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Yes, I admit to myself, I did get distracted and missed steps, then had to retrace them, and there were some terms I didn’t quite understand. What does “rub in” actually mean? How does one “fold” liquid? And, if I’m honest, I felt a great sense of relief when Mrs. Hastings finally stepped in with a “Let me help, dear,” and took over. Little did I know it was already too late. The salt, most likely instead of the sugar, had long before been added.

Peggy lowers herself into her desk chair. “No more baking for you, Gemma. You’re going to kill someone.”

Her tone is light and teasing, but I’m not sure she isn’t right.

Peggy laughs again. “Thank your lucky stars it wasn’t the viscountess who took that first bite.”

“Don’t even say that.”

“Seriously, either give up or let Mrs. Hastings or someone teach you. It’s not hard. I promise. But how you’re going, you’re only wasting precious sugar. Save it for your tea.”

“If it’s not hard, then I should be able to do it. I’m not daft.” I huff.

Peggy regards me and must sense I’m serious because she doesn’t tease. She points to the wall to our left. On it hangs a huge placard listing the Bake Contest winners for the past fifty years. “Go pick a teacher then. You can ask anyone who’s alive and I’ll bet they’ll say yes. They’ll be flattered.”

I step towards it and peruse the list. “Hey . . . Mrs. Beurton has won the blue ribbon the past three years. I thought you said she doesn’t socialize.”

“She doesn’t. No committees. Nothing. But, yes, she swans in and wins each year. She could teach you.” Peggy’s voice lifts, almost in challenge, with her last sentence.

I release an awkward half chuckle in reply, not out of jovial fun but out of extreme discomfort and a touch of humiliation. “I can’t ask a stranger. And not her.”

“Why not her? I said that people aren’t sure about her and she doesn’t join in, but she is quite friendly. When you run into her on the street, she always waves and says hi. And she’s an outstanding baker. Who knows? Perhaps all those rumors are born of envy.” Peggy waves her hand to the placard again. “Winning that contest makes you royalty in this village.”

“No.” I draw out the word, and it comes out more like a question than a declaration. My gaze drops to the magazine still sitting on Peggy’s desk. “Besides, isn’t that what recipes are for? They teach you. You just have to follow the steps.”

She gives me a soft, knowing smile. “Magazines do a lot and I know you love them. But they don’t actually teach. My mum taught me, though I never took to it. Never cared enough. Not like you do.” Peggy flaps a hand at the placard again. “Just ask someone, Gemma. It’s obviously something you’re interested in. Maybe ask Mrs. Hastings to walk you through a recipe or two.”

I nod, I shrug, I make so many gestures of uncertainty and insecurity even I don’t know what I’m doing. But she’s right. Teaching someone to bake is usually something a mum does. But mine didn’t. She barely noticed I was there, before I wasn’t, and when she died, as quietly and withdrawn as she lived, mere weeks after I returned to London, life hardly felt any different.

“Gemma?”

“Hmmm?” I lift my head.

“I’m sorry I laughed, and despite all that happened, thanks for the cake. It was a thoughtful gift.”

I scrunch my nose. No tears. Not now. It’s Peggy’s day. Besides, I’m not quite sure what I’d be crying about anyway—I just feel like I’m about to.

How much life has been packed in the four years between our ages, I think. I was eleven in 1939 when I was sent out of London with all the other children, and I didn’t return for six years. Six years effectively alone and cold on a Yorkshire farm with elderly minders and a herd of sheep.

Peggy, on the other hand, was fifteen that year. But living in St. Eths on the coastline, she got to stay at home. And when “the boy next door” returned on leave in 1942 and asked her to marry him, she was eighteen and old enough to say yes. And when she was twenty-two, my age now, and she got the telegram of his death, she was old enough for her heart to break.

The war stole my childhood, but it stole her future. Sure, her mum taught her to bake, but the war stole anybody to enjoy the results. Why would she want to? Whereas I suspect I’m still trying to remake my childhood—find those perfect biscuits the magazines promise and recreate the feeling of love and belonging simple sugar, flour, and butter can give.

“I’m sorry I made such a clanger of your birthday.” I shake my head at what feels like my own stupidity and my effort’s futility—they are related. “And it’s a good idea. I’ll ask someone for a little help.”

“You made today memorable.” Peggy sighs. “And good for you. That feels very hopeful.”

“It simply means I won’t kill you with whatever baking I attempt next.”

“Get on with you. You hardly killed anyone.” Peggy waves a hand to the door. “Now scoot. The vicar is expected in soon, and I’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 6

Setting off to work myself, I get as far as the village green and plop onto a bench. I can’t go to the store quite yet. I don’t want to see Mr. Hastings’s encouraging and expectant face. I don’t want to smile and lie that Peggy loved her birthday cake. Or even worse, because he’s bound to hear, as the gossip circulates, that it was served to the parish bake committee and almost did in Mrs. Sharpe.

Though that may be a slight exaggeration, it will probably be the story soon. Isn’t that what gossip does? It takes a wee morsel and rolls it into a huge, round bale. By morning the story will be that Mrs. Sharpe was carried off to hospital in an ambulance with me maniacally standing over her, rubbing my hands with glee.

“Gemma? I’ve been searching for you.”