The Most Magical Cakes in Crawley.

The Most Magical Cakes in Crawley

Arthur Comstock sat in his car across from Tooting market feeling irritable. He could have done without the Missus pecking at him over breakfast, as per.

“It’s time we ‘ad a new kitchen, Arthur,” she said, stabbing at the bacon in the frying pan. “Green’s ever so trendy this year. A palette inspired by nature,” she gazed dreamily out the window.

Arthur snorted quietly into his mug of tea.

“Glass doors and open shelving. Bringing the outdoors indoors.” She flicked the rashers out of the pan and squashed them between two slices of thickly buttered white bread.

“Sounds like a bloody greenhouse,” muttered Arthur. “Why don’t I just shift it in here from the garden, you know, bring the outdoors indoors?”

“Oh, very witty Arthur, very droll,” she said, giving him the Medusa stare and banging his bacon buttie on the table.

So instead of enjoying his breakfast, instead of relishing his bacon sarnie dripping with melted butter and brown sauce, he woofed it back half chewed and hurried out of the house.

When he arrived at Crawley junction, the traffic on the M25, affectionately known as The Magic Roundabout, had slowed to a crawl. Someone must have a twisted sense of humour, thought Arthur, not for the first time. Pity it wasn’t the actual Magic Roundabout because a ride on Brian the Snail would have been quicker. By the time he finally made it to the Tooting Works, some joker had nabbed his parking space. Of course they had. Which was why, half an hour after Arthur should have been at work, he was parked on Totterdown street, lighting a cigarette.

Sod this, he thought, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. Same old routine, day in day out, year in year out. He wished, well, no point wishing was there? He took a last drag on his cigarette and hauled himself out of the car. When he sat down at his workbench almost an hour late, he was bad tempered and out of breath. As he reached for his brushes, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“A word, Arthur,” said Big Bernie, looking grave.

“Alright then. Fire away.” Arthur sat back in his chair.

“My office.”

“Oh.” Arthur felt a stir of unease.

“Arthur,” Bernie cleared his throat a couple of times. “I’m going to have to let you go.” He concentrated hard on the desk in front of him.

“Let me go?” echoed Arthur, “let me go where?”

“Look, this is the third time this month you’ve been late. We’re reducing the workforce. Got to be more efficient, cost effective. You know how it is.”

“But I’ve never worked anywhere else.”

“You’ll find something Arthur,” said his boss, still examining the desk.

“Like what? I’m sixty-two. Who’s going to want me? Nobody wants hand-written signs anymore.”

Big Bernie looked at him sadly. “I rest my case.”

Arthur left in a daze. Without remembering getting into his car, he found himself back in Crawley, at Tilgate park. He stumbled out of the driver’s seat and collapsed on a bench overlooking the lake.

Christ! What was he going to do? The Missus would kill him. There’d be no new kitchen now. They’d be lucky to have a roof over their heads. There was no way he could tell her. He sat there gazing at the graceful swans. They used to come here years ago, him and Molly, before they were married. She told him how swans mate for life and he said, “same as us then, eh Moll?” She was going to be devastated. She drove up him up the bloody wall sometimes, but she had a good heart, did Moll. In fact, he couldn’t imagine life without her. No, he couldn’t tell her.

He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when a young woman approached, well, young to him anyway.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. “You look like you’ve lost a tenner and found five pence.” She sat down beside him.

Arthur tried to smile politely, but his face had gone rigid.

“Here,” she said, “I’ve got a flask of tea here. Be rude not to share. You look like you need a cuppa.”

Arthur, still mute, took the plastic cup from her and suddenly had the ridiculous urge to cry. In fact, to his horror he felt a tear slide down his nose and plop into his cup.

The woman was busy rifling through her large bag.

“My name’s Gemma,” she said to the bag, “what’s yours?”

“Arthur,” he managed, in a voice a few octaves higher than usual.

“Well, Arthur,” said Gemma withdrawing her nose from the bag at last and producing a square tin, I think what’s needed is Chocolate Cake!” She pulled the lid off with a flourish and shoved it under his nose. “Go on then!”

Arthur had such a big lump in his throat he wasn’t sure he could swallow, but it did look very nice.

“Did you make this?” he said wonderingly, as the velvety sponge with the oozy centre shimmied down his throat.

“Course I did!” she laughed. She had a lovely tinkling laugh. Reminded him a bit of his daughter, Lottie. She would have been about the same age if, still, best not to dwell.

“I make cakes for a living, well I’m trying to,” she was saying. “All the rage now, home-made cakes for parties, weddings and what have you.”

“You’ll make a fortune!” cried Arthur, feeling strangely restored.

“Trouble is,” she said “I’m not very good at decorating. They have to look nice as well. My hands shake. Nobody wants wobbly congratulations, do they? I’ve tried stencils...”

“Stencils!” barked Arthur. Gemma jumped and slopped her tea in surprise. “Sorry, don’t get me started on stencils.”

“What’s wrong with stencils?”

“What’s right with stencils, more like! Look, you’ve just got to take your time, not panic. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled the “termination of employment” letter out of his pocket, hastily turning it over and with his pencil slowly and carefully drew “Congratulations on your Chocolate Cake,” in beautiful lettering.

“Oh!” Gemma gasped. “That’s lovely! Where did you learn to do that?”

“I’m a sign writer. Well, was,” he said, his heart sinking as reality returned. “I’ve just lost my job. Nobody wants hand-written signs anymore.”

Gemma stared at him for so long that Arthur began to feel uncomfortable and took an interest in his shoelaces.

“Arthur, don’t you see?”

He turned and looked at her blankly.

“Did you like my cake?”

“It’s the best cake I’ve ever had in my entire life,” he replied, without exaggeration.

She nodded, satisfied. “My cakes taste good, but they don’t look good. I can’t sell them like that.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing then, do they?”

“No, they don’t, Arthur, but you could decorate them for me! You could make them beautiful! My mum’s friend asked me to do her retirement bash. Five cakes and a hundred buns. I’m afraid to say yes. Will you help me?”

At first, Arthur didn’t think it was going to work. Using a piping bag was quite different from a sable brush, but he practised patiently on sheets of baking paper and once he’d experimented a bit with different icing nozzles and worked out the right amount of squeeze, he discovered it was a piece of cake. Ha, he smiled to himself, a piece of cake!

Every morning, he went out of the house at the usual time, spending his days carefully painting his designs with food colouring and a fine brush on the beautifully smooth cakes. Gemma would make up the different colours of icing and load the bags for him, ready for piping. He found he was enjoying himself more than he had in years. The retirement bash was a huge success and Gemma, despite his objections, gave him half the proceeds. The orders came flooding in after that and they fell in to a comfortable routine. Sometimes, Arthur and Gemma would go to the park at lunchtime and sit on the bench by the lake with a flask and a selection of her latest cakes.

It was on one of these days, as they tucked in to a spicy treacle and ginger cake, that Arthur looked up to find a woman over by the lake, staring at him.

“Oh, bugger,” he said. “That’s Jean, one of Moll’s friends. I’m for it now.”

“Mm, mmm?” Gemma said, through a mouthful of cake.

“I haven’t told Moll about losing my job yet.”

“Arthur!” she spluttered. “Why not? It’s been three months!”

“Didn’t want to worry her, she’d be frightened, about losing the house and that,” he said gruffly.

“She’s going to kill you!”

“I know,” he said miserably.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said.

The following afternoon Arthur got home earlier than usual, carefully carrying a box. Moll would be home from work soon. He’d been and bought her favourite Italian coffee. She usually only had it as a treat. He put the coffee pot on the stove and peeked inside the box, feeling excited as a little boy.

“You’re home early. Have a good day at work, did you?” said Molly, in a not-altogether-friendly tone, as she walked through the door.

“Fine, Love. I’ve just put some coffee on. Here, I got you a present.”

Molly gave him a look and unless he was very much mistaken, it bore a dangerous resemblance to the Medusa stare.

“Right, that’s it!” she shouted. “Who is she? I know all about it! Jean saw you in Tilgate Park with some floosy on a park bench. Do you think I came down with the last shower?” She swayed a little and suddenly looked pale and small.

“Sit down, Love,” said Arthur, pushing her gently in to a chair. “There’s something I should have told you weeks ago.”

“Forty years we’ve been married,” she murmured, her eyes hollow.

“Shh love,” he said, squeezing her hand. “There’s no one else, you silly Moo! I lost my job, but look,” he said, opening the box.

Molly peered in cautiously. Inside was a magnificent yellow cake with golden drizzle. It looked like a plateful of sunshine. Along the top in lemon filigree it read, “Happy Mollyday!”

“Daft Sod!” she said, with a little smile on her face.

“But Arthur, Ooooh!” she stopped, her cheeks going very pink as the cake fizzed and tingled and finally melted in syrupy softness on her tongue. She swallowed, “I mean, how can we afford, you know, now you’ve lost your job?”

“I’ve got a new job, Love. Arthur Comstock, designer and decorator of the most magical cakes in Crawley! Now, about that new kitchen. I hear green’s very trendy this year,” he said with a wink.