‘Good luck with that.’ Lija gives me a black look.
My assistant’s usual colour of choice is black – both for withering stares and for clothing. Today is no different: she’s wearing black jeans with a skin-tight black T-shirt and she has her poker-straight black hair yanked back in a ponytail. Only her skin is as white as the driven snow.
Lija seldom wears a scrap of make-up, but she doesn’t need it as she’s stunningly beautiful without it, despite a slightly vampiric look. Her fringe hangs like a curtain skimming her big blue eyes, and sometimes I wonder how she actually sees through it. She eats cake morning, noon and night and has the skinniest, most sharply angled body I’ve ever seen. I’m most envious of her tiny frame. She has no breasts, no bottom, no hips, no thighs, no cellulite to contend with. Despite being up and down stairs all day looking after my mother, I run towards curves and only have to look at a cake to form another one.
The other thing I like about Lija is that she’s as reliable as the town-hall clock. She lives in the city, not far from our village, and cycles to work along the towpath come rain, hail or snow. Lija has a room in a rented house that she shares with three other Latvian girls. Collectively, they drink like fish and party all night, but she’s never once been late in the two years or more that she’s worked for me. On the rare occasions that she takes a day off, one of her friends always steps up to the plate to stand in for her, so I never have to worry about cover. The other girls are all similarly black and spiky, but slightly less abrasive than Lija.
I boil the kettle again. ‘Mum’s tea’s gone cold,’ I say. ‘Do you want one?’
She nods. ‘I will take the tea to Old Bag. She won’t bangbangbang on ceiling all day if she thinks it will be me.’
That’s another thing in Lija’s favour. Despite her grumbles, she really doesn’t mind helping out with my mother either. I’m not saying that she’s a rival for Florence Nightingale or anything. Far from it: Dr Crippen was probably more charming than Lija. Her bedside manner is somewhat unconventional but she’s right, my mother is suddenly a lot less trouble when Lija is looking after her. Lija stands no messing from Miranda. Which is fine by me.
While Lija stomps upstairs with Mum’s tea, I fill the bucket with hot, soapy water and find two scrubbing brushes. I slip on my comfy old cardigan, pop the brushes into my pockets and go out into the garden.
This is a large house, strong and sturdy. It was built of serviceable red brick in the 1920s and is hugely proportioned compared to today’s modern boxes. We’re lucky to have a kitchen big enough to convert into a working one.
We keep Fay’s Cakes open during the winter months, but business pretty much only limps along. We still continue to sell cakes from the Maid of Merryweather and direct from the kitchen, but it’s only when we have a bright and sunny weekend that we see a steady stream of customers. We have a few tables in the spacious dining room, which is done up prettily with pink gingham cloths and bunting, that I made myself, draped around the picture rails. It’s a comfortable space that meets the current trend for retro chic, but only because most of the things have actually been here since they were first in fashion. My mother’s collection of pink glassware is definitely enjoying a new lease of life.
The back of the house has a pretty ironwork veranda which runs the full length of it. Now it’s covered in wisteria, whose blooms will soon be hanging heavily like clusters of grapes. Later in the summer a purple clematis takes over. It’s a lovely, sheltered spot and we have a few tables out here too.
I have to say that the main attraction of the cake shop, apart from Lija’s cakes, is the stunning garden. It’s a generous plot by any standards. Broad and long, it sweeps right down to the edge of the Grand Union Canal.
It’s bounded on both sides by tall, red-brick walls which screen it from our immediate neighbour. We don’t get a lot of passing trade here as Canal House is situated at the very end of an unmade lane and is generally only discovered by those who are determined to find it. Not exactly the ideal place for a cake shop-cum-café, but then needs must. If I were to try to find premises like this elsewhere, it would cost me a small fortune. A small fortune that I don’t have.
As I look down the garden towards the canal, there’s a modest orchard of gnarled apple trees. This is protected by the high wall behind it, which is currently smothered with pink clematis that will, later in the season, be followed by climbing roses. On the right, just beyond the veranda, there’s an old magnolia which is quite magnificent if the early frost doesn’t get it. The wall is hugged by a variety of flowering shrubs, all of which are in desperate need of pruning now.
We’ve had a terrible year, so far, for weather. This is England. It’s been unseasonably cold and has done nothing but rain since January. The garden has certainly suffered for it. Though today is dry, the heads of the shrubs are mostly bowed, sodden and heavy with moisture. Further towards the canal, the beautiful cherry trees with their delicate pink blossom have taken a battering from the wind and rain of the last week. But it’s still an idyllic spot.
Before Mum took to her bed, she used to love the garden – though all the hard work was down to my dad. He was the one who made the garden so pretty. This was, once upon a time, a humbly priced family home – until several property booms took it to the realms of astronomical. I feel so fortunate that my parents were able to buy it when they were first married, as I wouldn’t have a hope of living somewhere like this otherwise. And I love it here. Truly I do. This is my family home and is filled with my memories. Call me unadventurous, but this is my own little slice of paradise and I’d never want to live anywhere else.
There’s no denying that I could do with an extra pair of hands to help me maintain it though. It’s an overwhelming amount of work for one person. The high winds we had back in February have brought down several big branches and there are mounds of leaves a foot deep against the boundary walls. Thankfully, the cherry blossoms have survived. If I’m honest though, all the paintwork around the place could do with a freshen-up. In the last few years the house has progressed from charmingly weathered to just plain tatty. Today is the first properly sunny day for absolutely ages, even though it’s still chilly and rain is predicted later, and I’m so glad to be out in the fresh air. Easter is late this year, at the end of April, and we usually fully open the cake shop that weekend. If we want to be ready for then, we need to get a move on.
~ The End ~
About the author
Carole Matthews is a USA Today and Sunday Times Top Ten bestselling author whose unique sense of humour has won her legions of fans and critical acclaim internationally. Her book For Better. For Worse was a Reading with Ripa book club choice on Live with Regis and Kelly. She’s published in over 30 countries and received an award for her Outstanding Contribution to Romantic Fiction from the Festival of Romance. Welcome to the Real World and Wrapped Up in You were both short-listed for the Romantic Novel of the Year Award by the Romantic Novelists’ Association.
Previously very unlucky in love, she now lives happily ever after with her partner, Lovely Kev, in Milton Keynes, England. She likes to drink champagne, eat chocolate and spends too much time on Facebook and Twitter.
Getting in touch
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Praise for Carole’s novels from authors and the media
‘My favourite book.’ Kelly Ripa
‘Carole Matthews writes of the travails of romance, relationships and motherhood with hilarity, tenderness and despair. It’s a story loaded with laughter, tears and hope.’ Adriana Trigiani
‘A wonderful story of friendship, intrigue and romance.’ Katie Fforde
‘Full of
joy and laughter.’ Trisha Ashley
‘Fabulously enjoyable. . . full of heart and fun.’ Milly Johnson
‘Think Marian Keyes with a splash of Jane Green. If you’ve never read any of Carole’s books, you are definitely missing out.’ Vito Magazine
‘A treat that’s sure to entertain.’ Romantic Reviews Today
‘Lots of fun.’ Closer Magazine
‘Hilarious . . . Saucy, but nice.’ Daily Express
‘This novel has all the warmth and wit we expect from Carole Matthews. Perfect.’ Bella
‘Funny, pacy and heart-warming.’ U Magazine
‘Will have you giggling from the start.’ OK! Magazine
Also by Carole Matthews
Let’s Meet on Platform 8
A Whiff of Scandal
More To Life Than This
For Better, For Worse
A Minor Indiscretion
A Compromising Position
The Sweetest Taboo
With or Without You
You Drive Me Crazy
Welcome To The Real World
The Chocolate Lovers’ Club
The Chocolate Lovers’ Diet
All you Need is Love
The Difference a Day Makes
That Loving Feeling
It’s Now or Never
The Only Way is Up
Wrapped up in You
Summer Daydreams
With Love at Christmas
A Cottage by the Sea
Calling Mrs Christmas
A Place to Call Home
The Christmas Party
The Cake Shop in the Garden
The Chocolate Lovers’ Christmas
The Silver Collection
Carole Matthews, It’s a Kind of Magic
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