Page 47 of Playing the Field
We may have been working on making the players also feel like our friends, but there have to be boundaries. Clearly I’ll need to remind Phoebs of this, too.
‘As you prefer,’ Craig says, just as Marge ambles over to join us. I seize the opportunity to put an end to the conversation. ‘Marge! You wouldn’t mind taking over from Craig for a moment, would you? I’m assigning him to water duty.’
‘Oh yes, this looks way easier.’ She nudges him out of the way. ‘Do you know where to find the cups?’
He shakes his head, so she directs him to a stack of beakers in a bag behind the bar. ‘Tap water to the top then pop them on the end of the counter. Thanks, love,’ she says, then to me, when he’s out of earshot, ‘Not still trying to get in your knickers, is he?’
‘Marge! He’s dating my best friend. No, I just wanted to talk to you about the cakes,’ I fib. ‘I heard you telling Olly there was some kind of disaster?’
‘Only that some of my muffin balls have got stuck together. The icing wasn’t quite set when I popped them in the box. It’s not a problem though– I’ll just sell those ones as duos for double the money.’
Bless her, she spent the better part of yesterday baking, just in case no one else brought in an entry and we ended up with nothing to sell on our cake stand. With mine, Ben and her efforts, at least the table isn’t empty. Time will tell if the prize of a Crawford season ticket encouraged anyone else to attempt cake decorating.
By 10.45a.m., all our preparations are complete and we’re ready to welcome the first arrivals. My stomach twists with anxiety as the official start time comes and goes, and Dad drums his fingers on the bar impatiently. I must check my watch at least every twenty seconds. I have to keep reminding myself it’s still early.
It’s just before midday when the first visitor finally appears and it’s such a relief I almost burst into tears. Thankfully, they’re followed by plenty more in quick succession. At last our fundraiser is happening.
The younger kids drag their parents straight to Elliot’s goal, while a couple of teenage girls make a beeline for Ben, phone cameras at the ready. When Cassie arrives, she finds me chatting to Marge at the cake stand. She apologises for not having changed out of her sports kit. ‘I didn’t want to get here any later. Most of my students are coming down with their parents and I wanted to make sure I was here before them.’
‘Don’t worry– there isn’t a dress code,’ Marge says kindly, even if she is wearing the most glamorous outfit I’ve ever seen her in. I’m used to seeing her in jeans and a sweater for the footie– often with a winter coat. Today she’s in a floral tea dress with a matching cardy, albeit still with trainers on her feet.
‘Whoa!’ Bob exclaims. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He’s looking over our shoulders at a close to full-size replica of the FA Cup advancing slowly towards us on a cake tray.
Marge lets out a slow whistle. ‘That makes our contributions look rather amateur.’
‘Tell me where you want it– it weighs a bloody tonne,’ comes a voice from behind the cake.
‘Barbour?’ I’d recognise that raspy tone anywhere.
‘Yeah, but before you get excited I’m just the courier. My wife’s parking the car up then she can take all the credit.’
Tempting as it is to swipe a bit of the icing off the side as he follows Marge over to the cake table, I manage to resist for fear of sending the whole thing toppling over. It will be enough of a shame having to slice it up when the time comes.
‘It’s a cup cake, geddit?’ he says, once it’s been safely deposited.
‘It’s amazing.’ Marge beams, looking delighted that her cake table has suddenly improved so dramatically. ‘It must have taken ages.’
‘She even missedCoronation Street.’ Bob sounds very proud of this.
‘And we’re all very grateful,’ Marge tells him.
By one o’clock, the fundraiser is in full swing. The FA Cup cake has been joined by a boot, three more football shirts and a scarf all iced in the colours of Crawford United. There’s also a far superior football pitch– my goals have collapsed on to my cake by this point– and a face that I suspect is supposed to be Dad’s. Olly announces over the Tannoy that the judging will take place in just a few moments– we need to get it done early so we can start selling slices. Or whole cakes if anyone is keen.
Needless to say, Barbour’s wife is declared the winner. She gives a little bow and tells us how she made discs of sponge and held them together with butter icing to get the height, then covered the whole structure with gold frosting for the finished effect.
‘A deserved winner, I think you’ll agree,’ Marge says to the crowd gathered in front of her table as Mrs Barbour grins from ear to ear.
‘You’d better award the prize to the second place winner though,’ she says. ‘We’ve already got our season tickets.’
‘Who baked the scarf?’ Marge asks.
Another delighted baker steps forward and everyone applauds as Marge hands her the ticket.
‘Now let’s get some photos of these bad boys and get them chopped up,’ Bob says, ‘so we can see if they taste as good as they look. Make mine a slice of the scarf though. I’ve had thirty years of the missus’s cooking.’
‘Two pounds a slice and remember it’s for a good cause,’ Marge reminds everyone as she starts handing out paper plates.
