Open Writing

Peregrine Nightingale brushed a crumb from his tie. It bounced off the protruding bulge of his stomach, before joining several others on the floor at his feet.

'I can definitely declare that to be the most delicious butterfly cake I have ever tasted,' he told the eager group of ladies who had watched his every mouthful. He beamed around him and the ladies beamed back, at least, Amelia Bloomingthorpe did. She it was, the local vicar's wife, who had prepared the delicacy, thereby confirming her position as the Country Women's Asociation's pre-eminent cake maker. The smiles on the faces of the other ladies had a somewhat strained look.

'Dear Peregrine,' crooned Amelia, her eyelids aflutter. 'Such a discerning palate. I do like to see a man well fed. Of course you must join us at the vicarage for dinner tonight.'

'How very kind of you,' Peregrine murmured, with a slight bow. 'Au revoir, then.'

As the ladies drifted away, Peregine let out a deep sigh. For many years now, he had travelled the country, ostensibly to research the eccentricities of local cuisine. It was pure coincidence that his visits were invariably timed to take in the local horticultural show or village fete. He had become an expected and welcome guest at these functions, and his reluctant acquiescence could be relied upon as judge in the ladies' cake baking contest.

He cast his mind back luxuriously, over the myriads of pikelets, sponge sandwiches, fruit cakes, nut loaves, gingerbreads, fruit flans, meringues, upside-down cakes, lamingtons, even pumpkin scones that had passed his lips. Not for him the 'taste and spit' method employed by wine tasters. He insisted on a large slice, to truly relish the delicious textures and flavours, and sometimes even a second slice, if he was unable to make up his mind. And he had discovered time and again that the lady who was finally honoured with the accolade of his approval would insist on offering her hospitality for the evening meal, to reinforce her claims. If she happened to be a single lady or a widow, the invitation might be extended until much later in the night, or even the following morning, so that breakfast might also be added to the menu.

However, it is sad to relate that this manner of life was about to cease. On a recent visit to his doctor, with a severe bout of colic, Peregrine had heard the terrible words which spelled the end of his idyllic existence.

'You're killing yourself, old boy,' the doctor had told him. 'No more cake.'

'No more cake?' Peregrine had squeaked, aghast.

But the doctor was adamant. It was diet or death. He left the surgery with the awful words ringing in his ears.

So this had been his final contest. He would sink into a well-deserved and well-padded retirement. Nothing remained but to write the book that he had been researching for so long. His eyes regained a twinkle as he thought of the tales he could tell of the ladies he had become acquainted with in his travels, and the incentives he had been offered to name them Queen of the Afternoon Tea. He prided himself that he had learned a good deal about human nature, especially female nature. Knowing what he knew now about the beautiful and devious creatures, he would never have married. However, his dear lady wife had seduced him into popping the question while his naivety was still intact. She didn't mind his expanding waistline. It gave him an imposing air. She had been brought up to believe that a wife's duty was to feed her husband.

The following day, on returning to his abode, his air was distracted. His wife was concerned, as it was unusual for him to be gloomy. 'Have you forgotten, my dear,' she said confidentially taking his arm. 'It is your birthday today, and I have invited all our friends to celebrate the occasion. They have all made their most magnificent cakes to bring for your enjoyment.'

Peregrine tried to say that he couldn't eat cake any more, that he was resolute, that the thought of eating cake made him feel ill. He tried very hard to explain all that to his wife. He tried harder than he had ever tried anything in his life. But he just couldn't do it. The words he formed in his mind never reached his lips. He put on a brave face, patted his ample stomach, and proceeded arm-in-arm into his house, to sample the delights that awaited him.

© Wendy Ogbourne

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Wendy writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au