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Chapter 13

Friday, 27 January 1950

In my two weeks of lessons with Ursula, I’ve made—with great success—the first day’s shortbread, a brown butter cake, scones, and, on Wednesday, a marvelous sticky toffee pudding. Last night Charlie declared it almost as good as his mum’s, but I refused to award her victory until I tasted the competition. That got me an invitation to Sunday dinner with his family in a couple of weeks.

But this morning I must push that aside. Ursula says I’m ready to tackle that coconut cake again. I told her we’d best leave off it, as it was quite complicated, but she assured me that with her assistance, I will be able to see where I went wrong and steer the ship to a safe port.

It’s odd, but that cake represents more to me than a mere mixture of sugar, butter, flour, all baked and iced. It’s who I was two weeks ago, and even in such a short time, I feel I’ve changed. It’s not the hair, though I do love the shorter style, as does everyone else by all the compliments I’ve received. It’s not the bicycle giving me more confidence and energy, it’s not Charlie, it’s . . . No, it’s all those things. And I don’t want to go back.

But, of course, such nervous energy and anxiety can’t come out in a positive way. I have to bumble. I tip over the bag of sugar before we begin, lay out baking powder rather than soda for the rising agent as the recipe specifies, and upset Ursula’s teacup, splashing a fine English Breakfast all over her stone floor.

“Easy, Gemma. Easy now.”

The words come out soft and soothing, as they do in each lesson when I rush too fast. I even find myself saying them softly under my breath when I’m alone, and they always work. I calm. I slow. I can think.

Easy, Gemma. Easy now.

She clasps my wrist gently. “Apply your thinking from chess. Take each move. Think of the next, and anticipate the one beyond that. Never lose what’s in front of you.”

Reading the recipe from first to last, I see where I was leaping ahead and what mistakes I made last time. “Along with exchanging the sugar for salt, I forgot the leavening agent.”

“Good. What else do you see?”

I study the recipe again. “I didn’t understand about stiffening egg whites or folding them in. They needed to be cold too. I simply added room temperature eggs and whipped them in with a fork.” I drop the magazine onto the counter. “I didn’t get anything right. Let’s not make this today. Let’s do—”

“Stop.” Ursula smooths the magazine’s crumpled page. “Don’t forget how far you’ve come. In here? At the chessboard? You almost won last Friday’s game.”

“But I didn’t.”

She stares at me until my eyes skitter away. Pulling in another calming breath, I perch on the edge of the counter and bring my focus back to Ursula. “Have you ever been nervous in your whole life? Rushed along without thinking?”

She laughs, and again I’m struck at how well and full she does so. There is nothing polite and decorous about Ursula’s laugh. It feels like it’s for her, for her enjoyment and her relish for life, rather than for anyone else. I like that.

“A few times. But not often. And never over a cake.”

I snigger. “The cake is the least of it.”

“Yes.” Her smile turns soft, almost maternal. “It was only a cake.”

With that she taps the recipe and the baking lesson begins. It doesn’t take long for my tantrum to fall behind us as the usual tenor of our time together takes over—a slow, steady, methodical mix of instruction, storytelling, baking, washing up, then the lessons beginning all over again, but with chess as our medium as we snack upon the sweet we’ve created. All throughout, Ursula is relaxed and engaging, to the point I wonder if she’s paying attention at all. Then I make a mistake and am instantly reminded that nothing escapes her notice.

“Pour out the flour, measure, and level again. You can’t press it down unless the recipe calls for that. It changes the amount substantially. Use the flat edge of the knife and scrape it straight across. You must be exact.”

A few hours later the cake is cool, iced, and appears just as the magazine described—moist, delicate, delicious, and snowy white. It used all of Ursula’s sugar ration, as well as what was left of the Hastingses’ this month, and as we sit in her parlor enjoying a slice over our second chess game, I promise to pay her back.

“Nonsense.” She takes another bite. “This was worth it.”

I reach for the teapot to pour us each another cup to accompany our cake, and I gaze out her window to observe the lashing rain. “Mr. Hastings said I could be late today, but I can’t run to work in this.”

Ursula clucks her tongue. “He’ll understand.”

“He’s being too generous as it is. But I do give him samples of everything we bake.” I look back to her. “Why don’t you shop at his store?”

Her fork stalls halfway to her mouth, and I can tell by the flash in her eyes that she knows I’m asking a deeper question than her quick answer about the joys of her bicycle. She takes the bite and chews the very soft cake with measured precision before answering. “People talk about that, do they?”

“They notice. When I mentioned you came in with Peter that day we met, Mr. Hastings said he’d never seen you in before.”

“He’s forgotten, but the real reason is not as interesting as people think.”