick hug and Ella hung on for a second. If anything, this morning she felt worse than she had done last night after Devon had left.
‘You should have brained Devon with one of the bottles. Stupid bugger. Honestly, men. I still can’t believe the stupid idiot wouldn’t listen to you.’
‘Please don’t say anything to him. He was furious enough with me that I’d “interfered” – he’ll be even more cross if he thinks I’ve told you.’
‘I’m glad you did. It explains a lot.’ Bets nudged her with an elbow. ‘Don’t give up on him. He’ll come round. I thought you two . . . well,’ she shot a cheeky grin at Ella, ‘over the last few weeks the two of you seemed to get on much better.’
Ella blushed. ‘Well, we were starting to.’
Bets fixed her with a penetrating stare.
‘But not any more.’
‘Which explains why he’s been in such a foul mood this morning. Well, aside from fielding calls from Marina; she’s been on the phone every five minutes—’
‘That’s because she’s determined to get him back and it will solve a lot of his problems. Especially as he wasn’t prepared to listen to what I had to say.’
Bets’ face suddenly broke into a broad grin. ‘There’s no way he’ll go back to Marina. No matter what she’s promising. The rest of the family will never speak to him again.’
‘You didn’t hear her the other night – she really loves him and she’s making him an offer he’d be mad to refuse. It’ll solve all his money worries.’
‘Don’t be silly. Devon’s pride’s taken a battering. Marina’s taken him to the cleaners, emotionally and financially. The last thing he wants is someone else bailing him out.’
‘I think he made that quite plain. Well, he can get on with it. Stupid man.’
‘And he’s going to have to, because as I was about to say before you interrupted me . . . he told her to get knotted this morning.’ Bets folded her arms and gave Ella a triumphant look.
‘He did?’
‘He did.’
‘Oh.’
Ella turned away to look out of the kitchen window, feeling her cheeks flush.
‘Ooh, is that the cake?’ Bets’ uncharacteristic attempt at diplomatically changing the subject brought a reluctant smile to Ella’s face. ‘Let’s have a look.’ She’d been intrigued the night before by the rows of sugar paste petals drying on tea towels on the kitchen side. So had Tess, but Ella had kept a close eye on her.
‘Yes, but whatever you do, don’t knock it.’ Ella had finished it in the early hours of the morning after Bets had left.
Bets slipped the lid from the cake tin, very, very carefully.
‘Oh, my. That’s amazing.’ She reached out a reverent finger to touch one of the sugar paste flowers.
Ella was rather pleased with it. She’d sandwiched the two slightly uneven cake layers together, and when they were covered with ready rolled icing, you couldn’t tell she’d had to slice the tops off. She’d then spent ages topping the surface with lots of yellow and white flowers. Just off the centre of the cake, on top of one of the flowers, was a tiny sugar-paste Cuthbert, complete with red fez, looking out over the sea of flowers for his brothers and sister. She’d managed to bring their game of hide and seek in a flower meadow to life perfectly. To his left, Herbert peeped up at him from where he hid under a daisy while on the other side of the cake, Bertram and Englebert giggled together from behind a yellow rose and Catherine peered out from between white petals.
‘You’re so talented. I don’t think I’ve got a creative bone in my body. I’m not terribly good at anything.’ She sighed. ‘No wonder Jack doesn’t want to visit. He’s meeting all those super clever girls at university.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Ella put the cake down and threw her arms around Bets. ‘He’s so lucky to have you.’ She drew back, still holding on to Bets’ arms. ‘You are one of the nicest, kindest and loveliest people I’ve ever met. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me while I’ve been here.’
‘But I haven’t—’
‘Yes, you have. You made me feel welcome. You gave your friendship, unconditionally and totally without judgement. I was a stuck-up, miserable cow and it didn’t stop you. You always look on the bright side. You help without being asked and when you are asked you never say no. You make me smile even when I don’t want to. Being with you is always fun. You see the good things in people and you’ve made me see them. I’m a much nicer person for knowing you, so thank you for being my friend.’
‘Aw.’ Bets blinked and sniffed. ‘Blimey, that’s quite a big old speech.’ She hugged Ella back. ‘It’s also one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me. I know I can be a bit annoying sometimes . . . ’
‘Shush. You need to be nicer to yourself. If Jack can’t see how wonderful you are, he doesn’t deserve you.’ Ella bent to pick up the cake tin.
Bets straightened up and Ella could see her metaphorically dust herself down. ‘You’re right.’ She linked her arm through Ella’s very gently. ‘Come on. Let’s go. Don’t want to drop the delivery. We’d better get a wiggle on. Poor Elsie, Peter’s wife. She was really hoping that with Magda out of the way, she might win best cake this year. I don’t think she stands a chance.’
‘Really?’ Ella hugged the tin closer. ‘I’m not sure about that. It is the first cake I’ve made since I was about ten.’
Cheerful floral bunting hung from every point of the high beamed ceiling in the village hall and the local craft group had gone yarn-bombing mad by knitting rainbow socks for the four main supporting beams. They’d also covered a bicycle, the wooden benches outside the hall and a wooden rocking chair, on which Doris sat like a queen taking the entrance money.
With her cake deposited in the marquee on the recreation ground at the back of the hall, Ella hurried to take up her post on the tombola stall. A rather harried Audrey had given her a box of change, the float, and instructions not to hand it over to anyone but Peter who was on accounting duty for the day as well as a reminder that she would be relieved at twelve by Mrs Mason, who ran the pre-school. Ella wondered quite how that latter piece of information would help in identifying Mrs Mason when she turned up.
Arranging the bottles took quite some doing as the table was a touch on the small side but she remembered the advice from both Audrey and Bets that it would make life a lot easier to match them up with winning tickets if they were grouped in number order.
It looked as if the whole village had turned out today and the minute the doors officially opened at ten o’clock the hall was suddenly full. No light trickle of people. One minute it was empty, the next full. Obviously, the folk of Wilsgrave didn’t believe in being fashionably late. Going to any event with Britta or Patrick had invariably involved a debate as to the best time to turn up. The official starting time never being an opener for ten.
‘Good morning, m’dear.’
‘George.’ Ella beamed. ‘How are you today?’ She’d popped in to see him every day since he’d come home.
‘Feeling better, bit stiff though.’ He winced. ‘You all right? That vet keeping an eye on you?’
Ella rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, thank you.’ George didn’t miss a thing. ‘He’s an idiot, though.’
George looked mischievous. ‘Men usually are. Good job we have women to keep us on the straight and narrow.’ He patted her hand. ‘And how has the cake turned out?’
He’d been very excited when she’d confessed she’d succumbed and baked a cake.
‘Actually, George, I’m pretty darned pleased with it.’
‘Excellent, I shall look forward to a taste. Now, I’ll have five tickets. How much are they?’
‘A pound a ticket. Are you sure you want five?’
‘Course.’
She took his money and he made a great show of delving into the barrel and counting out his tickets. A passing family watched avidly. To George’s absolute delight – he actually did a little hop skip and a jump – he won a bottle of blue curaçao. ‘Grand. That’s me and Doris sorted for cocktail night.’ With a wave he sauntered off, clutching his booty.
The family of three stared after him.
‘Would you like a ticket?’ asked Ella. It was all for a good cause. They didn’t look as if they had much money but there was a one in five chance of winning which was pretty good odds.
The man ignored her, but the mother and daughter shuffled closer together, the three of them closing ranks.
Ella tried to appear friendly and welcoming but it was rather like smiling down the barrel of a gun, the intensity of their stares was so fierce. After a while it started to intimidate her but thankfully Doris bowled up with a bunch of cronies, all of whom bought lots of tickets. They bore off their assorted bottles very happily, oblivious to the stony stare of the trio behind them.
Then the dad of the family stepped forward and burrowed deep into his shirt pockets before pulling out a rather tatty five pound note.
‘One ticket.’ He handed over the note and held out a fat pudgy hand for the change.
Ella counted out four pound coins, subject to suspicious scrutiny. ‘Here you go.’
With surprising speed his hand dived into the tombola barrel and he immediately turned away, secretively poring over his ticket, or rather, as Ella strongly suspected, tickets. Wife and daughter crowded round.
A younger family with a little girl and a toddler in a pushchair diverted Ella’s attention. They were friendly and chatty, getting the little girl to take a lucky handful of tickets. They won a bottle of lager and pronounced themselves delighted to win something.
‘Another,’ said the man, a single pound coin pinched between his thumb and finger. Again he dipped into the barrel, keeping his hand carefully closed as he turned away.
With more customers appearing, Ella found it hard to keep an eye on the odd family but they were definitely up to something.
When Bets appeared on the other side of the room, Ella waved frantically to her, in such a way that it was obvious something was wrong.
Before Bets reached her the man approached the stall. ‘I got two winners. Two-O-Five and three-O-O. Noughts and fives win, don’t they?’ With an aggressive thrust he waved the two raffle tickets under her nose and pointed with the other hand to a bottle of whisky and a bottle of vodka.
Ella took the tickets from him and he snatched up the two bottles before she even had a chance to check the numbers tallied. To be honest she didn’t care. Now that they’d won something, hopefully they’d disappear.
Bets, having wriggled away through the crowded room, faced her across the table.
‘You OK?’
‘I hope I will be now,’ Ella whispered. ‘I think those people are cheating but they’ve won something now. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘The Bainbridges. They are a little strange. Live just outside the village in that cottage with the net curtains. All the kids call it the scary house.’
‘I can see why,’ muttered Ella trying to be discreet and not look at the trio who were still there whispering among themselves.
Just then the man pushed forward and waved another pound coin at her. ‘Another one.’
Ella gave him a hard stare. Should she accuse him of taking more than one ticket each time?
When she looked round, Bets had gone. Trying to dredge up some bravery, Ella gave Mr Bainbridge a firm but fair smile. ‘It is just one ticket for a pound.’
‘Hah! Daylight robbery. One frigging ticket for a pound. Should be two. One isn’t right.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t set the prices and it’s all for a good cause.’
Mr Bainbridge stared at her, his watery steel blue eyes locked onto hers. Goosebumps erupted on Ella’s arms. She’d rather be anywhere but here. He was probably putting a curse on her or something.
‘I’m having two tickets.’
‘That’s not very fair on everyone else, is it?’ Her voice held even though inside she had no idea what to do. What the hell was village etiquette when you dealing with the local misfit family?
‘Up to your old tricks are you, Bainbridge?’ Devon’s voice, firm and even, interjected. Her pulse reacted to the familiar timbre and with it a sudden tightening of her skin and muscles, as if her whole body had gone on full alert. With his hand on his hips and towering over the shorter, dumpy man, Devon looked like an avenging angel. Ella could have fainted with outright gratitude, except that was the last thing he would want. She stared at the stern mouth, the memory of its touch triggering a warmth inside her chest she would rather ignore.
Bainbridge glared at Devon, shrugged and without another word slid off into the crowd, his wife and daughter slinking after him without a backward glance.
Stunned into silence, Ella could only gawp stupidly at Devon. His expression didn’t invite conversation. With a disdainful and long-suffering tut, he shook his head and turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
Bloody typical. Apparently it was OK for him to come to the rescue. Despite being horribly grateful, she still wanted to shake him.
When Mrs Mason came to relieve her at twelve, Ella wasn’t as desperate to leave as she thought she’d be.
‘Thank you so much for holding the fort.’ It was one of the ladies whom she’d met when doing her talk.
‘That’s OK. I enjoyed myself.’ She’d had a great time, chatting to half the village she knew and lots of people she didn’t, who’d all been very friendly and chatty. The time had flown by.
‘I hear the Bainbridges stopped by, dear. They are such wretches. Very naughty of them. It’s not even as if they drink. They just like to win.’ She shook her pale pink rinse. ‘But then, Mrs Bainbridge always donates the whole lot back again for next year.’
‘How odd,’ said Ella.
‘And isn’t your picture doing well?’
Ella looked blank for a second.
‘Your mouse picture in the silent auction. Up to a thousand pounds!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ the older lady beamed. ‘That’ll go a long way to helping with the roof repairs.’
‘Gosh. I’m so pleased. That’s brilliant news.’
‘Now, off you go. I’d get some food while you can. Pam’s pulled pork burgers are a real treat. I recommend you try them. And here comes Bets.’
Ella crossed the hall to meet her.
‘Thank you so much for sending Devon over.’
‘That’s all right. Audrey should have warned you. Did he speak to you?’
‘No. Just did his knight act and buggered off sharpish.’
‘Men,’ they said in unison and burst out laughing.
‘Come on. Let’s get some food. Then you can come and watch the dog agility class.’
‘Blimey, the excitement might just kill me,’ teased Ella, lifting her head as the scent of food tantalised. ‘Gosh, that smells delicious.’
‘Pam’s pulled pork burgers. They’re a must. Come on.’
Replete with burger, Ella settled into the afternoon. Who’d have thought the village fayre could be so much fun? Bets’ agility competition was hilarious as none of the dogs knew how to behave and only three of them managed to complete the course.
The final judging of the cakes was announced and Ella accompanied Bets to the stuffy marquee over which Audrey presided. She had two other people with her: Scott Pitman, who Ella recognised as a judge on a minor TV cookery programme from several years ago and Johannes Stern, who was a chef at the local hotel. With clipboards, looking as serious and grave as Prue Leith and Paul Hollywood, the two judges prowled along the length of the trestle table bearing an assortment of cakes. The standard varied enormously, from simple but well risen Victoria sponges to an intricate meringue with swans swimming on its surface (she guessed that was Elsie Reynolds’ entry) and an elegant dark chocolate ganachecovered cake with an elaborate fascinator of white chocolate attached to one side. It was all rather impressive, although she was pleased that she could hold her head up high. Her entry was definitely up to standard.
After much heated deliberation and note taking, the judges formed into a huddle.
Out of the corner of her eye, with that second sense of awareness, she saw Devon slip into the marquee. Deliberately she turned her head away, so he didn’t register on her peripheral vision, determined not to give into temptation to sneak an occasional glance his way. Unfortunately, she didn’t manage to stick to that plan and as Audrey declared that they were about to announce the top five bakers, her eyes caught his. She quickly looked away, taking a sharp inward breath at the unwelcome flutter in her stomach.
‘I bet you’re shortlisted,’ whispered Bets.
‘In no particular order, we’d like to invite the bakers to come and stand with their cakes. These are our five finalists. Ella Ridgen.’ Bets squealed. ‘Elsie Reynolds. Brenda White. Sally Cummings and George Faber.’
Ella risked another look Devon’s way, unable to stop her delight from showing. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement, bestowing a matter of fact smile. A hands off, I’m-pleased-for-you-in-a-purely-acquaintance-type-way smile.
It seemed a shame when the judges began to cut into the cakes and then got down to the serious business of tasting them.
‘Nice texture. Well risen. Mmm, the chocolate has just the right balance of sweetness.’
‘Light, airy meringue with just the right amount of gooeyness in the middle. Very good indeed.’
They came to Ella’s and her knees began to shake. It was as bad as being at an exhibition and waiting for The Times art critic to make his comments. She’d forgotten how terrifying being judged was, especially with everyone around you to hear.
‘Beautifully presented. Fabulous sugar-paste work.’ In tandem, Scott and Johannes lifted their forks to their mouths. There was a pregnant pause of anticipation among the crowd. As the judges chewed, people craned their necks to hear their verdict. Scott’s expression changed first. Horrified disbelief. Johannes’ eyes widened and his nose wrinkled. For a second it looked as if he might spit his mouthful out.
There was an agitated mutter in the crowd as everyone started talking.
‘Zat is deesgusting. All I can taste is bicarbonate of soda.’
‘That’s a bit mean,’ muttered Bets with an outraged glare.
‘Oh, shit,’ whispered Ella, putting her hand to her mouth in horrified realisation. She started to giggle. ‘I just remembered. I guessed on the baking powder, got my teaspoons and tablespoons muddled up.’
‘You noodle.’ Bets shook her head, biting her lip, making an obvious effort not to laugh.
‘It gets worse.’ Ella’s eyes danced at the memory. ‘I added an extra one in because I was worried about it not rising.’ Ella snorted and then burst out laughing, waving at the curious crowd who clearly thought she’d gone mad.
What a berk. No wonder they’d risen so well at first. They must taste disgusting. The more she tried to school her face to sympathise with the two judges who were valiantly trying to swallow down the cake, the funnier she found it.
The judges stared at her.
It was no good, Ella couldn’t stop the tears of laugher rolling down her face. The whole room turned to look at her.
She faced them, clutching her middle, almost doubled over. ‘T-tell them, Bets,’ she gasped as tears ran down her cheeks.
‘She got her teaspoons muddled up with tablespoons,’ announced Bets in a very loud voice. ‘Two tablespoons of baking powder. But it rose.’
People in the room began to smile, many laughing out loud, those nearest clapping her on the back. They weren’t laughing at her, they were laughing with her. There was a difference and it felt good. No, it felt great.
When she glanced across the room towards Devon, this time he smiled properly.