My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts
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of fresh. Some oil – she’d use sunflower; it said vegetable, but that would be fine. She then measured out the water she needed from the tap into a glass jug.
Okay, here goes. Everything went in at once, apparently. Oops, but not all of the water; she quickly stopped pouring. ‘Mix to a firm dough,’ she read. Her hands went in and were soon covered up to her wrists in soft, gloopy paste. This was sooo messy. It reminded her of Play-Doh from when she was a kid, but even that stuff hadn’t been half as mucky as this. This was more like something you’d fill cracks in the walls with. Actually, it might just come in handy for the cottage – stick the old walls back together where they’d begun to crumble.
‘Push with the heel of your hand and fold back in.’ She had to keep oiling the work surface as the dough kept sticking to it, but gradually it started to become firmer, more elastic. She was meant to do this for ten minutes. That hadn’t sounded bad, but after five minutes her hand was aching and the mix didn’t seem anywhere near bouncy and smooth like it was supposed to be. Smooth? Knobbly and falling apart was more like it. She kept going. Push out and roll in. At least the rhythm of kneading was taking her mind off things. After a while it appeared to be rolling as one piece and felt springy under her palm. Eleven minutes; that would do. Next she had to put it in an oiled bowl. She covered the dough with a tea towel as directed and left it on the side.
She felt less like Mary Berry and more like the contender who gets chucked out in the first round. Or more likely one of the ones who never actually made it as far as the Bake Off tent.
The deed was done, the bread was left to rise. The recipe said it needed at least an hour and a half for this stage. Time to pour herself a nice chilled glass of the Pinot Grigio she’d picked up from the all-in-one store after visiting the deli, and sit outside. The clouds had dispersed after a short, sharp shower and – wonderfully – the sun was back out. Claire found a fusty-looking wine glass in a kitchen cupboard, gave it a wash and then took the bottle from the fridge and unscrewed the lid. The smell was fragrant and fruity; she poured herself a medium-sized glass.
She went outside and sat on one of the wooden put-me-up chairs at the little wonky table in her small patch of scabby-grassed garden. Looking out across the sea with its breezy, choppy waves glinting in the sunlight, she took a long, slow sip of her wine. Apples and herbs and vanilla hit her all at once. Wow, it was great to taste properly again. The chemo had dulled every sense, diminishing her taste buds, but gradually they were coming back. She wouldn’t drink too much alcohol, of course, wary of abusing her body that had already been through so much. But a little of what you fancied …
She’d taken her phone out with her – hopeful, considering the poor signal; but within a few moments a text beeped through.
It was her sister, Sally. How’s it going, Clairebo? x A nickname struck up between them over a penchant for Haribo sweets.
Fine, all good x, she texted back. Short and sweet. She’d try and ring her later, walk up a dune and catch a better signal.
Sure? Sally bounced back. Protective about her little sis as always.
Of course. Just chilling here. Enjoying the sea view.
Not bored of your own company yet then?
No, I’m not that bad company am I?
Nah, course not. How’s the cottage? Cute?
Hah. Claire gave a wry grin. Thank God Sal couldn’t see it falling apart behind her. Quirky was the most honest answer she was going to give.
Thinking of coming down to see you for the day next Saturday. Okay with you?
Bang went her solitude. But hey, they’d always got on, even if her sister could be a bit bossy at times; that seemed to be par for the course with older sisters. And Sal had always looked out for her, had been a good shoulder to lean on throughout her cancer treatment.
Yes, that’d be nice. I’ll ring you in the week. Tell you how to find the cottage.
Great.
Mark and the kids fine?, Claire tapped in.
Yeah, all good here. See you soon x
See you next week! x
So she’d be getting a visitor.
An hour passed. Claire went back in to sneak a look at her creation. The dough had doubled at least, so she must have done something right. She then thought she’d better turn on the oven at that point. Gas Mark 6, the recipe said – this gas stuff was so unfamiliar; her oven at home was electric and in Celsius. She turned the knob, then realized there was also an ignition button, pushed at it with the cooker door open so she could see what was happening, and watched a blue flame run along the back of the oven. All seemed fine.
Half an hour later she was back inside kneading the dough again. She’d thought it would be ready to go in the oven at this stage, but on rereading the recipe she realized it needed a further hour of ‘proving’ after she’d done a bit more kneading and shaped it into an oval-styled bloomer. Blimey. All this for one loaf of bread. It had better be worth it. She could have walked to the deli and back a couple of times by the time it would be ready and picked up something probably a lot more yummy from Lynda’s artisan bread basket.
Finally the loaf was ready to go into the oven with a dusting of flour on the top. It would be ready in thirty minutes, apparently. She checked her watch. It was four hours since she’d started. Oh my.
Half an hour later, she opened the oven door cautiously … Here goes. The loaf looked rather pale. She took it out, but it didn’t feel quite right under her touch. Should it be bouncier, crispier? She hazarded a guess that it wasn’t quite done and popped it back in for ten minutes. It was smelling lovely, there was nothing quite like the scent of freshly baked bread. Maybe some things were worth waiting for.
The bloomer finally came out looking golden and generally the right kind of shape. She ought to let it cool, but the fresh-baked smell kept drawing her back to the kitchen. She couldn’t wait any longer and was soon slathering butter onto a just-cut slice. Hmm, pretty good. It was tasty – maybe a touch on the doughy side, but not at all bad for a first attempt. It would go well with the rest of the soup for supper, or perhaps make a scrummy bacon sandwich.
As evening approached after a long, relaxed afternoon with her book, she sat out on the deckchair on her first-floor balcony watching shades of bold pink and peach diffuse the sky over a sunset sea. With her second glass of chilled white wine to hand, she sat quite still, listening to the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore. A pair of black-and-white terns swooped steadily across the bay, then headed inland over the dunes to roost.
She’d popped a cardigan on over her T-shirt. It was a balmy evening nonetheless, calm and still. It was beautiful here, so very peaceful; the solitude restful. Yes, she’d enjoy seeing her sister at the end of next week, but for now this was what she needed. In fact, despite the run-down state of the cottage, this was just about perfect.
The next morning, Claire was up early again. She wandered out onto the bedroom’s balcony to greet the day and spotted the six a.m. pile of clothes – a little further up the beach this time. Her heart gave a little leap. Damn, she must have missed him going out. But hey, she was definitely going to settle down on the deckchair for the view on his way back in. Her cup of tea could wait.
Of course he was much further away from the cottages this time, probably being cautious now he knew there was someone next door. She sat watching for a while, and then there he was, swimming towards the shore and rising out of the water, tall, toned, dripping in salt water and stark-bollock-naked yet again. Oh yes, what a body. It felt like her guilty secret – lurking in the shadows of her balcony admiring the ‘sea view’. But she just couldn’t resist. Even if he was a grumpy-ass, she didn’t have to speak with him to admire his fit physique.
She had a pretty chilled-out day after