BANGLE MAG - Magazine - Page 33
The tables have been pushed together and covered with a red and white checked seersucker tablecloth.
Pale spring sun warms the window where potted miniature da昀昀odils brighten the sill. It’s a beautiful day
for a party. The manager has been kind, letting me take over the kitchen for the afternoon.
Ticking o昀昀 items on my 昀椀ngers I push away traitorous thoughts of my favourite bite sized delicacies;
smoked salmon nibbles topped with decadent caviar, rich pate spread on wafer thin French toast, with
individual lemon meringues for dessert, sharp and sweet in a single mouthful.
Not for this party. Sandwiches - egg and cress, ham, cheese, on sliced white bread. Cut into triangles,
of course. Free range eggs collected this morning at the village farm shop, their yolks bright and thick.
Cress, home grown. Cocktail sausages, sausage rolls, pork pies. Crisps; plain, salt and vinegar, cheese and
onion. That’s the main course sorted. Had we really been satis昀椀ed with so little?
Second course. Pink wafer biscuits, Party Rings and Iced Gems. Thank goodness all are still available in
the supermarket. Ice cream of course. Neapolitan. I only like the vanilla bit. The strawberry is too sweet
for me, the chocolate not to my taste. And jelly. Orange jelly, currently setting in the fridge in mum’s old
glass mould, shaped like a rabbit. I only hope it will still look like a rabbit when I serve it.
‘Gran, we’ve found them - GG will love them!’ Darcy, pink cheeked with excitement, holds out a packet of
those sticky biscuits with lemon 昀氀avoured cream. Mum’s favourites. The advantage of an April birthday
which often coincides with Easter, is the excuse to make chocolate corn昀氀ake nests, topped with Cadbury
mini eggs. Darcy’s favourites. She and I had made them this morning. It seems to be my fate to cater to
all tastes but my own. It’s my birthday, but not my feast.
Now for the cake. I place a paper doily over the top of the Victoria Sponge. Shaken through a sieve, icing
sugar pu昀昀s up, whitening my hands and catching in my throat. I lift the doily, leaving a traditional lacy
pattern.
I turn to Darcy, my precocious, livewire, eight-year-old wannabe actress.
‘Remember what we talked about?’
‘GG sometimes gets confused. Forgets who’s who.’
Great-gran was too big a mouthful for her to manage when Darcy was a toddler. It was soon shortened to
GG and the nickname had stuck.
‘And what will you say if she calls you Alice?’
There’s no time for Darcy to answer. Mum pushes her wheeled Zimmer frame into the room
and scans the table.
‘The caterer did a good job, didn’t she, Alice? I want your birthday party to be perfect.’
I’ve been demoted from daughter to sta昀昀, but that’s 昀椀ne. It’s not her fault, I know that. Even so, my eyes
prickle. I turn away and push candles into the cake, as Darcy accepts mum’s hug.
‘It’s lovely! Thank you, Mummy.’
THE BIRTHDAY TEA
by Kathy Goddard
33
