Elliot swallowed hard, his face flushing. ‘I will never not worry about losing control of my temper in front of a team of boys who consider me their role model. If anything, them liking me only makes it worse.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘I’m really not sure I should do this. It’s not only the Saturday matches; Simonson entered them into a tournament, the Sherwood Forest Cup. As far as the boys are concerned, it might as well be the world cup.’
‘Do you want to try?’ I asked, my heart clenched behind my ribs.
He gave a small, slow nod. ‘I do.’
‘Then I’ll be there to watch your back, next time. If you start screaming and waving your hands about I’ll give you a quick poke in the ribs.’
‘Thank you.’
I tried not to flush at the thought of touching Elliot’s torso.
‘Thankyou. I really need that rent discount.’
Not to mention that helping Elliot to succeed at doing something he cared about, being able to feel good about playing such a positive role in the community, doing such a great thing for these kids? That was priceless.
15
The following morning, I prised Wendy out of her kitchen for a chat in the café. The clear blue skies had been replaced with a grey, chilly murk, just in case we’d forgotten that British weather had a mind of its own. So, with only the hardiest Outlaws braving a blanket over their knees on the terrace, the room had a pleasant buzz of people enjoying their tea and cake inside. She plonked a tray bearing two mugs of coffee and three tiny cake squares on our table.
‘See what you make of these,’ she said, her bright blue eyes like lasers beneath a grey fringe, the only section of her hair that wasn’t a buzz cut.
‘They all look delicious,’ I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt. Wendy, like a lot of people who are brilliant at what they do, projected a formidable air of brisk confidence.
‘They are. Which one is the best?’
I took three timid nibbles of what turned out to be chewy, gooey, chocolatey flapjacks, washing down each bite with the coffee so it looked as though I was taking the task seriously.
‘The coconut one is my favourite, but I love anything coconutty. This one – hazelnut? – isn’t quite sweet enough for my taste. But that’s just me, of course!’
‘No, you’re right. Eli said the same.’ She picked up the hazelnut and the other, minty, square and tossed them in the bin a few metres away.
‘Um, they were still lovely. I would have finished them.’
‘Why settle for less than excellence?’ She gave me a piercing stare as if genuinely expecting me to reply to that question.
‘Why indeed?’ I had several answers to that, all from personal experience. Lack of talent, too busy, too lazy, too poor… but ended up producing an awkward laugh that sounded more like a faulty drain.
‘Anyway.’ I tried to sound like the competent, capable activities coordinator I planned to be, opening my notebook, now full of random musings, and clicking my pen a few times. ‘As you know, I’ve been brought in to overhaul the weekly programme.’
‘I didn’t know that. As long as it doesn’t affect my kitchen, I don’t give a crap what happens out here.’
‘Right. Well, what I wanted to talk to you about might involve the kitchen.’
Wendy tipped up her chin, eyes narrowing. I took a quick swallow of coffee and ploughed on.
‘You may not be aware that Glenda, who happens to be sat in that corner, used to run a cake business. Seamus, who isn’t here today, managed a waffle and doughnut kiosk. Rhianna was a school cook for thirty-seven years. So, in talking to some of the others, and bearing in mind that particularly for those with dementia, using their existing skills can be really positive, I was wondering whether we can hold some sort of Great Barnish Bake-Off.’
Wendy’s eyes were now tiny slits.
‘It would only be a trial. To start with. To see if it works.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this was simply a friendly chat with a colleague. I wasn’t onDragon’s Den, and Wendy – whatever she might think – didn’t own exclusive rights to the kitchen. ‘We would need to use the kitchen.’
I think she may have actually sucked in a tiny hiss.
‘If I give you enough notice, I thought you could plan something simple for lunch that day, so it won’t take long to clear up, and we could then do the baking in the afternoon. Say, one-thirty until three-thirty, with a half-hour for tasting the results before everyone leaves.’
