A Chelsie Christmas
B – Baking
December 2nd, 1926
There was a meeting of the village committee mid-morning, Charles' second favourite time of day. In his official role as chief advisor and, unofficial role as general director of the entire thing, he had found a new passion and it was wonderful, something to fill his days now he had nothing but time.
How odd life could be, how contrary and diverse. He'd spent a lifetime rushing from one job to the next. Had lived with overlapping thoughts vying for attention, following schedules so tightly packed he had struggled to remember who he truly was. What was in his heart.
Now there was nothing but love and he was still surprised by that – only occasionally mind, the majority of the time he revelled in how glorious it had all become. Though he had waited a lifetime, perhaps more than one.
Time. He had it in spades now. In fact, often of an afternoon he would take himself out for a walk just because the hours before Elsie would come home seemed long and tedious. They lengthened as it got closer to having her back with him in their cottage. He had considered, though not discussed it with her yet, suggesting retirement. But then perhaps to her the thought of being with him day in, day out would be torture. The new laws regarding pensions would benefit them both; it was common knowledge he wasn't one for change but some things were welcome. The war had been devastating but its impact on societal change was still being measured, and, as Charles had often noted as the years had passed, it was for the positive.
"A gingerbread house?" He had asked quizzically when Mrs. Lamb had carried one into the meeting and placed it in the centre of the table.
"It's quite wonderful, Mr. Carson, we can sell raffle tickets to raise funds. This being the main prize."
"And would people really part with their hard-earned money for… gingerbread?" He asked with a frown.
"Mr. Carson," Mary Salter had chipped in, "You've obviously never tried any of Mrs. Lamb's gingerbread. They would definitely buy raffle tickets for it."
The problem with being head of the village committee was that he was quite often surrounded by women, indeed bringing them to order was a task in itself, they always seemed to have something to discuss other than the business at hand.
"I happened to have made extra," Mrs. Lamb said, unfolding a tea towel from her basket. "Plenty for us to have with tea."
And that was where it had started, with that piece of gingerbread.
He had walked home just prior to lunch, his belly making the most ungentlemanly rumble as he'd walked the gravel path to the row of cottages – theirs standing proudly on the end. And he was proud of it. It was theirs. Their home.
The taste of gingerbread – sweet, sharp, warming – lingered even after his cheese and pickle sandwich and he longed for more. That sweet tooth. He gave in and ate his liquorice allsort for the day with a pot of tea. It barely filled a cavity. He wondered briefly if his newly formed desire for sweetness was due to boredom but pushed the thought aside.
The gingerbread house itself was quite beautiful and, though he wouldn't say it publically, he was impressed with the grandeur of it – built as it was to imitate Downton. When he'd stared at it as tea was poured by the ladies, he could even see himself walking the halls past those endless windows.
"Oh goodness man!" he snapped to himself and got up from his seat, opening the back door and taking in some air.
Perhaps he would do something wonderful himself, he was an intelligent able-bodied man, he could surely make a batch of gingerbread. And the house structure didn't seem so unmanageable, he could craft their cottage with little effort. Four walls, a base, a roof – that was seven large squares. Mrs. Lamb appeared to have used icing to link the sides together, he could do the same. Wouldn't that be a treat for Elsie when she got home, to see their quaint little cottage sitting on the dining table? How impressed she'd be with her husband's efforts.
They had a copy of Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management, as every household worth its salt would, and he quickly found the recipe for gingerbread men and decided he could easily adapt it to make the outer structure of the cottage. A quick list and he was back to the village to purchase the ingredients.
It was after two by the time he returned home and he set to quickly mixing the batch, greasing and lining tins, and putting the biscuit treat in to bake. The kitchen glowed with the fragrances of it, rich spice permeating its way into every wall, sofa and even their bed linin upstairs.
He didn't venture far during the baking process but perched on a small chair beside the oven to observe and check for signs of burning.
All came out perfect. He left the tins to cool, mixing icing sugar and water as he had seen his mother do when he was a child. Funny how things came back to you. The gingerbread came out of the tins and were gently placed onto the racks to cool whilst he sketched the outline of his design on a piece of the parchment with a blunt pencil he found in the drawer beneath the coat rack.
After four they were cool enough to work with and he rolled up his shirt sleeves, for the kitchen was now warm, and sat at the table to work. The white mixture was carefully spread along the edge of the base and the first wall applied. He counted to one hundred as he held it, then let go. It fell down. He caught it before it landed, reapplied the 'glue' and held it for two hundred seconds. It stayed in place.
It took thirty minutes to fix all four walls in place and then he took a rest. He boiled the kettle for tea and took a stroll around the garden as the sun set; there was gold in the sky and it gave him a new thrill of determination. He would finish the structure. Decorate it. Then light a fire, slice the bread thick and take the butter from the fridge. They could sit by the fire and toast it for dinner. He would light the advent candle and they could sit and talk over their day. He would boast of the ginger cottage and then they'd take off the roof and eat it, celebrating his baking achievement. Perhaps an early night.
Elsie left earlier than she imagined she would. It was only the family for dinner and Barrow assured her they could manage, asking if she wanted escorting home. She was glad of the offer. It was still frosty out, more so as the day wore on, and her legs tired easily these days it seemed. She was driven back to the cottage, quite the treat, and was looking forward to a bath before she prepared dinner.
"Charles," she called as she pushed open the door and set about unpinning her hat. "There's fish pie for dinner, Mrs. Patmore kindly made us extra." She paused at the sweet smell emanating from the very walls. "Charles…?" She said more gently, and turned down the short hallway and into the sitting room. At the far end, where their dining table sat, was Charles, asleep with his head on the table.
The fire was dead. The lights off and she first turned on a lamp and slipped off her coat, laying it over the back of a chair as she tiptoed to the table.
In front of Charles was a bowl of jelly sweets, she popped a red one into her mouth and chewed as she took in the sight. There was a slightly wonky structure, white icing seemed to be dripping from, what was clearly intentioned, to be the shape of windows. There was icing on the table and as she followed its trail it led to Charles' hands.
"Oh my dear," she smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Charlie," she said again by his ear and he slowly woke, lifting a sleepy head with heavy eyes.
"You're home?" He said softly, and reached to touch her arm but she pulled back.
"Not until you've washed your hands."
He stared at them as realisation dawned.
"Oh no…" he sighed, sitting up, "it was meant to be done." He gazed sadly at the crumbling structure. "It was all going so well."
She smiled at his endeavours. "What were you trying to do?"
"Build our house."
"Out of gingerbread?"
"Yes," he fiddled with a corner of the roof. "I wanted to surprise you, please you." He gazed at his hands. "Then they wouldn't comply."
She covered his sticky hands with hers, "Oh darling, there is no need, you've already built this house, this home. With me."
His eyes softened as he gazed at her and she pressed a kiss to his forehead, holding the moment for longer than planned.
"Let's try it." She picked off a corner and placed it in her mouth. "Surprisingly," she said, "it tastes rather wonderful."
"I got that part right. I thought we might sit by the fire, have tea and toast and gingerbread."
"That sounds lovely, but first, you need to light a fire."
He looked to the dead hearth, "I ran out of time."
"Baking gets you that way." She collected up her coat, "I'll go take a bath whilst you build it up."
"Alright," he yawned, and pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. The kitchen area was a shambles and he needed to clean it, hide it away and forget what a mess it began. Damned icing. He would rinse his hands, light the fire and then start on clearing the untidiness away before she came down from her bath.
"Charles –," she called from the halfway up the stairs.
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
He smiled, "You're very welcome."