said Abby.
‘
Non
. It is Rachel’s work. Rachel will tidy it.’
Lacey tapped the surface, her diamonds clinking together, her lipstick drawing into the grooves around her pursed lips. Marcel was lounging back. For a second Rachel wondered if he had tried to make her laugh on purpose. She glanced longingly at the door. She’d swap this moment for a thousand Home Ec lessons with their Hitler teacher Ms Potter breathing down her neck.
Chef was clicking his fingers for her to get a move on. Ali was writing notes and was about to say something but Abby silenced him.
‘I don’t think I can—’ Rachel started to say as she scooped up the flour she’d wasted. But as she instinctively used it to cover the board for later, she was all of a sudden reminded of her mum doing exactly the same.
Can’t waste it. Think of all the work that went into picking and grinding the little sods
.
And it was as if she were there suddenly, pulling up the stool next to her; Rachel could practically smell the Estée Lauder.
Why are you doing that? It’d be easier like this. Don’t worry too much about scales, feel how much you need—sense it. Bread should be about you. What flavour do you like?
Everyone at school has Mighty White
.
Well, let’s make Mighty White, then
. She’d laugh.
Rachel reached for the wheat grains and malt that her mum would add for sweetness and wholemeal to her starchy white bread. She glided through the motions as all the rest of them blurred into a mist beside her. She was aware Chef was talking, but she wasn’t listening. All she could hear was her mum, whispering words she’d been blocking out for years—the tone of her voice, her laugh, the touch of her hand on her shoulder, the way she’d brush her hair out ofher eyes or sigh at how slow sieving things was.
Shall we just chuck it in? Come on, no one will know
.
It had been much easier to teach little kids their alphabets, Rachel realised, than step back into a bakery.
When she went to put the bread in the drawer to prove, she looked up and was surprised to find all the faces staring at her.
‘I’ll leave it for an hour,’ she said slowly, coming out of her trance.
There was silence for a second or two, where people glanced at one another, as if they’d all been somehow bewitched by Rachel’s demonstration. Finally Chef tapped the table and said, ‘
Bon
. Everyone please to the front.’ He seemed a littler quieter than usual. Less aggressive. ‘I will make soda bread while the dough rises.’
‘Was that OK?’ Rachel whispered to Abby.
‘Well, aside from you completely ignoring his every instruction, I’d say it was bloody marvellous.’
She didn’t listen to any of the soda bread instructions, just thought about the fact that twice now she had baked bread when she had been at her lowest point—lonely or afraid—and both times it hadn’t been the horror that she had imagined. It had actually been quite comforting. Sort of like a hug.
Out of the oven Rachel’s bread was beautiful. Exactly like the fake Mighty White her mum used to make.
‘This is delicious,’ sighed George with his mouth full.
‘Very tasty,’ Lacey managed through a tight grimace.
By lunchtime everyone had had quite enough of bread and they were all going to the bar, but Rachel cried off with the excuse that she had some stuff to buy. Instead she sat in the park on her own.
She found an empty bench and brushed off the snow with her glove, then sat on an old Pret a Manger napkin she found in her bag. The air was sparkling like a shower of glitter as the snow fell through the pine trees that loomed above her, big and dark and exotic. Huge pine cones jutted from the branches, white tipped with snow like porcupines, and birds dotted from branch to branch shaking the dusty sleet from their feathers.
All Rachel could think about was bread. To begin with the memories had been beautiful. Now she just felt sad. Drained. Deflated and vulnerable, stripped of
‘
Non
. It is Rachel’s work. Rachel will tidy it.’
Lacey tapped the surface, her diamonds clinking together, her lipstick drawing into the grooves around her pursed lips. Marcel was lounging back. For a second Rachel wondered if he had tried to make her laugh on purpose. She glanced longingly at the door. She’d swap this moment for a thousand Home Ec lessons with their Hitler teacher Ms Potter breathing down her neck.
Chef was clicking his fingers for her to get a move on. Ali was writing notes and was about to say something but Abby silenced him.
‘I don’t think I can—’ Rachel started to say as she scooped up the flour she’d wasted. But as she instinctively used it to cover the board for later, she was all of a sudden reminded of her mum doing exactly the same.
Can’t waste it. Think of all the work that went into picking and grinding the little sods
.
And it was as if she were there suddenly, pulling up the stool next to her; Rachel could practically smell the Estée Lauder.
Why are you doing that? It’d be easier like this. Don’t worry too much about scales, feel how much you need—sense it. Bread should be about you. What flavour do you like?
Everyone at school has Mighty White
.
Well, let’s make Mighty White, then
. She’d laugh.
Rachel reached for the wheat grains and malt that her mum would add for sweetness and wholemeal to her starchy white bread. She glided through the motions as all the rest of them blurred into a mist beside her. She was aware Chef was talking, but she wasn’t listening. All she could hear was her mum, whispering words she’d been blocking out for years—the tone of her voice, her laugh, the touch of her hand on her shoulder, the way she’d brush her hair out ofher eyes or sigh at how slow sieving things was.
Shall we just chuck it in? Come on, no one will know
.
It had been much easier to teach little kids their alphabets, Rachel realised, than step back into a bakery.
When she went to put the bread in the drawer to prove, she looked up and was surprised to find all the faces staring at her.
‘I’ll leave it for an hour,’ she said slowly, coming out of her trance.
There was silence for a second or two, where people glanced at one another, as if they’d all been somehow bewitched by Rachel’s demonstration. Finally Chef tapped the table and said, ‘
Bon
. Everyone please to the front.’ He seemed a littler quieter than usual. Less aggressive. ‘I will make soda bread while the dough rises.’
‘Was that OK?’ Rachel whispered to Abby.
‘Well, aside from you completely ignoring his every instruction, I’d say it was bloody marvellous.’
She didn’t listen to any of the soda bread instructions, just thought about the fact that twice now she had baked bread when she had been at her lowest point—lonely or afraid—and both times it hadn’t been the horror that she had imagined. It had actually been quite comforting. Sort of like a hug.
Out of the oven Rachel’s bread was beautiful. Exactly like the fake Mighty White her mum used to make.
‘This is delicious,’ sighed George with his mouth full.
‘Very tasty,’ Lacey managed through a tight grimace.
By lunchtime everyone had had quite enough of bread and they were all going to the bar, but Rachel cried off with the excuse that she had some stuff to buy. Instead she sat in the park on her own.
She found an empty bench and brushed off the snow with her glove, then sat on an old Pret a Manger napkin she found in her bag. The air was sparkling like a shower of glitter as the snow fell through the pine trees that loomed above her, big and dark and exotic. Huge pine cones jutted from the branches, white tipped with snow like porcupines, and birds dotted from branch to branch shaking the dusty sleet from their feathers.
All Rachel could think about was bread. To begin with the memories had been beautiful. Now she just felt sad. Drained. Deflated and vulnerable, stripped of
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