He gives a shamefaced shrug. ‘I still prefer to have my puddings cooked by someone else.’
‘Good luck with your hunt for a doormat.’ I’m gleeful that Dakota doesn’t look like she could make a pudding to save her life, without knowing why. I’m pacing myself for a long afternoon here. ‘Would you like to listen to my eighties mix if I keep the volume down? A hundred blockbuster hits. They should just about last until we’re done here.’
He looks less delighted than I anticipated. ‘I’m probably okay, this shouldn’t take long. Look in here, this is the texture you’re aiming for. Don’t over beat or it’ll get too dry and foamy. You can start to add the sugar now, a spoonful at a time.’
I can’t believe how fast this is going. ‘It’s already smooth and glossy.’ It’s so different from first time around, I let out a whoop. ‘Oh my, and there are peaks too.’
He dips a teaspoon in. ‘A few more minutes of beating. As soon as all the sugar’s dissolved, we’re good to spoon it onto the trays.’
My mouth drops open in surprise as I see them ready with greaseproof paper cut to size. ‘Ones you prepared earlier?’
He nods. ‘The oven’s on too. I’ve left a note of the temperatures and times, but all this is on your recipe card anyway.’ His pause says I should have read Laura’s notes more carefully. ‘You can spoon them out … there’s enough mixture for twelve, keep the sizes equal.’ His face breaks into a half smile. ‘Unless you’d like me to hold it over your head again?’
‘Thanks for the offer. But I’d rather not.’ My first few blobs of goo are such a mess he has to know I’ve never done this before, but he’s polite enough not to comment. By the time I’ve filled the tray I’m plopping them out so fast I could give Cressida Cupcake a run for her money.
He’s rinsing his hands at the sink. ‘Okay, into the oven for thirty minutes, then turn it off, open the door and leave them in there until they’re cool.’
‘I think I’ve got that.’ I’m standing, watching him leave, when his phone goes again.
He waves as he slides it out of his pocket. ‘If in doubt, read your recipe. Good luck, and remember to save me one. This is Dainty Dusters again. I’ll take it this time.’ Which sounds very much like ‘over and out’ to me.
Once he’s gone, I pick up my own phone and take a picture of the twelve white blobs – because for me this is iconic. Then I open the oven and slide in the tray. Thirty minutes, from start to finish. I’m already drooling in anticipation. But I’m also feeling like there’s a big gap in the kitchen. Which is ridiculous when I should be whooping that my grumpy neighbour’s left the building. Or at least gone to his own bit of it.
In the next ten minutes, I discover the downside of cooking – it makes you a prisoner in your own home. Usually I might waltz off along the beach or pop up the hill for a mug of tea with Plum. But when there’s something in the oven, you have to stay at home and look after it. Which for a non-cook is a bit of a shock. I suppose back in the day this is the bit where Laura would sit with me at the table, and we’d look through the recipe basket, or she’d tear up scrap paper and let me draw. Sometimes I’d stand on a chair, and Laura would fill the sink with foam and let me wash out jam jars. Or if the sun was out we’d take Fairy liquid out onto the balcony and blow big wobbly rainbow bubbles and watch them get whooshed off towards the sea.
I wander through to hang up my towels and clean the bath, then nip into the bedroom to check on Pancake. She’s made a nest in the dusky pink quilt and wedged herself up against my pillow. As I walk in she doesn’t lift her head or open her eyes, but the way she extends one paw and flexes her claws is a cool kind of greeting. When I hear the soft burr as she begins to purr, the sound’s so cosy that I curl up in the battered velvet chair beside the bed just so I can listen. Then to stop myself falling asleep too, I reach for a book.
Whereas the kitchen dresser is stuffed with every recipe known to woman, the bedroom shelf is bursting with handicraft hardbacks. Judging by the weaving and dying manuals, books on patchwork, embroidery, dressmaking, upholstery, découpage, macramé and knitting, Laura must have been crafting non-stop. I’m flicking through the pictures, then when I reach the end I’m tipping the book upside down and giving it a thorough flap. Just in case there’s a note tucked away.
When I was in Sixth Form, I found twenty pounds tucked deep in the inside pocket of a vintage peplum jacket, weeks after I bought it from a second-hand stall at a festival. It kept us in vodka kicks for at least three weekends. Which is probably why I’ve accepted I need to be meticulous about going through every inch of the flat. Who knows, I might find a rare Penny Black stamp like the ones we searched for so expectantly when we were kids. One mention onBlue Peter, and we were ransacking our houses, much to our parents’ horror. Plum actually went as far as taking up her bedroom floor boards in case one had fallen between the cracks. Luckily her mum’s an artist and her dad’s a child psychologist, so they put it down to creative thought and self-expression. Whereas if I’d expressed myself by ripping up the carpet my mum would have had a hissy fit.
Then I come to a canvas folder full of the kind of knitting patterns you get on those birthday cards with comic captions. For every pretty knitted twin set I flick past, there’s another ten where it’s impossible to believe humans consented to wear this stuff. I’m falling off the chair laughing at three guys in the most awful Christmas balaclavas in the world ever, then I flip the pattern over, and suddenly I’m staring at a slim orange Kodak wallet. For a second I forget to breathe.
‘Other people’s holiday snaps. Or Laura’s even.’ Pretty meaningless unless you were there. But they’re as fascinating as the knitting patterns for the period detail. Then as I let my fingers slide across the matt orange paper and under the flap my stomach leaves the building.
There aren’t any negatives, it’s not a set. It’s just four or five irregular sized colour prints. With the blood roaring in my ears, I steady my shaking fingers and ease them out.
‘A woman in a white dress with red flowers with two small boys and a big sand castle.’ I’m murmuring to myself as I flip the photo over:St Aidan, summer ’68.That neat pointy writing is definitely Laura’s. And she looks a lot like a younger version of the one in the picture from the musical box. I’m not sure if I’m weak or excited. But I know I couldn’t stand up if I tried.
The next is those same two boys sitting on a bench, their grins hidden behind vanilla ice creams with chocolate flakes that are almost as big as them. No date or place this time, but the fragment of the roses on their mum’s dress is caught in the corner of the frame. Those same curly iron benches are still there along the sea front, only they’re painted sky blue now not cream.
The only details I ever remember knowing about the man who got my mum pregnant were that he wastwenty-four when I was born, and called Rob. I go through another four pictures, all variations of sand and the same boys, spreading them across the quilt as I go.
I’m doing the maths in my head, trying to think how big boys are when they’re six. It might fit. As I pick up the last photo of two boys splashing in the shallows, one with a stripy bucket, one wearing some very under-inflated arm bands, I’m shivering. I turn it over, knowing it’s my last chance, and yes. There’s more pointy biro:The day Robbie learned to swim.‘Bingo!.’ Or rather, holy shizzle!. This really wasn’t meant to happen.
I’ve never wanted to know anything about my dad. Even though half of me came from him, given he was the kind of person who’d leave a pregnant woman, I’ve always tried to ignore the part of me that came from him. It’s better to have a blank space in my self-knowledge than for it to be filled with something bad. When I started flicking through those books finding pictures of him was the last thing on my mind. But now I’ve got one in my hand knowing for sure it’s him, I’m frozen. And I can’t look away.
I grab my phone, take a photo of the picture, then spread my fingers out on the screen to zoom in. As the photo expands the face I’m looking into could almost be mine at the same age. My entire body feels about two seconds away from imploding when there’s a shout from the hallway.
‘Clemmie, what the hell happened?’
Shit. It’s Mr H, and I’m not sure I know where to begin to answer that question.
‘Did the timer fail?’
‘Timer?’ It comes out as a croak. Now thatwouldhave been a good idea. I consider standing up and on balance decide not to bother. ‘I’m with Pancake … come through.’ It’s not only my legs, my voice is all over the place too.
As Charlie appears in the bedroom doorway, he frowns, then leans across the bed to tickle Pancake. ‘I brought cream.’
