Chapter 1
Chapter One
Present Day
Clemmie Rose had just placed the finishing touches on a gloriously fluffy Victoria sponge when she turned her back for a second.
The Café on the Coast, her pride and joy, was due to open for business in a little over an hour and with the door open to let in the morning sun, chaos waddled straight into the café.
A squawk pierced the air.
Clemmie spun around just in time to see it. A puffin, bold as brass, was teetering precariously on the counter. Its beady eyes gleamed with mischief as it surveyed the room, its gaze locking onto the sponge like a pirate spotting treasure.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Clemmie shrieked, waving a spatula in the air like a sword.
The puffin cocked its head as if to say, ‘Try me’, and then plunged its orange beak directly into the centre of the cake.
‘Noooo!’ Clemmie lunged forward, but it was too late.
The bird emerged triumphant, crumbs and cream smeared across its smug little face.
She shooed it away as it gave an indignant squawk before flapping its wings and landing on the end of the counter, sending a fine mist of powdered sugar into the air.
‘Granny! There’s a bloody puffin in the cake,’ Clemmie bellowed, her voice echoing through the cosy café. ‘Granny! We have a situation!’
From the back of the café came the shuffling of slippers and the sound of a teacup rattling on its saucer. Betty appeared in the doorway, still wearing her floral housecoat, a bemused expression on her face.
‘What on earth are you hollering about?’ she asked, squinting over her spectacles. ‘You sound like someone set fire to the scones.’
Clemmie pointed at the puffin, who was now strutting by the door as if it owned the place. ‘That feathery demon just destroyed my Victoria sponge!’
Betty leaned against the doorframe, taking a leisurely sip of her tea. ‘Well, that’s what you get for leaving it unattended. Puffins are opportunists, you know.’
‘I turned my back for five seconds!’ Clemmie protested, grabbing a tea towel and attempting to shoo the bird away up the path. The puffin hopped onto a nearby chair, leaving a trail of crumbs in its wake. ‘It’s a health hazard.’
Betty chuckled, setting her cup down. ‘He’s got good taste. That sponge looked divine.’
‘It was divine,’ Clemmie grumbled, swiping at the counter with a damp cloth.
‘It was for an order this afternoon and now I have to start over again and I won’t have time to practise for The Royal Baking Competition.
I was going to try out the café’s layered mousse-cake tower, as I’ve not baked it for a while. ’
Betty ambled over, her slippered feet shuffling against the tiles. She reached out a wrinkled hand, and to Clemmie’s astonishment, the puffin hopped right onto her arm like an obedient parrot.
‘Well, aren’t you a handsome fellow?’ Betty cooed, stroking the bird’s head. The puffin squawked appreciatively, nuzzling her with its beak.
‘What do you mean, he’s a handsome fellow? All puffins look the same! Why does he like you so much?’ Clemmie demanded, throwing her arms in the air. ‘I’m the one who bakes the cakes!’
Betty smirked. ‘You’re also the one who shouts and waves spatulas around. Puffins appreciate a calm demeanour.’
Clemmie muttered to herself about traitorous birds and grandmothers who should be retiring, as she stared at the wreckage of her sponge cake, its once perfect layers now a battlefield of cream and jam.
‘Right,’ she said, tying her apron tighter. ‘If that puffin thinks it’s beaten me, it’s got another think coming. I’ll bake a new cake, and it’ll be even better. Fluffier, taller, more … victorious!’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Betty said, carrying the puffin to the door and putting it outside. ‘But maybe keep the door shut this time, hmm?’
Clemmie glared at her. ‘I don’t need advice from someone who lets puffins sit on their arm like a pirate.’
Betty gave her a wink and was just about to shuffle back into the kitchen when she said, ‘I’ve been thinking…’
‘You do know it’s dangerous when you think…’ teased Clemmie.
‘I think you should reconsider baking the layered mousse-cake tower.’
‘Why?’ Clemmie asked, feeling a little surprised.
‘It’s going to look sensational, and I need to stand out from the crowd.
There’s a lot at stake for the winner. They get their own cookbook published and let’s not forget the invitation to the royal garden party.
Can you imagine? It would put our café on the coast firmly on the map! ’
‘Oh, I can imagine,’ Betty replied with a knowing smile, ‘and that’s exactly why I’m suggesting you bake something with real meaning to this place, something tied to its history.
Everyone loves a good backstory.’ Betty picked up the invitation from where Clemmie had placed it behind the clock on the shelf and took it out of its royal crested envelope. She read it out loud.
ROYAL INVITATION
Her Royal Highness cordially invites Clemmie Rose to take part in the prestigious Royal Baking Competition, an exclusive event celebrating heritage, tradition and the art of fine baking.
This esteemed competition will take place aboard The Royal Yacht, which shall be docked at Blue Harbour Bay, Puffin Island, on the 1st of August.
As one of only ten exceptional bakers, each nominated by esteemed figures in the industry, you are invited to present a cherished family recipe, steeped in heritage and uniquely your own. Your creation will be a testament to your roots, history and passion for the craft.
Your presence would be an honour, and we eagerly anticipate witnessing the culinary story you choose to share.
Kindly confirm your attendance at your earliest convenience.
With regal regards,
The Royal Baking Committee
‘I think your great-great-grandmother’s story deserves to be shouted from the rooftops,’ Betty said with conviction. ‘It would be such an honour for her because if it weren’t for Beatrice Rose, we wouldn’t have our beloved Café on the Coast.’
Clemmie smiled wistfully as her thoughts drifted back to the remarkable tale of her great-great-grandmother.
‘Go on, you tell it,’ Betty said as though reading her mind. She nudged Clemmie’s elbow.
‘Oh no, you start,’ Clemmie replied with a grin. ‘You always do, after all.’
Betty rolled her eyes affectionately but launched in without hesitation. ‘All right, then. Beatrice Rose – your great-great-grandmother – wasn’t just any woman. She had grit, heart and a stubborn streak wide enough to stretch across the entire island.’
Clemmie nodded. ‘She needed it. Because when the war came, Puffin Island wasn’t spared. The bombs fell, and…’
Betty picked up the thread seamlessly, her voice lowering. ‘They took everything. Her home. Her parents. Her whole world, in one terrible night.’
Clemmie exhaled. ‘Anyone else might have crumbled. But not Beatrice. No, she found that old pink cottage down by the shore – falling apart, windows shattered, barely standing – and she saw something the rest of the island didn’t.’
‘Possibility,’ Betty said, her eyes bright with pride. ‘She rolled up her sleeves, and the whole community joined her. They rebuilt it, brick by brick, board by board, turning it into more than just a café. It became a refuge. A place to gather, to grieve, to heal.’
Clemmie smiled. ‘And to eat.’
Betty chuckled. ‘Oh, did they ever eat! And every Christmas, she’d host a feast, filling every plate and every heart with warmth. That’s when she first made the torte. Her famous clementine torte.’
Clemmie leaned back, crossing her arms. ‘And you know what they say…’
Betty lifted a brow at Clemmie’s deviation from the usual spiel. ‘What do they say?’
‘That it wouldn’t be Christmas on Puffin Island without a slice of Beatrice’s torte.’
Betty rested a hand over Clemmie’s. ‘So, don’t you see? It’s not just a recipe. It’s your family’s history. A piece of the island’s heart.’
Clemmie swallowed, the weight of her granny’s words settling deep.
Betty stood, brushing flour from her hands. ‘And let’s not forget, your name wasn’t chosen by accident, Clementine. Beatrice always said clementines carried warmth, resilience and a touch of sweetness. Just like her torte. And just like you.’
Betty gave Clemmie a quick hug and then shuffled out of the room, humming a tune as she went, leaving Clemmie to think about her words.
With the puffin banished and the café door firmly closed, Clemmie got to work making another Victoria sponge.
She measured flour and sugar with a determination that would put to shame a general preparing for battle.
The eggs were cracked with precision, the butter whipped into submission, and the batter folded with a vengeance.
She was just sliding the new sponge layers into the oven when the bell above the café door jingled.
Clemmie groaned. ‘We’re not open yet!’ she called, brushing a strand of flour-dusted hair out of her face.
The door creaked open anyway, and in walked Amelia, her best friend, the owner of the local bookshop. She was grinning. ‘Just here for my breakfast croissant.’
Clemmie smiled at her best friend. ‘I’ve already bagged one up for you, freshly baked this morning.’
‘Perfect, thank you,’ she said, looking at the counter. ‘What are you baking?’
‘Another Victoria sponge, thanks to my early-morning puffin invasion, but it’s given me time to think.’
‘About? And what puffin invasion?’ asked Amelia, pulling out a chair after grabbing her croissant from the bag.
Clemmie explained the saga of the unexpected cake thief, leaving Amelia smiling at the story. ‘And what is it you’re thinking about?’ asked Amelia.
‘The Royal Baking Competition. Granny has given me something to think about and I think she could be possibly right.’ Clemmie explained about the traditional torte and the backstory, and asked for Amelia’s opinion.