Blood, Sweat and Tiers Read online

  “Bellissima!” said Florence, walking towards us with her million-dollar smile.

  Florence was, of course, already perfectly made up. She was wearing loose red trousers with a matching button-down shirt open at the neck to reveal an ornate gold locket at her throat. Her lips were the exact same shade of maroon as her outfit.

  “Can’t hold a torch to you, Florence,” I said. Not for the first time, I thought about how Florence would end up cast in her own cooking show, or maybe a travel program with her talent for languages. She was beautiful, an accomplished actress, and she could cook. But it wasn’t over yet. And was it my imagination, or was she a shade less friendly now that we were getting closer to the end of the competition?

  Not that I could believe a woman like Florence would ever view me as competition. I was probably getting squirrelly from stress.

  “Places, everyone,” Fiona called out.

  It was that time again. Soon the judges and the two comedians would stand at the front of the tent and announce our first challenge.

  I went back to my workstation and gave myself a mental pep talk inspired by Gina’s words of encouragement. You’ve got this, Pops. You’ve practiced and prepared, and you know what you’re doing. Just keep your eyes on the prize. It’s within sight.

  Today, comedian Jilly took the lead and welcomed us back to the tent. Along with her signature blue glasses, she was wearing a typically lively combination of blue leopard-print trousers and a pale pink shirt, finished off with a hot pink lipstick. I loved how Jilly played with color and fashion—everything she wore was flamboyant but looked like it had been designed especially for her.

  Jilly cleared her throat. “Bakers, the competition is as tough as the pancakes Arty made me for breakfast, and this week we’re going to need you to put your best foot forward and really bring your A game to stay in the competition.”

  Thanks, Jilly, because so far we’ve been bringing our B game… And wait…was she joking, or had Arty really made her breakfast? I sneaked a glance at her fellow comedian, but his expression gave nothing away.

  “And speaking of unusual couples,” Arty said, “that’s the theme for your first challenge of cake week. We’ll begin with your signature bake, and Jonathon here will tell us a bit more of what our master bakers are looking for.”

  Jonathon smiled and stepped forward. “We’re looking for light, airy sponges and rich, crumbly frangipanes, or perhaps a few of you are planning a chiffon cake. Pair two or more unusual ingredients and make them work together. And we want to be wowed. You’ll have three and a half hours to complete your bake.”

  Arty gave the starting cue, and I took a breath, looking around to gain support from these bakers who’d become friends. There were fewer stations this week, which I knew meant my chances of going home were that much greater, but I liked how close we’d become as a group.

  I smiled at Maggie and Gaurav. I was late to breakfast this morning and hadn’t managed to catch up with the other contestants yet. I was looking forward to having chats over lunch. It also meant I didn’t know what everyone else was planning today. It would be interesting to see everyone’s bakes coming together as the morning progressed.

  While I’d been musing, Elspeth wished us luck and Jilly called time.

  I had to spring into action pronto to make sure my basil cream infusion had enough time to…well, infuse. There was no time to waste.

  I poured the cream into a saucepan and, while it was coming to a simmer, bruised my larger basil leaves by hitting them repeatedly with the dull side of a knife, thinking of the earl aiming at the hawk as I did so. What a cathartic way to start my bake. I stirred them into the cream, removed the mix from the heat, and then covered the pan with plastic wrap and left it to steep.

  Okay, Pops, all on track. Now for the sponges.

  But of course, that’s exactly when Arty decided to come and terrorize me with his questions. I fixed my face with a wide grin as he approached with cameras and steeled myself for being teased.

  “Poppy, a little birdie told me that you’re making a layer cake,” Arty said. “But I see that you’ve only got two cake tins greased up and ready to go here.”

  Thanks for counting to two for me, Arty.

  “That’s right. I’m making two deep sponges and then slicing them in half to make four layers.”

  You’re not the only one who can count.

  I tipped my flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt into a huge glass bowl and began whisking them together by hand, smiling at Arty as he asked me about my unusual flavor combination.

  “It’s not something we come across every day. I’m more of a basil pesto kinda guy myself. Basil and strawberries?”

  I dutifully laughed. “Well then, I hope you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Basil and strawberry work really well together.” I gestured at the saucepan. “At home, once I’ve strained the basil leaves from the cream, I’d refrigerate the mix for at least five hours. But I don’t have that long today. I figured The Great British Baking Contest fridges are superior to my old one in my cottage at home, so hopefully it’ll chill faster here.”

  “You tell that fridge who’s boss.”

  “I’m sure I could bend it to my will,” I said with a wink. Whoa, where did flirty Poppy come from? All this time hanging out with Florence was clearly having an effect.

  Arty laughed. “So the butter goes in next?” he inquired, peering into my bowl.

  “Almost. I’ll beat butter and sugar together next.”

  I tapped the side of the mixer, thankful it was the same brand as the one I had back home, and said as much to Arty. “Having to use equipment that isn’t mine is one of the toughest parts of the show. Baking’s a dance of sorts between you and your tools, and if you aren’t used to your partner’s particular movements, well, then, some toes might get trodden on.”

  I’d been doing this long enough that I was used to the rhythm of how the show worked. I’d become better at keeping my cool and staying on top of the recipe while chatting with the judges and comedians. I still felt as nervous and rattled on the inside but was better at hiding it.

  Arty was about to reply when a great commotion erupted outside the tent. It sounded like chanting. Really loud chanting. I opened my mouth and then closed it again. Apart from the constant whirr of mixers and the odd shriek of joy or disappointment, the tent was usually a pretty quiet place. It had to be, for filming.

  “What on earth?” Arty said, bemused.

  “Cuuuuut!” Fiona yelled, and then quieter, but only a little, “What the bollocks is going on?” She really did say bollocks, which would have delighted me if I didn’t know that filming was going to be delayed as a result of whatever was going on outside the tent. I was sneakily glad my basil would have more time to infuse, but if we were being delayed this early in the day, we could end up filming really late. And I was already tired from missing so much sleep last night.

  I put down my spoon and joined the rest of the contestants and crew speeding over to the tent’s entrance to see what on earth was happening.

  Hamish was standing in the entrance staring out, and I tapped his shoulder.

  “Look,” he said, moving to one side and pointing.

  Outside, a small group of determined-looking and very noisy people were marching across the lawn right in front of the tent. There were seven, maybe eight of them, men and women, and they were holding placards, but I couldn’t quite make out what the slogans said. I recognized them, though, with their bucket hats and binoculars.

  Fiona brushed past us and strode towards the group, who didn’t bother to slow their march on her behalf.

  “What are you doing?” Fiona said, forced to march at the same pace as the group. “Can’t you read?” She gestured at the signs that sprung out from the grass: “Quiet Please Filming In Progress.”

  I’d never heard Fiona speak so sharply before. She must have been at her wits’ end with the drama going on around here. How had the group mana
ged to march past the security guards? I hadn’t even been able to drop ingredients off yesterday without the Spanish Inquisition.

  I stepped forward to get a better look. The lady talking to Fiona was Marlene, the woman I’d spoken with from the bird-watching group yesterday and seen again in Susan’s pamphlet. If I’d thought she’d been abrupt and a little abrasive then, it was nothing compared with the shrill tone she was taking with Fiona now. Still striding, she said, “This is an ancient public rights of way, and no one can stop us traversing it.” The woman’s eyes flashed, and she turned her placard so the cameras could film it, as though this was the nightly news crew.

  Her placard read: “Public Rights of Way for the PUBLIC.”

  Not the most memorable phrase, perhaps, but this group was doing their best to chant it with passion. Well, they were British, so it was a restrained passion.

  Fiona looked like she wanted to take one of those placards and bang it over Marlene’s head. “Actually, we can. All we’ve done is alter the course of the rights of way whilst we’re filming. It’s temporary. There are many other routes around the grounds you can follow. But right now, time is money, and you can’t delay the show for”—she waved an arm around—“whatever this is.”

  I squinted. “Save Our Wild Birds” had been painted in green across another of the placards.

  The woman stopped pacing and stared Fiona in the eye. “I understand, but you see, the earl would like nothing more than to stop people coming onto his property. He does not like to share. Diverting the paths is one way he tries to take back ancient rights of way, and we must stop him.”

  Fiona’s sigh of despair was audible even from where I was standing. “But we’re filming The Great British Baking Contest. You must know this show brings wealth to the local economy and boosts tourism.”

  “Cakes are all very well and nice,” Marlene argued. “I’m partial to a slice of lemon poppy seed myself, but they don’t stand up to how important it is to protect the wild birds of England. And that is exactly what we are going to do.”

  Fiona was wringing her hands, nonplussed. But luckily the woman and her crew marched off in the direction of the manor house. Good luck with that one, Benedict.

  Fiona marched over to where Donald Friesen, the series producer, was tearing into Martin, the new security guard. I would not want to be Martin right now.

  “Ooch,” Hamish exclaimed. “Who knew that twitchers could be so feisty?”

  “Twitchers?!”

  “Ach, I’m just being silly. That’s the nickname for bird-watchers, especially the kind who like to spot as many birds as possible as quickly as possible.”

  “I think that lively group are more like environmental campaigners. Or at least their leader is. I met her yesterday. She’s pretty fierce.”

  Hamish laughed. “So’s Fiona. I was afraid I’d have to wrestle those two apart.”

  “Okay everyone,” Fiona said, clapping her hands together like we were in school. “That particular show is over. Now let’s get back to ours.”

  I rushed back to my batter and began creaming the butter and sugar. There wasn’t a minute more to waste. But as I added the flour, my thoughts strayed. Could the sudden appearance of the Somerset Wild Bird Protection Society have something to do with the spell we cast last night? I’d put a lot of energy into visualizing the hawk, not to mention willing the earl to get his comeuppance. Elspeth had warned me that spells weren’t always straightforward: When you asked for something, you could never be entirely sure how your request would be granted.

  Had we caused these people to appear by putting a protection spell on the birds of Broomewode? Or was my sleuthing brain working overtime and it was merely a coincidence? Marlene was already irate when I met her yesterday. After the magic circle, I tried my best to avoid ruminating as to how my dad and the hawk were connected and tried to focus on getting a good night’s sleep before filming began. But the question mark floating over the connection was bugging me.

  I’d have to work to solve that particular mystery. Now it was time for whisking, not wondering. At least my mind could be at ease knowing that the Bird Society were already doing something to help protect the hawk.

  For now, I had to concentrate on my signature bake. I picked up my carton of buttermilk and added it to the mix. Everything was riding on me keeping it together this weekend, and I wasn’t about to let myself get distracted by trespassing twitchers.

  Chapter 7

  “You’ve half an hour to go, bakers,” Arty called out. I tried not to let the panic set in. I’d been checking on my basil cream infusion every few minutes, but the mixture still wasn’t set. Now I had no option but to admit it needed a burst in the blast chiller. I was going to have to watch it very carefully to make sure it didn’t freeze. It was cake week, not ice-cream week, after all.

  As I collected my bowl from the fridge, I could tell the other contestants were feeling the pressure, too. Calm and steady Daniel, the man used to reassuring people as he pulled their teeth or installed their braces, was now red, sweating profusely, and muttering so many obscenities under his breath that Fiona kept telling him to cut it out.

  With my cream safely in the freezer and my sponges still cooling, I went to his workstation to see if there was anything I could say or do to ease his stress.

  “It’s all going wrong, Poppy,” he said, looking forlorn.

  And I could see why. Daniel had been attempting to create a chocolate and raspberry sponge, but the sides of his sponge were burned. Like me, he was making a layer cake, but with three larger sponges, rather than four slimmer layers. His sponges were huge, and I could see that he’d left them in the oven too long, afraid they’d not cook all the way through. Now it’d gone the other way.

  He was furiously straining a raspberry coulis, taking his frustration out on a poor sieve. He wasn’t exactly walking on the culinary wild side if he’d chosen chocolate and raspberry as his odd couple. Maybe there was cardamom or something in the mix. I didn’t ask, as I didn’t want to stress him further.

  “It’s not so bad,” I said, turning the cooling rack round to examine them more carefully. “Just cut the burnt ends to make a slightly smaller cake,” I suggested. “No one will be any the wiser.”

  “No one except the millions of viewers who just watched me burn a simple chocolate sponge…”

  Hmm, good point.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied. “It’s about the taste and look of the final product.”

  Daniel took a deep breath and eased his grip on the sieve. “You’re right, you’re right. I’ll cut them off. Hopefully the burned taste won’t permeate the rest of the sponge.”

  I rubbed his back. “That’s the spirit. You’ve got this. What’s your filling?”

  “Chocolate fudge ganache. And I’ll drizzle the finished cake with raspberry coulis.” He gave me a worried glance. “You don’t think it’s too strange? Chocolate with raspberry?”

  “No. I really don’t.”

  “Lovely,” he said.

  I was worried that the coulis might make the cake soggy. But now wasn’t the time to make Daniel worry further. I flashed him a final encouraging smile and then went back to my workstation to macerate my strawberries and slice through my own sponges.

  I took Susan’s punnet of strawberries and chopped them into large chunks before scooping the lot into a bowl and showering them with sugar. Earlier, I’d tasted one of the fruits (a chef has got to know her own ingredients), and it was perfectly ripe and delicious—sweet too. So I decided not to use as much sugar as I’d been practicing with to make sure the tartness of the berry came through. I gave the mix a little stir so the sugar would dissolve evenly and put the bowl to one side. But I’d have to keep a close eye on them. I didn’t want the berries to get too juicy and become soggy. Elspeth’s biggest pet peeve was a cake with a “soggy bottom.”

  And as if I’d conjured her up with my thoughts, Elspeth approached my workstation, Jilly close behind. I s
teeled myself to talk through this tricky procedure. Despite my words of encouragement to Daniel, I felt suddenly shy and unsure of myself. But Elspeth’s presence soon changed that, and as she came to stand by my side, I knew that I was in control and on schedule.

  “Looks like you’re about to embark on a little cake surgery,” Jilly remarked, as I turned my now cool sponges onto a wooden chopping board.

  “That’s right. Move over, brain surgery—this little operation takes nerves of steel,” I joked, and then made a silent wish that no real-life brain surgeons were watching.

  I laid each cake flat and inhaled their buttery, vanilla scent. Delicious. “There truly is nothing like the smell of cake fresh out of the oven,” I said. With a long, sharp knife, I bent down so that I was eye level with the sponge and then dragged the blade through its center to split the sponge in two.

  I could have done without Jilly and Elspeth watching, and with them, of course, the camera, so I imagined millions of home viewers scrutinizing my every move. I held my breath as I sliced the sponges…but to my huge relief, I got through both cakes with no trouble.

  “And voila, now we have four layers,” I said to Elspeth. As though I hadn’t been so shaky inside I was surprised the cake surfaces didn’t look like corrugated cardboard.

  It was hard to act like Elspeth was just a judge on the show to me. I kept wanting to hug her or waiting for her to hug me and tell me that I’d be fine. But Elspeth remained a consummate professional. Nothing in her demeanor gave any indication that she was actually my witchy godmother as well as cake critic.

  “What’s going to glue those puppies together?” Jilly asked.

  Good question. My cream was still in the blast chiller. I really needed to run and check it wasn’t forming icicles. I said as much to Jilly and Elspeth, explaining that because the infusion needed longer to emulsify than our allotted time, I’d left it in the blast chiller. I excused myself and, as gracefully as I could, sprinted to the other side of the tent.