Present Day
Clemmie Rose had just placed the finishing touches on a gloriously fluffy Victoria sponge when she turned her back for a second. The Café on the Coast, her pride and joy, was due to open for business in a little over an hour and with the door open to let in the morning sun, chaos waddled straight into the café.
A squawk pierced the air.
Clemmie spun around just in time to see it. A puffin, bold as brass, was teetering precariously on the counter. Its beady eyes gleamed with mischief as it surveyed the room, its gaze locking onto the sponge like a pirate spotting treasure.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Clemmie shrieked, waving a spatula in the air like a sword.
The puffin cocked its head as if to say, ‘Try me’, and then plunged its orange beak directly into the centre of the cake.
‘Noooo!’ Clemmie lunged forward, but it was too late. The bird emerged triumphant, crumbs and cream smeared across its smug little face. She shooed it away as it gave an indignantsquawk before flapping its wings and landing on the end of the counter, sending a fine mist of powdered sugar into the air.
‘Granny! There’s a bloody puffin in the cake,’ Clemmie bellowed, her voice echoing through the cosy café. ‘Granny! We have a situation!’
From the back of the café came the shuffling of slippers and the sound of a teacup rattling on its saucer. Betty appeared in the doorway, still wearing her floral housecoat, a bemused expression on her face.
‘What on earth are you hollering about?’ she asked, squinting over her spectacles. ‘You sound like someone set fire to the scones.’
Clemmie pointed at the puffin, who was now strutting by the door as if it owned the place. ‘That feathery demon just destroyed my Victoria sponge!’
Betty leaned against the doorframe, taking a leisurely sip of her tea. ‘Well, that’s what you get for leaving it unattended. Puffins are opportunists, you know.’
‘I turned my back for five seconds!’ Clemmie protested, grabbing a tea towel and attempting to shoo the bird away up the path. The puffin hopped onto a nearby chair, leaving a trail of crumbs in its wake. ‘It’s a health hazard.’
Betty chuckled, setting her cup down. ‘He’s got good taste. That sponge looked divine.’
‘Itwasdivine,’ Clemmie grumbled, swiping at the counter with a damp cloth. ‘It was for an order this afternoon and now I have to start over again and I won’t have time to practise for The Royal Baking Competition. I was going to try out the café’s layered mousse-cake tower, as I’ve not baked it for a while.’
Betty ambled over, her slippered feet shuffling against the tiles. She reached out a wrinkled hand, and to Clemmie’s astonishment, the puffin hopped right onto her arm like an obedient parrot.
‘Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow?’ Betty cooed, stroking the bird’s head. The puffin squawked appreciatively, nuzzling her with its beak.
‘What do you mean, he’s a handsome fellow? All puffins look the same! Why does he like you so much?’ Clemmie demanded, throwing her arms in the air. ‘I’m the one who bakes the cakes!’
Betty smirked. ‘You’re also the one who shouts and waves spatulas around. Puffins appreciate a calm demeanour.’
Clemmie muttered to herself about traitorous birds and grandmothers who should be retiring, as she stared at the wreckage of her sponge cake, its once perfect layers now a battlefield of cream and jam.
‘Right,’ she said, tying her apron tighter. ‘If that puffin thinks it’s beaten me, it’s got another think coming. I’ll bake a new cake, and it’ll be even better. Fluffier, taller, more… victorious!’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Betty said, carrying the puffin to the door and putting it outside. ‘But maybe keep the door shut this time, hmm?’
Clemmie glared at her. ‘I don’t need advice from someone who lets puffins sit on their arm like a pirate.’
Betty gave her a wink and was just about to shuffle back into the kitchen when she said, ‘I’ve been thinking…’
‘You do know it’s dangerous when you think…’ teased Clemmie.
‘I think you should reconsider baking the layered mousse-cake tower.’
‘Why?’ Clemmie asked, feeling a little surprised. ‘It’s going to look sensational, and I need to stand out from the crowd. There’s a lot at stake for the winner. They get their own cookbook published and let’s not forget the invitation to the royal garden party. Can you imagine? It would put our café on the coast firmly on the map!’
‘Oh, I can imagine,’ Betty replied with a knowing smile, ‘and that’s exactly why I’m suggesting you bake something with real meaning to this place, something tied to its history. Everyone loves a good backstory.’ Betty picked up the invitation from where Clemmie had placed it behind the clock on the shelf and took it out of its royal crested envelope. She read it out loud.
ROYAL INVITATION
Her Royal Highness cordially invites Clemmie Rose to take part in the prestigious Royal Baking Competition, an exclusive event celebrating heritage, tradition and the art of fine baking.
