Highly Commended 3 - Short Story Competition 2015

"Beating Michael Jacobson"
by Elizabeth Ducie

"It's mine, Michael Jacobson, all mine; and there's nothing you can do about it!" I mutter as I stroll into the kitchen, nose twitching at the warm aroma.

It was another busy year for the Garden and Produce Society. At the Spring Show, Michael came first in three classes and I took the other two. The Summer Show was a tie; we won one class each, the third going to a recent newcomer to the village. She wasn't in the running for the trophy this year, but she would need watching next time around.

Now we're on the final stretch: autumn fruits and speciality cooking. Neither Michael nor I have any fruit trees and he doesn't bake, so with luck, I'm going to top the points table. And about time too! He's had it his own way far too long.

But as I peer through the glass, at the splodge of gunk flowing down the side of the dish, I realise I might be counting my meringues before they're hatched.

Pulling the mess out of the oven, I throw it into the sink in disgust. The tray from the bottom shelf follows close behind. I grab the entry form from behind the clock and cross the kitchen to the freezer that doubles as our notice board. My score-sheet is held by magnets depicting the Eiffel Tower, the Washington Memorial, and Shaggies Dog Grooming Parlour in Gloucester.

I make rapid calculations, and double check my figures. If my lemon meringue doesn't take at least third place, I've no chance of beating Michael. And as he might do well in the jams and pickles section, I really need a second to be certain of beating him. I had been quietly confident of first place-but now my plans are in ruins.

It's was just after nine, and the entries must be in by two; there's time to start again. Yanking open the fridge door, I grab the butter and eggs. I turn to the vegetable rack for the lemons-and that's when I remember the previous evening: a long day in the surgery for Paul; a stressful day with a sick dog in the kennels for me; late night supper of salmon and cream cheese bagels with lemon juice, washed down with gin and tonics with slices of lemon. I'll have to go shopping before I can start cooking again. Luckily, it takes just a minute or two to pop across the green to the village shop. I grab my purse and run.

There's one other person in the shop when I get there, an elderly lady. She looks familiar, although I can't quite place her, and I smile as I stretch past her for some lemons from the carefully stacked display.

"Don't they remind you of Italian summers?" she says. "I don't think we've met. I'm Caroline Skelton; I've just bought Farm Cottage." Then I remember where I've seen her. She's the newcomer who won the class at the Summer Show.

"Annabel," I say, "Annabel Goodwin. Yes they do-but they're for a very English recipe this time." Then I stop and look at her closely. "Are you entering any of the classes in the show?" She laughs and shakes her head.

"No, not this time," she says, "I'm waiting for my kitchen to be finished. I'll be ready to compete next year." She takes a newspaper from the pile and strolls towards the counter. Looking over her shoulder, she carries on. "I take it you're entering the pie class? You're leaving it a bit late aren't you?" I sigh and nod my head.

"You're so right. In fact, I wouldn't bother if I wasn't finally so close to beating Michael Jacobson," I admit.

And before I have time to think, I'm telling a total stranger all about the competition; how Michael wins the trophy every year; my determination to beat him this time; and how it was all going so well-until I opened the oven- and then found there were no more lemons in the rack.

"But I wasn't going to give up as easily as that," I say, "so here I am and now I'm going back to my kitchen to do it again-and this time, it's got to be right!"

"You know, I've always been a dab hand at meringues," Caroline says. "Would you like some tips?"

"That would be great," I reply. "Have you got time for a coffee?"

"My dear, I have all the time in the world," she says, picking up her basket. "Lead the way. And you can tell me why it's so important to beat this Michael Jacobson."

"Well, to begin with, he's a bully-and so sure of himself. Apparently he was born around here, although he lived away for a long time."

"And now he's back...?"

"He arrived a year or so after we moved in-must be ten years back-and ever since, he's been bossing everyone around, telling us how we can improve the place and so on."

"Hmm, he certainly sounds a bit over-bearing."

"Paul, that's my husband by the way, calls him 'The Village King'!"

"And you think beating him to the trophy's going to make him change his behaviour, do you?" she asks gently. I blush.

"I doubt if anything's going to do that-but I would love to let him see he can't have everything his own way." I hold my kitchen door open and usher her in. "I suppose you think that's really childish, don't you."

"Of course it is, dear," she smiles, "but if we can't exercise our inner child occasionally, the world would be a much duller place, wouldn't it?" She puts down her basket and pushes up her sleeves. "Right, point me in the direction of the coffee and while you make a start on the pastry." She points to the clock; I'm running out of time.  

As Caroline bustles around, filling the kettle, finding the mugs and pouring coffee into the jug, she keeps up a stream of tips for the perfect pie. As a child, I made pastry for the jam tarts with my mother every Sunday, but we'd never used lard with the butter, to make it crisper. Nor did I usually bake the case blind before filling it; but that's what we do now, while I make the lemon sauce, thicker than last time, so it will set more quickly.

Next we work on the meringue. Caroline tells me to make sure the bowl is spotless; to bring the eggs to room temperature before whipping them; and to use more egg whites than the book suggests. I always follow recipes slavishly, so am wary about this.

"Oh fiddlesticks," she says, "recipes are only for guidance."

Finally, we ignore the cooking instructions, and reduce the temperature from gas mark 6 to gas mark 1. There will be just enough time to bake the pie this way before I carry it across the green to the village hall.

"It takes longer this way, but it's dryer, crisper meringue," she assures me.

I carry my pie across the green and into the Village Hall minutes before the deadline. The meringue is piled four inches high above the top of the flan dish. It is a pale coffee brown, dry as a biscuit and when I cut the slice for the judges, it cracks like ice on a river when the thaw sets in. The sauce is canary yellow, enhanced by the extra egg yolks Caroline encouraged me to use. The pastry is thin, brittle and dry. It was the best pie I've ever baked.

And the judges obviously agree. When the doors open at 4pm, there's the red certificate, proclaiming 'First Prize', next to my entry. Added to the second prizes for mustard pickle and blackberry jelly, I am home and dry.

To give him his due, Michael Jacobson is the first to shake my hand after the trophy presentation.

"Well done, Annabel," he says. "I can see I'll need some lessons in baking if I'm to get my trophy back next year." Then he turns and indicates a small figure standing just behind him. "I don't think you've met my mother-in-law, have you? She's just moved back to the village after living abroad for years."

In the split second before she moves fully into view, I know; I just know!

"Hello my dear," she says, eyes twinkling, "I'm Caroline. Let me add my congratulations to Michael's".

As the pair leave the hall a few minutes later, my new friend looks back and places a finger to her lips. I know my secret is safe. But I also know the newest member of the village was certainly going to take some watching. There will be three of us after the trophy next year-and somehow, I don't think I'm going to win the pie-making class again!

– The End –