‘Yes, of course,’ I replied cheerfully. Naturally, being a man, Vince wasn’t expected to involve himself with it.
My friends back in London would think I’m crazy, worrying about my substandard nests. ‘Just buy something on the way there!’ Tash would say with a honking laugh. She wouldn’t understand that that simply isn’t the done thing. So, with Vince still chuckling and making disparaging remarks, I set off with my Tupperware box.
*
At least I’m contributing, I tell myself as I arrive at the park on this bright June morning. Shugbury’s book festival is the highlight of the year around here. In the distance, next to the face-painting stall, the bake sale table shimmers like a terrible mirage.
Closer now, I can see that it’snotthe taking part that matters. And it most definitelyisa competition. For here we have:
Exhibit A.Deborah Spragg’s red velvet cake. Triple layered and topped with creamy swirls, it rightfully commands centre stage.
Exhibit B.Agata Kemp’s pastel-hued macarons. So pretty are they, they could have come from a fancy French patisserie. Whereas my shabby offerings appear to have tumbled from the bowels of the unwell.
Tightening my grip on my box, I start to sweat. I can’t do this. I can’t foist them on our town’s well-heeled inhabitants. No one will thank me or even think,At least she brought something.
It would be like trying to offload your rank old knickers at a charity shop. ‘I’m not sure we can sell these, thank you.’Meaning:Please take them away.
I eye the towering cake, the beautiful macarons, the plumptious muffins and perfect custard tarts. The bake sale raises funds for the festival. But more importantly it’s a test of one’s domestic talents – because here in Shugbury it’s forever 1957.
Thankfully, the stall is being manned by a woman I don’t recognise, and so far no one I know has spotted me. At least, I hope they haven’t. Feigning casualness, I glide away.
Vince would love the fact that I’m too ashamed to hand over my contributions. Luckily – albeit not surprisingly – he has yet to show up. He’ll probably be lying on the sofa, being pestered by Jarvis for a walk. That’s Jarvis as in Cocker – as in spaniel – who belongs to Edie, my stepdaughter. We’re looking after him while she works in the States.
In a quiet corner of the park, I peel the lid off my box, take one last look at my misshapen creations and wonder what to do next. At just gone nine-thirty people are arriving already, checking out the stalls and chatting in groups. A marquee has been erected for the weekend of author events. Vince’s was the first to sell out (as well as working the stand-up comedy circuit he has also written a book of humorous observations on everyday life). So we have that to come later. But first, what to do with my offerings? As I came here on foot, without a bag or anything to hide them in, my only option is to bin them – Tupperware and all. Then I can get on with my duties as general helper and think no more about it.
Spotting a litter bin by the park’s entrance I head, missile-like, towards it. My plan is to casually sling my box into it as I stride past – like a thief disposing of a stolen handbag. I quicken my pace, focusing hard on the solid metallic receptacle that’ll save me from mockery from the likes of Deborah and Agata – those properly functioning kitchen doyennes with their piping bags and silicone moulds in every conceivable shape.
Deborah lives at the end of our road and pops out, like a cuckoo, whenever she spots Vince strolling by. I once made the mistake of calling her Debbie and was sharply corrected. Here she comes now, an Amazonian six-footer in a billowing maxi dress, waving as she sweeps towards me. I march onwards, my gaze fixed determinedly ahead.
‘Kate,’ she calls out. ‘Hey, Kate!’
Keep walking. Pretend you haven’t heard and for God’s sake don’t look back—
‘KATE! HEY! WAIT!’
I stop and turn, feigning surprise. ‘Deborah, hi!’
‘Youseem in a hurry,’ she remarks with a frown. Her coppery hair shimmers in the sunshine and her puff-sleeved dress is the precise green of a well-fed lawn.
‘Just nipping to the shop,’ I fib.
Her expression softens. ‘Doesn’t everything lookgreat? And aren’t we lucky with this weather?’
‘We are, yes!’
She beams, exposing sturdy white teeth that could crack through a roof tile. ‘Can’t wait for Vince’s event,’ she enthuses. ‘It’ll be the highlight of the festival. Oh, is that something for the bake sale?’ Her gaze drops to the box in my clammy grip.
‘It’s nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘I was just going to—’
‘Let’s have it then.’
I wince and step away. ‘It just looked like there was so much stuff on the stall already...’ Stuff? Deborah’s red velvet creation isn’t ‘stuff’.
‘The more the merrier,’ she insists, going to grab at the box which causes me, instinctively, to tighten my grip. But Deborah is a mighty woman with a will of steel, and she wrangles the thing off me in a move so sudden and violent, the ill-fitting lid springs off (we have something like 625 Tupperware boxes yet not one possesses a properly fitting lid) and the sorry contents spill out onto the ground.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she exclaims.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s absolutely fine,’ I insist. ‘They didn’t actually turn out too well...’
