Bree high-fived George and turned the sign over on the back of the door. The bakery was officially open for business. She felt a little twinge of excitement as she looked around the shop. No one had ever given her responsibility like this before, and she was determined to grasp it with both hands and not to let anyone down. The bakery was the quaintest thing she had ever seen, with its floral triangular bunting draped across the walls, and the colourful jars of jams and chutneys. It was full of charm, an alluring place filled with crunchy baguettes, buttery viennoiseries and decadent pastries. It reminded her of a place where her mum worked when Bree was a child.
She remembered it well, a bakery and coffee shop, which was just a short train journey away. Bree used to accompany her mum to work every Saturday. The owner of the bakery became part of their family and as she grew older he allowed Bree her own little table in the kitchen where she would help to knead the dough and make chocolate. She looked forward to going to work with her mum and often returned home with a huge bag of goodies. The things she remembered most about her mum’s boss were his welcoming smile and the huge scar across his hand. Thinking back, she remembered how her mother had abruptly stopped working there when Bree was around seven years of age. She’d witnessed a hushed, heated exchange of words between her mum and the baker and then they left and never returned.
Taking a croissant from the counter she tossed it towards George. ‘Here you go.’
‘Are we allowed?’ he asked, looking at Bree, then the croissant.
‘We are.’
George didn’t need telling twice. He ripped the croissant in two and stuffed half of it in his mouth, the loose flaky pastry falling to the floor like confetti. Bree ran her finger across the jars of homemade jams and chutneys and she read every label. There were such wonderful mouth-watering flavours. With his croissant devoured, George was pulling at her top and waggling the DVD in the air.
‘Come on,’ said Bree. ‘Let me get you a drink whilst you switch the TV on.’ George raced towards the living room.
Whilst Bree opened the cupboard doors looking for a glass, she cast a glance over the pinboard in the kitchen. It was littered with drawings by George, important telephone numbers and an official-looking invite. Cam had been invited to take place in the most prestigious baking event of the year. Bree had often heard her mother talk about it to the guy in the baker’s shop when she was just a little girl so she knew this competition was a very big deal.
‘The special element is chocolate,’ she read.
After making George a drink, she pinned the invitation back in exactly the same place she found it and wandered into the living room. George had dragged his duvet from upstairs and was now snuggled under it on the settee with all his teddy bears lined up beside him. The DVD was playing and George didn’t even look up when Bree placed the drink on the table.
‘I’ll be back in a minute, just checking on the shop.’
Leaving George watching the TV, Bree wandered down the hallway and, as curiosity got the better of her, moseyed into the next room, which was the dining room. It was impressive, with oak beams running the length of the ceiling and double cottage lights on every wall with green velvet lampshades. The window looked out over the garden of The Old Bakehouse, which looked imposing covered in untouched inches of snow. Picking up from the dresser a photograph of a younger Molly with her parents, Bree studied the image. She thought back to her own mother, who worked hard and often had three or four jobs at a time to keep a roof over their heads. They had very little money but it didn’t matter because they had each other.
Walking towards the bookshelves, Bree noticed they were filled with classics and as she glanced up at the photographs on the wall, she opened another door, which led her back into the bakery kitchens. Looking around her, she breathed deeply, taking in the aroma. The smell immediately transported her back to her early childhood and the bakery her mum used to work in.
Noticing Cam’s baker’s hat and apron hanging on the hook, she took the hat and placed it on her head and admired herself in the mirror. Then her eyes flicked up towards the shelf of cookery books. She was drawn to the book Cam had advised her not to touch and she carefully pulled it from the shelf. It was a medium hardback diary with page after page full of handwritten recipes. The writing was elegant yet scrawny, in old-fashioned ink pen. Next to each recipe were hand-drawn illustrations. Bree carefully turned the pages and towards the back of the book she came across a section with each page dated with the year and each recipe planned out. It was only after scanning the framed awards that were dotted around The Old Bakehouse that Bree realised what she was looking at. Each recipe in this section was the one that had won Cam’s Great-Uncle Ted the Baker of the Year award. Bree couldn’t believe the work that had gone into each entry. Ted had baked each recipe over and over again umpteen times before the actual competition and each time he’d recorded the consistency, the taste, etc. Bree thought back to Cam’s invitation for this year’s entry and the special element – chocolate. Her mother used to bake the best chocolate slabs in the whole wide world and for a second Bree felt a little saddened. They used to bake it together and since she’d passed away Bree hadn’t been anywhere near a kitchen.
The old-fashioned bell chimed to signal a customer so, leaving the recipe book on the counter, Bree popped her head into the bakery. With the weather like it was today she was surprised anyone had braved the cold.
In trudged an elderly woman stamping her snowy Dr Martens boots on the mat. She was wearing a crimson teddy bear coat that hung from her tiny frame. Bree guessed she was in her mid-eighties; she was short and as she pulled her hat from her head her bob sprang in every direction with the static. Her blusher matched her coat, which also complemented the varnish on her nails. Bree admired her boldness.
The woman coughed then narrowed her eyes at her. ‘And who are you?’ she asked, looking through to the hallway then back towards Bree.
‘I’m Bree.’ She thrust her hand forward. ‘I’m in charge for a couple of hours,’ she said with a smile.
‘Really?’ Dixie was surprised after the conversation the previous morning in the shop, but who was she to interfere?
‘Do you live in the village?’ Bree asked.
‘Right next door.’
The penny dropped. ‘You must be Dixie, Cam’s grandmother. You were feeling a little unwell this morning. Is there anything I can get you?’
‘News travels fast.’ Dixie was still looking straight at Bree. ‘And where has my grandson gone gallivanting in this weather?’
Bree noticed that Dixie was scrutinising her every feature.
‘The boiler packed up at the homeless shelter, and some of the villagers are helping Sam to transport the mattresses and people to another community centre a couple of towns away. Cam volunteered to help.’
‘And my great-grandson?’
‘He’s through there watching a film. I was just about to join him,’ replied Bree, nervously fiddling with a paper bag from the counter.
Dixie was still looking at her in a strange way and Bree felt a little uncomfortable.
‘Are you okay? You’re kind of staring…’
Dixie cut in. ‘I’m sorry, I actually don’t know what’s come over me, I’ve just had one of those moments. A … what do you call them?’ She flapped her hand in front of her then placed one hand on her heart. ‘A déjà vu moment.’ She was still staring at Bree in a peculiar way.
