Wish Upon a Star

‘Priorities change a bit when you’ve a child to consider, especially a poorly one. Nature seems to have preprogrammed we mothers to put our offspring first – or most of us. Even me,’ she added, ‘to the extent where I knew I’d be rubbish at the maternal stuff, so I made sure you always had someone motherly looking after you.’

‘Moses is going to be disgusted when Toto moves in permanently,’ I said.

We’d been out for a Boxing Day walk two years previously when we’d fished a picnic basket out of the river at the edge of the Lido field and found the black kitten inside. Toto had made it abundantly clear then that he’d thought we should just toss it back. His opinion didn’t seem to be much changed since.

‘They’ll shake down together: we all will,’ Ma said, though with more hope than conviction in her voice.

Jago

Before the staff syndicate at Gilligan’s Celebration Cakes struck lucky on the lottery, Jago Tremayne and his friend David had been happy enough working there.

Besides the traditional iced wedding cakes that Gilligan’s were most famous for, both men had developed a speciality of their own. David created tall cones of beautifully coloured macaroons, which were in high demand for all kinds of events, while Jago was an expert in making the perfect croquembouche: the fabulous French wedding cake made from an airy pyramid of patisserie-cream-filled and caramel-dipped choux pastries, a skill he’d learned during a year spent working in Paris.

The lottery win opened new possibilities, because although the winnings were not enormous once their jackpot had been shared between twelve of them, it was still enough for Jago and David to start up a new business of their own, if they wanted to.

And they certainly did. David, like his fiancée, Sarah, came from West Lancashire and they yearned to move back nearer to their families; while Jago, who no longer had a fiancée and whose parents had taken early retirement and gone to live near his brother in New Zealand, was equally desperate for a fresh new start outside London.

Jago intended setting up a specialist croquembouche wedding cake business and at first thought of moving to Cornwall (where his ancestors came from) … until David persuaded him that there was a big opening up north and he ought at least to consider the idea.

‘You’d probably do really well in one of the wealthy areas, like Knutsford or Wilmslow in Cheshire,’ he suggested.

‘Then why aren’t you buying a shop there?’ Jago asked drily.

But he knew the answer, for when he and his friend were searching for suitable properties on the internet, David had fallen in love with an old bakery in Ormskirk, even though he realised starting up a specialist shop in a small Lancashire market town would be quite a gamble.

Jago hadn’t yet found his ideal property. Unlike David, he didn’t want a shop; since his orders would mainly come from the internet and magazine adverts, he just needed a large kitchen/preparation area. So he offered to move up with David and help him get started, while continuing his own search and, perhaps, testing the waters with his cakes.

He suspected that business in David’s shop would be slow to pick up, but he was proved quite wrong, for when the doors of the Happy Macaroon opened for the first time, they were practically trampled to death in the stampede.

David said it was probably due to the free macaroons on offer to the first twenty customers – but then, he’d been born and raised not so far away and knew how much Lancashire folk loved a bargain.

There was also a lot of interest in the model macaroon party cones and croquembouche they put on display in the window, which looked realistic enough to make the mouth water, and the two patissiers both soon got their first orders.

But the macaroons themselves were to be David’s bread and butter, and their enticing rows of many colours proved irresistible to the local population, even though they were quite expensive. Every purchase, from a single macaroon to a dozen, went into a distinctive silver card box, a sweet treat that would probably never make it all the way home.

Certainly the many students who came into the shop tended to stand outside and eat them then and there, but David and Jago considered that a kind of free advertising.

They soon began to bake a tray of gingerbread pigs every day, too, which were more to children’s taste (and less expensive) than the macaroons that lured their parents into the shop.

In his free time, Jago stepped up the search for a place of his own: he liked working with David, but once his fiancée, Sarah, gave up her job and moved into the flat above the shop as they planned, three would definitely be a crowd. He was fond of them both, but when your heart had been broken, it was a little hard to be around two people as much in love as David and Sarah were …

Of course, he’d always known that his ex, Aimee, was out of his league, and he had been amazed when she’d said she would marry him. But in retrospect, Sarah (who was a hairstylist in a smart Mayfair salon and seemed to know everything about everyone) had probably been right when she’d said Aimee had only grabbed him because Daddy had just put his little princess’s nose right out of joint by getting engaged to his very young PA.

‘I mean, you’re a good-looking bloke, Jago, don’t get me wrong,’ Sarah had said kindly but bluntly, ‘but she organises events for her seriously rich friends, while you earn peanuts making cakes and only met her because you were delivering one to a party venue.’

‘We don’t have a lot in common,’ he’d agreed, ‘but she loves me and wants to settle down.’

‘Well, it’s time enough; she must be years older than you.’

‘Oh, no – she’s younger,’ he’d protested. ‘Only thirty-two.’

‘Is that what she told you?’ Sarah had asked pityingly. ‘In her dreams!’

But, blinded by Aimee’s beauty and charm, he’d been as mesmerised as if she’d hypnotised him … which in a way she had. In fact, she must have done, because although he was a quiet man who hated parties, he seemed to be out every night. And being introduced to her friends as a chef was embarrassing, since he was a baker, or a cake maker, or a patissier – but definitely not a chef.

When Aimee had run off after a man she’d secretly been having a fling with, just before the wedding, Jago’s heart and his already low self-esteem had taken a knock, but he was horrified to find there was also a tinge of relief that he wouldn’t have to live her lifestyle any more. He was exhausted, partying late and then getting up early for work.

Still, he’d loved her, and he’d certainly never run the risk of seeing her with someone else if he lived up in the north, because the Cotswolds were about the limit of civilisation as far as Aimee was concerned, unless she was organising a country house party in Scotland.

So he looked for a suitable property in Knutsford and Wilmslow, where David had first suggested, but they were very expensive … and anyway, he’d begun to fall in love with the area around Ormskirk, with its lush farmland and friendly people, and the long golden beach of Southport only a short drive away. And he wasn’t that far from his original search area. After all, croquembouches didn’t travel huge distances, perhaps four hours maximum, but that was still a good range.

A little more research showed that no one else was supplying them locally and, making his mind up, he switched his search to the villages surrounding Ormskirk.

Chapter 7: The Cult of Perfection

Stella was excited by the move to Sticklepond, and Celia looked after her and Toto while I was in the final throes of the packing, so they were spared the worst.

But I was so exhausted that it took me a couple of days to bounce back, before I resumed getting up with the larks. I’m an early morning person, as you’ve probably gathered, and I enjoy baking away to the sound of the radio while everyone else is still asleep … except Toto, of course, who was usually hanging around my feet hoping for fallen scraps as soon as he’d been out into the garden.

In London my view of the sky had been limited to the small patch above the paved area, but here I could hardly wait to see the first light coming up behind the copse of trees at the back of the house, while the village below us still slept in darkness.

That morning’s skies were streaked with pink, blueberry and silver, like a very special Eton mess. I wondered if I could devise a blueberry Sticklepond mess …

But that would have to be another day, for this one was to be devoted to macaroons and I wanted to get two articles out of it – a simple recipe for Sweet Home, and a longer piece all about this new macaroon shop that Ma had told me about, for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page. I’d already made a start on that one.

Since moving up to rural West Lancashire I’ve heard tell of a magical macaroon shop in a nearby market town, though it seems a bit of a mythical beast to find so far from London. I’ll let you know when I have investigated further, but meanwhile, here’s my own very good macaroon recipe.

Ma had gladly relinquished the kitchen to me, since she’d rarely done more than microwave a ready meal or slap a sandwich together in there herself, and already it had taken on a new and familiar persona, being now full of my mixers, bowls, implements, cookbooks and notebooks, with a laptop area in the pine breakfast nook in the corner.

I made plain macaroons and then some chocolate ones, which were delicious, and then typed some notes into the laptop. I was trying to build up an even bigger hoard of articles than I had before Stella was born, seeing I’d be occupied with other things in autumn and winter … and I still couldn’t quite believe that we were committed to flying across the ocean for a risky operation. My fear that she would fall ill before then was almost as extreme as my fear of the operation itself – even thinking about it made me eat four macaroons straight off, one after the other.

The magazine and newspaper were fine about my filing my articles from Lancashire (or they would be, once broadband had been installed in the cottage next week), and would send a photographer round as necessary, when they couldn’t use illustrations from stock. Actually, I prefer it when they use pictures of my baking, because I get loads of despairing mail from readers saying the things they make never look perfect, like in the cookery books, but they can see that most of mine don’t look like those either. Food needs to look good enough to eat, but it doesn’t need to win a beauty competition. I hate this cult of ‘food presentation’ where someone fiddles around with the food, adding a scoop of this and a dribble of that, and mauling it about, or the magazine hires a food stylist, which is a bit like airbrushing a naturally beautiful fashion model, setting an unattainable standard because it isn’t real.

Not me: I’d so much rather have a chunk of crumbling apple pie with a dollop of cream, or a delicious fruit fairy cake with slightly singed edges.

It’s probably just as well for my figure that I now have someone else to help me eat all my baking, though not so good for Ma’s. Not that Ma cares about her figure: she says she was born to be a dumpling and why fight nature?

Stella wandered into the kitchen in her pyjamas just as I was arranging a pyramid of chocolate macaroons on a plate, her silken hair in a tangle and dragging Bun, the large plush rabbit that Ma had bought her when she was born, by one ear. She looked at the cakes and removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to say, sleepily, ‘Awesome.’

‘I think I’ve been letting you watch too much TV while I’ve been unpacking and sorting out,’ I said ruefully.

Stella seemed no worse for the move now we’d settled in. We went to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool later in the week, where she was checked over thoroughly, though she was to be monitored regularly by Ormskirk Hospital, which was nearer, and only referred back in future for any problems … which I sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.

The vicar, Raffy Sinclair, came to call one afternoon – he often visited Ma, but this time he came specially to see me.

I’d never met him to speak to before, though I’d seen him about sometimes. He was a tall, handsome man, an ex-rock star who moved to the village a couple of years ago and married Chloe Lyon. When I went to her chocolate shop to buy the chocolate angel lolly for Stella’s Christmas stocking she’d said they had a little girl too, called Grace, though I think she is much younger than Stella. (And that big chocolate angel she gave me before Christmas had a most inspiring message inside, telling me not to fear the future. As I ate the delicious chocolate, I felt I was ingesting hope with it.)

Stella was having her afternoon nap when the vicar arrived so we were able to have a good talk. He knew about her problems, of course, because Ma had told him.

‘Martha says you’ve sold your flat and moved in here, in an effort to raise enough money to take your little girl to America for a life-saving operation,’ he said, when I’d made coffee and fetched in a plate of macaroons (I was still experimenting with flavours).

‘Yes,’ I said, and told him all about the operation and Stella’s medical condition – I really opened up and poured it all out, but he was the kindest man.

‘I still need about another twenty thousand pounds, I think, because all kinds of extra expenses keep cropping up. Someone advised me to take a qualified nurse on the plane there with me, for instance. And insurance – well, that’s difficult too.’

‘How long have you got to raise the money?’

‘The surgeon in Boston has pencilled her in for the start of November so we need to be there by the end of October. I ought to start booking the plane tickets and the hotel and so on … I’ve just waited to see how far off the target I was after selling the flat. My best friend, Celia, and her husband, Will, have been a huge help, setting up the Stella’s Stars fundraising site, which is getting lots of small donations, too.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make it – and I and the rest of Sticklepond will help you,’ he promised.

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m really a stranger here. I mean, we’ve only visited before, we aren’t really part of the community …’

‘Oh, that won’t matter,’ he said, and assured me that the villagers would all unite to support a good cause.

Ma, who’d wandered in at that moment still holding a fully loaded paintbrush, taken a macaroon and begun to leave again without seeming to notice the vicar, stopped and focused at that.

‘They may not for this one, because my family were never well liked in the village: I told you,’ she said to Raffy, taking the jade cigarette holder from her mouth and gesturing with it. A half-smoked red Sobranie dropped out of the end and Toto, who’d followed her in, sniffed at it before making friendly overtures to Raffy. I’d have warned him about getting white dog hairs on his black jeans if he hadn’t already got a liberal sprinkling there from his own little white dog, which I’d seen him out with sometimes.

‘I’ve heard the odd rumour about the Almonds,’ he admitted, ‘but it was something that happened so long ago that I think only the most elderly parishioners know the details. But when it comes to helping a child, I can’t see any of them thinking twice about it.’

‘Why exactly aren’t the Almonds well liked? You’ve never actually told me,’ I said, emboldened to press Ma by the presence of the vicar.

She straightened with the Sobranie in her hand, shoved it back in the holder, and then shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘It’s as the vicar says, an old story, and I don’t know all the details. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘The important thing is to raise the money,’ Raffy agreed, ‘and we’ll soon do that – so trust in the Lord and make all the bookings. There’s nothing the village likes so much as uniting to fight for a good cause – only look how we saw off those property developers in the village itself, and then managed to have planning permission for turning the Hemlock Mill site into a retail park overturned.’

‘True,’ Ma said, and then she suddenly seemed to become aware of the loaded brush in her hand and, without another word, went out again.

‘I wish she’d put a coat on, because that wind is cold, even if it is May,’ I said, watching her through the window as she started back up the garden towards the studio. Then Hal suddenly loomed up next to her from behind a clump of Fatsia japonica, draped his tweedy, shapeless jacket over her shoulders, and they turned and went up the steps together.

‘Hmm … I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hal smile before,’ Raffy said thoughtfully. ‘He usually looks like Indiana Jones on a bad day, crossed with just a hint of the Grim Reaper.’

‘They do seem to be good friends,’ I said noncommittally, ‘and he’s here quite a bit … though weekends and evenings, mostly. Perhaps today is his half-day from the Hall.’

‘I don’t think it is, actually,’ Raffy said, ‘but with the estate coming right up to his cottage on the other side of the lane, I expect he just popped back for something.’

He smiled at me. ‘Chloe said she’d had a nice chat with you before Christmas in the shop. She loves your “Cake Diaries” in the newspaper and says that you also write about cake in a magazine – I don’t know where you find the time,’ he said, taking another macaroon.

‘To be honest, sometimes I’m not too sure myself,’ I confessed. ‘Things have been slightly easier as Stella’s got older and stabilised, though she’s prone to infections and then we have to get her treatment straight away. Each bout seems to sap what energy she has …’

‘Yes, I don’t suppose she has a lot of resistance to things and it must be a huge worry to you.’

‘It is, and I really don’t want any more complications till we leave for Boston. She needs to put a little weight on before the surgery too. You’d think with all the cakes around she’d quickly do that anyway, but she’s the pickiest eater in the world.’

‘Unlike me,’ he said, ruefully eyeing the macaroon plate, now almost empty.

I asked suddenly, ‘You do think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you? Only the operation is experimental and although Dr Beems has been very successful with it, there are no guarantees …’

‘Of course you are. You’ve had to make the decision with your head, not your heart, because logically there’s no other course of action you can take, is there? If she doesn’t have it, you’ve been told that she doesn’t have a long-term future, it’s as simple as that.’

I felt better for hearing him spell it out. Then Stella woke up sounding a little fractious and I fetched her in to meet Raffy. She seemed to like the look of him – and who wouldn’t?

‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, digging out a Cellophane-wrapped chocolate figure from his pocket. ‘Chloe sent you a gift. Are you allowed chocolate now, before tea?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, ‘it’s very good chocolate.’

‘An angel,’ breathed Stella raptly, taking it.

‘Stella’s very into angels at the moment,’ I told Raffy. ‘I think it’s Ma’s fault for pointing out all the angels in the graveyard.’

‘And the funny little men with horns and tails in the window,’ Stella said.

‘Oh, yes, the Heaven and Hell window is great,’ he agreed.

‘Grandma paints angels in her pictures,’ Stella confided. ‘Flying ones with bird faces. Moses and Toto are flying round in her new one and Hal is holding on to the angel’s leg to stop it flying right off.’

‘I’d like to see that!’

‘I thought I saw an angel when I was having Stella,’ I told him, ‘and though Ma said it was a nun going by in a white habit, it seems to have stuck in her head. The oddest things do.’

‘You saw an angel? I must tell Chloe,’ he said, interested. ‘We’re both great believers in guardian angels. Get her to tell you about the time she saw one when she was a little girl.’

Stella announced that she was going to show the chocolate angel to her Sylvanian Families and vanished off back into her bedroom.

‘Transylvanian?’ Raffy asked, looking mildly surprised.

‘No, Sylvanian. They’re collectable toys, little fuzzy animals.’

‘Oh, right.’ He passed on an invite from Chloe to take Stella to her Mother and Toddler group, which met on Monday mornings up at the old vicarage.

‘If she’s well enough, it would be nice to go and meet other local mothers and children,’ I said, ‘though so far I’ve tended to avoid that kind of thing in case coughs and colds are going round.’

‘I’ll ask Chloe to warn you if there are,’ he promised. ‘But if not, I should give it a try and if Stella finds it too tiring, you needn’t stay long.’

‘You’re right, and it would get us out of Ma’s way for a bit too … Though actually, she doesn’t seem to mind Stella hanging around her, because in many ways they’re kindred spirits. Ma’s already said that she’d much prefer to keep an eye on Stella while I go into Ormskirk on Saturdays and do the big weekly supermarket shop than do it herself.’

‘Let me think about fundraising for the rest of the money, and I’ll get back to you with some ideas as soon as I can,’ Raffy said, getting up and shrugging into a long black leather coat. ‘We need an organised push to raise it quickly, but it will come,’ he assured me, and with a smile left me feeling hopeful, comforted and cheered.

When I got back after seeing him out, the last two macaroons had vanished from the plate and Toto and Moses were lying innocently before the stove.

‘You have crumbs in your whiskers,’ I told them coldly, before going to see what Stella was up to.

Chapter 8: The Happy Macaroon

On Thursday morning it was Stella’s first check-up at Ormskirk Hospital and although she is amazingly stoical about these things, I could gauge how stressed she was by the rate of the thumb-sucking.

But actually, when we got there it was not too bad. She was seen very quickly by a friendly consultant who was already up to speed on her condition and the projected operation in America.

She was quite pleased with Stella, but said she’d like to see her gain more weight – and so would I, though of course not too much, since that would also add strain to her heart and other organs … it’s a fine balance.

Afterwards, since Thursday was a market day, I drove into town and parked, so we could have a walk around. It was an ancient market and very good, though the part selling fruit, eggs, cheese and foodstuffs had vanished a few years back, which was a pity.

Ormskirk now had a huge and increasing student population, since the university on the edge seemed to be expanding like a mushroom every night, but it did give the place a new buzz.

I knew Stella was tired, but she still insisted on getting out of her buggy as soon as we’d got to the top of the hill from the car park. Ma had given her some money to buy a treat with, which I suspect was going to become a habit, and she’d also asked us to get her a new tube of yellow ochre oil paint from the art shop up a side street, so we went and did that first. Stella spent most of her money in there on a new watercolour paint box and a Hello Kitty pencil case, which reminded her of the mummy cat from one of her toy families.

After that we had a look in the bookshop and I was pleased to see they had both my cookbooks, though I didn’t tell them who I was since, as usual, I looked like a bagwoman down on her luck and I didn’t think they’d believe me. Then Stella climbed back into her buggy and we went to find the macaroon shop.

It was called the Happy Macaroon, according to the smart deep red and gold signboard and about fifteen different colours of macaroons were on display in the window, laid out in trays like so many rows of giant gaming counters. It looked upmarket and expensive, like a smart London shop in one of the arcades where I’d occasionally pressed my nose to the glass and stared at the culinary perfection within. I did much the same now: if Ma hadn’t already told me about the place, I’d have thought I was imagining it.