‘The bakery at the far end of the village?’ says Lucy.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Bakery’ makes it sound cute. It’s not. It’s a breeze-block lock-up with industrial cooling racks lined up along its glass front, totally out of keeping with Wheaton’s chocolate-box rows of ramshackle Cotswold stone cottages. When locals want a loaf they have to knock at the bolted door and pay in cash. It’s been that way for easily fifty years, maybe longer.
I pop a bit of eggy toast in my mouth. ‘This is his granary bread,’ I say, and I have to admit, it is delicious. ‘But Mr Scrimengor got all bent out of shape during lockdown when Izz, trying to keep her head above water like everyone else, attempted selling her own bread rolls and pizza dough kits. He said Izz was trying to put him out of business.’
‘There’s a Bentley parked outside his shop, though?’ Lucy observes. She’s shrewd, my niece, notices everything.
‘That’s him. The licence plate spellsD0UGH.’
‘Classy.’
Lucy’s eating happily now. It warms me to see she still has an appetite despite her broken heart.
‘Man’s a pillock,’ I go on since she’s enjoying this particular bit of village lore. ‘You know he and Mum had a huge falling out?’
‘Really? I can’t imagine Great-Aunt Nancy ever falling out with anybody.’
‘When she moved the gingerbread grotto from the church porch into the village hall, absolutely yonks ago, when it was becoming obvious it wasn’t some small-scale baking affair, he took exception to the fact she hadn’t asked him to make all her gingerbreads.’
‘Why didn’t she? It would have been easier than doing it around the kitchen table.’
‘Because he saw helping out as a money-spinning scheme for himself. He wanted to charge her umpteen times the cost of doing it all herself, and when she said she couldn’t afford it – it was just a local charity event sort of thing, you know, for good causes in the village? – he took the huff. Hasn’t so much as offered to help ice a gingerbread cottage since. He won’t even let me put a grotto poster in his bakery window, and it’s been decades since they fell out about it.’
Lucy’s moved on to her bacon now. ‘Dough boy can hold a grudge?’
‘Certainly can.’ I move one of my sausages onto her plate and get away with it because feeding her up is one of my auntie privileges. ‘Anyway,’ I tell her. ‘He has the monopoly on all things baked, and to keep the peace, Izz only ever does her own scones, Victoria sponges, a bit of fruity flapjack and jam roly-poly – stuff he doesn’t bother with at the bakery.’
‘And he supplies all of Izz’s bread?’
‘Of course. Not worth the hassle of crossing him.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ says Lucy, giving me her black pudding, which I know she doesn’t like, but I love. ‘Are we talking Cotswold mafia here?’
‘Good as. I mean, he’s on the council. Holds a lot of sway. I never managed to get him on side, but once an enemy, I guess your family’s always an enemy. It’s a shame because his gingerbread men are seriously tasty. At least, I remember them that way. The Asda delivery driver brings my bread. Haven’t bought anything from Scrimengor’s on principle since the Grottogate nonsense.’
‘You sound like a pretty good match,’ Lucy remarks with a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand holding her fork.
‘What does that mean? Me and Scrimengor?’
‘I mean you’re both stubborn.’
‘Pfft!’ Rubbish.
She’s not finished with me yet. ‘And taking the wholesupport local businessesthing to new heights? You’re obsessed with your grotto; he’s obsessed with his bakery.’
‘You can’t compare our gingerbread grotto to his miserable bready existence. Honestly, no one around here’s even seen him smile. A match? What a thing to say.’
Lucy’s really laughing now. She’s always enjoyed winding me up, even when she was tiny, and I’ve always loved pretending she’s got me. Still, she’s not the first person to point out I can be a tiny bit stubborn, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Don. Ugh, there he is again.
‘Eat up,’ I hurry her, circling my knife at Lucy’s plate. ‘We’ve got to go to the cash and carry over Stow way. We’re out of flour, and we’re baking tonight.’
‘Tonight? What aboutStrictly?’ she protests.
‘Well… I suppose we could make a little gingerbread Anton Du Beke? And Claudia Winkleman’s fringe will come up lovely in glossy black icing…’
Another eye-roll and a laugh.
