your parents are in just as much need of chocolate cakes as anyone else?’ My current class is made up of all ages as they are the children of key workers.
Alfie nods shyly.
‘What about you, Pritti?’
‘My mum loves cakes. She makes them all the time.’
No pressure then. ‘It will be nice for you to make her some in that case.’ I have a hideous flashback to the time I volunteered to make cakes with the reception class during teaching practice. The look of horror on the headteacher’s face when she happened to come into the room, which was mostly decorated with icing sugar and flour, as well as the children who were pretty much covered, will probably stay with me forever.
Pritti smiles. ‘I don’t think she’s made crispy cakes before.’
I notice Zane peeking at the bowls and ingredients with a worried look on his face. Zane is only four and a cute little lad, but always painfully shy. I hoped he would come out of his shell more with fewer students in the class, but if anything he’s become even more timid. Hopefully he’ll enjoy it more once we get the chocolate out. You can’t really go far wrong with these. Or at least I hope not, as I think of Pritti’s mother, who is a professional pastry chef. I start to put out the ingredients, making sure Zane has some pictures to follow to make it easier for him. It’s been a real struggle to get all the utensils because of course we have to have six bowls, six spoons – six of everything, basically, or we’ll never keep up social distancing.
‘So I’ve placed a bowl on each table and next to it all the things you will need to make your mixture. When I call your name each of you will come up and I’ll use the plug-in hob to melt your chocolate. Of course we will have to make sure we keep two metres apart – the length of a broom.’ I point at the chart on the wall.
It works more smoothly than I’d hoped and after an hour, each child miraculously has a plate of chocolate crispy cakes next to them.
‘Can we eat them now?’ asks Milo, a crispy cake poised halfway into his open mouth.
‘You can have one, once you’ve each gone and washed your hands again, but take the rest home for your parents. They’ve been working hard and deserve them.’
‘But, Miss Trent, Zane has eaten nearly all of his.’
Oh, good grief. While I’ve had my back turned, Zane has eaten four of his cakes. They say it’s always the quiet ones you have to watch. I really hope he isn’t going to be sick.
‘Did he really eat all of them?’ Jess asks with a laugh, on FaceTime that evening. I am exhaustedly slumped on my sofa eating my own batch of chocolate crispy cakes.
‘Most of them.’ I chuckle. ‘I just hope he isn’t sick when he gets home or his mum will be after me. I gave him a load of spares I made so at least he got to take some for his family – if he didn’t eat them on the way home.’
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ says Jess, ‘spending all day surrounded by kids.’
‘I’m not exactly surrounded,’ I say amused. ‘There are only six of them in at the moment. Anyway, they’re brilliant; they say what they think, unlike most adults. And it’s a good excuse to do fun stuff.’
‘Wish you could send one of those cakes down the phone,’ Jess groans. ‘They look delicious.’
‘They are.’ I finish popping another cake in my mouth and put the others to one side. I feel mean eating them in front of Jess. It seems rude somehow. This lockdown has taken away any pleasure in eating with people, other than those you are with. It’s all very well saying we can FaceTime or Zoom, but there is something so basic about our need to be together, to eat and celebrate special events with each other, not in our own separate little universes. ‘How are the plans going?’
‘Good. I’ve finished paying for the dress, the suits are sorted and the hotel has kindly agreed to refund the reception.’
‘Decent of them.’
‘I guess they haven’t any choice.’
‘No, but I kind of feel sorry for hotels, restaurants and bars; how are they supposed to make a living?’ I wonder.
‘You feel sorry for everyone. That’s your trouble; you’re too soft.’