Cinnamon rock cakes in a time of unrest

Cinnamon rock cakes in a time of unrest

These are terrible times with only twenty years left until the end of another century. I doubt my daughter and I will survive much longer. Central Control has reduced the island's population to fifteen million and they are finding it harder than they imagined keeping a cap on that figure. There are rumours of another cull like the one in '71. Our only hope is to keep moving but the fight within me is diminishing. With each day, my resistance ebbs away and I wonder if life can get any tougher.

Several weeks ago, we crossed the old border and are now making slow progress through the former Welsh Valleys, now called Green Zone. As we stop walking, my gut snipes angrily, forcing me to clutch at my stomach. Abby glances my way but averts her eyes when I look at her. I rush my apology:

“Sorry about that. Don't worry. I'm OK.”

Midday is a good time to make progress, generally being too hot for CC troops to be out on patrol. Today is particularly warm and the startling light throws short black shadows. Abby and I haven't eaten properly for nearly two days and my eyes are continually scoping for food, yet I nearly miss it; ruby red amongst the daisies.

I stare at the fruit before my brain registers that this is something we can eat. I focus on the object, making sure my fuddled mind is not playing tricks. Greedily, I snatch the apple from the roadside before it has a chance to disappear. Turning it over in my hand, I am pleased. It could have been worse. Some of the apple is useless brown pulp with a scarred skin but the rest looks edible. Taking the fruit to my mouth, I bite into the decay before quickly spitting the vile mixture onto the ground. I carefully inspect the rest and offer it to Abby.

“Here you are. It's good.”

“No, Daddy, you have some first.” The sheer beautiful innocence of her reply eats away at me but love trumps hunger every time. I smile encouragingly at her.

“No, it's all right, sweetie. You have it, I'm not hungry.” I doubt if she believes me but she bites eagerly into the apple.

Normally, we would not be travelling at this time of day. Darkness used to be our friend and companion but the dismal, smoky gloom of a world with its moon forever hidden from sight is too depressing. Today, I felt the need to start earlier, hoping for a miracle, something tangible to give us a reason to keep going. An apple lying by the side of the road is as good a sign as any but I'm still puzzled. How did it get there?

“Hello.”

The euphoria of finding food has momentarily left me off guard. Behind me, staring at us, an old lady is leaning over the tangled hedge. She is probably in her seventies; grey hair in a tight bun, a round pink face, clear blue eyes; kind eyes. Abby is eleven years old and knows not to trust kind eyes, but she also knows how vital it is not to show fear to anything or anyone, including old ladies.

“Hi!” is my daughter's confident response.

Unfortunately, the old woman has recognised the fear in my eyes. We all have it, a gift from The Change. I look around me. Her house is remote, no other sign of human life. With uncanny ease, the woman reads my thoughts.

“I don't get bothered here,” she squeezes a smile to her face, “I live a quiet and simple life. The Change hasn't affected me much at all.”

I want to believe her. She continues talking, her eyes darting everywhere:

“There are some blackberry bushes around the back. I was going to make jam but go and pick as many as you like.”

Before I can respond, the air is pierced by a sharp whistling sound and she smiles at me while fiddling with the hearing aid behind her left ear.

“Sorry about that. I think the battery's going flat. Soon I won't be able to hear a thing.”

Inbred fears, options and calculations ricochet in my head. For once, I decide to ignore my instincts. It doesn't seem a big risk. My daughter is struggling and if you cannot trust an old lady with kind eyes then who can you trust? Her eyes dart between my daughter and I; she seems to have made some sort of decision.

“You look rather hungry, I’ve just done some baking, come on in and try some of my blackberry and apple pie.”

I don’t need to look at Abby; we have not eaten a proper meal for a week or so; puddings and cakes are things from a distant past.

“If it’s not too much trouble, thank you, that’s very kind. We won't eat too much,” I mumble.

The woman turns to go back into the house, calling over her shoulder:

“Come on then, follow me.”

Then, unexpectedly, she stops, turns and squints, her forensic eyes taking a closer look at Abby, eyeing her up and down tip to toe, toe to tip.

“Is that a girl?”

My stomach screams in panic, my parched throat grasps for air and consequently my response is too sharp and insistent.

“No! John's a boy! I can see why you might be confused; he really needs to get his hair cut!”

But it's no good. She knows I'm lying and, even worse, I know she knows I'm lying. She gives me a big smile, an innocent look.”Of course he is, how silly of me.”

She turns and beckons us to follow. Abby takes the lead as the woman opens her back door and then follows her inside. I hear the woman’s shout of surprise and realise she has not expected Abby to enter. In her hands she is holding a large thick blanket which I recognise is not used for warmth but for concealment. Behind her is an old fashioned AGA cooker – back in the seventies that would have marked her down as bourgeoisie – nothing the CC thugs liked better than ripping the cooker ovens out from a kitchen and smashing them to pieces with their sledge hammers. Scary days; the woman must be well connected to retain hers.

However Abby is taking nothing of this in; she seems entranced and I can understand why because a distant memory of my mother baking bread comes to mind, and the aroma of freshly baked pastry quite literally takes my breath away. The sweet smell is an attack on the senses; the scent from the baking seems to cut across everything and I lose myself in the intoxicating air of the long forgotten bouquet. For some reason I find myself near to tears, and my reaction has mellowed our host and she gestures for us to take a seat at the kitchen table as she lifts an apron from on top of the AGA and carries the crumble and places it before us.

“Here, help yourself young man.” She goes to hand me a ladle but her generosity is too much and I jump to my feet.

“Sorry I need to go to the toilet.” I rush away and do my best to control my sobbing; coughing as loud as I can so Abby will not hear me. I swill my face in cold water. There is no soap in the room, so she cannot be that well connected.

On returning she has cut a large piece for Abby and the perfume created by the cooking is stronger than ever.

“I’ve been saving a small jar of cream for a special occasion,” the lady pronounces, “I think having guests to tea counts as just that.” I look across at Abby who looks years younger than she did an hour ago; her obvious happiness melts my heart.

No-one speaks as Abby and I savour the most delicious food we have tasted in forever, and silently accept second and third helpings with gratitude which cannot be expressed. Our host collects our dishes and smiles before speaking.

“My name is Lillian, Lillian Roberts. I was born in the second year of this century so will be eighty years old later this year. I’ve lived in this lonely old cottage almost my entire life, the last five years as a widow. My son was, actually is, a captain in the Control, but we are no longer in touch with each other. We don’t see eye to eye on anything anymore. However, his name alone is enough to guarantee me a peaceful life. The patrols come by every other Thursday morning like clockwork, remember, a bit like the bin men used to back in the day. Anyway there are still plenty of blackberries and apples left in the orchard; you’re welcome to help yourself. I'll get some bags, help yourself, and take as much as you want. I’ll make a nice cup of tea for when you’re finished.”

Abby and I make our way through the back garden before the woman shouts out; “You both look so tired, if you want why you not stay for a while, have a wash and a lie-down.” I glance over at Abby and her eyes send so many messages; she would love a rest and a break from our monotonous trek, but knows it’s not possible, that I will turn down the offer. I feel so bad that she is so willing to accede to my wishes.

“Of course we would love to accept your offer, which would be wonderful.” The joy on my daughter’s face makes any risk taking worthwhile. We make our way into the back garden which is overgrown with tangled bushes strangling the long grass. I hear some scuffing on the path and turn to see the lady shuffling toward us. She passes over an old supermarket plastic bag. It has a brand name printed on it, very old, from well before The Change. After thirty minutes of picking the fruit, I crouch down and speak to Abby:

“I'm going inside to thank the lady before we go. Find another hundred blackberries for the bag.” Abby enjoys a challenge.

I make my way back down the weed spattered path, take a deep inward breath, open the back door as quietly as possible and tiptoe carefully through the house. As I peek through a crack in the living room door, I can see that Lillian is talking on a phone. I am so disappointed. The phone is jammed to her ear and I catch a few odd words. She fiddles with the hearing aid, it whistles and she starts again, speaking louder.

“Yes, I want to know. Are there still rewards for finding young girls?”

Something is said at the other end. I can imagine those kind eyes of hers glinting as her voice takes on a steely edge.

“Oh, you think so! That's no good to me. Find out now. Yes or no. And also how much is the reward? Still a million? Or is it more?”

She huffs an outward breath and turns around to see me standing there. I close the door behind me and snatch the phone from her. My eyes never leave hers as I wait for the other person to come back on the phone. Before they can say anything, I speak:

“I'm so sorry about that. That was my mother. She's totally senile. Imagines she sees young girls all the time. Sorry to have bothered you.”

The controller's voice reeks with a haughty arrogance:

“OK sir, but make sure she doesn't waste our time again.”

“Of course I will. I'll disable the phone now.”

Which I do by smashing it across the table. Lillian can barely face me by the time I return from locking the back door.

“I'm so sorry,” she says, once, twice, three times.

I fold into an armchair and study the woman. Where did it all go wrong? What is the use of money to her? We are now enemies, something I didn't want or choose.

“You know I cannot overlook what you were doing?” I don't recognise my own voice. She nods slowly. It will be a release from her shame. A clock ticks slowly on the mantelpiece. Suddenly, I am aware of the smell of warm cinnamon. She is old but still retains her female intuition and there is positivity in her voice:

“I've made some cinnamon rock cakes. Would your...boy...like one?”

I study her face but she is not looking for clemency.

“Okay, I'll bring him in.”

“There's some tinned fruit in the larder,” she adds.

I was born with a conscience but now everything is sacrificed for survival. I go to the kitchen and splash cold water over my face, then with mouth wide open I swallow deep breaths and take in the smell of the rock cakes. I shudder and the smallest tear edges past my eye. Slamming my palm on the kitchen sink, I turn to inspect the kitchen cupboards. Not that much inside them, but noticeably a dozen eggs and their many possibilities bring a smile to my face; there is more than enough to get us through another week. Little finds like twelve fresh eggs induce big decisions. I compose myself and return to the garden where Abby is beaming.

“I've filled the bag, Daddy,” she says.

“Well done,” I respond. “I've got some good news. The kind lady is going away soon and she said we can stay in her house until she comes back.”

“Really?”

Abby is wise for her years and probably knows I'm lying but sometimes there are more important things in life than telling the truth.

“The lady thinks your name is John,” I remind Abby, taking her hand and leading her back inside. Maybe, while Lillian is sitting eating rock cakes with my child, the old lady will begin to understand why she most probably, has to die before the morning arrives.