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It was a beautiful, peaceful, autumnal morning in the South Downs. So peaceful, in fact, that even the ducks were settled down for a lie-in.
The peace was shattered by an angel and a lesbian.
‘Watheduece are you doinggg?’ Crowley asked from under his many blankets. The alarm clock blared, reading a cheery 5AM.
‘Preparations for the fair! I refuse to lose two years in a row. It simply won’t do.’
Crowley groaned and stuck his head under his pillow. It was going to be a long, long bank holiday weekend.
-
In the Anderson household, a similar conversation was taking place. Mel thought about the fair with mild dread as she followed her wife to the kitchen. Rita typically wasn’t one for feuds or mayhem, (that was more her forte,) but once something rankled her, it rankled her. To make it worse, Rita wasn’t content with a mere insult or fistfight. Oh no. Rita Anderson planned. She planned their downfall in meticulous detail to a degree that even the greatest chess players in the world would’ve trembled before her.
It started with the affectionately dubbed Egg Overload. Rita had taken first place, with Aziraphale second. All fine and dandy.
However, the two auld biddies down the road, Mrs Marszalek and Mrs Swanson, had taken great offence. They were like the Batman and Robin of taking needless great offence. So, when the autumn fair rolled around, and with it the new Team Baking category, they’d gone and snatched the victory out of Team Angel’s grasp.
There were whispers in the gardening club of corruption. The judge seemed to have rather a lot of vouchers for the shop Mrs Swanson’s daughter in law worked at.
So no. It wouldn’t do to lose again.
-
The Anderson’s moved to the Fell’s kitchen. Crowley kept it spick and span and clearly organised so obviously it was the best location for a baking free for all. A mix of antique and modern cookbooks stood on ornate bookstands. Extra pots, pans, and baking dishes had been procured from the depths of Rita’s cupboard. Aziraphale and his partner in baking stood staring at the lists upon lists stuck to the fridge.
‘Ready?’ He asked her.
‘Of course. I’ve trained for this day.’
With that, they hit the baking with the force of Alexander’s army.
Crowley and Mel watched from the doorway. Even the ducks had left their warm coop to sit, wing to wing, on the outside windowsill. It was a scene of organised chaos and perfectly synchronised sifting.
‘HOWS THE WALNUT CAKE BATTER?’ Rita yelled over the mixers and extractor fans and Vera Lynn on the record player.
‘ABOUT TO GO IN THE OVEN. THE OAT BISCUITS?’
‘IN THE FRIDGE.’
‘OF COURSE! THE DOUGH NEEDS TO CHILL OVERNIGHT! WHY, I FORGOT.’
‘THAT LEAVES US WITH EXTRA TIME.’
‘IT DOES.’ And he flicked through the cookbook.
He turned around and fixed Crowley with a stare like a particularly fluffy barn owl.
‘Be a dear and check the coop. I require eggs.’
Crowley knew better than to argue that it was early and misty and cold. He grabbed his ultra thick, hand-knitted scarf and braved the elements for the sake of his partner’s reputation and the good of bake-kind.
-
The following day was much of the same. Long hours baking, while Crowley and Mel acted as assistants. They changed records, ran to the shops, and watched from a respectful distance like it was their own mini bake-off. Mel reported back from the shop that Mrs Marzalek and Mrs Swanson had raided the bakery section.
‘Icing?’ Aziraphale exclaimed. ‘They bought icing?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘What kind of barbarians don’t even make their own icing for a competition? Has society fallen? Are these the end times?’ Rita said.
‘Nah.’ Crowley said. ‘The end times are very different.’
-
Granted, it felt like an apocalypse when they hit ‘crunch time.’ Crowley wasn’t sure that crunch time was actually meant to include stress-eating shop-bought packets of biscuits, but he wasn’t one to judge.
He didn’t have time to judge.
They’d ran out of oven space, which left Mel and Crowley to heft tins of batter and trays of biscuits and dishes of pies to the Anderson’s oven. At this rate, another one would have to Miraculously appear. Even as they left, laden down with sugary delights, they could hear the back and forth of the bakers.
‘RITA, I NEED THOSE MERINGUE KISSES.’
‘THEY’RE IN THE TUB.’
‘AND THE BUTTERSCOTCH?’
‘SIDEBOARD. HOWS THE TARTE TARTIN?’
‘EXTREMELY TART.’
‘I LEAVE IT IN YOUR CAPABLE HANDS.’
‘AND THE MILK ON THE STOVE?’
‘MILK ON THE- OH BUGGER!’
Crowley sighed. He’d be scrubbing milk off the walls for weeks.
-
At long last, it was fair day. Crowley took more care transporting the baked goods than he had the baby Antichrist, and it took multiple trips from the Bentley to the judges’ tent to bring everything.
The judges’ looked at the table and then at the rules. There was no limit on number of baked goods, just number of people in a team. That might’ve been an oversight. Still, they had a baking competition to judge, at least five teams to keep from coming to blows, and a lot of sugar to get through.
But first, a speech.
One of the judges, an extremely elderly woman with a hearing aid and no concept of volume, shouted to be heard over the imaginary din of happy fairgoers outside the tent.
‘THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR ATTENDING THIS YEARS CHARITY BAKING COMPETITION. ALL FUNDS RAISED WILL BE GOING TO THE FUND FOR A CHILDREN’S CHARITY, AND THE WINNER WILL RECEIVE THE COVETED BLUE RIBBON. LET THE JUDGING COMMENCE.’
The rules were that the fairgoers couldn’t take a portion until after the competition. Still, the temptation was so great that several bored teenagers had been enlisted to keep the hungered hordes away from the sweets.
‘TEAM ANGEL HAS PRESENTED- good lord- UM, TEAM ANGEL, WHAT EXACTLY HAVE YOU MADE?’
Aziraphale beamed innocently. ‘Oat biscuits, apple pie, pumpkin and meringue pie, pond pudding, plum tarte tatin, apple crumble, blackberry scones, white chocolate and raspberry traybakes, rocky road, dark chocolate and orange biscuits, gingerbread, shortbread, chocolate chip shortbread, millionaires shortbread, brioche, walnut and butterscotch cake, duck egg quiche, coffee cake, coffee and walnut cake, pear tarts, eckles cakes, blackberry pavlova, and a black forest gateau.’
Even the bored teenagers looked impressed. The slightly shellshocked judges turned to Mrs Marszalek and Mrs Swanson.
‘AND TEAM HYDRANGEA, WHAT HAVE YOU MADE?’
‘Um. Sponge cake.’
‘WELL, A HOMEMADE SPONGE ISN’T SO BAD.’
‘It’s from a packet.’ Said Mrs Swanson. Mrs Marszalek looked murderous.
‘ICING?’
‘From the shop.’
‘CAKE?’
‘From a packet.’
‘THE PLATE?’
‘Plastic.’
‘... OH DEAR.’
-
‘I think it’s safe to say, that was a smash hit.’ Crowley said, pouring herself another celebratory drink.
‘Rubbed it in their smug wee faces.’ Said Mel, practically on her wife’s lap.
‘My dear, it was for charity. We were raising money for the, er-’
‘Pensioners?’ Rita interrupted Aziraphale.
‘No matter! We did it for charity.’
‘Which makes it a good deed and therefore very holy and blah blah blah.’ His partner told him.
‘You really do take every opportunity to mock me.’
‘And you miss every opportunity to make me behave.’
Aziraphale sighed. ‘Shall we make a toast while we’re all still in control of our faculties? What to?’
‘To showing up that fandan n her wee diddy?’
‘To my ladies?’
‘To baking?’
‘Rita wins. To baking!’
‘TO BAKING!’ They cheered.
It was a good night in the South Downs. There were leftover biscuits, plenty of good wine, and wonderful company. Not to mention the shiny blue ribbon.
It was a good night, indeed.