What can I say? As always I'm going to have to blame real life, but hopefully all the things that stopped me concentrating on writing are in the past and I can focus on what I want to do instead of what I have to do from now on. That's the plan at least... Thanks to everyone who's still reading this and my other stories.

Chapter Ten

Challenge Five: Grandma

John: 25 points

Virgil: 21 points

Scott: 19 points

Alan: 18 points

Gordon: 14 points

It was a smug John and a somewhat disgruntled Gordon who turned up for breakfast the next morning. The blond Tracy still couldn't quite believe that he'd taken the lead in such spectacular fashion, whilst Gordon couldn't help but wonder how a project designed to cheer him up after the loss of his world record and Olympic title and which had started so promisingly, was now so lacking in glory.

Alan wasn't much happier. He'd usually won all the events when they were children but - despite his protests to the contrary - he knew that his brothers had let him win, as befitted the baby of the family. He felt he had a point to prove.

"How are we working Grandma's challenge?" Scott asked, finishing the last of his eggs and pushing his plate away.

"Well," Grandma said, looking around the table, "You'll have to take turns on this one. I don't want anyone hanging round the kitchen, and there are to be no hints to anyone once you're done. " She looked pointedly at Scott and Virgil as she said this, failing to be fooled by their expressions of angelic innocence.

"We'll draw lots to see which order you go in," Jeff told them. "Penny, perhaps you'd like to make the selection."

Penny did so. "Alan... Scott... Gordon... and John, which means Virgil goes last."

"Parker and I will be the judges," Jeff told them. "Good luck, boys."

Alan entered the kitchen expecting to find his grandmother and a batch of ingredients. He'd guessed he'd be expected to recreate one of the old lady's famous recipes. Chocolate cake, maybe. Or perhaps apple pie. Whatever it was, he thought he'd be in with a chance. He wasn't a bad cook - and he was determined to read all of the instructions on the recipe before he started. There would be no repetition of the disaster that Tin-Tin's challenge had turned out to be.

But whilst Grandma was exactly where he expected to find her, there was no pile of ingredients waiting for him.

"What do you want me to do, Grandma?" he asked.

"I want you to make the famous Tracy apple pie," Grandma told him. "The winner will be the one that's closest to mine in taste, texture and appearance."

"Okay." Alan waited for more.

"Off you go, then," Grandma said, clapping her hands to hurry him along.

"What? Just like that? Where's the recipe?"

Grandma rolled her eyes. "Alan, that recipe has never been written down. It's a family secret, passed on down through the generations."

"Well, I'm family. Tell me."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'? How am I supposed to know what to do?"

Grandma smiled. "It's all part of the test. I'd like to see if any of you have inherited the baking gene. Anyway, all you boys spent enough time in my kitchen in Kansas when I was preparing my pies. Let's see how much you took in. "

Alan frowned as he cast his mind back to the days of his childhood. He'd eaten a whole lot of Grandma's pies, but he'd never taken that much interest in how they arrived on his plate.

"Everything you need is here," Grandma told him, waving an airy hand round the kitchen. "Good luck, dear."

Alan watched her leave and turned back to the pristine kitchen. Kyrano and Grandma between them had always left it spotless.

He just hoped cleaning the mess that five ham-fisted cooks would leave wasn't going to be the next challenge. If it was, he'd just throw in the towel now.

After a few minutes in which he randomly pulled out then replaced a selection of kitchen implements, a brainwave struck him and he headed for the cupboard in which he knew Kyrano kept a selection of cookery books. He was deflated, but not entirely surprised, to find it empty.

"Okay..." he muttered to himself. "Think, Alan. You're six years old. It's winter. Snowing. The other guys are out helping Dad shovel snow from the drive and it's just you and Grandma. The stove's on and Grandma's making a pie..."

He couldn't help smiling as memories of his childhood came flooding back. A lot of them did indeed involve sitting in the kitchen watching - maybe he should have done more helping, he thought, with a touch of remorse - as Grandma prepared the family's meals. Actually, now that he thought about it, he had an advantage over his brothers - he'd had longer with Grandma than they had. She'd raised him from the time he was six months old until he left home for college. Surely he'd have picked up a few tips on how to prepare an apple pie.

"Well, I guess the first thing I need are some apples..." Alan headed for the pantry, delighted to find a barrel full of apples. "Perfect." He grabbed a few and found a knife. Ten minutes later there was a large pile of peelings and a depressingly small bowl of chopped apples. He went back to get two more and a smaller knife and this time took a little more care in his work.

He looked at the resulting pile of apples for a moment, then remembered all the times he'd been instructed to watch over a pan of simmering fruit. Within a few minutes he had the apples bubbling away. By dredging through various hitherto deeply buried memories in which Grandma sent him down to the store to buy various spices, he was able to find the items he needed.

"Just a pinch of this... and a spoonful of that..." Alan added the flavourings and stirred them in with the apples. Picking up a spoon, he took a tentative taste, recoiling at the tart flavour.

"Sugar!" He smacked his forehead. How could he have forgotten one of the most essential ingredients? Ignoring the temptation to pour cupfuls straight in, he added small quantities, tasting the mixture until he was happy he'd found the right balance.

But if the filling had been relatively straightforward, the pastry wasn't. This was, after all, the most important part. Grandma's lightness of touch was legendary, not just within the family, but back home in Kansas, too, where she'd won innumerable prizes for her baking. Alan doubted he'd have the same ability. Still, he had nothing to lose and he enthusiastically began to fling flour and salt into a mixing bowl.

There might be a touch of the Tracy baking gene in him, but he definitely hadn't inherited Grandma's mania for precision and orderliness, he thought ruefully, some half an hour later. There was flour on the floor, the ceiling, in his hair, his eyes and up his nose - he couldn't seem to stop sneezing, which just spread the particles even further around the kitchen. Grandma would never have allowed him near food with such unhygienic practices, but since there were no witnesses, he wasn't too concerned. Anyway, he'd ended up with something that did indeed resemble pastry. Whether it deserved to be mentioned in the same breath as Grandma's he wasn't so sure, but, with the apples nicely softened, he was ready to put it all together and the pie was soon in the oven.

"Done, Grandma!" he called.

Grandma came in from the lounge. One look at Alan and it was clear she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I don't think so, dear."

"Sorry?"

"You're not done, Alan. You can't leave the kitchen in this state. What will Scott say?"

Alan wouldn't dream of insulting his grandmother's delicate ears with any of the suggestions that occurred to him. With a sigh, he began to clear up the mess he had made.

"How did you get flour in your ears, dear?" Grandma asked, shaking her head.

Alan didn't reply. Truth be told, he had no idea.

Grandma was a ruthless superintendent and Alan's first efforts were dismissed as nowhere near good enough. It took him a good hour to clean up the mess he'd made, by which time, his pie was ready. He'd been so focused on the cleaning that he'd barely registered how good it smelled.

Grandma came to watch as he took it out of the oven.

"That looks lovely, dear," she said, not quite managing to keep the surprise out of her voice.

Not that Alan minded. He was rather surprised himself.

Grandma stopped him as he reached for a knife. "No, Alan. That's your father's job. When everyone's got a pie to serve, he'll try them all out. It's the fairest way to compare the taste."

"But it's fresh now. That's not fair, Grandma."

Grandma patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, darling. We've thought of that. You can put it in Brains' preserver."

Thoughts of the unit Brains had constructed which essentially preserved food in stasis, enabling it to be consumed several months after it would have spoiled, still as fresh as the day it was made, relieved Alan's misgivings somewhat. It also reminded him that the following day's challenge had been set by the genius. Alan had no idea what it was, but knowing Brains, he was expecting his brain to be hurting by the end of it.

"Stop daydreaming, sweetheart," Grandma admonished. "Scott's keen to have his turn."

Alan doubted that. Whilst he'd found the challenge a ... well, a challenge, at least he'd known he wasn't too much of a liability in the kitchen. Scott on the other hand... well, his strengths were many, but cooking wasn't one of them.

Sure enough, the smell of burning, followed seconds later by the frenetic beeping of the smoke alarm, told Alan that Scott's morning hadn't gone well. Deciding that an emergency like this overrode his grandmother's instructions to avoid the kitchen, he dashed in, to find his brother waving ineffectually at the charred and smoking remains of what had once been an apple pie.

"Didn't you set the timer?" Alan asked, coughing a little as he activated the extractor fan.

"Of course I did. I don't know what happened. It's only been in twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes?" Alan stared at him open-mouthed

"What's so funny? I've kept watch over Grandma's pies often enough. I know how long they take."

"In a real oven, sure. But that's the nuclear oven, Scott. Two minutes would have done the job. Twenty minutes!" Alan was laughing so much he had to sit down.

"Ah." Scott couldn't have been more devastated. Knowing full well that no one would have expected him to shine in this challenge, he'd actually been pleased to discover that all the evenings he'd sat in the kitchen talking with his grandmother had resulted in the deeply buried but perfectly clear memory of the way she made her apple pie. He'd really thought he'd done it. A victory right up there with John's first place in the driving challenge.

He'd even remembered how long to cook the pie for. So why had he forgotten Grandma's aversion to modern catering technology? Of course she'd never have trusted her pies to the nuclear oven.

"Never mind, Scotty." Alan swallowed another burst of laughter. "Come on, I'll help you clear up."

It said a lot for Scott's state of mind that he sat back with a coffee whilst Alan did all the work. Not that Alan minded. After all, he reasoned, he could afford to be generous given that he was bound to finish ahead of his brother - and it would be a genuine victory this time, not like when he was a small boy.

Gordon surprised everyone. He not only finished faster than anyone, but he seemed to have made less mess and, judging by both the smell and the look of his pie, had done a pretty good job. Alan was surprised as he grudgingly congratulated his brother on his efforts. Gordon had been a restless child, squirming impatiently whenever he'd been made to sit in the kitchen for anything other than meals - though given that he was usually being told off for some misdemeanour or other when summoned to Grandma's presence, Alan couldn't really blame him for this. But maybe he'd inherited more from Grandma than just her mother's colouring.

After lunch, John took his turn. Alan fully expected his super-intelligent brother to figure out the process in double-quick time, so it was something of a puzzle when John not only took longer to finish than the youngest brother had anticipated, but also took longer to clear up. The sound of the waste disposal unit being put into action for the fourth time made Alan wonder just what John had been doing.

"How'd it go?" he asked, as John exited the kitchen.

"Fine." But John didn't look entirely happy.

"What's wrong?"

But before John could answer, Virgil was brought in by Grandma, and by the time Alan was done wishing his brother luck, John had disappeared.

"Scoot!" Grandma told him, as she returned from the kitchen.

"I just want to see how Virg does."

"You'll find out soon enough. Now didn't Scott say something about an extra training session for the marathon?" She looked out of the window. "Here he comes."

Alan fled as Grandma laughed. She wondered just what the results of the contest would be. Certainly none of the boys had shown much interest in cooking when they were younger. Then again, neither had their father. Eating those pies on the other hand... well, every Tracy was a champion in that department.

Half an hour before dinner was served, everyone gathered in the dining room, where Jeff and Parker sat at the table for a blind tasting, four fine-looking pies and one blackened lump in front of them.

"I think we'll pass on this one," Jeff said, pushing Scott's effort away. He had a fair idea who the baker was, but as much as he loved his son, there were limits and there was no way that abomination was making its way past his lips. But as to the rest, well, there was only one which was easily identifiable - the one with a delicate pastry representation of a tropical landscape. Trust Virgil to turn even a baking challenge into an art project!

"Here goes," Jeff said, cutting a slice out of the first pie. He handed a plate to Parker before taking a spoonful himself. "This is good," he announced. "The pastry's a little heavy, and maybe the filling's a little too sweet, but not a bad start. What do you think, Parker?"

"Not bad," Parker agreed, through a mouthful of pastry.

"Next..." Jeff cut into the biggest and tallest of the pies. "Oh."

"H'it's a bit soggy," Parker said, as the bottom fell out of the slice Jeff was trying to move onto the plate.

"More than a bit," Jeff said, sticking his fork into the pulpy mass which formed the bottom layer of pastry. "Tastes alright, though."

Parker didn't take a second mouthful of this one.

Jeff turned his attention to the third pie. "Looks good," he said, approvingly. "The pastry's nice and light. Definitely reminds me of yours, Mom."

"Now for the filling," he announced, taking a spoonful of the firm but moist apple...

...and immediately launching into a coughing fit.

"What the..."

"What's wrong with it?" It was Gordon who spoke.

"Gordon!" Jeff exploded. "I might have known. You can't take anything seriously, can you?"

But Gordon just looked bewildered - if somewhat insulted. "What's wrong?"

"Gordon, this has to be 100% proof. I don't think I'd be fit to drive for a week if I was on the mainland. What's in it anyway? Whiskey?"

"A touch. But mainly wine. And sherry. Oh, and some gin."

"But why on earth would you put all that in an apple pie?"

"Well, every time I watched Grandma make pie she had a glass of something - and she always said it was to go in the pie."

Everyone turned to look at Grandma.

"Mom?" Jeff raised an amused eyebrow.

"Oh dear." The old lady was a bright shade of scarlet. "Well, Gordon was such a troublesome little thing to have around when I was trying to bake - no dear, as much as I love you, I have to be honest - and I suppose that the only time I called him into the kitchen when I was making pie was when he was in trouble. And you know how he used to be, Jeff. The pranks, all the ways he'd upset his brothers, the complaints from the neighbours, from his teachers... And the excuses he'd come up with! I might have needed a little sip of something to calm me down sometimes. But really, Gordon! Anyone would think I had some kind of problem."

Everyone was laughing now. Except Gordon, who was almost as red as Grandma. And Parker, who had surreptitiously helped himself to another gigantic slice.

"This h'ain't 'alf bad," the chauffeur announced, hiccupping as he did so.

"Thanks, Parker."

"'Ave some, Mrs T," Parker offered, a mischievous glint in his eye as he held out a plate to Grandma.

"No thank you!" the old lady informed him. "I barely touch a drop these days."

"So what were all those bottles doing on the top shelf of the pantry?" Gordon asked.

"I have no idea," Grandma said, in her most dignified voice. "Perhaps Kyrano..."

"Never mind, Grandma," Scott said, slinging an arm around the old lady's shoulders. "Gordon's driven us all to drink at one time or another."

"Hey!"

"Well you have," Virgil told him. When Alan and John, followed by Jeff and even Penny chimed in with their agreement, Gordon was forced to concede the point.

"Well it was still better than Scott's," he said.

"The pastry was definitely the best, son," Jeff said, having taken several mouthfuls of water to allow his taste buds to recover. "So onto the last one."

"It's the best looking," Virgil said innocently, receiving an elbow in the ribs from both Alan and Scott for this comment.

"It's not about appearance," Jeff said. "It's about who makes the best apple pie."

"Apple?"

"Ah..." Jeff had sliced into the pie and was watching bemusedly as the deep red filling was revealed. "Cherry pie? Didn't you listen to Grandma's instructions?"

"Yes. She told me to bake a pie. She didn't say what kind."

"Mom?"

Grandma pulled a face as she tried to remember. "Well, I may have..."

"You told me to bake a pie, too," Scott told her.

Alan and Gordon laughed, somewhat sarcastically. "Trust Scott to stick up for Virg," Gordon muttered.

"What?" Scott protested. "It's true."

"But you still made apple pie, didn't you?"

Scott didn't have an answer to that one.

"I thought it was bound to be an apple pie, but there weren't any apples." Virgil was forced to raise his voice in order to make his protests heard over the jeers of his brothers.

"Yes there were, dear," Grandma said. "In the pantry."

"I looked. No apples. I figured you'd made the challenge a bit more interesting."

"But Virgil, there was a full barrel this morning. More than enough for all of you."

"Grandma, there were no apples. Go and see if you don't believe me."

Grandma frowned and headed for the kitchen. She returned a moment later, confirming what Virgil had said. "I don't understand it," she said. "There were plenty. John, you had enough, didn't you?"

They all turned to look at John, who flushed under the stern gazes of his family.

Parker, who had helped himself to another slice of Gordon's pie, giggled to his mistress. "Mister John's h'only gone and nobbled Mister Virgil's pie."

"Parker! Please!" Penny hissed in embarrassment.

"John, you didn't?"

"No, Scott. Of course I wouldn't do something like that. I mean, I did use all the apples, but I thought Grandma had put them out for me. There weren't even enough. Only twenty-nine."

There was a chorus of disbelief. "Twenty-nine?"

"I always did thirty."

"Ah..." Grandma stepped forward. "That's right. John showed absolutely no interest in cooking when he was a boy. He usually had his nose in a book whenever he did come into the kitchen - I used to have to take it off him and hide it in my roasting pan when we sat down for meals. The only time he helped was when I was baking for some kind of event and even then I had to force him to do it."

"Of course!" Scott laughed. "We'd each have to help peeling apples. Thirty each - John insisted we all had the same number to make it fair. But Johnny, you must have known that was to make a batch of pies."

"No wonder you had so much filling," Gordon said. "Didn't you realise it would make the pastry wet?"

"And that's why you took so long to clear away," Alan chipped in. "Did you really put the rest of the apple mixture into the waste disposal?"

John shrugged. He didn't like to look foolish but he couldn't think of any way to defend himself.

"Sorry, Virg," was all he could say.

Virgil didn't look happy. If his father and grandmother hadn't been there he might have taken it further. But his first priority was the contest.

"So where does this leave us?" he asked.

Jeff took a spoonful of the pie. "It's good, son. Don't you think so, Parker?"

Parker hiccupped and giggled as he took a tiny bite of Virgil's pie, shrugging noncommittally before turning back to Gordon's.

"Guess you have to be disqualified," Gordon said, forcing an air of deep regret into his voice which fooled absolutely no one.

Alan agreed. Even Scott - who could see himself falling even further behind in the overall rankings - seemed to feel the same way. "Never mind, Virg."

"But I made a pie!" Virgil protested, clearly hurt by his brothers' betrayal.

"The challenge was to bake an apple pie," Alan said sulkily, fearing the loss of a victory he'd been certain was his. "The rules say-"

"THERE WEREN'T ANY APPLES!"

"Calm down, Virgil," Grandma soothed. "Judges, it's up to you."

"Parker?" Jeff asked.

"Hic!"

Jeff sighed. "Okay. The winner is this one." He had to pause to allow Alan the chance for a little victory celebration. "Virgil, you're second." He held up his hand to stem the protests. "John, third, Gordon-"

"Now, Mister Tracy, h'ain't you being a bit 'arsh there?"

"No he's not!" Penny told her chauffeur. "Parker, come with me. I think you need some coffee."

"But h'it's tea time."

"Even so, I think coffee is what's needed here."

"H'I'll do it, Milady."

"Perhaps not..."

The sound of their voices faded as Penny steered an unsteady Parker into the kitchen. A moment later came the unmistakeable sound of china smashing.

Jeff decided to ignore it. "Fourth, Gordon. And last, Scott."

Virgil continued to mutter that it wasn't fair, but Alan was delighted to move into second place overall. John, who had maintained his lead, even though it had been cut to just two points, decided it might be prudent to make himself scarce. Virgil would calm down and he could apologise properly later.

He made his way into the kitchen, thinking he would make amends for his inadvertent misdeeds by helping Parker.

But, slumped in a corner with the remains of Penny's favourite china tea pot scattered around him and the lady herself standing over him delivering a lecture which would have rivalled Grandma at her most irate, Parker was clearly beyond any help.