Wish Upon a Star (6 page)

‘I can show you anything you wanted to look at on the internet anyway – and we could do with having broadband put into the cottage quickly.’

‘Could we?’ she asked vaguely. ‘I’ll leave that to you. When do you think you and Stella will be moving up here?’

‘The end of April, I should think, if all goes well. They said Ormskirk Hospital could carry on giving Stella her regular check-ups, though if there are any problems she might be referred to Alder Hey.’

‘We’ll hope there aren’t any problems then, and soon she’ll be on that plane to Boston for the operation,’ Ma said stoutly.

‘If I can raise about another twenty thousand pounds, or so.’

‘That’s a drop in the ocean, compared to the amount you’ve already raised from selling the flat. I could take out a loan against the cottage for that much, if we need to.’

‘You know I won’t let you do anything like that,’ I said firmly. ‘One of us needs to have her own home and be financially secure.’

She had a good widow’s pension from Dad, but income was falling along with everything else. Still, her paintings sold modestly well and her retro exhibition a couple of years ago had been a sell-out.

‘We’ll see how the fundraising goes, but one way or the other we’ll get Stella to America and then she’ll be as right as rain, you’ll see. After that, I expect you’ll be fretting to get back to your career full time. I know how important it is to you.’

‘Actually, none of that seems important any more,’ I confessed. ‘I mean, I love making cakes and writing about baking, but I don’t miss all the urgent deadlines for the freelance articles.’

‘Priorities change a bit when you’ve a child to consider, especially a poorly one. Nature seems to have preprogrammed we mothers to put our offspring first – or most of us. Even me,’ she added, ‘to the extent where I knew I’d be rubbish at the maternal stuff, so I made sure you always had someone motherly looking after you.’

‘Moses is going to be disgusted when Toto moves in permanently,’ I said.

We’d been out for a Boxing Day walk two years previously when we’d fished a picnic basket out of the river at the edge of the Lido field and found the black kitten inside. Toto had made it abundantly clear then that he’d thought we should just toss it back. His opinion didn’t seem to be much changed since.

‘They’ll shake down together: we all will,’ Ma said, though with more hope than conviction in her voice.

Before the staff syndicate at Gilligan’s Celebration Cakes struck lucky on the lottery, Jago Tremayne and his friend David had been happy enough working there.

Besides the traditional iced wedding cakes that Gilligan’s were most famous for, both men had developed a speciality of their own. David created tall cones of beautifully coloured macaroons, which were in high demand for all kinds of events, while Jago was an expert in making the perfect croquembouche: the fabulous French wedding cake made from an airy pyramid of patisserie-cream-filled and caramel-dipped choux pastries, a skill he’d learned during a year spent working in Paris.

The lottery win opened new possibilities, because although the winnings were not enormous once their jackpot had been shared between twelve of them, it was still enough for Jago and David to start up a new business of their own, if they wanted to.

And they certainly did. David, like his fiancée, Sarah, came from West Lancashire and they yearned to move back nearer to their families; while Jago, who no longer had a fiancée and whose parents had taken early retirement and gone to live near his brother in New Zealand, was equally desperate for a fresh new start outside London.

Jago intended setting up a specialist croquembouche wedding cake business and at first thought of moving to Cornwall (where his ancestors came from) … until David persuaded him that there was a big opening up north and he ought at least to consider the idea.

‘You’d probably do really well in one of the wealthy areas, like Knutsford or Wilmslow in Cheshire,’ he suggested.

‘Then why aren’t
you
buying a shop there?’ Jago asked drily.

But he knew the answer, for when he and his friend were searching for suitable properties on the internet, David had fallen in love with an old bakery in Ormskirk, even though he realised starting up a specialist shop in a small Lancashire market town would be quite a gamble.

Jago hadn’t yet found his ideal property. Unlike David, he didn’t want a shop; since his orders would mainly come from the internet and magazine adverts, he just needed a large kitchen/preparation area. So he offered to move up with David and help him get started, while continuing his own search and, perhaps, testing the waters with his cakes.

He suspected that business in David’s shop would be slow to pick up, but he was proved quite wrong, for when the doors of the Happy Macaroon opened for the first time, they were practically trampled to death in the stampede.

David said it was probably due to the free macaroons on offer to the first twenty customers – but then, he’d been born and raised not so far away and knew how much Lancashire folk loved a bargain.

There was also a lot of interest in the model macaroon party cones and croquembouche they put on display in the window, which looked realistic enough to make the mouth water, and the two patissiers both soon got their first orders.

But the macaroons themselves were to be David’s bread and butter, and their enticing rows of many colours proved irresistible to the local population, even though they were quite expensive. Every purchase, from a single macaroon to a dozen, went into a distinctive silver card box, a sweet treat that would probably never make it all the way home.

Certainly the many students who came into the shop tended to stand outside and eat them then and there, but David and Jago considered that a kind of free advertising.

They soon began to bake a tray of gingerbread pigs every day, too, which were more to children’s taste (and less expensive) than the macaroons that lured their parents into the shop.

In his free time, Jago stepped up the search for a place of his own: he liked working with David, but once his fiancée, Sarah, gave up her job and moved into the flat above the shop as they planned, three would
definitely
be a crowd. He was fond of them both, but when your heart had been broken, it was a little hard to be around two people as much in love as David and Sarah were …

Of course, he’d always known that his ex, Aimee, was out of his league, and he had been amazed when she’d said she would marry him. But in retrospect, Sarah (who was a hairstylist in a smart Mayfair salon and seemed to know everything about everyone) had probably been right when she’d said Aimee had only grabbed him because Daddy had just put his little princess’s nose right out of joint by getting engaged to his very young PA.

‘I mean, you’re a good-looking bloke, Jago, don’t get me wrong,’ Sarah had said kindly but bluntly, ‘but she organises events for her seriously rich friends, while you earn peanuts making cakes and only met her because you were delivering one to a party venue.’

‘We don’t have a lot in common,’ he’d agreed, ‘but she loves me and wants to settle down.’

‘Well, it’s time enough; she must be
years
older than you.’

‘Oh, no – she’s younger,’ he’d protested. ‘Only thirty-two.’

‘Is that what she told you?’ Sarah had asked pityingly. ‘In her dreams!’

But, blinded by Aimee’s beauty and charm, he’d been as mesmerised as if she’d hypnotised him … which in a way she had. In fact, she must have done, because although he was a quiet man who hated parties, he seemed to be out every night. And being introduced to her friends as a chef was embarrassing, since he was a baker, or a cake maker, or a patissier – but definitely
not
a chef.

When Aimee had run off after a man she’d secretly been having a fling with, just before the wedding, Jago’s heart and his already low self-esteem had taken a knock, but he was horrified to find there was also a tinge of relief that he wouldn’t have to live her lifestyle any more. He was exhausted, partying late and then getting up early for work.

Still, he’d loved her, and he’d certainly never run the risk of seeing her with someone else if he lived up in the north, because the Cotswolds were about the limit of civilisation as far as Aimee was concerned, unless she was organising a country house party in Scotland.

So he looked for a suitable property in Knutsford and Wilmslow, where David had first suggested, but they were very expensive … and anyway, he’d begun to fall in love with the area around Ormskirk, with its lush farmland and friendly people, and the long golden beach of Southport only a short drive away. And he wasn’t that far from his original search area. After all, croquembouches didn’t travel huge distances, perhaps four hours maximum, but that was still a good range.

A little more research showed that no one else was supplying them locally and, making his mind up, he switched his search to the villages surrounding Ormskirk.

Stella was excited by the move to Sticklepond, and Celia looked after her and Toto while I was in the final throes of the packing, so they were spared the worst.

But I was so exhausted that it took me a couple of days to bounce back, before I resumed getting up with the larks. I’m an early morning person, as you’ve probably gathered, and I enjoy baking away to the sound of the radio while everyone else is still asleep … except Toto, of course, who was usually hanging around my feet hoping for fallen scraps as soon as he’d been out into the garden.

In London my view of the sky had been limited to the small patch above the paved area, but here I could hardly wait to see the first light coming up behind the copse of trees at the back of the house, while the village below us still slept in darkness.

That morning’s skies were streaked with pink, blueberry and silver, like a very special Eton mess. I wondered if I could devise a blueberry Sticklepond mess …

But that would have to be another day, for this one was to be devoted to macaroons and I wanted to get two articles out of it – a simple recipe for
Sweet Home
, and a longer piece all about this new macaroon shop that Ma had told me about, for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page. I’d already made a start on that one.

Since moving up to rural West Lancashire I’ve heard tell of a magical macaroon shop in a nearby market town, though it seems a bit of a mythical beast to find so far from London. I’ll let you know when I have investigated further, but meanwhile, here’s my own very good macaroon recipe.

Ma had gladly relinquished the kitchen to me, since she’d rarely done more than microwave a ready meal or slap a sandwich together in there herself, and already it had taken on a new and familiar persona, being now full of my mixers, bowls, implements, cookbooks and notebooks, with a laptop area in the pine breakfast nook in the corner.

I made plain macaroons and then some chocolate ones, which were delicious, and then typed some notes into the laptop. I was trying to build up an even bigger hoard of articles than I had before Stella was born, seeing I’d be occupied with other things in autumn and winter … and I still couldn’t quite believe that we were committed to flying across the ocean for a risky operation. My fear that she would fall ill before then was almost as extreme as my fear of the operation itself – even thinking about it made me eat four macaroons straight off, one after the other.

The magazine and newspaper were fine about my filing my articles from Lancashire (or they would be, once broadband had been installed in the cottage next week), and would send a photographer round as necessary, when they couldn’t use illustrations from stock. Actually, I prefer it when they use pictures of my baking, because I get loads of despairing mail from readers saying the things they make never look perfect, like in the cookery books, but they can see that most of mine don’t look like those either. Food needs to look good enough to eat, but it doesn’t need to win a beauty competition. I hate this cult of ‘food presentation’ where someone fiddles around with the food, adding a scoop of this and a dribble of that, and mauling it about, or the magazine hires a food stylist, which is a bit like airbrushing a naturally beautiful fashion model, setting an unattainable standard because it
isn’t real
.

Not me: I’d so much rather have a chunk of crumbling apple pie with a dollop of cream, or a delicious fruit fairy cake with slightly singed edges.

It’s probably just as well for my figure that I now have someone else to help me eat all my baking, though not so good for Ma’s. Not that Ma
cares
about her figure: she says she was born to be a dumpling and why fight nature?

Stella wandered into the kitchen in her pyjamas just as I was arranging a pyramid of chocolate macaroons on a plate, her silken hair in a tangle and dragging Bun, the large plush rabbit that Ma had bought her when she was born, by one ear. She looked at the cakes and removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to say, sleepily, ‘Awesome.’

‘I think I’ve been letting you watch too much TV while I’ve been unpacking and sorting out,’ I said ruefully.

Stella seemed no worse for the move now we’d settled in. We went to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool later in the week, where she was checked over thoroughly, though she was to be monitored regularly by Ormskirk Hospital, which was nearer, and only referred back in future for any problems … which I sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.

The vicar, Raffy Sinclair, came to call one afternoon – he often visited Ma, but this time he came specially to see me.

I’d never met him to speak to before, though I’d seen him about sometimes. He was a tall, handsome man, an ex-rock star who moved to the village a couple of years ago and married Chloe Lyon. When I went to her chocolate shop to buy the chocolate angel lolly for Stella’s Christmas stocking she’d said they had a little girl too, called Grace, though I think she is much younger than Stella. (And that big chocolate angel she gave me before Christmas had a most inspiring message inside, telling me not to fear the future. As I ate the delicious chocolate, I felt I was ingesting hope with it.)