Alice’s Secret: A gripping story of love, loss and a historical mystery finally revealed

Chapter Seven

The larder in her aunt’s kitchen was a thing of delight to Alys. A relic of days gone by, its neatly ordered shelves held all manner of ingredients that Moira used for cake making. Apart from paper sacks of flour from a local mill there were eggs supplied by a nearby farm, slabs of chocolate, packs of sugar in shades from purest white through caramel to dark brown, packets of coconut, and oats, and pats of butter wrapped in paper.

Her introduction to this Aladdin’s cave of baker’s delights had come on her return from the café when Moira, resting on a chair at the kitchen table, had told her to go and open the door in the corner of the kitchen. Half expecting to find a storage cupboard or a hidden staircase, Alys had stood transfixed on the threshold. Within, all was cool, ordered calm. One section was reserved for Moira’s own household needs but the rest was given over to baking. Alys didn’t need to ask why the butter and eggs were stored there, rather than in the fridge. She knew that it made it much quicker to bring them up to ideal room temperature for cake-making; the larder, which was tiled, was cool in both winter and summer.

Alys could almost feel her fingers twitching as she surveyed the ingredients. She wanted to make a start right there and then, to fill the kitchen with the wonderful aroma of baking. But something told her to proceed with caution. Moira was in pain and although she’d asked for help to run the café, now that Alys was here she could see that her aunt needed help around the house too.

‘Let’s move you through to the other room,’ Alys said, helping Moira up from the hard kitchen chair. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea, then you can tell me a bit more about the café. And we can make a plan.’

With Moira settled by the wood burner, and tea on the table beside her, Alys sat down on the sofa. ‘So, tell me the story of the café. How did you come up with the name? Where did the lovely cushion fabric come from? And the angel’s wings?’

Moira eased herself back against the cushions that Alys had stacked behind her, and over the next hour she described how the transformation of the business had come about. She had taken possession of the café a couple of years previously, when the style of the interior had still reflected the previous owner’s taste. It had floral wallpaper, rather faded curtains at the windows and the general feel of being stuck in a 1950s time warp.

‘I just ripped off the wallpaper and gave it all a lick of paint. The wings came first, though,’ Moira said. ‘They inspired me to give the café its new identity. I spotted them in an antique shop in Nortonstall shortly after I took over the lease. I just had to have them – they were so unusual. I thought they would be made of wood or plaster and really heavy but they’re not. Otherwise, I would have hung them on the wall rather than in the window. Wouldn’t like to think of them falling and squashing the customers.’ She chuckled, and then winced – her back muscles were very sore. ‘I think they must have been carved out of a block of polystyrene and then given a paint job. Maybe they were a prop from a theatre or something?’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘So, the name of the café came from the wings, really. I liked the way it sounded, too. Alliterative.’

Alys grasped at some half-remembered fact from her schooldays. ‘All the C’s at the beginning?’ she asked. ‘Celestial Cake Café?’

Moira nodded. ‘Then it was a case of trying to do the place up as cheaply as possible,’ she continued. ‘The chairs came from a junk shop and I painted them to use up the tester pots I’d bought when I was trying to get the colours right for the walls and the front door.’

‘And the cushions?’ Alys asked. ‘They’re such glorious fabrics.’

‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ Moira was smiling. ‘I’d had the fabric stashed away for years, wondering what to do with it, and it seemed to work perfectly. Otherwise, I think the place would have looked a bit too tasteful. I wanted it to look smart but also feel relaxed and homely.’

Moira went on to describe how she had built up the business. Apart from the Post Office and a general store, the café was the only other shop in the tiny village. Locals dropped in for bread, for cakes to take home for tea, for a takeaway sandwich as a change from what was to be found in the fridge at home. Wet mornings found them drawn in for coffee and the chance for a chat and a gossip with the other villagers. Her other customers were tourists, who found their way off the beaten track to visit the imposing church with its beautiful stained glass, or hikers striding out on the trails that took them down into the valley and up again, to the open moorland and the Pennine Way.

‘I’ve mainly concentrated on building up the clientele, finding out which cakes people like best,’ Moira said, but Alice could tell that despite her modest assertion she was really pleased with what she had achieved. The picture that Moira painted, of a thriving, bustling business with many loyal customers, made Alys all the more determined to have the café open again as soon as possible. Moira was clearly thinking along much the same lines.

‘I made a phone call this morning,’ she said. ‘To Flo, who helps me out when it’s busy in the summer. She’d be happy to come in and work alongside you for a while, to show you the ropes, help you with the coffee machine and the cash register until you get the hang of it. And until I feel more able to be there.’

‘That sounds great!’ Alys was enthusiastic. ‘But who’s going to look after you? You can’t stay here alone all day. You can barely move as yet.’

‘It’s not quite that bad,’ Moira protested. ‘I’ve got a couple of friends in the village who will pop in and help me out – make me some lunch, get me a cup of tea, that sort of thing. And I need to keep moving otherwise I will stiffen up. I can’t be just sitting around all day.’

Alys was longing to experience the café routine that Moira had described to her but she insisted on probing further to make sure that her aunt was going to be properly cared for over the coming days. Finally reassured, she got to her feet to prepare some lunch.

‘And then,’ she announced, ‘you’re going to have a rest and I’m going to bake.’

Baking had been an important part of Alys’s childhood. It wasn’t an interest she had inherited from Kate, who had shown only puzzlement when nine-year-old Alys spent her Sunday afternoons turning out fairy cakes and chocolate cake from packet mixes. She’d graduated to homemade scones after a family summer holiday in Devon, where the whole family – apart from Kate – had embraced cream teas with enthusiasm. Kate had got over her worry about the amount of cake that she might be forced to eat, and the number of calories it contained, when she realised that David, along with Alys’s older siblings George and Edward, were only too happy to fulfil their duties, and hers too, in that respect. She left her daughter to it, buying whatever ingredients she requested.

By the time Alys was thirteen, she was in demand among friends and family for birthday cakes, millionaire’s shortbread, flapjacks, Bakewell tart, and ginger parkin for Bonfire Night. Then, almost overnight, she’d stopped baking. Kate had suspected that it wasn’t cool for a Nineties teenager to be into baking. The usual teen interests had taken over: music, fashion magazines and flushed and giggly phone conversations achieved by dragging the household phone out into the draughty hallway for some privacy.

However, in her late twenties, Alys had discovered that the ability to bake wasn’t a universal skill and her contributions to her friends’ Sunday gatherings were always sweet in nature, guaranteeing open-mouthed admiration. So, she hadn’t been daunted at the prospect of helping Moira out in the café. In fact, as soon as she had said that she would do it, she had been looking through recipe books and bookmarking her favourite Internet sites, and she was itching to get started. Tim hadn’t been a lover of cake or dessert so her baking opportunities had dwindled of late, although her contributions to charity cake bakes at work had always been the first to sell out. Now she couldn’t wait to make a start.

Moira had said it would be best to keep things simple at first – maybe two or three cakes and a couple of different types of biscuit. Everything needed to be sold as freshly made as possible and Alys wouldn’t have the speed to batch-bake that Moira had developed over the last year or so.

‘If only I could stand for any length of time I could be baking while you are at the café,’ Moira said, frowning. ‘As it is, you’ll have to come home and bake once you’ve closed up the café for the day.’

Alys caught her eyeing her walking frame in a speculative fashion. ‘Oh no you don’t.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll get better all the sooner if you rest like the doctor said. You don’t want to risk a setback. I’ll be able to manage, I’m sure.’

‘It’s the Easter break next weekend.’ Moira sighed. ‘If the weather’s good there’ll be plenty of walkers around. It will be a baptism of fire for you, I’m afraid.’

‘First things first,’ Alys said, determined not to let Moira’s worries rattle her. ‘I’m going to get baking so that at least there’s something to sell. Then I’ll get the café open again. It probably won’t be operating in quite the way you’d like it, but it will be better than it being closed at such a busy time.’

Moira laughed. ‘I consider myself ticked off. You’re right. Time to make a start.’

Alys had been planning which cakes and biscuits to make to impress her aunt but on this subject Moira was firm. ‘The regulars have their favourites. They’re slow to adapt to change so it will be safest to stick to what they know at first. So, I’m afraid it’s biscuits this afternoon – flapjacks and shortbread. Then tomorrow a Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle cake and maybe a coffee-and-walnut loaf. Or something chocolatey?’ Moira was suddenly undecided.

Alys’s expression must have given her away. ‘I know, I know,’ Moira said. ‘A bit safe and traditional. When I’m up and about properly we can build on these. I can bake them with my eyes closed but I’m really looking forward to trying some new recipes and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of ideas.’

Ideas were practically bursting out of Alys, but she limited herself to suggesting that brownies were popular with everyone and would fulfil the need for chocolate, and millionaire’s shortbread would make more of a treat than plain shortbread and so it was agreed.

Chapter Eight

Alys answered a knock at the cottage door the next morning to discover Flo standing there, waiting to help Alys carry the cake tins and boxes to the café. A slender lady in her late forties, her brown hair was swept into a casual up-do, Flo looked tanned and healthy, as if she’d just returned from a holiday abroad. As they chatted on their way to the café it became clear to Alys that this was actually a product of being outdoors most days – she learnt that Flo had given up her high-flying job in London ten years ago to live in the country and indulge her passion for riding. Flo made ends meet with a succession of seasonal jobs and, although she wasn’t a baker, Moira had said how invaluable she was to the business.

Alys was feeling excited at the prospect of opening up and serving her first customer, but also more than a little nervous. The last time she had worked in a shop was as a schoolgirl, when she hadn’t even had to deal with the till, let alone card payments. Moira had sought to reassure her by saying that most people paid by cash which had unnerved her even more – would her change-giving skills be up to it? Luckily, Flo was more than happy to deal with making the hot drinks and managing the till, leaving Alys to serve the customers. Flo also promised to coach Alys in the use of the shiny and impressive coffee machine and talk her through the general routine of the café in their quieter moments.

However, it was as though the villagers had been watching and waiting for signs that the café had reopened. No sooner had Alys checked that the display of cakes and biscuits looked appealing, and turned the sign on the door to read ‘Open’, than the first customer was across the threshold.

‘I was just passing and wanted to come in and see how Moira was doing. Ooh, that Victoria sponge looks delicious. I think I’ll just have a little piece. And a pot of tea, please. Now, you must be Moira’s niece?’

‘Hello Nancy.’ Flo swiftly set out a tray with a teapot and cup and saucer for the white-haired lady standing expectantly at the counter. She was so tiny that she could barely be seen over the cake stands. Alys smiled as she selected the largest piece of sponge for Nancy, her first customer of the day.

‘Moira’s doing well, thank you. And yes, I’m her niece, Alys, and I’ll be here at the café for as long as Moira needs me.’

News of Moira’s injury and Alys’s arrival to help her out had clearly spread like wildfire around the village and the afternoon sped by, with people dropping in to ask about Moira, then staying for cake and to quiz Alys. At five o’clock, Alys turned the sign to read ‘Closed’; her face ached from smiling and she didn’t think she could bear to repeat why she was there even one more time.

‘Now then,’ Flo said mischievously. ‘Why did you say you were here again?’

Alys burst out laughing. ‘Well, I was taking a break from work with the aim of going travelling and so, when Aunt Moira hurt herself, I was delighted to be able to come and help her out. And yes, I love baking’. She smiled wryly at Flo. ‘You must be word-perfect, too, by now.’

Alys surveyed what was left of the cakes. ‘We’ve been busy. Thank you so much for your help. I could never have made the teas and coffees, served cake and given everyone my life story at the same time.’

‘It went very well,’ Flo said. ‘It looks as though your cakes are popular. Moira will be jealous.’

‘They’re all her recipes,’ Alys said hastily. ‘I just added one or two touches of my own.’

She couldn’t help a little glow of satisfaction, though. More than one person had commented on how much they had enjoyed their cake and Alys was particularly pleased to see that all the brownies and millionaire’s shortbread had gone. The downside of such a good day was that she needed to go home and bake again, or get up very early in the morning, as Moira had predicted. She’d also learnt a lesson about portion control. She needed to make sure the biscuits were evenly sized and the slices of cake cut with almost mathematical precision: it was clear that her customers were eagle-eyed and they were quick to point out if someone else had a bigger slice. Alys couldn’t imagine any squabbles breaking out at the till as everyone had been so warm and friendly today, but it was better to be on the safe side.

After they had cleared up and washed up, Flo helped Alys to carry the cake tins back to her Aunt Moira’s then hurried home, promising to be round at eight the next morning to repeat the routine.

‘How did it go?’ Moira had clearly been waiting anxiously for her return. Alys, who was unused to spending such a length of time on her feet, would have loved to sit down and chat but the thought of more baking to be done, as well as a meal to prepare for them both, made her hesitate.

‘We were really busy,’ she said. ‘Everyone wanted to know how you were, and to pass on their best wishes.’

Moira was impatient to know more. ‘Who came in? Which cakes sold best? How did you find it?’

‘We’ve barely anything left,’ Alys said, and she couldn’t help a big grin spreading across her face. ‘So, really, I should set to and get baking. And also make something for us to eat.’

‘We’ve enough food for about a week,’ Moira laughed. ‘A couple of friends dropped by with a casserole and a pie, so there’s no need to worry about tonight’s dinner. Have a cup of tea and tell me all about your afternoon.’

Alys could see that Moira wasn’t going to be fobbed off so, with the casserole reheating in the oven, she made tea and gave Moira a detailed account of who had been in, who had eaten what and everything that had been said.

‘Well done,’ Moira said, sitting back in her chair. ‘You’ll be even busier tomorrow, you know. If you’re open in the morning you’ll catch the walkers as they go by. I’d better ask Flo if she can sort out some ingredients for sandwiches. And I’m afraid you’re right. You’ll need to bake as soon as we have eaten.’

That night, Alys fell into bed feeling absolutely exhausted. Three more cakes were waiting to be filled and decorated in the morning, with brownies and millionaire’s shortbread divided into portions and cooling on the rack. With flapjacks still to be made in the morning she fell into a deep sleep, waking in the middle of an anxiety dream about a giant tin of syrup that she was trying to open with an old-fashioned can opener as it didn’t appear to have a lid. A sweet buttery aroma was filling her nostrils and down in the kitchen she found Moira propped by the stove, stirring oats into the butter, syrup and sugar mixture that she had already prepared. Alys scolded her but was secretly grateful – there was still a lot to be done before Flo arrived.

Friday was as busy as the previous day but followed a slightly different routine. The early walkers were the first through the door, picking up supplies for their hikes, then locals came in for coffee, with tourists appearing in the afternoon for tea and cake, followed by walkers paying a final visit on their return trip in the late afternoon.

The day had passed in much of a blur for Alys although one worrying fact had stuck in her mind. ‘I’ll never get the hang of that coffee machine,’ she’d complained to Flo as she’d carried a tray of dirty cups and plates through to the tiny kitchen. ‘Both my attempts were undrinkable.’

‘You will,’ Flo soothed. ‘We’ll have a practise one day when it’s a bit quieter. With the Easter holidays here why don’t you concentrate on the cake side of things and maybe the teas, and leave the rest to me? You’re doing brilliantly. And I can go home and put my feet up – you have to put in all those hours baking at the end of the day.’

Alys would never admit it to anyone, but she hadn’t realised just how tiring this was going to be. Baking for friends was one thing. Keeping a café supplied whilst working there as well, was something else altogether. The thought of going home to bake, instead of flopping in front of the TV, was deeply unappealing. But she’d promised Moira that it wouldn’t be a problem and, besides, she loved seeing the customers enjoying what she’d made. Plus, Moira had been doing this for ages and she was much older than Alys.

Alys told herself that she would get used to it, and so it proved. After taking the Sunday off her energy levels revived; she found serving in the café less tiring as she became more used to it and she even found time to add a few more cakes to the range, just in time for Easter. By now Alys was getting to know the local customers pretty well, and to understand the walkers a little better. She always smiled to herself as she served them.

‘Shall we have this?’ They would lust over the lavishly iced coffee-and-walnut loaf, or the Victoria sponge, thickly layered with jam and buttercream. Sanity always prevailed, though, and if they were stopping off before heading out on a hike they bought sandwiches. If they bought something sweet it was ‘to top up the energy levels later,’ and they settled on sensible flapjacks, millionaire’s shortbread or brownies, all folded into brown paper bags and tucked into rucksacks to be enjoyed by the side of a rushing stream, or up on a peaty moorland path. If they were heading home after their walk, they would linger over a pot of tea and a well-earned slice of banana cake or raspberry cheesecake, stretching and easing tired leg muscles as they chatted about their day.

After just over a week, Alys had settled into her new role and anticipated opening up the café each morning with the same sense of enjoyment that she’d once felt about going to her design job. She loved lifting the cakes out of their boxes, positioning them on the special stands on the counter with the biscuits in baskets beside them. The appreciative ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the customers as they walked in and took in the display and the lovely aroma of freshly baked cake never failed to bring a smile to her face. But by the time Moira felt able to come back to work part-time the weekend after Easter, Alys was starting to formulate some more plans.

Chapter Nine

Although Alys had fallen in love with the café the moment she saw it, once Moira had been back at work for a couple of weeks she plucked up courage to ask her whether she would mind if she made one or two changes of her own. Her inspiration had come on a visit to Nortonstall to collect some baking supplies. To her relief, she’d discovered that she didn’t need to take the near-vertical route to the town via the main road. Instead, there was a path that wound its way through the woods, descending level by level on a track that was soft underfoot: here the light filtered green through the trees, and there were glimpses every now and then of the river rushing darkly, and the steep woods rising on the other side of the valley. After the peace and solitude of the path, it was a shock to find herself on the main road, busy with traffic, just outside the town. It was in the window of a Nortonstall charity shop that she’d spotted a lovely vintage cup and saucer, and bought it at once as a present for Moira. Alys could picture it displayed on the grey-painted shelves in the alcove behind the till, beneath the old dark-wood station clock that ticked so peacefully into the room. The cup and saucer had a delicate blue-and-white design of dragonflies, foliage and flowers that looked like orchids. Moira loved it and so did the customers.

So, on her visits to Nortonstall on her rare afternoons off, Alys started to look out for single cups and saucers and mismatched plates. She soon exhausted the stock in the charity shop, but she found a tiny antique shop tucked away up a steep alley off the main street. The doorbell jangled as she absorbed a waft of the smell of old books mixed with the scent of roses, and picked her way through the overflowing shelves, anticipation mounting. After her first visit, when she bore her trophies home, Moira told her that this was the very shop where she had bought the angel’s wings. So, the next time that she paid the shop a visit, Alys mentioned this to the owner, and explained why she was on the lookout for vintage china. Before long Claire, the shop’s owner, had taken to hunting out suitably lovely bits of china and setting them on one side for Alys. Gradually, vintage milk jugs and sugar bowls had been added to Alys’s treasure trove, and she found herself invited for tea with Claire in the tangled garden, draped with wisteria, that swept down from the back of the shop towards the river. Alys took to bringing along a slice or two of cake from the café, ones that she thought Claire might appreciate. She learnt that she could rely on Claire for candid comments on new recipes that she had introduced, appreciative or otherwise. The courgette cake got a thumbs-up for being surprisingly moist, but the beetroot cake had an odd texture and Claire declared a preference for not mixing vegetables with cake too frequently. She would make a pot of Earl Grey and bring out slices of lemon in a dish along with the bone-china plates, cups and saucers that had belonged to her grandmother. They were much-coveted by Alys but she wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to Claire. With the sign on the shop turned to ‘Closed’ they’d sip tea while they soaked up the sun and took in the view down the valley. Alys would try to imagine life back in London, but it was hard. It might as well have been a million miles away, rather than a couple of hundred.