It's a Vet's Life: (27 page)

‘We’ll keep going.’ I can always – I check my watch – make another one.

I add flour and eggs, then check the recipe, remembering I was supposed to add them in stages, not all at once. When I mix it up, the mixture is lumpy. Bubbles of flour burst into the stiff mixture and a couple of pieces of eggshell float to the top. I add some milk, make it too runny, add more flour …

‘I don’t think I’m cut out to be a baker.’

Lucie’s giggling.

‘You know, Maz,’ she says, ‘you should do what my mummy does. Go out and buy a cake.’

‘I can’t do that. I wanted it to be special for George’s birthday.’

‘You can order a special one. Seb wanted one with a sheep on it, so Mummy had one made.’

‘I want to do it myself.’ What kind of mother am I, if I can’t bake my son a cake? ‘What do we have to do next, Lucie?’

‘Line the cake tin.’

‘With baking parchment?’ I revisit the recipe book. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘What about Humpy? She might have some.’ Lucie’s ahead of me, on her way out of the Barn. I follow across the yard, greeting the dogs en route, before entering the house via the tradesmen’s entrance, and continuing into the kitchen where Old Fox-Gifford is barking down his prehistoric mobile, his back turned to us.

‘Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I’m a highly respected member of the profession, and you’re treating me like a bloody criminal. It’s a disgrace!’ Old Fox-Gifford throws the mobile to the floor where it skitters across the flagstones and comes to a stop against a bucket of sugar beet that is gently steeping in water.

I clear my throat, but Lucie’s already there, pinging one of his braces.

‘Granpa,’ she yells, darting away and picking up the mobile for him. ‘Maz and I are baking a cake for George.’

Old Fox-Gifford frowns as Lucie starts rummaging through one of the drawers of the dresser.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, awkwardly because I’m embarrassed, even if Old Fox-Gifford isn’t. ‘We came to see if Sophia had any baking parchment for George’s cake.’

‘Oh, I haven’t a clue. Baking cakes – that’s women’s business.’

There’s nothing remotely metrosexual about Old Fox-Gifford, I think, and instead of feeling annoyed as
I
usually do when he makes that kind of chauvinistic remark, I feel a little sorry for him for everything he’s missed out on by being so determinedly masculine. You see, I’m actually looking forward to making a cake.

‘Found some,’ Lucie sings out.

‘We’ll bring the rest back,’ I say, and Lucie and I race each other across the yard. Back in the kitchen, Lucie draws around the tin with a purple felt tip pen, and cuts out circles and strips. I worry about the pen marks, but Lucie doesn’t think they will matter.

‘Maz, I’ve done it for Humpy before, and no one has ever died eating cake, have they?’ she says brightly, while I’m adding cocoa powder to the cake mixture and giving it a final stir before I pour it into the tin. The recipe says ‘pour’, but this mixture sludges out of the bowl. I put it in the oven, set the timer and wait, chatting to Lucie. She’s always chattering. She talks about the wedding.

‘I’ve never seen you wear a dress,’ she says.

‘Didn’t I wear one to the party on New Year’s Eve?’

‘I can’t remember, but you don’t wear them to work.’

‘Dresses aren’t terribly practical when you’re on the floor, grappling with a Rottweiler.’

‘You have bought a wedding dress?’ Lucie asks worriedly. ‘You aren’t going to the church in trousers?’

‘I’ve got the dress,’ I say. ‘That was the first item I ticked off on my wedding planner. Emma and I went shopping together.’

‘What’s it like? Does it make you look beautiful?’

‘I hope so.’ I smile. ‘I need all the help I can get.’

‘Dad thinks you’re beautiful,’ Lucie says.

I’m flattered, I think, and it reminds me that, in spite of our niggles over work and booking the honeymoon,
I
am incredibly lucky to be marrying Alex Fox-Gifford.

‘When are we going to choose the bridesmaids’ dresses?’ Lucie goes on.

‘The next time you come and stay. Emma’s coming with us to make sure we don’t go to Hack ’n’ Tack instead.’ I’m teasing her – Hack ’n’ Tack is her favourite shop.

‘Maz, you can’t wear jodhpurs to a wedding,’ she says sternly. ‘Or boots.’

‘I might have to wear boots,’ I say lightly. ‘I’ve had to send the shoes back to the bridal shop. I ordered them in ivory to match the dress but a pink pair turned up instead.’

Lucie chuckles, and I think, I can laugh about it now. At the time, I was not happy about the extra hassle.

Lucie insists on checking on the cake halfway through which I thought was not a good idea.

‘You don’t want to burn it,’ she says.

‘I don’t want it to sink in the middle either. I’ve heard you shouldn’t open the oven door while it’s cooking because it makes the cake collapse.’

As it turns out, it ends up with a well in the centre and blackened around the edges.

‘That doesn’t look very appetising,’ I observe.

‘It’ll be fine when you’ve turned it into a tractor and iced it,’ Lucie says optimistically. ‘I’m sure you can fix it, Maz. You fixed Hal when Granpa shot him.’

‘This isn’t quite the same.’ I smile. ‘You know, I’m going to stick with being a vet in future.’ Suddenly, I have great admiration for bakers and cake-makers like Jennie of Jennie’s Cakes, and thinking of Jennie … I’ve ordered the wedding cake, so … ‘I’ve just had the best idea,’ I tell Lucie. ‘Let’s ring Jennie and order a cake. It’s a long shot that she’ll be able to make it for
George’s
party tomorrow, but it’s worth a try. Quickly.’

Alex whistles in admiration when he sees the cake.

‘You didn’t make a cake for my birthday,’ he says when I’m getting ready for George’s party in the Barn the next day. ‘That one is a triumph.’ It is a sponge cake, iced and decorated with a red tractor and two candles. ‘Maz, I didn’t realise you could bake like that.’

‘That’s because she can’t.’ Giggling, Lucie puts her hand across her mouth. ‘She cheated.’

‘Thanks for that, Lucie. I think we could have kept your dad fooled a little longer.’ I rest my hand on one hip as I arrange pots of fruit jelly (made with a vegetarian alternative to gelatine) on the kitchen table. ‘Jennie made the cake last night and iced it this morning. She said she’d charge double because it was out of hours, but she was joking. I saw the wedding cake. She’s got it wrapped and maturing in her larder.’

‘Won’t it go bad?’ asks Lucie.

‘Jennie uses brandy as a preservative,’ I explain.

‘I don’t think I’ll like it,’ says Lucie, wrinkling her nose. ‘Did you ask how Guinness, the pony, is?’

‘Jennie says he’s doing fine. He’s started to jump again. You’d better watch out – he’ll be competition for Tinky Winky.’

‘Oh no,’ says Lucie. ‘Tinky is my games pony. Humpy’s looking for a showjumper for me to ride, and when we finish breaking in George’s pony’ (yes, Sophia bought one for him just after he was born) ‘I’ll be able to show that one until George is old enough to ride.’

‘A pony for every occasion,’ I observe.

‘That’s right,’ says Lucie. She’s certainly dedicated to
her
pony pursuits. She spent much of the afternoon running around on foot practising throwing potatoes into various buckets around the yard.

‘What about Liberty’s foals? Aren’t they supposed to be showjumpers?’

‘They’ll be fine when I’m onto horses,’ Lucie says confidently. ‘What can I do now?’

‘You can put some of those crisps into a bowl.’ I glance at the time. People will be arriving soon.

‘I’d better get the birthday boy out of bed,’ Alex says. We encouraged him to have a nap earlier on, and he’s still asleep, but not for long.

The guests turn up. There are the Old Fox-Giffords, Mrs P, Ben and Emma, Izzy, Frances, Lynsey and Fran, and a handful of mums and tots from Toddler Group. I invited my mother, but she couldn’t make it. She can’t get time off for George’s party as well as the wedding. She has a job as manager of a car-valeting company that her current boyfriend has set up.

We eat and chat, and the conversation inevitably turns to weddings.

‘I wish you’d let me help, Maz,’ Sophia says.

‘You should,’ Emma says mischievously. ‘What about doing the favours and decorations for the tables?’

‘Favours? What favours? We didn’t have those in my day.’

Emma explains and suggests that Sophia can make up baskets of sugared almonds for the Reception.

‘That doesn’t sound like much of a contribution,’ says Sophia.

‘It’s most valuable,’ says Emma.

‘It would be a real help,’ I say, joining in.

‘Have you got something old?’ asks Sophia.

‘Alex,’ I say, laughing.

‘Daddy’s pretty ancient,’ Lucie agrees.

‘Something new?’ says Sophia.

‘The dress,’ says Emma.

‘What about something borrowed?’ Sophia takes advantage of my hesitation because I’m picturing myself outside the church with that fox fur of hers around my neck, and its eyes staring into mine. ‘You can borrow my tiara, the one I wore to my coming-out ball. I was a debutante, you know.’

‘Thank you, but I have a headdress.’

‘Oh?’ Sophia says, disappointed. ‘There’s always something blue.’

‘I’m on the case,’ says Emma. ‘Don’t you worry. Maz will have something blue on the morning of her wedding.’

‘A cold nose, I should imagine,’ says Sophia.

‘We’re going to choose the bridesmaids’ dresses next time we’re down for the weekend,’ Lucie says.

‘I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with Emma’s bump – it’s going to be much bigger by Christmas,’ I say.

‘What colour will they be?’ says Lucie.

‘A dark red or bottle green,’ I say.

‘Not purple?’

‘Not purple,’ I confirm. ‘You see, they have to match the flowers.’

‘Maz, something must have gone wrong with your planning,’ Emma points out. ‘You’re supposed to match the flowers to the dresses, not the other way round.’

‘I like to be different,’ I say, making excuses for my lapse as Lucie disappears off to find more jelly and ice cream. ‘Sophia, have you any news about the potential
clash
between the wedding and the Mounted Games? I mean, will Lucie be at the wedding, only it seems a shame to buy her a dress if she isn’t going to be able to wear it.’

‘I’m trying to work it out,’ Sophia says. ‘Lucie and I may have to miss out, which will be very disappointing for her.’

‘On the competition, you mean?’ I say curtly.

‘The wedding,’ Sophia says.

‘I’m sorry you feel like that. Doesn’t Alex’s happiness mean anything to you?’

‘Well, of course it does. It’s just unfortunate that you picked the wrong date. Maz, nothing’s been settled. The other options are that our reserve takes Lucie’s place on the team, or if we’re lucky, Lucie and I will be able to attend the wedding and miss out on the reception.’ Sophia pauses. ‘I shall have to see what Alexander thinks about that.’

‘So should I buy Lucie a dress, or not?’

‘I should. She can always wear it to the New Year party here at the Manor.’ Sophia changes the subject, as I’m silently fuming at the thought of splashing out on a special dress when Lucie might not be at our wedding. ‘Isn’t it almost time to cut the birthday cake?’ Sophia changes the subject. ‘Only Fox-Gifford will soon be fussing about taking the dogs out for their afternoon constitutional, and I have horses to feed.’

I light the candles on the cake and we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to George.

When Alex opens his mouth to join in, George’s eyes grow wide with surprise. I smile and George’s expression switches from anxious to reassured. He chuckles.

‘Are you laughing at my singing?’ Alex says at the end.

‘You don’t sing all that often,’ I point out. ‘George hasn’t heard you do that before.’ I’ve only ever heard Alex singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ when seeing the New Year in.

‘I used to sing in the school choir,’ he says.

‘I can’t imagine that.’

‘I had an ulterior motive – it meant I could meet girls. The girls’ school down the road needed some baritones and tenors – even though they had quite a few of their own.’

‘Alexander, really,’ says Sophia.

‘That’s my boy,’ says Old Fox-Gifford.

I lift George up so he can blow out the candles. He isn’t sure what to do at first, but Seb shows him how to do it, spattering the cake with spit. I relight the candles and George blows his cheeks out and sucks air in, and the flames flicker and dance, but don’t go out.

‘Seb, you’ll have to help George again.’ Alex picks up a knife, as the two boys huff and puff all over the cake, eventually extinguishing the candles to the applause of our guests.

Alex cuts the cake as practice for cutting the wedding cake.

‘That’s a neat job,’ I say, smiling as he dissects it into equal-sized slices.