Sunday 24 June 2012

Sponge and jam and cream


He had weighed the flour eight times. 225 grams exactly. It was. It definitely was. The butter was harder. He had to add more and then more and then take some of it away again. It had started to melt by the time he got the scales to say 225 grams and he wasn’t sure if that would make a difference. You have to melt it anyway so it should be fine he told himself. He felt his left eyelid flicker. It would perfect. Sponge and jam and cream. It would be perfect. 
He had made the jam himself three weeks ago. Despite wearing rubber gloves, he had a few scratches on his arms to prove he had picked the blackberries himself. He had meticulously selected the very best of them. Any slightly crushed, any with a hint of underripe pink were left for the blackbirds. They had gorged. It had taken all day to get enough berries. All evening he had made jam. It was set now. He used plenty of sugar and some extra pectin. It was definitely set. He had tested some on his morning toast. His nerves made it hard to swallow it and then his stomach needed convincing to keep it down. It was perfect though. It tasted perfect. He had tested some from a small extra jar. Not the jar for the cake. That couldn’t be opened yet. No, not until the sponge was done. It has to be perfect.
Crouching in front of the oven, his knees touching his chin and ached. He watched it rise. The light behind the glass door hurt his eyes after the first fifteen minutes. When he closed his eyes, the oven door was still there, screaming white. 
‘If it’s not done well, why do it?’ he muttered to himself in her voice. ‘What’s the point if you won’t even try.’
He noticed he was crying. He stopped.
The alarm spoke up. His arm whipped out and turned off the oven. He almost tripped over his feet as he stood up to get fish shaped oven gloves she had bought him. If she hadn’t, he would have thought they were hideous. 
Gently lifting the cake onto the counter, his arms trembled grateful of the warmth. He closed his eyes, again the bright white oven greeted him. Three breaths. Three deep, slow breaths. Opening his eyes again he delicately pushed the cake up and out of the tin, removed it entirely and left it on the rack to cool. His lips twitched up into a smile. His own version of a smile. If anyone had been there to see it, they would have thought he was in pain. Happy for once he stepped back from the sponge, nodding. It was perfect. Perfect. He lent against the cold tile wall opposite his perfect sponge and stared. He watched it cool. He was happy until he remembered what came next. 
The clock told him she would be there sooner than he’d like. He shuddered as he lifted the knife. ‘Now or never.’ His voice sounded like a child in the shadow of a giant.
He cut the sponge in half. His arm ached with fear but he did it. It was… it was perfect. It was straight. Straighter than any of his practice runs. ‘Perfect, yes.’ 
The cream and the jam were knifed on generously on the bottom half, the top was balanced and centred. He lifted the whole thing with a cake slice and a great deal of care onto her favourite plate. The one with the peacock full of colours. She’d like that. 
He washed his hand three times, his face twice. He combed his hair and put on the cleanest of his clean white shirts. Her favourite tie. He almost laughed when he heard the doorbell ring. The almost-laugh made him choke. 
He opened the front door for his mother and her sister.
‘There he is, my odd little boy,’ his mother said pushing him out of her way and into his house. ‘No hello for you mother? Typical. Never had any manners.’
‘Oh I know, I remember well enough,’ her sister replied.
His voice, like a small bird, hid in his throat. He couldn’t call it out. He tried his best to smile and ignore how much his knees still hurt.
‘Well then? Make some tea, boy. I though perhaps you’d have it made already but that would be too much to ask, of course. Your poor mother has had a long day, isn’t that right Mary? I can’t even expect my boy to have a cup of tea ready for me.’
‘Oh, Alice, I know, I know and the day you’ve had. These young ones don’t know what suffering is. Feckless, selfish boys don’t know what their mothers go through.’
He boiled the kettle and scooped tea leaves into the pot. One for each of them. One for luck. He filled the pot with water, the steam filling his eyes. He was grateful for the warmth. Their words kept on moving and he let them wash over him in the hopes they wouldn’t sting. Bone china tea cups and saucers with rose petal patterns. One for each of them. Milk in the cup first or his mother wouldn’t drink it. He remembered. He always did. When he poured for his aunt his arm slipped and he smashed the cup. He flinched at the sound. He flinched to see the broken shards. His aunt smacked him on the head. 
‘Clean it up, you clumsy lug. Sometimes, Alice, I wonder how he can be yours at all. You were always so graceful.’
This was an exaggeration.
‘I’ve thought much the same, he always was breaking things, careless and cruel that way.’
This was a lie.
‘He broke that vase you gave me for a wedding present remember?’
He had not. 
‘Oh, I remember. I’ve not forgiven him that yet and all. That was a fine vase.’
He swept the pieces of broken cup up watching the shape edges. He did not cut himself. He poured tea into his cup and gave it to his aunt. He retrieved an old chipped mug for himself feeling unworthy of another good cup. No one commented. Staring into his tea he waited for a gap, some little pause in the conversation and some courage. They mentioned their brother. There was always a pause for him.
‘…And the girl was Vietnamese if you believe it.’
‘But why would-‘
‘Better not to ask.’
The silence would remain for a minute or two while they sipped their tea and looked at each other and then the room. Then they would tell him what was wrong with his house. That was the usual way. This time he spoke. He still stared into his cup.
‘I made a cake. If you’d like some?’
He thought they would be surprised. They weren’t.
‘Fetch it in then. Should have told us before you made the tea.’
He did not meet his mother’s eyes but he assumed rightly that she was frowning.
He fetched the cake, small plates to serve it on and a knife to cut it. He had bought them specially. 
‘I love a nice bit of jam and cream, this should be lovely after the day I’ve had.’
‘After the day you’ve had you deserve it.’
‘Not a big slice for either of us, we must watch our weight, as ever.’
He ignored that as he knew he was supposed to. Both slices were generous. He handed one to his aunt first. Then his mother. He could not eat any himself. The tea was disagreeing with him enough. He watched his mother bite into the sponge and jam and cream. He watched her chew. He felt indecent and forced his eyes back to the remaining cake. The peacock’s head peeked out, sticky with blackberry.
‘Mmm, I love a bit of jam and cream,’ his mother repeated, her mouth full.
‘It’s a good cake,’ his aunt said. He felt his left eyelid flicker.
‘Not great but good.’ She licked jam from her lips. There were crumbs on his floor.
‘The problem with it,’ his mother told her sister, ‘no love in it.’

3 comments:

  1. Wow, that poor bastard. Great story though, I really felt the tension.

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  2. it's brilliant! I love how we've all written about tortured men, we could probably learn something from that :)I felt his pain though, a sign of good writing!

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  3. I think we all needed to balance out the male monsters from last time.

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