greeting as she hauled herself up the step, but made her way proudly past him and began with dignity to survey his shelves. It was a long time since she had taken a look at the cakes shelves and she couldn’t right away remember where they were. So, to regain her breath,she propped herself arbitrarily in front of the pet food and waited there for a while. A number of badly brought-up youngsters pushed their way past her. One of them panted fierce fumes into her ear. She moved along to take a look at the biscuits, which she knew quite well. She had already decided she would buy fancy ones; it was just a question of the price. The cakes turned out to be on a separate stand of their own at the end, right by the till. She stood there for such a long time, examining them, that Mr Patel could not resist butting in from behind her: ‘What are you looking for, dear? Can I help you?’
She couldn’t say she was eating the pictures, which was what, in her mind’s eye, she was doing: the miniature milk chocolate rolls on the purple box, which were filled inside with the fluffiest of bright white cream, or the pretty pastel fancies on lace doilys which, in cross-section, contained the softest yellow sponge. Mr Patel’s importunate question nearly rushed her into the wrong decision.
‘I’m looking for a Battenburg,’ she said smartly, that being the one cake which she was sure was
not
there.
But, to her fury, he reached one down from the highest shelf and presented it to her proudly in a long cellophane tube. It was such a long cellophane tube, as he thrust it at her, that she knew it would take her for ever to finish it off.
‘Oh, I don’t like the look of that,’ she said quickly. ‘No, I think maybe cup cakes.’
Mr Patel tossed the Battenburg lightly back to its high shelf, depriving Alicia of the pleasure of hesitating over it. ‘Cup cakes,’ he agreed. ‘Here you have every sort of cup cake.’ He beamed at Alicia so broadly that she felt positively dwarfed by his benevolence.
‘What make are they?’ she asked vaguely, not that she cared. Her eye skittered a last time up and down the shelves. Maybe she should get a bit of angel cake, so pretty with all the different coloured layers, first the pink, then the yellow and then the white. Only angel cake was such a let-down when you got it on your cake-fork. All those different coloured layers tasted disappointingly the same. The colours were just a con; they tasted of nothing much at all. But she knew she was only procrastinating. She had set her sights ona box of fancies, which she could already see laid out on her cake plate on the very same lace doily that was on the box.
At least the girl was punctual. Alicia could not have borne it if after all that build-up, she had been late. When her bicycle bowled up to the front door, Alicia was long ready, changed and made-up and waiting at the window, beside herself at what she had begun.
‘Gosh, you shouldn’t have gone to any trouble,’ was the first thing the girl said when she walked into the front room.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Alicia answered sharply. She was put out that her efforts should be so soon exposed.
‘You’ve laid everything out so prettily. Honestly, you shouldn’t have.’
Alicia glared at her. The girl had no manners. First you talked of this and that, with your eyes averted, and only when the tea table was brought to your attention did you acknowledge that you had come to tea. She thought out a reproving answer while the ill-mannered girl fumbled with her things. But the girl was scrabbling in her handbag and, to Alicia’s amazement, she produced a small gift-wrapped package. ‘I’ve brought you a little something,’ she said.
It was over eleven years since anyone had given Alicia a present. Leonard, on the last birthday that he was alive. She stood stock-still and looked at it and the mittened hand which offered it and, for a measurable amount of time,
She couldn’t say she was eating the pictures, which was what, in her mind’s eye, she was doing: the miniature milk chocolate rolls on the purple box, which were filled inside with the fluffiest of bright white cream, or the pretty pastel fancies on lace doilys which, in cross-section, contained the softest yellow sponge. Mr Patel’s importunate question nearly rushed her into the wrong decision.
‘I’m looking for a Battenburg,’ she said smartly, that being the one cake which she was sure was
not
there.
But, to her fury, he reached one down from the highest shelf and presented it to her proudly in a long cellophane tube. It was such a long cellophane tube, as he thrust it at her, that she knew it would take her for ever to finish it off.
‘Oh, I don’t like the look of that,’ she said quickly. ‘No, I think maybe cup cakes.’
Mr Patel tossed the Battenburg lightly back to its high shelf, depriving Alicia of the pleasure of hesitating over it. ‘Cup cakes,’ he agreed. ‘Here you have every sort of cup cake.’ He beamed at Alicia so broadly that she felt positively dwarfed by his benevolence.
‘What make are they?’ she asked vaguely, not that she cared. Her eye skittered a last time up and down the shelves. Maybe she should get a bit of angel cake, so pretty with all the different coloured layers, first the pink, then the yellow and then the white. Only angel cake was such a let-down when you got it on your cake-fork. All those different coloured layers tasted disappointingly the same. The colours were just a con; they tasted of nothing much at all. But she knew she was only procrastinating. She had set her sights ona box of fancies, which she could already see laid out on her cake plate on the very same lace doily that was on the box.
At least the girl was punctual. Alicia could not have borne it if after all that build-up, she had been late. When her bicycle bowled up to the front door, Alicia was long ready, changed and made-up and waiting at the window, beside herself at what she had begun.
‘Gosh, you shouldn’t have gone to any trouble,’ was the first thing the girl said when she walked into the front room.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Alicia answered sharply. She was put out that her efforts should be so soon exposed.
‘You’ve laid everything out so prettily. Honestly, you shouldn’t have.’
Alicia glared at her. The girl had no manners. First you talked of this and that, with your eyes averted, and only when the tea table was brought to your attention did you acknowledge that you had come to tea. She thought out a reproving answer while the ill-mannered girl fumbled with her things. But the girl was scrabbling in her handbag and, to Alicia’s amazement, she produced a small gift-wrapped package. ‘I’ve brought you a little something,’ she said.
It was over eleven years since anyone had given Alicia a present. Leonard, on the last birthday that he was alive. She stood stock-still and looked at it and the mittened hand which offered it and, for a measurable amount of time,
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