How (Not) to Make a Lemon Cake

Margaret Fallon gave the mixture one more ferocious stir and set the spatula down at the side of the bowl. She had already made the cakes, her husband’s favourite lemon chiffon, whisking and folding in turn, producing a thick, glossy concoction that she had carefully baked at the correct temperature, before turning out and leaving the two layers to cool. Now she worked on the cream that would lend moisture, further flavour and a sense of decadence to the light sponge and knew that this would complete the delicate cake. She had flavoured it carefully, grinding natural ingredients to make sure that they blended and would complement the cake without being too overpowering.

They had been gardening earlier, her husband taking on the heavy work of cutting grass and trimming hedges, whilst she tended flowers, pulled out weeds before they reached a stranglehold on the flora and fauna that they never had a chance of invading. Margaret loved her flowers and the garden in summer was a riot of colour and scent, delphiniums, foxgloves and sweet peas, with peonies and roses complimenting each other and sacrificing order for colour. She had taken the foxgloves into the house and set them aside for later.

Jonathan would have helped, she knew that, but he was gone now and just the echo of him remained. She had always hated that motorbike, but her husband had insisted.

     “Let the boy be,” he had demanded, and had even lent him the money, going with him to the dealer and riding up and down the street as a pillion passenger, as the boy demonstrated his skill and prowess on his new acquisition.

     “Always wanted one myself, but just never got around to it!” Kenneth had told his son, lamenting his lost youth and revelling in the freedom that he felt he was now able to give to his only child. “Come on, let’s have another go!”   He has a heart condition, she worried, knowing that her husband could be reckless with his health, and stood watching anxiously from the side, before deciding that she could watch no more and so had returned to the kitchen, to her baking, the only thing that she truly enjoyed. It was only weeks later that the police arrived at her doorstep, and she had fallen to her knees in anguish and rage.

She held the bowl to her face, enjoying the scent of the lemon, and checking to see if she could detect the extra something that she had added for her husband. That should do, she thought. She applied the cream to the cake with her pallet knife, long languishing strokes, half smiling as she did so, before placing the top sponge and applying another layer of cream.

In a moment of distraction, Margaret licked the spoon, relishing in the deep lemon sweetness, the smoothness and creaminess that they had always so enjoyed. Realising her mistake was the last thing she thought about before she hit the floor.