Somewhere behind the sounds of the storm was a kind of muffled tune, he listened more carefully but still couldn’t make it out. Whatever it was had a satisfying rhythm, like the songs the women of the highlands sang when cleansing the wool to eliminate oils and other impurities. A beat-driven work song, but he didn’t think it was a textile industry out there in the main room, he was getting faint whiffs of warm yeast, cinnamon, and something much sweeter, which was making his tummy rumble.
Noting that the voices were all female he snapped his fingers and once dressed suitably he slid behind the curtain and slunk down unnoticed onto his desk chair. Instantly the coaster furnished him with a steaming mug of coffee.
The Emporium was a bakery, one from long ago before the intervention of any gadgets. The ladies, clad in dull brown dresses, aprons that were once probably white, and a cloth hair net were working in synchronisation, rolling and kneading the dough as they sung.
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man. Bake me a cake, as fast as you can.
Pat it, prick it, and mark it with B. Put it in the oven for baby and me.
Each new verse was a different letter … mark it with L for Lily and me, mark it with B for Betty and me, mark it with A for Agnes and me until they’d exhausted their own names and then the mischief started. Mark it with T for Thomas and me sang Betty. There were gales of laughter, whoever he was it was obvious that he was out of their league, as was Oliver and John, but evidently Jamie was one that was already hooked, judging by the raucous comments about upcoming nuptials and the references to buns-in-ovens that had Lily blushing. It was hard graft but they seemed happy enough. Thrumps leaned back to watch, it was obvious that he had no part to play in whatever was happening this night.
The ladies had laboured at the wood fired stove relentlessly and the counter was now full of the most amazing traditional treats, sweet and savoury pies, sausages in pastry, gingerbread fingers, lardy cake, and all sorts of chocolates and confectionary and as the grandfather clock sounded midnight the customers began to file through the open doors.
Something Thrumps did not expect was people to bring stuff they had prepared at home, apparently along with being a traditional bakery, this was also a kind of communal bakehouse. He leaned forward to try and hear what was going on.
“Right you are my love,” one of the bakers said taking a huge pudding basin from a young girl. “You sit yourself down by the fire, this’ll be ready by the time you’ve had a warm.” The girl eagerly did as she was told.
Grateful for a bit of a rest Thrumps thought, bet it’s not often scullery maids get to put their feet up.
The pudding was a meat one, judging by the gravy on the side of the pastry. As the baker handed it back, the girl was now an old lady.
“This brings back so many memories,” she said handing over some cash with a smile. “I used to love coming here on a Saturday morning, just to get a few minutes to myself was always worth the long trek.”
The next urchin looked more like he belonged in the stables not a kitchen.
“Cum-on young-en,” one of the ladies scolded. “We’ve not got all day you know,” and with that she playfully cuffed his ears. He giggled and offered up a crumpled, stale mess of a pastie. The baker took it and before she had a chance to say anything the lad had scarpered to the side of the fire, obviously hiding. She smiled and popped the offending article on the warming plate. A few minutes later he was clutching it again as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
Maybe it was Thrumps mused.
The man that now stood before her tipped his cap. “You will never know what a life saver you were when it was cold,” he told her. “Mum couldn’t afford much, well no one could really apart from them in the big house, but you always made sure we had something extra to munch,” he said with tears in his eyes.
And so it went on until the early hours of the morning. Person after person reliving the past, well the nice bits which the bakery obviously was. Each one was slipped a freshly cooked cinnamon bun along with whatever it was that they had brought in to be cooked, just as they had been all those years ago. And every child always got a tiny pink sugar mouse wrapped in rice paper.
Thrumps hoped they couldn’t hear his tummy rumbling.
Once the doors closed Lily let out a huge sigh.
“Stick kettle on Agnes.”
They gratefully slumped down in the wooden chairs and put their feet up on stools under the work counter, mugs of hot tea in hand and each picked at a still the warm glazed bun.
Betty looked directly at Thrumps. “Want one?”
He nodded and joined them, bringing his own mug of coffee.
“Didn’t think you knew I was there,” he said, finally being able to savour the taste of warm orange and cinnamon that had been making his mouth-watering all night.