Open Writing

The Warren

When confidence was being dealt out, the Wing and Miss Constance were at the head of the queue. They knew how to appear absolutely terrifying though lacking stature, as was the case with Miss Constance.

Now that I had been relieved of all shopping responsibilities because of my supposed incompetence they chose to phone a local greengrocer, placing an order to be delivered to their home. A youngster arrived with the fruit and vegetables which had been requested. Huffing and puffing, he brought in a crate.

“That’ll be £4.29,” he gasped.

“Do you think so?” Miss Constance asked, polite yet menacing. She was all of 5 feet tall. “Just place the crate here. I will inspect what you have brought. If I am satisifed with it you will be paid.''

I winced.

The boy, unaware of the onslaught that was to come, obeyed her command.

No longer the focus of Miss Constance's disapproval, I was enjoying the spectacle. I was preparing a steamed pudding, so it was not difficult to appear fully occupied.

“Would you call that an apple?” she asked the boy. “I wouldn’t, and I don’t intend to pay for it. Here!” She threw it back at him. “And this,” she exclaimed “was never an orange. Not in my day, anyway.”

So it went on, until she had reduced the bill by half.

The poor lad was at a complete loss. I found it difficult to maintain my composure. I hoped that nobody would notice my shoulders heaving with mirth.

The following week, it was the greengrocer himself who appeared, bearing excellent fruit and vegetables. There were no complaints. Easy to achieve when you know how. The young delivery boy never appeared again.

On Thursday, I appeared for work as normal. “Now, Mrs. McLean,” I was informed, "the Dean of York’s wife is coming for coffee. Please prepare a Victoria sponge. It has to be ready for 11 am.”

Thunderstruck, I protested “I’ve never made a Victoria sponge.”

“Did you hear that, Persis?” cried Miss Constance. “This girl has never made a Victoria sponge! What age are you, exactly?”

This was a command for information. I confessed to being thirty.

“She’s thirty years old and has never made a Victoria sponge! Well, I never! What do you think of that, Persis?”

Persis looked most dejected. There was obviously no telling just how far standards had fallen. All must be chaos outside their walls.

“Mrs. McLean,” Miss Constance said, obviously impatient, "there is a cookery book in the cupboard. It explains how to make a sponge. Please follow the recipe. It is very simple. It should not tax you. We will look forward to the cake at 11 am.''

So saying, she shut the door very firmly behind her.

I rushed to the cupboard,and located the instruction manual. I followed it word for word. Twenty minutes later I was feeling much happier. Things were looking good. The cake mix was of the consistency described in the book. Then fate took a hand. A Victoria sponge must be baked in two halves. Because I have a slight eyesight problem, or, if you prefer, I couldn't see straight, when the halves went into the oven the shelves were at a slightly different angle. This meant that each half was slightly higher on one side.

I was mortified. I had not realised the shelves were not straight until I saw the results of the baking.

“How on earth did you manage that?” asked the Wing in a voice which could not have expressed greater wonder had I conjured up a genie. “I have never seen anything like that before in my life! You’ll have to ensure that a narrow part meets the higher part when you put it together.”

Even I, with all my failings, had managed to work that one out.

The Dean of York’s wife duly arrived, to be greeted with appropriate fuss and ceremony. A tray was carried in. Coffee and cake were served.

No comment was made. Ah well!

Lunch passed quite quietly, with no reference to the inferior cutlery which, as a result of my carelessness, I had set out for them. The best crockery had been removed from my reach. They now used cups and saucers.

I took my stories back to my mother-in-law, who awaited behind my front door. I now called her The Waiting Pigmy. How she laughed. “Oh, I don’t know how you put up with that! I wouldn’t have the patience for it! And she really threw the fruit at the boy? Some folk don’t know when they are well off!”

I asked if my father-in-law, or Faither as he had asked me to call him, had had a good day, mindful of how ill he was. This casual query launched a vivid description of all the minutiae of the last five hours.

Faither sat and listened to her diatribe about how much he had managed to eat or not eaten, guaging my reaction with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “And I made the custard just the way he likes it,” she was saying “But he couldn’t face it. You’ve no idea the effort I put in. There wasn’t a lump in sight!”

Faither was a man of few words, but he was an excellent communicator with his eyes. He could give a running commentary without opening his mouth. Looks of “Well, you asked the question!” or “She’s having you on!” “I tried my best.”

These remarks were all in his repertoire and flitted one by one across his face. When he brought his eyebrows into full play, what was being said by the narrator was almost irrelevant. Possessing the ability to laugh at himself, he insisted that the whole world laugh with him.

It was the most difficult task for me to keep a straight face. And he knew it.