Hubble Bubble (11 page)

According to Granny Westward they needed – among other more prosaic things like flour, eggs and butter – carnation petals, ebony, gentian, ginger and grapes.

‘Blimey, how much of that have you got in the larder?’

‘None,’ Mitzi said mournfully. ‘Well, there might be some ginger but I’m fresh out of carnation petals. Used the last of it in sandwiches this morning.’

‘You make a start on collecting together what you’ve got and mix up the other bits – the puddingy spongy stuff—’ Lance clutched his car keys ‘—and I’ll belt off to Herbie’s Healthfoods and see what I can find … Shan’t be long.’

And he wasn’t. Again, the ingredients weren’t exactly right, but as near as damn it. Rolling up their sleeves, the radio singing away, and aided by lots of coffee, they worked happily side by side at the table as they’d never done in all the years they’d been married. Richard and Judy sat up on top of the boiler and watched the proceedings with grave suspicion.

‘You don’t really believe in all this, do you?’ Lance asked once the first batch of puddings were in the oven and the kitchen looked like the aftermath of an explosion in a bakery. ‘That this odd concoction of herbs can actually – well –
do
things?’

‘No,’ Mitzi wiped a floury hand across her flushed cheeks. ‘Not really. I don’t believe in magic any more than you do, but I do think that maybe the odd combination of ingredients may have some sort of chemical effect on the brain. Or at least, they may have seemed to have done to a far more innocent generation than ours. Like copious amounts of alcohol or cannabis do now.’

‘Maybe – but on the other hand,’ Lance muttered, undoing the last packet of biscuits with his teeth, ‘you may be tinkering with the black arts without being aware of it. Some of the stuff in these recipes is pretty suspect – and Lu told me what happened after the Wishes Come True Pie.’

Mitzi frowned. She hoped Lulu hadn’t told Lance too much – especially what she herself had wished for.
‘Coincidence, all of it. Probably all the Powers of Persuasion Puddings will do is give Tarnia raging heart-burn. ‘

‘Then they won’t have been wasted,’ Lance laughed. ‘Right – are we ready for the next lot?’

They were just removing the first baking tray from the oven when Flo bustled in through the back door.

‘Sorry I’m late, duck, but I had to help Clyde with his demijohns. He’s got eighteen gallons of courgette and rose hip just on the turn and we’d have been awash with the bloody stuff if I hadn’t waded in and helped him and – bloody hell!’ She took in the domestic scene round the kitchen table. ‘What’s he doing here? You haven’t gone stupid and taken him back, have you?’

Having closed the oven door on the second batch, Lance pulled a face. ‘And I love you too, Flo. Clear a space and sit down.’

Laughing, Mitzi blew flour away from the kettle and reached for another mug. ‘You can test the first of our puddings – seeing as Lance has eaten all the biscuits.’

Flo still looked perplexed. ‘But you don’t cook, Mitzi. And you certainly don’t cook with
him.
And—’ she glanced at the smouldering heaps on the baking tray ‘—they aren’t puddings – they’re overdone fairy cakes.’

True, Mitzi thought, they did look more like little glossy brown cakes. She’d thought they’d emerge in golden fluffy mounds. Still, they looked reasonably edible and smelled – er – okay. But there was no way on earth she’d let Flo know they were, well,
dabbling.
Fortunately Granny Westward’s recipe book was well hidden beneath the table-top debris.

‘They’re for this afternoon – my first meeting at the village hall,’ she explained glibly, handing Flo a mug. ‘You know how bad the committee are on providing refreshments. And Lance was here and well, got roped in.’

‘Hmmm …’ Flo remained unconvinced, but bravely reached for the baking tray.

Mitzi and Lance exchanged glances.

Flo took a bite, gave a little scream and frantically fanned her mouth. ‘H-h-hot! Bloody hot!’

Mitzi screwed her eyes up and held her breath. Whether the Powers of Persuasion Puddings did their trick or not wasn’t uppermost in her mind. She’d be happy if they were simply edible. And anyway, it didn’t hurt to experiment just a little. As Flo had been the most vociferous of her friends over Lance’s infidelity and had only ever been icily polite to him for the last ten years, it was worth a try.

Watching Flo chomping manfully through the small brown cake, Mitzi silently willed her to be nice to Lance. Just a little bit pleasant. Not quite so acidic. Anything.

‘There,’ Lance said solicitously as Flo finished chewing, ‘that wasn’t too bad, was it?’

Flo swallowed, looked rather startled, then a beatific smile spread across her angular features. Her eyes crinkled and her lips twitched with mischief. ‘Not bad at all. In fact, very nice indeed. May I have another?’

‘Of course.’ Armed with the oven gloves, Lance handed her the baking tray.

‘Thank you,’ Flo twinkled, flapping a coquettish hand at his arm. ‘Wonderfully cooked and perfectly served. And by such a handsome waiter …’

My God! Mitzi clutched at the table. She’s flirting with him!

‘Er—’ she snatched the baking tray from Lance. ‘I think that’ll do – otherwise there won’t be enough left for this afternoon.’

Flo grabbed Lance’s hand, fluttering her sparse eyelashes at him. ‘Oh, go on, Lancie – just one more. Don’t be mean.’

Lance shot a terrified glance at Mitzi, who gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Any more Powers of Persuasion Pudding and Flo would probably turn into full vamp mode – it didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Sorry,’ she said firmly, ‘they need to go into the tin
now. Lance …’

With an audible sigh of relief, Lance tipped the remaining cakes into the tin.

‘What the hell is going on?’ He hissed at Mitzi. ‘What the devil did you do to her?’

‘Nothing at all …’ Mitzi muttered shakily. ‘It was the puddings wot done it … Tarnia Snepps here I come!’

Chapter Eight

POWERS OF PERSUASION PUDDINGS

A cup of wholemeal flour

Half a dozen large eggs

A slab of best butter

Chopped carnation petals

A sprinkling of dried gentian

A good handful of pulverised root ginger

Peeled and sliced grapes – black

A generous measure of brown sugar

Three large spoonfuls of black treacle

Beat eggs, flour and butter in large bowl until smooth.

Add carnations, gentian and ginger.

Beat again.

Beat in sugar and treacle.

Fold in grapes.

Pour mixture into small patty tins.

Bake in a hot oven until well risen and dark brown and steaming.

Remove each pudding on to rack to cool.

Note: To invoke full powers of persuasion, the cook of the puddings (and no one else) must silently will the eater of the puddings to do their bidding. This is strong herbal magic so do this only with the best of intentions.

It was bedlam. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Mitzi, on the stage behind a trestle table which, among its many indentations, proclaimed that Dave luvved Kirsty ‘4ever’, and something horrendously salacious about the vicar, peered into the body of Hazy Hassocks village hall with mounting trepidation.

Not only was it midnight dark owing to the granite clouds and howling gale outside, and the half a dozen 40-watt light bulbs inside, but it was also filled to capacity. True, half the people there were probably simply Hazy Hassocks residents who’d come along for a bit of a warm and a cup of tea, but even so.

The Powers of Persuasion Puddings were crammed into several Tupperware boxes behind Mitzi’s chair. She wasn’t sure she trusted them. The Wishes Come True happenings were easily explained – but Flo’s miraculous change of heart regarding Lance? Could that have any sort of rational explanation? Mitzi exhaled. They’d been nose to nose over the kitchen table, giggling like schoolchildren when she’d left.

Maybe Granny Westward’s herbal mixtures were really far more potent than any of them had realised. Maybe she should consign the recipe book to the attic where it belonged. Maybe she should – but she’d worry about that later. Right now she had other fish to fry.

‘Excuse me!’ Nervously, Mitzi cleared her throat. ‘Could I have your attention please?!’

No one took the slightest notice. The sea of heads continued chattering happily to their neighbours. Owing to the poor lighting, Mitzi was unable to distinguish the features of those sitting more than four rows back, but she could see all her library cronies: Trilby Man was sitting right in the
front with Sally and June and Mick and the rest, his hat rammed down to his eyebrows, a rather intimidating clipboard across his knees. Mitzi hoped he wouldn’t ask any awkward questions.

There were a lot of strangers: she assumed these were the people who’d answered her Baby Boomers Collective ad and to whom she’d spoken on the phone. She wondered which one was Christopher – pyrotechnics and heavy metal? And Dorothy – snooker? But surely the Lily Savage lookalike had to be Ronnie – exotic dance?

Disconcertingly, the Bandings were also sitting in the front row. They had small tinfoil parcels on their laps and Day-Glo purple cycle helmets on their heads. Mitzi avoided their eyes.

She cleared her throat and hammered on the table with her fist. ‘Excuse me! Could I have a bit of hush?!’

The babble died away. All heads turned towards the stage. Several people waved.

‘Thank you,’ Mitzi muttered. Goodness, she was nervous. Her mouth was dry and her lips had developed a sort of curling nervous twitch. She probably looked like a bad Elvis impersonator. ‘Now – um – it’s lovely to see you all, and I’m Mitzi Blessing, and as everyone knows why we’re here today, I’ll get straight to business …’

‘Actually, Mitzi, I don’t know why we’re here,’ Lavender beamed up from the front row. ‘Neither does Lobelia. We just followed Mrs Lovestick. We thought it might be a beetle drive. Like they have in the Snug of The Faery Glen on Thursdays after we’ve collected our pensions.’

‘That’s Wednesdays,’ someone said from the back. ‘Or it might be Tuesdays.’

‘No, Tuesdays is housey-housey. Thursday is bingo.’

‘Bingo is the same as housey-housey, stupid! And it
is
Tuesdays.’

‘It’d be better if housey-housey was on a Friday.’

‘Friday’s Whist Drive! Allus has been!’

‘Excuse me!’ Mitzi almost screamed above the noise. ‘Can we concentrate on the matter in hand? Thank you.’

Several people glowered. She ignored them.

‘There, you’ve just listed the things that are available in the pub – and very welcome they are – so that’s the sort of thing we want to get going here, isn’t it?’

Complete silence. Clearly not.

‘No, well, what I mean is, not the same as such …’ She stopped. Her palms were sweating. She was beginning to flounder. ‘No, we don’t want to repeat what Otto and Boris have on offer at the pub, of course. Most of you are aware of those anyway.’

Trilby Man brandished his clipboard. ‘Exactly. The stuff at The Faery Glen’s fine for the old codgers who can’t do much more than shuffle about and do a bit of eyes down and look in, but some of us wants more than that.’

‘Excuse me!’ Lobelia shot a viper look along the front row. ‘To whom are you referring as an old codger?’

‘If the cap fits …’

‘PLEASE!’ Mitzi thumped the table again, then scrabbled through her papers. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! I have drawn up a list here of who is interested in doing what, and then here, on this second list, who among you is available to teach new skills. And on this list—’ she held up a third sheet of paper ‘—I’ve done cross-referencing so that you can all get into groups and start organising yourselves into tutors and students.’

If she’d expected rapturous applause, she’d have been bitterly disappointed. Everyone simply stared.

‘That’s a bit complicated, Mitzi dear, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Lavender adjusted her cycling helmet. ‘And I can’t read anything on that bit of paper from down here.’

‘I’ve made copies for everyone,’ Mitzi was close to tears. ‘I was going to pass them along the rows – and it isn’t complicated at all. Look, as an example, for all the people who said they’d be interested in learning ballroom dancing, you’re listed here, then on the second list are
those who can dance and would be willing to teach it and – and here,’ she pointed to the third piece of paper, ‘are the names of both sets of people so you can get together. Similarly, for those keen on forming a football team—’

‘Yeah, yeah, we get the idea,’ Trilby Man interrupted. ‘Just get them bits of paper passed out and we’ll do the rest.’

Mitzi shot him a grateful glance. Maybe there was something to be said for having a bossy-boots in their midst after all.

The organised rows erupted into chaos as the sheets were passed round, chairs were abandoned, and everyone started shouting at everyone else. Mitzi watched the confusion with a sinking heart. With hindsight it would have been far more sensible to give them name badges.

‘Lavender’s putting the kettles on in the kitchen,’ Lobelia called up from the foot of the stage, ‘seeing as we don’t want to sign up for anything. We’ve brought our own sandwiches in case you forgot about food.’

Mitzi glanced down at the tinfoil package. Fish paste. She’d stake her life on it.

‘Cheese salad,’ Lobelia said. ‘A terrible expense, of course, but Shay says it’s important to have a balanced diet. And he knows because he’s medical. You should take a leaf out of his book, Mitzi dear. You look very drawn. And your complexion is quite yellow. You haven’t been hitting the bottle in your lonely moments, have you? Your liver is probably shrivelling to the size of a walnut as we speak. We understand about isolation, dear, none better. Mind you, now we’ve got young Shay, our lives have changed beyond recognition. You should get one.’

A resident paramedic? Not a bad idea.