Read Baking Day. Eternal love of a mother . Page 1
Baking Day
By Robert Renshaw 2008
Published by Robert f Renshaw
Copyright 2008
SCENE ONE
3am a dark cold drizzly night.
A stone kitchen 1700-1800 period, slightly modernized but still retaining its original cobbled floor is lit by recessed soft lights.
In the corner a large stone oven glows, bigger than a modern pizza oven.
A large country timber table set with a silver pot of heated milk warms above a small fondue flame.
A large metal platter is centre pieced and placed around the table are colorful plates and ceramic glasses.
A little open shelf full of decorative metal tins is pride of place beside the oven.
An elegant elderly, stout, woman(QM) dressed in a gaily ornate apron is happily cooking, wearing a large hat that covers her gray, thinning hair.
She is slowly placing metal trays of freshly made cookies into the oven, and removing the hot baked ones on the trays with a large timber splay.
She places the first lot of steaming hot delights upon the table.
A large stable type door is to the left of the oven, and a small stone spiral staircase leads up to the main residence.
Soft music by Mozart is playing on an old radio.
Through the mist, a man (LM) enters via the stable door. Shaking himself dry, in his old century style attire, pencil thin moustache with sideburns, aged about fifty,who is elegant and happy.
(LM) “Smells better in here than those damp cold stables. Baking days are my favourite, what delights are to be made today? I cant wait”.
A loud matronly voice sternly berates the man. An elderly woman (QV) is sitting rocking slowly in a chair in a darkened corner of the kitchen, close to the open fire, but away from the working area.
(QV) “Did you clean your boots you oath? Wash your hands before you come anywhere near that table.”
A cold stare forces him outside to remove the residue of manure and straw from his boots. The sound of running water and the shaking dry of his hands satisfied the matron, although his movement to dry his hands on her apron was slapped away with a wooden spoon and a huff. He laughed loudly and sat down at the table pouring warm milk from the urn.
(LM) “Will it be long? I âm starving his voice echoed. What flavoursome treats today are you ladies baking”?
(QM) “Sultana and orange peel with white chocolate toppings are being made now”.
She answered as she busied herself around the oven whilst keeping a close eye on a small copper pot simmering with white chocolate toppings on an old woodfired stove.
(LM) “I am starving! Please hurry, what are you making, Happy?”
His question directed towards (QV) the matron, a slight smile creased his cheeks as he awaits the sharp answer.
(QV) “You are a spoiled child, you can wait”.She continued to stir the contents slowly, in a large metal bowl, on her lap .
“Blanched almond and nutmeg buttons when is it my turn, you may have one, if one does break” her voice commanded the room.
(LM) “Where is the youngster?” His question aimed at anyone who could answer.
From the darkness of the stairway a reply came.
(H8) “Probably trying to ensure her children stay asleep, as you beg like a common monger for a mere morsel, and wake thee whole house.”
The voice was followed by a fattish elderly man portly and dressed comfortably, he limped and groaned slowly towards a large chair at the head of the table. His face was red and he lifted his swollen leg, resting it on to a small padded stool.
H8) “You should have a job as a fog horn on a barge, you devouring pest.” His remarks directed to (LM).
Thunder and lightning filled the windows with the constant rain steadily getting heavier