Use Your Loaf

There’s honour at stake in this lighthearted short story by Meg Stokes.

WE’VE won a cruise, Sarah, can you believe it?” Sarah moved the phone away from her ear a little as her mother’s excited voice continued.

“It’s a Mediterranean cruise, Sarah! There’s a trip to Pompeii. I’ve always wanted to go to Pompeii.”

“It all sounds wonderful, Mum; well done.”

“Oh, it was only thinking up a jingle for a soap powder, but even so . . .” There was a pause.

“Em . . . there is just one thing. We’ll be away for the village show.”

“That’s a shame,” Sarah said, knowing how much her mum loved the event.

“Yes. So I won’t be able to enter the bread competition this year.”

Sarah stiffened, halfknowing what was coming.

“I wondered if you would enter this year, dear, on my behalf.”

“Mum, I’m hopeless at anything like that.” Sarah laughed.

“We’ve got plenty of time before we go for us to practise. Do say yes, dear. Mavis Peacock is bound to win otherwise.

Sarah well knew of the friendly rivalry between her mum and Mavis Peacock and, at the moment, the honours were even.

“Anyway, it will do you good to think of something else apart from work,” her mum continued.

This was a well-worn theme of her mother’s, so, before she could get into a groove, Sarah hastily agreed that she would enter the bread competition.

By the time the call ended, she was already beginning to wonder what she had done.

Her mother was a superb baker, but Sarah had never been interested in the process, although she was happy to enjoy the results.

Still, there was plenty of time to think about that; the village show wasn’t for ages.

She looked up at the clock on the office wall, then went to the filing cabinet and riffled through the documents for the correct file.

“I’m going to the Yew Tree Cottage viewing in a moment, Emma,” she said over her shoulder to her assistant.

“I shouldn’t be too long and you know where I am if you need me.”

Emma looked up from her desk.

“Oh, I thought you said I might be able to do that.”

“Did I? I don’t remember. Anyway, you and David have got plenty to do here at the moment, haven’t you?”

She looked at her young trainee as she said this and David nodded.

She put on her jacket, picked up her handbag and, file in hand, went to the door.

“Maybe the next one, Emma, OK?” And she was gone.

“That’s what you said the last time,” Emma muttered to her departing back.

Sarah sometimes wondered, especially when she was tired, if her mother had a point about her working too hard.

But this was her business, her baby, which she had nurtured until it had grown into one of the best estate agencies in the area.

In bleaker moments, she admitted to herself that she really had very little in her life apart from the business.

Relationships had always taken a back seat.

What man could compete with the excitement of selling beautiful houses to clients, along with the satisfaction of closing a deal?

Yew Tree Cottage was

Sarah hadn’t the first clue about making bread, but she would do her best to rise to the occasion . . .

situated up a narrow, winding lane on the outskirts of the village.

A black car was sitting outside the cottage when she arrived.

As she got out of her car a tall, dark-haired young man appeared from the side of the cottage and waved.

“Just having a look round the garden,” he called.

Sarah walked up the garden path towards him and held out her hand.

“Sarah Covington,” she said, smiling. “Yes, the garden’s lovely, isn’t it, Mr Stewart?”

“It is indeed,” Mr Stewart replied. “A real English country garden. And please, call me Kit.”

For a moment they stood admiring the hollyhocks, foxgloves and rambling roses which bloomed in glorious disarray before them.

Sarah rarely met men who were taller than her and it felt strangely pleasurable to look up to him.

Now that he was closer, she could see silver streaks in his hair.

So, not as young as all that, she thought. Maybe about her own age? And he had nice eyes, too.

“Let’s look inside,” she said, and opened the front door.

They walked from room to room, Kit having to duck his head in places because of the low beams and nodding politely as she explained the attributes of each space.

“Wow!” Kit said when they went into the large kitchen and he saw the oak units and marble worktops.

It was the first time he had shown real enthusiasm.

“Do you like cooking?” Sarah asked.

“Baking is a hobby,” he said, opening cupboard doors, peering into drawers and running his hand over the smooth, cold worktops.

“This kitchen was only put in a year ago,” Sarah explained. “It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“I’m definitely interested,” Kit said as they left the cottage. “I can’t wait to move out of the city and breathe some country air.

“I’m a freelance accountant, so I’m not tied to any one place.”

He ran his hand over his hair.

“I might even get a dog.” He chuckled.

“I think you’d enjoy living in the village; we’re all very nice.” Sarah smiled up at him.

“I’m sure you are. So you live in the village, too?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Sarah said, suddenly feeling a little flustered. She grasped her file more firmly.

“If you’d like to come back to the office, we can get the ball rolling.”

As the cottage was empty and Kit easily sold his city apartment, it wasn’t long before he moved in and became part of the village community.

Occasionally, as she drove past in a rush to a viewing appointment,

Sarah would see him in the street, often accompanied by a black Labrador.

So he did get a dog, she thought.

****

“I’ve registered you for the bread competition, Sarah, although I do wish you could have found time for some practice,” her mum said over the phone. “We’re off tomorrow.” “Oh, don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be fine. I’ll fit in some practice before the day and I have your recipe to follow,” Sarah said.

“Mm . . . sometimes just following a recipe isn’t enough where bread is concerned.”

“What? I don’t know what you mean, Mum.”

“Just that . . . oh, never mind, dear.

“That man who’s living in Yew Tree Cottage has put his name down as well. Mr Stewart? You’ll know him.”

“Oh . . . yes, I know him.”

****

It was the night before the village show.

Sarah couldn’t remember ever taking an afternoon off before, but needs must if she was to practise and finally bake a perfect loaf.

Where had the time gone?

She had already had a postcard from her parents with a picture of Pompeii on the front and a message wishing her luck.

In the office, Emma had looked at her in astonishment when she had announced her intentions.

“But there’s a viewing this afternoon. Mr and Mrs Cartwright want to see the house on Mill Lane.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of doing that, Emma, and David will be fine in the office. Won’t you, David?”

“Yes, Sarah.” David looked thunderstruck.

****

Sarah stood in her kitchen, her mother’s recipe in front of her.

She took a deep breath. How hard could this be?

For the next few hours she weighed, measured and kneaded until, finally, the loaf went into the oven.

The sweet smell of baking bread filled the house and she cleared up, humming quietly to herself, picturing her success at the village show.

When she took the loaf out, it was golden brown and looked delicious, but the first slice showed it was full of large holes. What on earth had happened?

She tried again. This time there were fewer holes, but the bread was so dense she could have used it as a doorstop.

She left the kitchen in disarray, grabbed a jacket and went out into the cool, evening air.

Dusk was falling as she strode towards the war memorial in the centre of the village.

Even as a child, she had always found it strangely comforting to sit on the bench, surrounded, as it were, by the history of the village and its lost sons.

When she arrived, she saw that Kit was sitting there, his dog lying at his feet.

“Hello,” he said. “What

“Sometimes just following a recipe isn’t enough”

are you doing here?”

“Just getting a breath of air,” she answered, sitting down beside him and aware that her voice was shaky.

She leaned forward and stroked the dog.

“Meet Oscar,” Kit said. “I’ve been practising the baking,” she said. He looked at her.

“Not good?”

“Terrible.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue.

“I followed the recipe to the letter and it still turned out wrong. I’m sure even the birds will turn their noses up at it.”

He smiled.

“Personally, I don’t care if I’m not a good baker,” she continued, “but I can’t bear letting my mum down.” He nodded.

“Yes, that’s hard.”

The church clock chimed the hour and Kit gathered up Oscar’s lead.

“Look, we’re heading home now. Why don’t you join us?

“Maybe I could offer some advice, along with a glass of wine?”

The house was different from how Sarah remembered it and she could see that Kit had made it his own.

One wall of the lounge held a number of framed photographs of birds and animals in different locations.

“Those are beautiful,” Sarah commented as Kit took her coat.

“Another one of my hobbies,” Kit said with a smile.

“You took them?”

“I make a living as an accountant, but that’s not my whole life,” Kit answered. “Now, white or red?”

He busied himself getting glasses and a bottle.

“So, what went wrong with the bread?”

They were sitting in the living-room sipping their drinks with Oscar sprawled on the rug.

Sarah explained

the whole sorry story, not just of how the bread had gone wrong, but that she was probably to blame because she had left it to the last minute.

“Bread is a funny thing,” Kit said. “Even if you follow a recipe closely, there’s no guarantee it will turn out.”

“My mum said roughly the same thing, but I didn’t understand.”

“I’m no expert, but I think what she probably meant is it can’t be rushed.

“Obviously, you have to follow a recipe, but it’s an organic process, sometimes more about feel and texture than technique.

“Does that make any sense at all?”

“Yes, I think so.” Sarah sighed. “I seem to live my life at a hundred miles an hour. Mum’s always talking to me about it.”

“Maybe it’s time to sit back and smell the roses.” She smiled and nodded. “Would you like to stay for supper? Kit said.

“It’s only chicken risotto, but there’s enough for two. Perhaps I could give you one or two tips about the bread.”

“That would be lovely, but I really must get back if I’m ever going to enter this competition.”

****

Sunshine and blue skies heralded the perfect day

“Maybe it’s time to sit back and smell the roses”

for the village show and the crowds were gathering.

Sarah carried her loaf across to the cookery tent on the far side of the village green.

She had followed Kit’s advice about knocking the dough back properly so, hopefully, there would be no holes.

She had also made sure that she had kneaded the dough until it was smooth and elastic, although she felt far from being able intuitively to recognise the correct feel and texture.

But maybe that would come with practice.

Yes, she would be making more bread in the future.

Next, she walked to the estate agent’s.

When she went in, she saw that Emma was deep in conversation with a client and David was hard at work preparing new

“For Sale” leaflets.

It was all humming along quite nicely without her.

Maybe I’m not indispensable after all, she thought, surprised, but really rather pleased.

In the afternoon she went back to the show, pausing to watch the dog competition and admire the flower arrangements, before entering the cookery tent.

Judging was finished and, with some trepidation, she went to the bread section.

There was a small card in front of her exhibit – Commended. Wow!

She laughed in delight, just as Kit appeared.

“Congratulations,” he said, giving her a hug. “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it. That’s incredible for a first attempt.”

“What about . . .” Sarah’s voice tailed off as she spotted the red rosette on Kit’s bread. “Oh, you won!”

Kit’s huge smile said it all.

Sarah saw that Mavis Peacock had come second, so honours were still fairly even between Mavis and her mum.

“I’m going up to the Highlands next weekend to take some photographs. I’m hoping I might see a golden eagle,” Kit said. “Would you like to come?”

A week ago, Sarah would have claimed pressure of work and declined. Now, she only had to think for a moment.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

The End.