Mrs Cadwell’s Cake

Schooldays are remembered in this evocative short story by Eirin Thompson.

Who had really stolen it from our teacher’s desk all those years ago?

MRS CADWELL was a stern teacher. She couldn’t tolerate a child with loose shoelaces, she abhorred whispering and she disliked the Beatles intensely.

Her tongue was sharp, and her whack on the palm of your hand with a ruler was sharper.

Consequently, Class 6C watched their Ps and Qs and did their best to stay out of trouble.

I had the privilege of being one of Mrs Cadwell’s favourites, perhaps because I was a pretty little thing with tidy blonde plaits and shining blue eyes, or perhaps because I paid attention and liked to get my work right.

But the boys at the Badgers table, whom Mrs Cadwell had assembled at the front, right under her nose, weren’t so lucky.

“Marcus Woolsey, I said no talking! One more word from you and I’ll send you straight to the headmaster’s office.”

Marcus would drop his head in defeat.

Even though I was only nine or ten, it was clear to me that Mrs Cadwell treated those boys more harshly than the rest, and that made me sad.

Andrew Naylor, a big, sporty lad, was funny and bright, even if his face and hands never looked washed, and little Tommy Orbinson appeared permanently undernourished and vulnerable.

One day, when Mrs Cadwell dismissed us all for morning break and went to fix her hair in the classroom mirror before heading to the staff room, we all filed out past her desk and a fat iced cake that sat on a pile of books.

Mrs Cadwell’s morning snack, presumably.

Some children pointed and mimed yearning faces and rubbed their tummies. The cake looked so delicious.

A moment later we spilled into the playground, the cake forgotten.

But when the bell rang to signal the end of the break and summon us to our line, Mrs Cadwell’s face was thunderous.

She marched us in and sat us down, before revealing the cause of her wrath.

“Class, I am very disappointed to tell you that one of you is a thief,” she began.

We looked at each other in dismay. What had been stolen? Books? Pencils? Chalk? Surely not the dinner money!

“While I was out of the classroom, one of you has taken something which you knew did not belong to you. A cake with a cherry on top, which I had left on my desk.”

The whole room seemed to gasp. Someone had dared to steal Mrs Cadwell’s cake!

Thirty little pairs of eyes scanned the room, perhaps looking for tell-tale crumbs stuck to lips or cheeks, or just a guilty expression.

Whoever had done it, we all knew they had no chance. Mrs Cadwell would surely discover them, and it was hard to imagine what would ensue.

An interrogation of the whole class proceeded, our routine set aside.

Mrs Cadwell decided, table by table, who had not stolen the cake, before finally coming to the Badgers.

“It would be preferable if the culprit were to come forward now,” she advised them.

“The more trouble you put me to in order to find you out, the worse the consequences will be.

“And let there be no mistake – I will find you out.”

She walked slowly round their table, stopping behind each small head.

It was too much for little Tommy Orbinson, and everyone saw that he began to cry.

Before Mrs Cadwell could react, Andrew Naylor jumped up.

“It was me! I took the stupid cake!”

Mrs Cadwell looked at him in surprise.

“You? And what gave you the right to take what didn’t belong to you?”

To our astonishment, Andrew stepped forward to stand toe to toe with our teacher.

He looked her in the eye. “I thought you were sweet enough, Mrs Cadwell.”

A nervous giggle went round the room.

“Be quiet!” Mrs Cadwell barked.

But there was the slightest quaver in her voice. Could it be that Andrew Naylor had actually tipped her off balance?

Mrs Cadwell strode to her desk and picked up not one but two thick wooden rulers, which she gripped

“I had a bit of a crush on you back in school, you know”

tightly in her hand.

Andrew Naylor needed no instruction. He followed her to her desk and held out his palm.

Mrs Cadwell struck him six times, hard, then told him to return to his seat.

But even though Mrs Cadwell was the one meting out the punishment, and even though Andrew Naylor was the one with the throbbing hand, I had the strangest sensation that, somehow, he had been the victor.

The following year my father got a job overseas and I was sent to boarding school along with my sister.

I lost touch with everyone from primary school and made a new circle of friends.

Fast forward 15 years and I was back in my home town, having my car filled with petrol.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man at the pump asked.

I peered at his face. “Andrew? Andrew Naylor?”

“That’s me,” he confirmed. “Haven’t seen you in a long time, Anna.”

“No. My family moved away years ago. I’m back today for a work thing.

How are you?”

“I’m very well, thanks,” Andrew replied. “I’m just about to take lunch.

“I don’t suppose you have time for a coffee? I could fill you in on what everyone’s up to.”

As it happened, I was in no particular hurry.

“Oh, yes. I’ve lost touch with absolutely everyone and I’d love to hear the news.”

We crossed the road and went to a little coffee shop, where we had to shout over the noise of the milk steamer to make ourselves heard.

I found out that Jill, whom I’d used to sit beside, was a nurse, and Deborah, who sat opposite us, was a secretary to a solicitor.

Janice, who had mothered the whole class, now had a brood of four or five to keep her busy.

“And what about you?” I enquired. “Do you work at the petrol station fulltime?”

Andrew looked at me. “No,” he replied. “I’m just helping out a friend’s father on my day off.”

He held up his hands, blackened with oil.

“Trust me still to have dirty hands the very day I run into you, of all people.”

“I never cared about the dirty hands,” I told him.

“You didn’t, that’s true. Others did, though.”

“So what do you do, then?” I asked.

“I’m a policeman.” “Really?”

Andrew laughed.

“You’re surprised! Because I was once a thief? Remember Mrs Cadwell’s cake?”

“You weren’t, though – were you? You never stole it.”

Andrew gave a little smile.

“You always were the bright one, Anna. No. Someone else took it, but I knew the punishment would be too much for them. It was easier for me.”

“Do you think Mrs Cadwell suspected?” I asked him.

“Oh, she knew, all right. But it suited her well enough, so long as she was seen to have triumphed and got to punish one of the bad boys,” he replied with a grin.

“You weren’t bad, though. You were heroic, if you ask me. Whatever became of Tommy Orbinson?”

“He’s done well for himself,” Andrew replied. “He’s a teacher, and a very good one, from what I hear.”

“Oh, I’m so pleased!” “And I’m pleased to have run into you today. I had a bit of a crush on you back in school, you know.” I hadn’t known. Somebody put an old Beatles song on the coffee shop jukebox.

“Mrs Cadwell thought they were louts,” I recalled with a smile.

“Well, I thought they were brilliant. I still do.”

“Are you a very scary policeman?” I teased.

“I work with young offenders,” Andrew explained. “I like to think I’m firm but fair.

“I could so easily have taken a wrong path at that age, and I believe that young people thrive more on encouragement than on put-downs and low expectations.”

I nodded.

“I’m inclined to agree.” “And what do you do these days?” he asked me. “Something special, I’d guess.”

“I’m a pastry chef,” I explained. “I’m my own boss, catering for special events. I’m back here next week at a function in the Green Gables Hotel.

“Why don’t you come along as my guest?” I added.

I was gratified to see how pleased Andrew was with the invitation.

Andrew stayed in the police until this year – he had no interest in early retirement.

He wasn’t ambitious, though, preferring to keep working with troubled youngsters, where he was very effective.

Every time he said goodbye to another batch of youths he hoped would stay out of bother, he threw a small tea party for them.

I always provided the sweet treats.

I baked meringues and macaroons, brandy snaps and eclairs, and there was never anything left over.

Andrew doesn’t have a particularly sweet tooth, but he always took the same thing with his cup of tea – one of my fat, golden sponge cakes with icing and a cherry on the top.

My husband never forgot what it was like to sit at the “bad boys” table, however – and I never forgot that I was married to a very special person.

The End.