When you realise, it's too late

It’s only flour and water. Essentially. And a bit of yeast thrown in. Outrageously simple, really. So why have I avoided it for so long? I can throw together cookies, churn out weighty chunks of brownie, whip up a victoria sponge like it’s nothing. Twenty years of baking. But never bread.

*** 

A shape shuffles steadily behind the frosted glass in response to my knock. Grandad opens the door and I’m welcomed instantly by a dense, cosy warmth. A familiar scent curls into my nostrils, though I don’t yet understand the meaning of nostalgia. Our cheeks press together, his rosy and whiskery, and starkly contrasting against my own pale youthful complexion. We shut out the briskness of winter and I slip off my school shoes, darting nimbly into the sitting room. My tights will collect every rogue crumb scattered across the old patterned carpet unless I’m quick, and slight. 

“Helloo!” Grandma coos, chirpy at our arrival. 

I pause to embrace her, balancing on one foot with toes curled up. Quickly pecking her soft, powdery cheeks, I pull away and spring gracefully onto a nearby armchair. My stomach rumbles, as if on cue. 

“Buttered toast?” she asks, already exiting the room. 

“Yes please” I squeak politely after her. 

I look at Mummy with an innocent smile.

“We’re having dinner soon. You won’t want it!” she hisses.

I respect my mother too much to retort, to point out that we still need to spend time here, drive home, wait for Daddy to get back from work, then make dinner. 

“Yea I will” I mutter, picking at a loose thread on my jumper sleeve.

It’s the same conversation every single Tuesday. 

Grandma and Grandad shuffle into the room, one behind the other. She hands me the little plate and I greedily eye the single, small slice of golden toast. Real butter, two layers. They plonk themselves down in their assigned armchairs and ask me about school. I murmur a response, faking enthusiasm. I devour every bit, licking the trail of melted butter from my fingers and dabbing the plate for errant crumbs. 

I look expectantly at the three adults in the room, a hopeful grin plastered on my face. 

“That was soo yummy, thank you!” 

Pause for response. 

“Would you like some more?” Grandma asks, already slapping her hands on the arms of the chair in preparation for a second trip. 

“No! She’s fine.” Mummy snaps, a hint of annoyance in her tone. “We’re having dinner in twenty minutes.”

“She looks hungry. Back in a minute.” Grandma quickly disappears, leaving Mummy scowling at her mother-in-law's back. 

“You won’t want your dinner” she says again, eyes blazing into mine. 

Grandad strokes his chin, sleepy eyes gazing toward the muted television screen. He’s still in his old striped navy apron and battered brown shoes which both host a large smattering of flour and gunk.  

Moments later, a second round of heaven appears. Halfway through, I feel a familiar combination of fullness and guilt. Mummy raises an eyebrow. She knows everything. I swallow it all down, not once considering sharing it with her or my little brother. 

Inane chit-chat fails to hold the interest of my ten-year-old brain, and I’m getting fidgety. There’s nothing to play with and I want to change out of this uniform. Dusk has fallen behind the net curtains, and I feel a sense that my remaining playtime this evening is ebbing away. 

I wiggle my eyebrows at Mummy in an attempt to drop hints. She ignores them. I pad out to the kitchen to get a drink of water and survey the flour-covered surfaces. I tread cautiously toward the sink, tip-toeing over the linoleum. There’s a gentle heat emanating from the oven. Of all the Tuesday’s, in all the years, I never once noticed just how fresh the bread was that I’d just consumed. 

*** 

I open my lunchbox and sigh inwardly. My sandwich is small. And boring. It’s the fourth time this week I’ve had ‘Grandad bread’ instead of ‘normal bread’, and I’m acutely aware that my sandwich looks slightly different to everyone else's. I’m aware of everything that makes me feel different to everyone else. I opt for ready-salted crisps most days, so it’s near-impossible for people to comment. I chew on my ham sandwich for a moment, then clock my crush in my peripheral. He looks right through me. I don’t even exist in his eyes, yet he’s my whole universe. The pressure to have kissed a boy is mounting daily as my fifteenth birthday fast-approaches. Anxiety knots in my gut and I place the half-nibbled sandwich down. I manage to stomach a chocolate bar and the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch. I can’t leave the sandwich in my lunchbox - it’ll spark questioning from the parents. I throw it in a nearby bin, ignoring a sharp slice of guilt when I think of Grandad and his apron.

*** 

I scowl as my manicured nails fumble awkwardly amongst the boxes of frozen fish and icecreams. I squint in the dim light of the garage, eyes hazy from alcopops. I hear the clatter of a baking tray from the kitchen and huff in annoyance at the bottomless pit of packets in the freezer. Numb fingers toss loaves upon loaves of Grandad bread to one side as I search for the party food. Shrieks of laughter erupt from the house and I’m utterly seething that I, the hostess, is missing her own goddamn party. I snatch up a packet of sausage rolls and slam the lid shut, plunging the garage into darkness. I flounce from the room, leaving a wholemeal and a granary on a nearby bucket to accidentally defrost.

*** 

“Grandad’s stopping Grandad bread” Mum says matter-of-factly down the phone to me. 

“Uh huh” I reply, angrily kicking my boyfriend’s dirty clothes across the floor of the flat. 

“He’s done with the early morning’s I think. Always thought it was mad, getting up at 5am! What for? Stupidly early!” 

“ARGH” I cry out loud. My foot had made contact with a bedpost. 

“Oh well, bread’s cheap now anyway.” She fills me in with other bits of family news and hangs up. 

***

“I’m actually a dab-hand at baking” I smirk at the interviewer. “I love testing out new recipes. Of course, I’ll bring my creations into the office quite frequently!”

It works every time - that little hint of a sugary treat to brighten up a dreary morning is usually enough to tip the scales in my favour and land me a new job. I’ll usually start with the brownies - risk-free and always a winner, providing I give the middle bits to the bosses and the edge pieces to the colleagues I couldn’t care less about. Then I’ll pop a casually-excellent victoria sponge in the office kitchen - nothing too braggy. I won’t even shout about it until someone asks who brought it in. Cookies are weirdly a gamble - they look homemade, and I don’t like that. I’ll take the compliments politely, then throw in a comment about my ‘baking heritage’ just to pique interest. 

***

Grandma died on Thursday 9th October 2012. It’s the first death I’ve known in my family, but I already feel like I need to be the strong one. I see the shuffling figure behind the glass, then Grandad opens the door. His cheeks are still rosy, but wet with tears. He manages a weak smile as we embrace him in a group hug. They’ve always come as a pair. Grandma and Grandad. At Grandma and Grandad’s house. It already all feels wrong and weird, seeing the empty armchair. The bungalow seems grey and bleak. 

Grandad starts staying up late and getting up later. He blasts his favourite music into the night and grows a thick mustache. 

“No one to tell me what to do” he mutters, when I comment on it.

We take him out for family meals and he orders beer and red wine, just because. There’s an air of freedom about him, and I marvel at his strength. 

***

I weave through traffic, tail lights glowing amid the spitting winter rain and 5 pm darkness. I tuck into the gravel car park by the overgrown river’s edge and make my way into the grim, square building. There’s a sickly smell of warm vegetables and hospital gowns clinging to the stairwell and I pick my way along the corridor. I glance into each room as I pass, quickly dropping my head in embarrassment when I see someone lying against their pillow. I’m intruding, just by looking. It’s their personal space but the door is always open for their safety. Never alone, yet appallingly lonely. In the maze of yellow hallways I manage to find the tiny sitting room. The TV is too loud and a small man sits barely one metre away, struggling to hear it. Grandad is slumped on a solid-looking seat in the corner, a newspaper slipping slowly off of his lap as he dozes. He looks uncomfortable, his shoulder bandaged and arm tucked tightly in a sling. 

We chat for 20 minutes and I mostly ask him questions about World War Two. I manage to find out the odd little nugget of pure gold every couple of weeks, a completely brilliant fact about something he did whilst fighting the nazis. He’s usually clearly crestfallen when I stand up to leave. I feel guilty, despite the fact that I’ve not seen him this frequently since I was a kid. As soon as he’s back in his bungalow after months of rehabilitation following his fall, I notice that the guilt doesn’t punch hard enough to make me keep visiting. 

***

I pull into the little car park next to the vineyard then wander up to the entrance. I punch in the code, then sign the visitors book in the hall. I smile when I see Aunty Caroline’s name, feeling proud that our family is present and supportive. I suppress the twinge in my heart that rears up to remind me that I’ve not visited in months. His new home is lovely. No care home smell! I walk through reception and turn the corner. There, in the big, cosy living room at the end of the corridor, he’s sat. His face lights up when he recognises me and a lump clogs my throat. I perch lightly on the arm of his chair and loudly project my usual questions about food and sleep and nurses, making sure to smile and nod lots. 

Every time I turn that corner, he looks much, much older. December arrives and my brother and I perch on the arm of the chair, taking it in turns to snap photos with Grandad. He nods at our gifts of beer and red wine, and we leave. I consider the cruelty of old age; how every Christmas day is filled with family for the entirety of your life and then suddenly it’s spent with nurses and strangers when you become too much for your loved ones to handle. 

***

Baking, baking, and lots more baking. It’s therapeutic, and there’s not a lot else to do during a global pandemic. I perfect a carrot cake cupcake recipe and deliver tins of goodies to friends. I miss my parents and the gym. I’m in turmoil over a seemingly endless stretch of unemployment. I postpone my wedding. I’m so completely and utterly wrapped up in my own life that visiting Grandad hasn’t even crossed my mind. Then, on a sunny Friday afternoon, Aunty Caroline rings Dad. 

***

I beg to be granted access in her place. Dad visits Friday, and she’d visit Saturday. Except she thinks she’s been exposed to the virus and needs to await test results. Eventually, the home obliges. The gown, gloves and mask stick to every inch of me in the sweltering heat as I walk into his room. He looks nearly unrecognisable; skin a placid beige and mouth sunken without a set of false teeth to hold it rigid. There’s the tiniest hint of pink to his cheeks, like they are trying to remember how they used to be. His eyelids flutter, almost in-time to his rapid breaths. I talk. I tell him everything I want, how he’s so loved and how it’s fine for him to rest now. A low hum emanates from the fan as it chunters from side to side, and any other noise seems too much. After forty-five minutes, I leave him in peace after kissing him on his shoulder. 

I wake up the next morning to three missed calls from Dad.

***

It’s only flour and water. Essentially. And a bit of yeast thrown in. I take a deep breath and set to work. It’s hours of effort, and the five-minute kneading sessions are knackering. I put my creation into the oven and flop onto the sofa. Several minutes later, something flickers in my brain. The smell. It’s Grandma and Grandad’s house… and I’ve strangely never once considered that the smell of their home was, quite obviously, the scent of freshly baked bread.

I felt a swell of pride when I tapped the bottom of my white cob loaf and heard a satisfying hollow sound. I could’ve cooked it a little longer and seasoned it a bit more, but it wasn’t bad. I demolished the whole thing with lashings of butter, then sat back to consider the effort versus reward. I can’t believe he got up at 5am every week to bake loaves, for years. This was in his retirement. After an entire career as a baker. The family bakery stood for decades in Suffolk, East England. He ran it after his father passed it to him, after his father passed it to him, only closing it when Hovis began monopolising the bread game. 

Every loaf he gave us was made with love and a passion for the craft. I kneaded for five minutes, and he did it for the majority of his life. 

I did pause after swallowing the first slice of my loaf. I had only one thought; why didn’t I do this sooner - and share it with him? Now it’s too late.