Meet Me at the Cupcake Café (27 page)

‘Throw all the cushions you like,’ said Helena. ‘I already like him nine thousand per cent more than Graeme.’

As usual, at the mention of Graeme’s name Issy went a little quiet.

‘Oh, come on, Iss, I’m only teasing. Don’t be so sensitive.’

‘I know, I know. Anyway, Austin came in to get those rental papers signed. And to give me a telling-off for slacking, you could see it on his face when he walked in the door.’

‘On a Saturday?’

‘He’s local. He lives round here. Knows the area inside out.’

‘That’s because he’s so clever and wonderful. Smooch smooch smooch.’

‘Shut up!’ Issy hurled her pillow direct at Helena’s head. ‘And I need an early night. I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow.’

‘Is it smooching?’

‘Goodnight, Helena. You need a hobby.’

‘You’re it!’

The Sunday train was absolutely packed with weekend travellers; lots of men coming back from the match yesterday, loudly spilling cans of beer and hollering at their friends across the aisles. Issy found a quiet corner seat with her book and half gazed at her tired-looking reflection in the window, thinking back over her visit to Grampa Joe.

‘Well, you didn’t half perk him up with that party,’ Keavie had said when she arrived. ‘He’s been tired since though. And maybe a little … distracted.’

‘It’s starting again, isn’t it?’ Issy had said, stricken. ‘It’s taking hold.’

Keavie looked pained, and touched Issy briefly on the arm.

‘You know … I mean, this is why he’s here, you know that,’ she said.

Issy nodded. ‘I know. I know. It’s just … he’s seemed so well.’

‘Yes, well, often just the security of being looked after can help people for a few months.’

Issy looked down. ‘But not for ever.’

Keavie looked sad too. ‘Issy …’

‘I know, I know. It’s incurable. It’s progressive.’

‘He has his moments,’ said Keavie. ‘He’s had a good few days actually, you might be lucky. And he always likes it when you visit.’

Issy rearranged her face by an effort of will, for the second time in as many days, and marched into the room.

‘Hello, Gramps!’ she said loudly. Joe half opened his eyes.

‘Catherine!’ he said. ‘Margaret! Carmen! Issy!’

‘Issy,’ said Issy gratefully, wondering briefly who Carmen was. She gave him a hug, felt the whiskery skin that seemed to droop off his bones even more every time she came. ‘How are you doing, Gramps? Been outside much? They feeding you all right?’

Joe waved his hands.

‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘No. Not that.’

He leaned forward as far as he could towards Issy. The effort made his chest rattle.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, slowly. ‘Sometimes I don’t always get things right these days, my Issy.’

‘I know, Grampa,’ said Issy, clasping his hand. ‘Nobody does really.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But it’s not that …’

He seemed to lose his train of thought and stared out of the window. Then he came back to himself.

‘I … I was thinking, Issy, but sometimes I get things wrong, sometimes I just dream things …’

‘Go on.’

‘Have you … has my little Issy got a bakery?’

He said bakery like he might have said Kingdom of Gold.

‘Yes, Grampa! You’ve seen it, remember? You came to a party there.’

Joe shook his head.

‘The nurses read those letters out to me every morning,’ he said, ‘but I never remember a thing.’

‘I do have a bakery,’ said Issy. ‘Yes. Well, more a patisserie really. Cakes and things. I don’t make bread.’

‘Making bread is a fine profession too,’ said Joe.

‘I know. I know it is. This is more like a café.’

Issy noticed her gramps’s eyes go watery. This wasn’t ideal, it didn’t do to get him too emotional.

‘My little Issy. A baker!’

‘I know! Well, you taught me everything I know.’

The old man clasped her hand hard.

‘And is it doing well? Is it making a living?’

‘Hmm,’ said Issy. ‘Well, it’s early days. I’m finding it … well, I’m finding it all a little tricky, to be honest.’

‘That’s because you’re a businesswoman now, Issy. It’s all on your shoulders … Do you have children?’

‘No, Gramps. Not yet,’ said Issy, a little sadly. ‘No. I don’t have any children.’

‘Oh. So you only have to provide for yourself. Well, that’s good.’

‘Hmm,’ said Issy. ‘But you know, I still have to get people through the door.’

‘Well, that’s easy,’ said Joe. ‘People just have to smell a bakery and they’re there.’

‘That’s the problem,’ mused Issy. ‘They can’t smell us. We’re too far away, tucked away.’

‘That is a problem,’ said Joe. ‘Well, are you taking your products to the people? Getting out on the street? Showing people what you have?’

‘Not really,’ said Issy. ‘Mostly I’m busy in the kitchen. It would feel a bit … desperate, don’t you think, to shove food at people in the street? I’m sure I wouldn’t take anything people offered me in the street.’

Joe’s face grew perturbed.

‘Have you learned nothing from me?’ he said. ‘It’s not all cream horns and French cakes, you know.’

‘I thought if the cakes were big enough …’

‘When I started in Manchester, it were 1938. Right before the war. Everyone terrified and not a spare penny in their pockets for fancy cakes.’

Issy had heard this story before but was always happy to hear it again. She settled back in her chair, like she was a little girl and Gramps was tucking her up in bed rather than vice versa.

‘And my father had died in the first war, and the bakeries in those days, they were fierce places. Black bread and mice droppings and who knew what, as long as you could get what you were after for a farthing, and feed your mites. People didn’t care. There weren’t no market for fancy cakes in that part of the world, no. But I started young, and there weren’t no one hungrier than me. I were up at four, sweeping floors, sifting flour, kneading; kneading? I had biceps like a boxer’s, no joke, my Isabel. People used to remark on it. The ladies especially.’

Joe looked like he was about to fall asleep, so Issy leaned closer.

‘Course there was one good thing about working there, with the early starts and the big bags of flour … when it was that cold in the winter. And I mean proper cold.’ Joe looked around. ‘It’s never cold in here. They always stuff you up with scarves and dressing gowns till you think you’re going to pop like a sausage.

‘But on those cold mornings, when you came in – and the ovens never went out, you know, they ran all night so the bread was always fresh, aye. So you’d wake up and man, my ma’s house – your great-grandma Mabel – oh, it was absolutely cold. Ice on the blankets, ice on the windows. You couldn’t dry a thing in the winter time, so you just kept it on. I’d build the fire up in the morning and I wouldn’t be able to light the kindling without trembling. We had some harsh winters then. But you stepped into that bakery and suddenly you could feel the warmth in your bones; feel it through your wet clothes and your damp wool and your chapped hands. The kiddies used to come in, Isabel, and you could see it in their faces; they loved the warm and the smell of it. There were real poor folks then, Issy, not like now when they’ve all got flatscreen TVs.’

Issy let this pass and patted his hand.

‘Kind of like the pub is for me, I think,’ said Joe. ‘Warm and friendly and something to sup. That’s how you’ve got to be. Welcoming like.’ He leaned forward.

‘And if a woman had a babbie at home she could barely feed, or someone was a bit short of a coupon, or there were just too many mouths to feed – those Flahertys, I remember, they had a babbie a year and Patrick never could hold down a job. Well then, you’d slip them a bit extra. A loaf that didn’t turn out true, or a few buns a couple of days old. And word would get around. And sure, some folks turn up to see if they’ll be getting something for nothing. But some folks just turn up because you do right by them. And I tell you, every single Flaherty child – and there were gone thirteen of them, you had to stop counting about then. Well, every single Flaherty child, and their children when they all grew up and got jobs, and then their children came along and went to college and everything, and every single one of them got their bread from Randall’s for their whole lives. I could have run that bakery off of Flahertys alone. And that’s how it is in business. Some’ll rob you blind, some’ll kick you when you’re down, but you spread some good feeling and some warmth about and people like that. Aye.’

Joe sat back, looking tired out.

‘Gramps,’ said Isabel, leaning over and kissing him square on the nose. ‘You’re brilliant.’

The old man looked up with watery eyes.

‘What is it now? Who are you? Is that you, Marian?’

‘No, Gramps. It’s me. It’s Isabel.’

‘Isabel? My wee lass Isabel?’

He peered closer.

‘What are you doing these days, my sweet?’

Chapter Eleven

A little taste of sunshine to take out into the world:

Strawberry Meringue Cupcakes

For 24 cupcakes

250g unsalted butter, at room temperature

250g caster sugar

4 eggs

250g self-raising flour

4 tbsp milk (whole or semi-skimmed, not skimmed)

6–8 tsp strawberry jam

For the Swiss meringue buttercream

8 egg whites

500g caster sugar

500g unsalted butter

4 tsp vanilla extract

8 tbsp seedless strawberry jam

Preheat the oven to 190°C/fan oven 170°C/gas mark 5.

Beat together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the eggs, flour and milk and beat until well combined and smooth. Spoon the mixture evenly into the 24 paper cases.

Spoon a little jam on to each cake and, using a cocktail stick, swirl the jam into the batter.

Bake for 15 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.

To make Swiss meringue buttercream

Place the egg whites and sugar in a bowl over a pan of simmering water. Stir pretty much constantly to prevent the egg from cooking. After five–ten minutes, when the sugar has dissolved, remove the bowl from the pan of simmering water and whisk until the meringue has puffed up and the mix is cool.

Add the butter and vanilla to the meringue and whisk until the butter has been completely incorporated into it. At first it will look a disaster – it will collapse and look curdled but don’t worry! Stop when the mixture is smooth, light and fluffy.

Beat the jam into the buttercream. If you want it pinker, add a little food colouring. Spoon the buttercream into a piping bag and swirl on to each cupcake. Finish off with some sugar sprinkles or decorations.

Quarter the cakes and put the pieces into tiny cases with cocktail sticks poking out. Attempt to get passers-by to try them and be knocked out by your genius so they then come and spend lots of money at your shop and save you from bankruptcy.