‘Isabel? My wee lass Isabel?’
He peered closer.
‘What are you doing these days, my sweet?’
Chapter Eleven
A little taste of sunshine to take out into the world:
Strawberry Meringue Cupcakes
For 24 cupcakes
250g unsalted butter, at room temperature
250g caster sugar
4 eggs
250g self-raising flour
4 tbsp milk (whole or semi-skimmed, not skimmed)
6–8 tsp strawberry jam
For the Swiss meringue buttercream
8 egg whites
500g caster sugar
500g unsalted butter
4 tsp vanilla extract
8 tbsp seedless strawberry jam
Preheat the oven to 190°C/fan oven 170°C/gas mark 5.
Beat together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the eggs, flour and milk and beat until well combined and smooth. Spoon the mixture evenly into the 24 paper cases.
Spoon a little jam on to each cake and, using a cocktail stick, swirl the jam into the batter.
Bake for 15 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.
To make Swiss meringue buttercream
Place the egg whites and sugar in a bowl over a pan of simmering water. Stir pretty much constantly to prevent the egg from cooking. After five–ten minutes, when the sugar has dissolved, remove the bowl from the pan of simmering water and whisk until the meringue has puffed up and the mix is cool.
Add the butter and vanilla to the meringue and whisk until the butter has been completely incorporated into it. At first it will look a disaster – it will collapse and look curdled but don’t worry! Stop when the mixture is smooth, light and fluffy.
Beat the jam into the buttercream. If you want it pinker, add a little food colouring. Spoon the buttercream into a piping bag and swirl on to each cupcake. Finish off with some sugar sprinkles or decorations.
Quarter the cakes and put the pieces into tiny cases with cocktail sticks poking out. Attempt to get passers-by to try them and be knocked out by your genius so they then come and spend lots of money at your shop and save you from bankruptcy.
‘Won, doo, free!’ Louis, hands carefully washed, was allowed to put the mini cupcakes into their special tin. There were considerably more than three, but that was as far as his counting went. Issy was in a whip of excitement that morning, making up free samples for everywhere she could think of.
‘We’re changing our whole strategy,’ she said to Pearl.
‘So instead of throwing our cupcakes away at the end of the day we’re throwing them at people instead?’ Pearl had said, but didn’t want to rain on Issy’s parade; a big surge of positivity couldn’t be a bad thing this early in the game. Issy had called up Zac and complimented his hairdo until he’d drawn her up a pretty flyer and she’d made copies at the all-night Liverpool Street Kall Kwik when she couldn’t sleep with excitement at 5am.
Meet me at the Cupcake Café!
Busy day? Stressful time?
Need five minutes of peace, quiet, and
some heavenly cake and coffee?
Then come on in and soothe your soul at 4
Pear Tree Court, off Albion Road.
Free cupcake and relaxation with every
cup of coffee and this flyer.
Then the menu was printed underneath.
‘Now, make sure you hand these out to everyone at the nursery,’ said Issy strictly.
‘Iss,’ said Louis.
‘Uh, yeah,’ said Pearl, wondering. The nursery hadn’t turned out at all like she’d expected. Although it was nominally a government-run scheme for young disadvantaged children – and she couldn’t deny it had beautiful facilities, clean, new toys and unripped books – it wasn’t, as she’d imagined, full of mothers like herself, struggling to get by and make a living, maybe on their own too. There were lots of yummy mummies, affluent women who double-parked and blocked the road in huge 4×4s, who all seemed to know each other and discussed interior decorators and hiring children’s party entertainers at full volume across the room.
Their children weren’t dressed like Louis, who Pearl always thought looked smart in his little tracksuits and sparkling white trainers. These children wore old stripy Breton shirts and baggy knee-length shorts and had long hair, and looked like children from long ago. It couldn’t be practical, Pearl thought, considering how dirty kids got – those shirts would get holes in them in no time, they were only cotton, and think of the ironing. Mind you, these women didn’t really look like they did their own ironing. And Pearl couldn’t help but notice that when the party invitations came round, or the play-dates, Louis – who played beautifully with whoever was there; who shared his toys and cuddled the playleader, Jocelyn, every day; Louis at whom the other women directed pleasant but non-specific smiles and truisms of ‘Isn’t he adorable?’ – was never invited. Her gorgeous, beautiful, delightful son.
And Pearl knew it wasn’t, as her younger self would have once loudly asserted, because of the colour of his skin. There were Chinese and Indian children; mixed race, African and every shade in between. All the little girls wore sprigged muslin tops and immaculate white linen trousers, with polka dot wellingtons when it rained outside, their hair long and lustrous or cut into little French bobs with a fringe. The little boys looked hardy and ruddy, used to running about and watching rugby with their dads – there was much talk of fathers and husbands at the nursery. There had been much less back on the estate in Lewisham.
It was her, Pearl knew. Her clothes, her weight, her style, her voice. Rubbing off on Louis, her perfect boy. And now she had to go and hand out Issy’s sodding leaflets and her sodding free samples, like some kind of Big Issue seller, to all those immaculate women, just so she could confirm every single thing those women already thought about her. She stomped out rather crossly into the lightly drizzling spring morning.
Issy had rather the easier task; she strolled down to her old bus stop, a large tin tucked under her arm, the drizzle not dampening her buoyant mood. Off to the bus stop. It felt almost like the old days.
Sure enough, the line-up of familiar faces, peering round for the big red bus, was still there: the angry young man with the loud iPod; Mr Dandruff; the bag lady trundling by. And Linda, whose face was wreathed in smiles when she saw her.
‘Hello, dear! Have you got a job? You know, it’s a shame you never got into feet like my Leanne. I was thinking that.’
‘Well,’ said Issy, smiling, ‘I have done something. I’ve opened a little café … just up there!’