‘Now, remember what I told you,’ Spike warned. ‘Pay attention in Cookery this morning.’
They groaned.
‘Do we have to?’ said Jon.
‘If you want to lull Miss Palmer into a false sense of security then yes. Sorry and all that but that’s the way it is. Remember, if you want her to sample your creations, you have to make them look and taste worthy of the effort.’
‘He’s right, guys,’ said Al. ‘If we want to pull this off, she has to do what we want her to do.’
‘Exactly!’ said Spike. ‘So, all eyes and ears this morning. Okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah, okay,’ said Jon. ‘It just don’t seem right, that’s all, doing the exact opposite of what we’ve been trying to do for so long.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’
They passed into the classroom and their lesson. Miss Palmer was already there. She didn’t speak, just watched them warily as they took their places.
‘Now that we’re all finally here,’ she said, ‘perhaps we can get started. Now, as I intimated last week, this lesson will be concerned with the finer points of making a sponge cake.’
She paused, waited for the inevitable groan. But none came.
‘What, no howls of protest?’ she asked sarcastically. She looked pointedly at Al. ‘Not even from you, Alex Bristow?’
‘No, a cake’s okay, Miss,’ he said.
‘I’m so glad you approve. And what has brought about this sudden change of heart?’
‘Me mum’s just bought a dog.’
‘Your point being?’ said Miss Palmer, puzzled.
‘It’ll eat anything, even what you teach us to make.’
The class burst out laughing. Al glanced at the others. The look said it all. Nice one!
‘Yes, very amusing,’ Miss Palmer was saying above the laughter. ‘And it’s not how I teach it but how you learn it that counts. So, to cake making—and in particular, sponge cake making. The first thing you have to remember with a sponge is getting air into the mixture, and the best way to achieve this...’
She droned on, prattling enthusiastically about the technicalities of folding the mixture as opposed to mixing it. Al stifled a yawn and glanced at the others. Eddie seemed to be paying attention, but with Eddie, as many teachers knew only too well to their discomfort, paying attention and taking it all in are not quite the same thing.
Jon, too, wore an expression of rapt attention, perhaps too rapt for his liking, and he hoped his friend wouldn’t blow it by playing his new role too well.
As for Tony, well, he wore that same faintly haunted look they had come to know so well, legacy of a continuing war with no hope of peaceful resolution. As a result, no one could ever tell what he was thinking. That could be useful, sometimes.
That left only Spike. He had always afforded their various teachers the courtesy of at least looking interested in what they were saying, and this time was no exception. He just stood there silent, part of all this but not part of all this, their Trojan in the camp and ace up their sleeve. It didn’t matter what expression he wore: Miss would never suspect him of anything.
‘...Now, this time,’ Miss was saying, ‘rather than pairing off as usual, I want each of you to tackle this one on your own. Folding is an art and one that can only be mastered with a degree of practice. And some of you,’ she added, looking pointedly at Al again, ‘will need rather more than others. Okay, get cracking.’
Al reached for a mixing bowl and began to set his ingredients out in a neat row beside it. Flour, margarine, milk, eggs, sugar—it was all there, just what was he expected to do with it? He thought he remembered something about starting with the marge and sugar so he lobbed them into the bowl and set about them with a fork, mashing them together into a faintly creamy paste that looked as though it might be right. He hoped so, anyway.
So what was next? Eggs. He cracked one over the side of the bowl and dribbled its contents onto the paste then checked to see that no pieces of shell had escaped to cause a nasty surprise later. This he repeated with the other egg then swirled them into the paste until it looked no longer faintly creamy but faintly gooey.
That left only the milk—no, the milk and the flour, both to be added and mixed in small quantities until the right consistency was reached. But just what was the right consistency?…And how did he know when he’d made the right amount of mixture, when to stop adding?…And then there was all this folding stuff Miss had been going on about…And—
‘Having problems, Alex Bristow?’
He blinked, looked up. ‘Uh…what makes you think that, Miss?’
‘You seem to have come to a complete stop, that’s what.’ She stepped round the table to stand beside him, to look down at the bowl and his efforts so far. ‘So what are you waiting for?’
‘Uh—’ Think, you fool! ‘—I’m not sure if this is right, Miss. Looks a bit thin to me.’
‘As if you would know!’ She picked up the fork and gave the mixture a couple of swirls. ‘It’s fine—always assuming, of course, that you’ve left the shells out this time.’
‘Yeah, I’ve left them out, Miss.’
‘You’re slipping. So what comes next?’
‘Er…the milk and flour?’
‘Very good!’ she said sarcastically. ‘And what brings you to that brilliant deduction?’
‘’Cos that’s all I’ve got left.’
‘I knew there had to be simple explanation. Okay, let’s see you add the milk and flour.’
Panic! Sudden, gut-wrenching panic! He knew he’d have to pay attention to her in class, like Spike had said, but he hadn’t banked on her paying attention to him.
‘Uh…you mean now, Miss?’
‘Now is as good a time as any. Why? Do you have a problem with this particular point in the space/time continuum?’
‘Uh…no…I just—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, ‘you weren’t listening!
‘Yes I was—!’
‘God, I knew it was too good to be true!’ She grabbed the bowl, yanked the fork out and tossed it onto the table then rapped out a single word. ‘Watch!’
She slopped a little milk into the marge and egg and sugar goo then picked up the flour and sprinkled a light dusting over it. Then she picked up a plastic spatula and, holding it like a knife, cut down the centre of the mixture, turned the spatula on its side and sliced under one half and folded it over into the cut. Then she turned the bowl through 90 degrees and repeated the operation. And so it went on—flour, cut, fold, turn—until the mixture began to look a little less gooey, a little more solid, a little more like a cake mixture was supposed to look. She stopped, looked down at him.
‘There! Do you think you can manage that?’
Without waiting for an answer, she dropped the spatula into the bowl and walked off, leaving him to stare down at it in wonder. She’d made it look so easy! But could he manage the same? Only one way to find out…
He sprinkled some flour into the mixture. Careful…Not too much. Then he took the spatula in his hand and sliced the mixture in just the way he’d seen Miss do it. Was that right? It certainly looked the same as when Miss did it, he had to admit. So how about if he just slid the spatula under…and lifted it…and folded it Plop! right over on itself, right into the middle of the cut. Just as Miss had done. Even exactly as Miss had done. Damn, I’m good!
You know, he thought as he swivelled the bowl for a second try, this is easy…