Baking up a Storm?

Dear Diary, How lovely it is to share one's day with a friend.

Anne and I have been extremely busy after I expressed the desire to make an apron. Sadly I forgot to pop my rather elderly pinny into my bag in my rush to pack, and as we have been baking [shortbread and orange cake ... simply scrumptious], plus gathering vegetables from Anne's garden, my clothes were beginning to need washing almost every day.

Anne has a rather large trunk in her back room that we hauled into the kitchen where we tipped the contents onto the floor. While the appearance of chaos was almost evident we did find some surprises. I was not aware Anne was a closet stitcher! She had small pieces of many fabrics, large pieces of a small number of fabrics and cottons in almost every colours of the rainbow. Where to begin?

Aprons can be useful, or they can be decorative, or better still, they can be decorative and useful. That is the type of apron I like best! Anne also has a rather large collection of craft magazines. How she ever thinks she will make one article from each magazine is beyond my belief, but, as a good friend who wishes to preserve that status, I never uttered a word. [In fact Dear Diary, I managed to secret a bundle to my room to peruse at my leisure.]

One particular pattern captured our attention almost simultaneously. So easy to make a choice when we both preferred the one pattern! We measured, we cut, and we sewed a couple of aprons. One was very pretty featuring a cup cake fabric, but this was hardly practical for daily wearing in a busy kitchen, such as Anne's kitchen promises to become.

The second one we decided to use a pretty fabric in a plain salmon pink, combined with a print featuring pink buds, and pale gold chrysanthemums on a background of black and white stripes. In a frivolous moment I added some wide black ric rac braid, and commented how it would suit Niece. Anne burst into a fit of giggles. I looked at her wondering if perhaps she had lost part of her mind. Still laughing she said she thought the apron would more suit a tart. Dear Diary I was shocked! After taking a second, longer look, I could see where Anne was coming from. No ... Hester would not appreciate that apron. Pity though!

Changing tack and thinking along serious lines we decided upon using the same black and white fabric with the pink and gold flowers, but backing it with serviceable green gingham, and using the same gingham for ties, pockets, and a bottom trim. Anne thought a little white ric rac would be a pleasing addition, and not too tarty.

Dear Diary, the baking was successful. As the warm aroma drifted outdoors a tap, tap at the kitchen door alerted us to an impending visitor. Anne whispered to me it was probably Richard. I stared at Anne. Did she have a man friend? Who was this Richard? Was I to call him Richard or Dick? Before I had time to form a query an older gent walked into the kitchen.

Anne greeted him warmly and introduced me as her best friend, which I must admit made me feel rather proud.

We sat down to a slice of still warm orange cake accompanied by a cup of Earl Grey. Dear Diary, I resisted the temptation to hold out my little finger as we sipped from the bone china cups, part of a tea set that I assumed Anne kept only for show. Conversation flowed quickly. Richard is a great talker. His main topic of conversation included the name Hope. Hope this and Hope that. In the beginning I wondered if he had a crush on Hope, though had no idea who Hope was. Anne smiled a lot. The whole scenario was puzzling.

Later Richard thanked Anne for the conversation, cake and cuppa, and took his leave.

Dear Diary, it took me less than two minutes to quiz Anne. It turns out Richard has his sights set on a newly widowed lady a few streets away. He hasn't asked her out, indeed hasn't spoken to her, but feeds his fantasy by talking to Anne. Anne is such a kind person she plays along. I am not sure I could be bothered!

I must say that already in the few days I have been here at the seaside with Anne have been relaxing; I find laughter bubbles close to the surface regularly.

Up and Away

Dear Diary, If things need doing, 'tis best to do them fast! Maybe that is not the exact quote my Father used, but very close to it. Not that he ever decided a course of action quickly. It was his way to think, consider, think again, and then and only then, if the idea appeared to be suitable for the occasion, he acted. The fact that some of these actions took place months, or even years later was beside the point. A lesson told is a lesson learned.

Well things needed doing. Arrangements needed making. Actions were taken.

Dear Diary, here I am at the seaside home of my friend Anne, who was delighted to have me share her life for a time. At the moment no time limit has been placed on my visit; Anne is indeed a dear friend who understands the necessity I felt for getting away from the shambles at Niece's place.

I am too old to listen to ramblings of a pregnant girl, the rantings of the man who made her pregnant, and the fussing of the mother and her husband. Too much of a good thing!

In my naive innocence I blithely assumed the news of a pregnancy for a young couple, albeit unmarried, but promised, should be exciting and that planning for the arrival would fill the days with pleasure. Dear Diary, I am a fool, an old fool of a woman! Though deep inside I still feel my naive idea is how it should be. This poor child who will be born into a reasonably wealthy family, and therefore not poor in the normal expression of the word, will need to earn a place in the hearts of the parents. Unless of course, common sense rules.

Deciding upon a little subterfuge I announced I was cycling to the shop for the morning paper and disregarded Hester's astonished stare. No doubt she wondered why I needed a newspaper when one was delivered daily to the house. Each morning a cheerful lad tossed a plastic wrapped newspaper onto the lawn, often missing the garden, and sometimes even missing the property; instead loping it into the neighbour's tall tree that overhung our boundary fence. I had no desire to purchase a newspaper. I simply needed to use the public telephone box and blurt my troubles into Anne's sympathetic ear. Halfway through my tale Anne broke in with a suggestion; the suggestion I fervently wished for. And Dear Diary, here I am, at Anne's where life is calm.

Travelling down in the coach I peered out the smudgy window, though the scenery outside that window remained a mystery for much of the journey. My mind was not on the journey; my mind was not on the journey. Tumultuous thoughts tumbled through my mind; and for a moment Dear Diary, I feared for my sanity.

Once I arrived at the seaside Anne's cheerful presence immediately calmed my anxiety. A welcome cup of coffee combined with ham and mustard sandwiches helped ease my apprehension. Gradually a feeling of peace flowed over me, as I relaxed in quiet company. Dear Diary, I am here for I know not how long, but Dear Diary, already I am appreciating the absence of turmoil.

In the Morning

Dear Diary, I have a confession. The 'episode' in the dead of night upset my sleep. I tossed. I turned. Sleep evaded me until dawn when I fell into a fitful sleep punctuated by nightmares.

My life in this household has always been pleasant; small skirmishes quickly resolved, and relative peace reigned for years. The arguing, the midnight niggling, and a feeling that war is about to break out at any moment are upsetting. How Niece is coping is beyond thinking about. Phil will ensure life remains calm; he has a calming influence, but over recent days even Phil has shown signs of impatience. As I lay in bed, my thoughts racing, a headache developed. I did stagger to the bathroom for an Aspirin, which helped the head, and no doubt relaxed me enough to enable the fitful sleep.

As I awoke an idea sprung to mind. Escape! Take a break.

No sooner had the thought surfaced than Karen hurried to the bathroom. This morning sickness is dragging her down.

Dear Diary, I took it upon myself to offer assistance. From the depths of my subconscious a remedy emerged. A cup of sweet tea and a dry biscuit is an unusual combination if you give it any thought, and not one that I knew to be a positive cure. Still, better to try than to ignore the poor girl. By the time she entered the kitchen the 'remedy' was ready. Sitting her down at the table I insisted she try it. Admittedly Milk Arrowroot biscuits, without the addition of butter and honey as I prefer them, is rather boring. However, give Karen her due, she sipped and nibbled. Slowly she recovered, though whether it was the tea and biscuit or just that the sickness had passed I am not sure.

Niece came into the room ... she had set the washing machine going for a load of washing. As we all sat around the table the discussion centred on the row we had inadvertently heard during the night. Karen was apologetic. Jake was not sure he was ready to be a father; Karen desired this baby. The fact they had no home, and now Karen's hopes of finding a job in the short term were lessening by the day, we agreed things were not looking good.

Hester, egged on by an earlier conversation with Phil, enquired how long Karen and Jake would stay in this house.

Karen look shocked. Clearly the idea of moving out in the meantime had not crossed her mind. It appeared to me that a young couple expecting their first child, whether it was 100% welcome this early in the pregnancy, would prefer their own home; a place to raise a child. The look on Karen's face showed otherwise. Oh dear, I fear my nightmare is coming to fruition.

There are arrangements to be made!

Midnight Matters

Dear Diary, My last entry began, 'it almost beggars belief'. Once again that is the only suitable phrase to begin today's entry.

Men! I was flabbergasted to wake in the middle of the night to hear the sound of raised voices and sobbing. Honestly I didn't intend listening, but when no other noises break the darkness, and because the night was not that warm I had no desire to pull the blankets over my head to diminish the sound, I slowly wakened and listened. Dear Diary, I am not proud of that fact, and I implore you not to reveal this distasteful side of my nature, a side that seldom shows, because in all honesty I am nearly always a reasonably respectable quiet natured woman.

As the sounds became clearer it became obvious Karen and Jake were involved in a full-scale quarrel. Poor Karen! A girl in such a delicate situation should take care of her mental health. Sobbing inconsolably is not good. Jake was sounding forth about Karen's pregnancy!

"How!" he demanded, "did Karen manage to get pregnant?"

Dear Diary, I have to confess to smothering an escaping giggle. Did her have no idea at all? Or perhaps he had assumed that Karen was in the same category as the Virgin Mary? Immaculate conception or the like! From snippets of conversations between young school age children I thought everyone today knew about sex. [Sorry Dear Diary, I can find no other word, but I did whisper it.]

Jake was ranting on and on about how it would be impossible for him to support a wife and a child. Yet Dear Diary, I was of the impression the wedding was postponed. Let us hope it isn't cancelled! It struck me as humorous as there were Karen and Jake living with Karen's long lost and only recently found birth mother, and Jake was concerned about supporting others! He had made no effort to find a house for the pair of them, and by the way this conversation was heading it appeared as though a move would not be in the offing!

Just as I had decided to roll over and go back to sleep, closing my mind to the row that was now being carried on in quieter tones, the hallway light switched on.

Phil's voice boomed towards Karen and Jake, demanding they keep the din down, as he had to work in the morning. His last words were, "Things are always better in the light of day!" Wise words Phil! Thankfully Karen and Jake took the hint; their discussion died down; Karen's sobbing diminished. Peace descended upon the household, though heaven only knows what the morning will bring!

On the Baby's knuckle?

Dear Diary, It almost beggars belief that a modern miss of today's generation failed to consider pregnancy as a possible reason for her morning sickness. And that this girl's mother also failed to put two and two together. Dear Diary, it appears that some of the older generation do serve a useful purpose in a family! Not that I am suggesting I was on the lookout for a pregnancy, but honestly ... vomiting every morning does, surely, lead one to suspect pregnancy.

All is well now. Karen had a doctor's appointment this morning and arrived home full of smiles. We have left her to make the official announcement to the prospective Dad. It does seem that a wedding will be postponed until after the event. While this is not the solution I would have come up with, it ill behooves me to suggest an immediate wedding. Times have changed! No longer are unwed mothers frowned upon by the rest of society, and thankfully children born before nuptials do not need to be introduced to society as a little brother or sister. There is a lot to be said for today's open acceptance of children arriving into a family.

I did show Karen the lemon knitting wool and she is thrilled to think I am knitting already for the newborn. Frankly, Dear Diary, I would love if after her scan she would drop a hint as to the sex of the babe, but am loathe to suggest that as well. There are sometimes when an older relative should, as the young ones say, 'butt out'.

There is one problem that does cause me some concern. Where will the new arrival sleep? Will Karen and Jake still go house hunting, or will they simply dig in with Niece and Phil? No doubt a solution will be found, and once again I do not consider I should be asking such a question; well not at the moment anyway! Let this exciting piece of information have time to sink in with the others.

I am contemplating suggesting Phil built another bathroom! But hopefully Karen will soon pass this early stage and bloom.

In the meantime, I am sitting on the patio, in a sheltered corner where the sun is shining and the breeze is diverted, knitting the lemon wool.

Time for Needles?

Dear Diary ... Finally the cat is out of the bag, which is of course a simile for a major news announcement.

This morning there was a queue at the bathroom door. Niece explained that Karen wasn't feeling well. I headed for the toilet near the back door, the one those pottering in the garden should use as the floor is easily mopped; but for some reason it seldom sees a soul; the paper only needs changing once in a blue moon, but when nature calls it hardly matters which toilet we use. The moment I turned the corner to the back passage Niece called out not to bother.

"Why ever not?" I queried.

"Phil is in there!"

Oh, not much sense in walking the distance I surmised, and rather than stand in a queue for heaven only knows how long, I wandered outside to check on the garden. Nothing much altered there!

Outside the shed several stacks of timber were beginning to take shape. I remembered the frenzy of the 'boys' at the weekend, and while it still wasn't obvious the exact shape of the finished project it did show signs of being some sort of Gazebo. Mmmm ... A gazebo in the garden! I rather like the idea of that Dear Diary. Perhaps I could sit there in the cool of a summer evening and read a book?

What with Karen 'not feeling well' and spending too much time in the bathroom each morning, I could find myself knitting that lemon baby wool.

A thought entered my previously dim mind. Did Niece have any inkling of why Karen was not feeling well? From her actions and lack of excitement that the knowledge of such an event would normally invoke I feel that she is unaware of the fact she may be a grandmother within a few months. For a moment I contemplated my actions. Should I wait until Karen and Jake made an announcement, or should I drop loaded hints as to the state of affairs as I see it?

In a quandary I wandered back indoors. Thankfully the bathroom was empty. An older lady has a limited bladder capacity!

From the kitchen I heard murmuring voices. It was time for breakfast. Assuming a nonchalant air I strolled into the kitchen and, as is normal for me, reached for the packet of sachet oats that cook in seconds in the microwave oven.

"Anyone for oats?" I asked.

Karen looked pale. Obviously oats and Karen were not on the best of terms at this time of the morning. Niece nodded to me, and suggested I make a pot of porridge, as 'the boys' would be in for breakfast in a moment. One bowl or a pot of porridge makes little difference to me. After adding a little salt I stirred the pot until a nourishing meal was cooked. Dear Diary, I am fully aware one should not have sugar on porridge, but a little brown sugar sprinkled on the top, before pouring cooling milk, is a real treat. There is no better way to start a day than with a treat!

Taking the bull by the horns, literally Dear Diary ... we do not countenance bulls in the kitchen at Hester and Phil's place, I asked Karen how she was feeling. Just one look at her told me.

"Aunt Alice," she mumbled, "I feel awful!"

"Karen, my dear", I replied. "You will feel better in the mornings in a few weeks."

She looked at me astounded.

Dear Diary, the young of today seem to think anyone older than thirty knows nothing about the ways of the world!

"It's alright Karen," I said. "I think I know the reason for your malaise. I suggest you visit your doctor for confirmation."

A little smile crossed Karen's white peaky face.

"Aunt, nothing escapes your eyes does it!"

At this point, Dear Diary, the penny dropped with Niece. Her face was a picture, a movie picture, as expression after expression crossed her features.

"Karen! Karen! You are pregnant?"

Karen smiled; shyly replying she thought she might be.

"Karen," I interjected. "I am certain you are!"

It was a rather emotional moment Dear Diary. I have sorted out some knitting patterns for that lemon wool.

Workday Monday

Dear Diary, Mondays are busy days ... it has always been a policy of mine to tackle housework on a Monday, with the thought in mind that Tuesday can be a 'me day'; a day when I can indulge myself and not worry about tidying or cleaning. As I share this house with Niece I consider it my duty to help with the cleaning. Niece is rather pig-headed and tries to insist I keep out of her way.

Not that I would dream of going into the master bedroom! When passing the open door I am often dumbfounded at the state of the floor. Phil is untidy! Perhaps I should qualify that ... Phil is a man who has no idea of tidiness. He has shoes lying all over the floor and how either of them navigate their way to the door is beyond me. Poor Niece; she does try.

My quarters are my domain, and are in keeping with my work ethos. Keep it tidy all the time and no major clean-up is required. Shoes go into their rack at the bottom of the wardrobe; clothes that will do another turn are hung up. It is a simple ethic. Every so often, particularly on a beautiful, almost spring day like today, I undertake a mini spring clean. The bed is changed; the mattress protector washed; the duvet cover washed and hung out in the morning fresh air. Mats are shaken and the carpet swept. The furniture is polished with a wonderful lavender scented polish, and the lace curtains washed and hung out to dry. By mid afternoon everything was dry, bedding back on the bed and the curtains hung on shiny windows. There is a great deal of pleasure to be obtained from such a spring clean!

Tomorrow Dear Diary I will have a day to myself, a day when I can, if I choose, sit in my room, or out on the patio if the day is as lovely as today, and read.

What the rest of the household gets up to is their business. My sense of achievement today overcomes the feeling of tiredness.