Y False Pretences

"False Pretences."
"A TV documentary? Here?" Brenda stared in horror at Gillian Giles,
the Researcher for the national TV company, who had just so calmly
suggested allowing millions of viewers the privilege of entering her
kitchen. It was preposterous! A tide of rage swelled her ample bosom at
the mere idea. Her immaculate teashop kitchen was without exception her
own private domain, where no foot other than hers had ever stepped! But
Gillian ignored her hostile glare.
"Well&;#8230;you have just won the competition for serving up the
best home-baked cakes and biscuits in the country. Everyone wants to
watch you do it!"
Brenda pursed her lips and drew herself up to her full height.
"Absolutely and emphatically not!" she cried. "If you think I'm going
to let you lot with all your germs contaminate my clean kitchen, then
you can think again." But Gillian merely smiled before resorting to
another form of persuasion.
"Well, Mrs. West - I think you'll find that my TV company won't pay up
the five thousand pounds in prize money without your agreement to film
the winning kitchen&;#8230;.so I suppose we'd just better forget the
whole&;#8230;."
"Hold on a minute!" snapped Brenda. "I won that fair and square - you
can't take it away now. I'm sure that the entry form would
have&;#8230;." Her voice tailed off as a shadow of doubt flickered
through her eyes. Suddenly she half remembered a tiny clause in the
entry form that mentioned such an agreement. But she had ignored it
because she hadn't thought for one minute that she would actually win
the competition. Gillian was nodding understandingly now as Brenda
sighed in defeat.
"I see that you've remembered the conditions of entry," she murmured.
"So - do we have a deal?"
"When do you want to start?" asked Brenda dully.
The day before the film crew was due to arrive, Brenda pushed her
laden trolley disconsolately around the supermarket. Looking down
thoughtfully at the array of factory-produced cakes and biscuits in her
trolley, her anxiety increased. Could she learn how to bake cakes in
twenty-four hours when she barely knew how to boil an egg? Pushing back
a strand of the blonde wig that she wore to avoid being recognised, she
made her way to the till, where she paid, as usual, in silence and in
cash.

When she was safely in her car she removed the wig, sunglasses and
woollen muffler, and drove back to the teashop, as usual parking at the
rear so that she could unload her purchases away from prying eyes.
Little fruit pies, eclairs, slab cake, meringues, sponge cakes,
brownies and an assortment of shortbread biscuits were all placed on
the kitchen table, then unwrapped and transferred to stainless steel
platters. All that she had to do now was to whip up a packet mix for a
Victoria sponge and put it in the oven so that the aroma of freshly
baked cakes would waft through the tea room just as it was time to open
up. Brenda had it all timed to a fine art.
As she sipped her tea before opening the shop, she browsed through a
recipe book. She thought that she could possibly manage an apple pie -
if she used frozen pastry and tinned apples. And she knew all about
Victoria sponges. But the biscuits and slab cake would prove a little
difficult because their ingredients had to be weighed. And Brenda
didn't possess any scales&;#8230;. Well, she would use bought ones
and say that she had made them earlier.
She rose from her stool and wandered over to the pristine stainless
steel units, opening each cupboard to see what they contained. Some of
the utensils were easily recognisable - rolling pin, cake-tins, spoons,
and whisks. But many of them looked more like implements that would be
more appropriate in a Middle Ages torture chamber. She peered curiously
at one - a sort of wheel with a fluted razor-sharp edge - and she
shivered, imagining it used to slice open the stomach of some poor
prisoner&;#8230;.With a shudder of distaste she slammed the cupboard
shut. It would have to be apple pie and Victoria sponge - and that was
that.
Later when the last satisfied customer had left, she donned the wig,
glasses and muffler and drove to the supermarket again. She had to time
tomorrow's activities properly if she was to avoid being caught with
the damning evidence that her pastry was not made by her own fair
hands. The crew was arriving at ten o'clock and she wouldn't have time
to go shopping before then because she was going to have her hair done.
After all she couldn't appear on national TV with split ends, could
she?

At nine fifty precisely Brenda was rolling out the thawed pastry ready
to line a pie dish that - to her knowledge - had never been used
before. In the fridge sat a glass bowl filled with tinned apples - the
tin having been disposed of earlier in next door's bin. In the oven a
packet mix Victoria sponge was gently rising, and the shop-bought jam
that would be used to fill it had been scooped into an empty pickle jar
labelled 'Home made raspberry - 1999.' The jar that it had actually
come out of was in the bin. All around the kitchen, on strategically
placed wire trays, lay heaps of 'cooling' biscuits, and a forcing bag
filled with whipped cream sat next to a plate containing cream
meringues.
When the doorbell rang Brenda scattered a handful of flour over the
working surfaces and floor - just to make it look more authentic - and,
wiping her hands on her spotless white apron, hurried to open the door.
She had turned all the ovens on so that the heat blasted out into the
faces of the film crew as soon as she opened the door. This, she
reflected proudly, was just a little finishing touch to dispel any
doubts. And the biscuits that she had left to burn in the bottom of
each oven had been a stroke of pure genius&;#8230;..
"Come in!" she invited, her face flushed with excitement. "I'm just
finishing one of my famous apple pies. And you won't taste one better
than mine." She led Dave the cameraman, and Mark the presenter through
the little shop and into the kitchen, where the timer was just
pinging.
"Heavens! My Victoria sponge! It's all go this morning!" she gushed,
bustling around in search of her oven gloves. "And I've tried to do as
much as possible before you came so that I'd have more time for the
interview." As she opened the oven door a delicious aroma of baking
sponge wafted out.
"Hold it!" cried Dave. "I want a shot of that. Do you think you could
face the camera as you're taking it out?" Brenda smiled. Of course she
could!
"Perfect."
"Would you like to film me actually making the apple pie?" asked
Brenda. "All my customers say that it tastes superb. I call it
'Brenda's Best,' she added impulsively.
Carefully she lined the dish and then took the apple filling out of
the fridge. "I stewed this yesterday," she explained, ladling a
generous helping onto the pastry. Then she placed pastry over the dish,
taking care to seal the sides, as instructed in the recipe book.
Really, she thought, this baking business was - literally - a piece of
cake!

By midday Dave had taken all the shots of the kitchen that he needed,
and now he wanted to film the customers being interviewed by Mark. The
tea urn was full and the coffee machine bubbling. The plates of cakes
and biscuits were placed on the display unit and everything was set.
With a smile Brenda opened the doors, knowing that her shop would be
full that morning, thanks to the notice about the filming that she had
displayed all that week. And judging by the queue her customers had
certainly read it.
"Your usual meringue?" Brenda asked the vicar as he reached the front
of the queue. "And - Mrs. Dobbs - I expect you'll have a slice of
Brenda's Best pie? Now, Mr Edwards - will it be the usual, or can I
tempt you with an ?clair?" And so the cakes and pastries were dished
out accompanied by the light-hearted banter in which Brenda was so
practised. Pretty soon the air in the teashop was fragrant with the
aroma of coffee and cakes, and the sounds of cutlery on china mingled
with conversation. Brenda smiled happily.
Perfect!

And then it happened.
"Arrrrgh!" shrieked Mrs. Dobbs. "There's a mouse's head in my pie!"
The elderly lady leaped from her chair like a twenty-year-old athlete,
and somehow managed to overturn the table. The vicar was showered with
tea and milk and Mrs. Dobbs ended up sitting on Mr. Edward's lap. The
fracas then caused a major panic amongst the other customers, who
weren't all that sure what had happened but thought that it must be
something awful the way poor Mrs. Dobbs was clutching her throat and
screaming. And soon some of them began to scream too - and more tables
and chairs were overturned as they ran out of the shop clutching their
throats in sympathy with Mrs. Dobbs.
A minute later the only people remaining in the teashop were Brenda,
Dave and Mark, who stared at each other in stunned silence. Brenda was
the first to recover.
"When I get my hands on the farmer who sold me those mouse-infested
apples, he'll get the sharp end of my tongue - I can tell you!" she
cried.

END
1,597 words.