The Recipe for Happiness…
Everyone in the block watched as the new tenants moved into the flat on the second floor. They were the family of the manager from the local factory, a notable employer in this tucked-away English market town.
Why on earth would they choose a flat in this rambling old Victorian? wondered Mrs. Edith Barker, retired and avid about local goings on, as she chatted with her friends. With their connections, surely they could have nabbed somewhere new on the High Street.
Dont judge by yourself, Mum, her thirty-year-old, still-single daughter Pippa chimed in, her red lipstick audacious as ever. Not everyone wants a modern rabbit hutch when you could have a proper period place! High ceilings, proper rooms not just boxes, a hallway you could host a party in, and that balconys nearly the size of a bedroom. Besides, theyve already got a landline installed. Only three phones across nine flatsrare as hens teeth round here.
You and your endless chitchat, tutted Mrs. Barker. Youve driven the neighbours mad as it is, Pippa. Dont go pestering these new people. Mark my wordstheyre respectable and much too busy.
Theyre not so stuffy, Pippa pouted, theyve a little girl, Alice. Shes only nine. Theyre nearly my agegive or take a few years.
The newcomers soon proved themselves politely genial, always with a ready smile. Margaret worked in the school library, while her husband Peter had clocked up a decade at the mill just down the lane.
Pippa was a font of information, sharing all the details with the ladies in the shared garden each evening, where her mother liked to relax.
And how on earth do you know all this already? the women would ask, laughing. Born prosecutor, you are.
I pop in to use their phone! Unlike some, they let me, Pippa retorted, clearly referencing the times other neighbours pretended they werent home, dreading a half hour of her nattering about nothing with her mates.
Pippa soon grew friendly with the new couple, calling up friends and workmates from their flat and rarely seeming in a hurry. Shed stop in wearing one new frock or another, or in soft house slippersclearly angling for camaraderie.
But once, she noticed Peter quite purposefully closing the lounge door as she entered. It became a pattern. Whenever she came to call, Peter retreated. Pippa would thank Margaret with a dazzling smile, peeking into the kitchen, but Margaret just nodded, asking her to pull the door closed on the way.
I cant, hands are covered in flour, shed say, wiggling her fingers. And the latchs Frenchlocks on its own.
What are you making? More scones? You must be forever baking Ive never learned how, said Pippa, hoping for an invite.
Cheese pastries for breakfast. No time in the morning, so here I am now Margarets smile was gentle, but she turned swiftly back to her dough.
Pippa wrinkled her nose and left, slighted by the lack of intimacy.
Margaret, I know youre too nice to give her the boot, Peter said one evening as they washed up, but our phones always in use after dinner, and my mates cant get through. It isnt right.
I know, love. She marches straight in these days, chats away as if its her own front room, agreed Margaret.
That same evening, Pippa, decked out and perfumed, plopped herself onto the faded pouffe in the hall and called a chum.
Pippa, are you nearly done? Margaret asked after ten minutes. Were expecting a call.
Pippa nodded and put down the phone, but then pulled out a chocolate bar. Brought something sweet today! Shall we have tea, to celebrate our friendship?
She set the chocolate on the table as an offering.
Oh no, please put that away, Margaret said firmly. Alice will see and want some, but she canttheres her allergy, you know. No, Im sorry, no tea and chocolate here. Bit of a no-go in this house.
Really? What a shamemeant as a thank-you, Pippa stammered, embarrassed.
No thanks necessary. But please, limit calls to emergenciesdoctor, fire, that sort of thing. Otherwise, better not. Work calls for Peter, Alices homeworkyou understand? No hard feelings. Margaret pressed a smile.
Pippa left in a huff, chocolate unclaimed, convinced jealousy was to blame.
She thinks Im prettier and younger than her, thats all, she declared to her mother. Thats why shes colddoesnt even give me so much as a cup of tea!
Youre daft and stubborn, said Edith. Never wangle your way into someone elses home for any reason. Find your own way and let them be. You want callers? Get your own phone, dear, and let folk ring round to yours!
Still, Pippa made one final overture, turning up with a notebook to copy Margarets winning cheese pastry recipe.
Ive come to learn, she said. Can you dictate your recipe? Time I tried my hand
Surely your mothers the one to ask, Margaret replied, surprised. Our parents know heaps, and I never measurejust by feel and eye, always. My hands remember better than I do. She smiled, busy again. Im in a rush. Go on, ask your mum!
Pippa blushed deeply and stomped home. She knew full well there was a tattered old ledger in her mothers kitchen cupboard with pages of spidery writing: everything from fish pie to roasts, and, in abundance, cakes and tartsnot that she wanted to bake, and her mother had given up pastries long ago for the sake of her blood pressure.
But Pippa fetched the book, flicking idly through until she found exactly what she needed, surprising Edith.
Planning to bake, are you? her mother gasped.
Whys that so odd? Pippa snapped the book shut, folding down the right page.
Things looking up with that fellow Graham? Edith pressed, I had you down for finished, as ever.
Who says were done? Pippa bristled. Hell come running if I want.
I should hope so! High time you settled. What recipe was it, then? Can I advise?
No need. Im justgetting ready, Pippa muttered.
A few days later, Edith returned from her walk to the scent of warm pastry.
Whatever nextsmells like a bakery in here! she exclaimed. Youre in lovethats the only explanation!
Keep your voice down! laughed Pippa, setting out mugs, the teapot, and a plate of golden pastries. Its cheese pastries, Mum. Traditional.
Youve still got it, Edith nodded, biting in. I thought youd forgotten everything! Theyre wonderful, darling.
Are you just saying that, or are they really good? Pippa asked, eyes shining.
Judge for yourselftry one!
The compliment reminded Pippa of her late father, who would call something proper ediblethe highest praise.
Soon Ill invite Graham round for tea, she mused, What do you thinkwill he like them?
Hell be hooked! Edith grinned. Your father was. Hed eat these by the dozen, bless him. Go on, bake and invite Graham. Ill pop round to Maviss for a film while you entertain. Youre clever, Pippamen arent won by dresses alone.
Sure enough, Graham started visiting. There were fewer rows, more laughter from the kitchen, and even Edith became used to their cheery bustle.
When Pippa finally announced that she and Graham were off to the registry office, Edith had to blink away a tearfinally!
Pippa changed. She slimmed down, prepping for the big day, while Graham kept asking, Have you sworn off baking? Will there be a pastry mountain at the wedding?
In the days before the home wedding, three women worked in the kitchen: Pippa, her mum, and Aunt Brenda flitting about, preparing for a crowd, even if just twenty family members.
Afterwards, Pippa and Graham took the big back bedroom. And within a year, the entire block got their own phones. Pippa rang everyone at first, but her calls were brief now.
Rita, sorrycant talk, doughs rising, Grahams due back. Talk soon, love.
She hurried to the kitchen, where the dough puffed up like a magic pillow. Pippa was expecting, her maternity leave fast approaching, yet she never sat stillforever making sure the pastry tin was full for Graham and herself, for that matter. Cheese pastries from scratchnothing like them. And as for Graham, he absolutely doted on her for it, for the sweetness of the home, and for all her soft, warm care.
