You may have to turn larger structures midway if they’re catching at the back, but be fast and allow extra time in the oven to make up for heat lost.
Out onto racks and cool completely, ideally overnight.
Ice, decorating with angelica, cinnamon sticks, chocolate buttons, star anise, candied orange, silver sugar balls, gumdrops or whatever you and the village helpers can afford
‘That’s it?’ says Leo. ‘Where’s the icing instructions? How do we stick the buildings together?’
‘You just sort of glue them with icing and hope for the best,’ says Izz.
‘There’s wooden blocks and dowelling to support verticals,’ I say, gesturing to the box of equipment by my feet that I brought from home. ‘And I’ve got all the paper templates for cutting to.’
Patrick rubs his hands together. ‘Shall we get measuring, then?’
I lift Mum’s pudding bowl with both hands and convey it to Sully who accepts it like a king at his coronation receiving the golden orb.
‘I reckon we can quadruple that mixture,’ Sully tells us, and we all stand round the huge mixer and count together as the dry ingredients go in.
I break away with Izz to work the big burner, heating the sweet ingredients with the butter.
‘This is the biggest vat I’ve ever seen,’ I marvel, while Izz empties industrial quantities of golden syrup from squeezy bottles into the pan and I drop in a block of butter the size of a house brick.
‘How was it?’ Izz asks me in a surreptitious way as she climbs a stepping stool to stir the melting mixture. ‘Your date with Patrick?’
I glance around. Patrick’s busy across the room sorting through the paper templates. ‘It wasn’t a date…’ I begin, but this is met with a lifted eyebrow. I relent immediately. ‘It was nice,’ I sigh. ‘Too nice.’
‘No such thing,’ Izz tuts. ‘Did he make you happy?’
‘Yes.’
‘There we are, then. Hold on to happiness where you find it.’
‘It’s hardly as simple as that,’ I say, and Izz falls quiet. ‘Keep stirring.’ She already knows all my objections. I bet she’s sick of them. I know I am. ‘And what about you?’ I say while I have the chance to change the subject. ‘Have you heard anything?’
She knows I mean has she heard anything about Alexi, and she’s trying to remain placid, but there’s a tiny glint of that fearfulness in her eyes that makes her look about five years old.
‘Nothing at all,’ she says. ‘I think it’s already blown over.’
‘Old news already?’ I say. ‘Like yesterday’s newspapers are today’s chip wrappers.’
Except even we know enough to understand thatdigitalcontent never dies. That stuff lives on forever, is impossible to escape. Lucy was telling me only the other night that she once knew a girl at uni who was caught on film being obnoxious to a barman. Apparently, she’s twenty-nine now and the video’s still doing the rounds. Even I’ve seen it and knew instantly what Lucy was talking about. I decide not to share this with Izz.
The good, familiar smell of melted butter and sugary syrup on the edge of turning opaque drifts into the air. Izz is quiet, thinking, if that frown is anything to go by.
‘I’m sorry if I made things awkward with Patrick,’ Izz says eventually, and her voice reverberates inside the big vat as she stirs.
I check again that he’s nowhere near to overhear. ‘It’s all right. We’ll be OK,’ I reassure her, even if I can’t know this for certain.
‘And I frightened little Fern.’
‘She’ll live,’ I say, but I know we’re both quietly wondering where she is. ‘Has anyone phoned up to Brambledown Farm to check on her?’
‘I did,’ Lucy puts in from across the room – listening in as usual, just like I used to when Mum gossiped with her gingerbread helpers. She’s been preparing vast sheets of greaseproof paper on oven trays four times the size of my ones at home. ‘No answer,’ she tolls.
Izz hasn’t seen her either. ‘Didn’t turn up for her shift at the cafe yesterday.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ I say again. ‘She’s got Shell, remember?’
We nod, comforted at this recollection.
