Chapter Eight
Jeff had never baked a thing in his life, and he was certain the only reason he was about to learn how to make pastry was because of who was doing the teaching.
The crisp air nipped at his ears as he made his way through the park, making him wish he’d worn a hat to cover them. No snow appeared imminent, not from a cloudless sky, but the drop in temperature was a reminder that winter had arrived.
He crunched over the gravel driveway to the front door, his pulse quickening.
The week had dragged, and he’d wished the days away so many times so he could be standing on Dave’s doormat, about to see him again.
He’d wanted to call at least three or four times during the last five days, but he had no excuse for phoning.
I could have asked him to join us for dinner. But each time he picked up the phone, that inner voice piped up, and he lost his nerve.
Before he could ring the bell, the door opened, and Chris stood there in a red sweater with a band of white reindeer silhouettes across his chest. Jeff glanced down and had to smile: Chris’s thick socks were Rudolph’s head, complete with a bright red pompom nose.
“Is it Christmas already?” he teased.
Chris giggled. “It was Christmas jumper day at school on Friday, but Dad says I can wear it today, as long as I wear an apron.” He stood to one side to let Jeff enter.
“Dad’s in the kitchen.” He smiled when Jeff removed his long coat.
“A white jumper. That’s a good idea. The flour won’t show up on it. ”
“What are we doing—throwing it?”
Chris’s eyes glittered. “Ooh.”
Jeff burst out laughing. “Do not tell your dad I said that.” He toed off his boots and followed Chris into the sitting room.
The fire was burning behind the grate, its warmth spilling out into the space.
Then he noticed the bare Christmas tree standing in the bay window where the couch had been.
That had been moved closer to the fireplace.
Three large plastic boxes surrounded the tree’s base.
“Ah. About that.” Dave was standing at the kitchen table, on which sat three glass bowls, a pair of kitchen scales, a bag of flour, and two rectangular packets of butter and something Jeff didn’t recognize. A jug of water stood beside the bowls. “You’ve been roped in to decorate it. Blame Chris.”
“You don’t mind, do you?” Chris gazed at him, his forehead creased.
Jeff wondered how Dave could ever refuse Chris anything. “No, I don’t mind. I haven’t bought a tree in years. Seems silly, when it’s just me.” Christmas trees needed people to sit and gaze at them, to cover them with memories.
He walked into the kitchen, and Dave smiled as he drew nearer. “Want a coffee before we start? I’m just setting up.”
Before Jeff could respond, Chris blurted out, “Can I grease the trays?”
Dave chuckled. “That depends. Have you washed your hands?”
Chris bit his lip and dashed over to the sink, stretching to turn on the tap.
“Here, let me help.” Jeff joined him and squeezed hand-wash into Chris’s palm. “Now get those hands really clean. Then I’ll wash mine.”
Dave joined them. “I have vivid memories of making bread in high school. One of my classmates commented on how kneading the dough got his hands really clean.”
Jeff winced. “Ew.” Then he stilled. “You got to study cookery at school?”
Dave nodded. “Only for one year. It was before we all made our choices for GCSE. I loved it.”
Chris grabbed a tea towel and dried his hands. “Your turn.”
Jeff made sure to do a thorough job of cleaning, and Chris passed him the towel. Jeff rubbed his hands together and gave Dave a direct glance. “Okay, Mary Berry, what’s next?”
Dave gave a pained stare. “You could’ve said Paul Hollywood.”
Jeff grinned. “Nah. Mary Berry was funnier.”
Dave pointed to the three steel trays on the countertop. “The first job is to rub over the cases with butter. Not too much,” he added, staring pointedly at Chris.
“I have a feeling there’s a story there.” Jeff was warm and relaxed. Being around Dave and Chris brought a sense of calm and contentment. Or maybe it’s this house. Whatever the reason, he was comfortable.
“I was making a cake for his birthday last year, and Chris volunteered to grease the cake tin. Let’s just say, there was more butter in the tin than in the cake.” His eyes twinkled.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Chris remonstrated.
Dave popped the lid on the tub of spreadable butter. “This will give the pastry a nice flavour too.” The three of them rubbed butter into the cases. “Okay. We’re each going to make a tray of twelve. You are responsible for your tray, you got that?”
Chris gave a little salute, which was adorable. “Don’t we need to turn the oven on?”
“Not yet. Once the dough is made, we’re going to cover it in clingfilm and leave it in the fridge for half an hour. That gives it time to settle.”
Jeff was impressed. “You’re good at this.”
Dave flushed. “I’ve been making pastry for twenty years. I should be by now.” Once the trays were prepared, he came over to the table. “The trick with pastry is to not let it get too warm. Are your hands warm?”
Jeff couldn’t resist. “Mine never get too warm. But you know what they say… cold hands, warm heart….”
Dave blinked, then refocused. He switched on the scales.
“Put your bowl on there, press that button to set it to zero, then you’re going to weigh out the flour.
” He glanced at Chris. “And before we go any further…” He grabbed the apron hanging over the back of a chair, put it over Chris’s head, and tied it at his back.
“There. Better.” Then he looked at Jeff. “Black jeans?”
“Hey, my regular jeans are in the wash.”
Dave shook his head. He went over to a drawer, opened it, and rummaged through it. “Here.” He handed Jeff an apron.
Jeff chuckled when he saw the words across the front. I cook as good as I look? He pulled it over his head.
“That was Matt’s. And it’s a lie.” Dave’s eyes twinkled. “He looked way better than he cooked.”
Chris giggled. “You told Papa he could burn water.”
Jeff snorted.
They weighed the flour, all of which ended up in the bowls, then it was time to weigh the butter. Jeff picked up the second packet. “Lard?”
Dave nodded. “I do half butter, half lard. Once you’ve weighed it, cut it up into little cubes.” He gave Chris a butter knife to do his. “Okay, troops. Are we ready?”
Chris was bouncing. “What’s next?”
“This is the bit that needs clean hands. You’re going to put the butter into the flour, and then we’re going to rub it in.
The aim is to have it looking like fine breadcrumbs by the time we’re done.
Watch me.” He tipped his butter into the bowl, then put his hands into it.
“Pick up flour and fat, and rub with your thumbs, like this. One, two, three. Then drop. Do it again. One, two, three. So you’re rubbing the fat into the flour, but keeping it light. ”
Chris had a try, but picked up too much. Dave showed him again, and Chris got the hang of it. Dave glanced at Jeff. “Your turn.”
Jeff scooped the flour and fat onto his fingers, then copied Dave as best he could. It amused him no end that he was muttering “One, two, three” as he rubbed.
Dave obviously found it amusing too. “Do you count like that when you waltz too?”
“Yet another thing I never learned to do. I guess I’m just a rough builder with no social graces.”
Dave became still. “I don’t think you’re rough. And you seem pretty graceful to me.”
Jeff’s cheeks grew hot as Dave’s gaze met his.
“Does it look like breadcrumbs yet?”
Jeff snapped back into the moment and peered into Chris’s bowl. “That looks good. At least, it does to me.”
Dave peered too, and smiled. “That’s great.” He cleared his throat. “Back to counting, you.”
Jeff hurriedly returned to his task, happy to see the lumps of fat becoming smaller. When all three of them had finished, Dave picked up the jug of water.
“We’re going to add this to the flour and fat, to bind it all together. Don’t add too much. You can always add more. We don’t want sticky dough.”
Jeff watched Dave, noting how he kept adding the water slowly, until all the bits of flour and fat were in one lump, with none sticking to the sides of the bowl.
He copied Dave’s actions, and soon there were three balls of dough sitting in the bowls.
Dave pulled the box of clingfilm from a drawer, wrapped each lump in it, and put them in the fridge.
“What’s next? Coffee?” Jeff said with a hopeful smile. “Because someone asked me if I wanted a coffee when I arrived.”
Dave’s breathing hitched. “I forgot. Okay, let’s clear all this away, then we can have a coffee while the dough chills.” He dragged a small step from a cupboard and set it in front of the sink. “Chris, you can wash.”
Chris got onto the step and turned on the tap, then squeezed detergent into the sink.
Jeff smiled. “You’ve got him well-trained.”
“There’s a dishwasher, but I want him to be able to do things like washing up, cleaning and cooking.” Dave went over to the cafetiere. “And now I’ll make you that coffee.”
“Thanks for the pastry lesson.”
Dave’s face glowed. “You’re welcome.”
“One day you’ll have to show me how you make lasagne. Because that was delicious.” That was true, but it was an excuse, and Jeff knew it. And if I get to spend more time with you, even better.
“I could do that.”
“Dad? Can you pass me the bowls, please?”
Dave gave Jeff a wry smile.
Looks like I’m not the only one who’s getting distracted.
Dave watched as Chris placed a spoonful of mincemeat into each pastry case, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated. “That’s it. Not too much, or it will leak out over the tin when it’s baking, and you won’t like having to clean that.”
Chris laughed. “If it does, it’s going in the dishwasher.”
Jeff had already filled the cases, and had started adding the pastry lids.