Free Winter’s Children by Leah Fleming Page B

steam them for hours,’ she added.
    Evie could smell spices and toffee apples. It looked yummy.
    ‘You can stir it up for me, if you like, and we can pack it into these tiny bowls. Here’s a spoon, and let me wrap the tea towel round your waist or we’ll get all your clothes sticky.’ There were bowls waiting to be filled, all different sizes.
    ‘Why do you make so much?’ Evie asked.
    ‘To sell on the Women’s Institute stall and to give to my friends. Home-made puddings are always favourites. This is my very own recipe. Have a taste,’ said Mrs Snowden, finding a teaspoon and dipping it in the goo. Evie sipped it cautiously. It was sweet and spicy, but something rubbery was sticking to the roof of her mouth so she wasn’t sure.
    ‘When they’re steamed properly, you can take one home for your mum. Then you can help me make some mince pie mixture,’ said Mrs Snowden. ‘It has to soak for a while yet so all the flavours settle down.’
    ‘I like your kitchen.’ Evie stared at the shelves full of jars, the bunches of dried herbs and the cauldron bubbling on the stove. It was a witchy kitchen. ‘But why do you have two kitchens here?’ she asked, knowing Mr Grumpy had his own big stove.
    ‘This was once the dairy room, but it suits me fine. I can do all my baking and read a book at the same time. My son has the big one. It’s handy for the yard and all his mucky clothes. I expect you’ve noticed farmers get very muddy. Come and fill the pound pots,’ she said, not looking at her but offering her another spoon.
    ‘We don’t do pounds and ounces. We do grams and kilos,’ Evie announced proudly as she shovelled the gloopy mixture into the bowl.
    ‘Well, I’m too old for all that newfangled stuff. My scales are imperial, not metric. Does your mummy do any baking?’ the old lady asked. Evie wasn’t sure how to answer. She was a bit frightening, like a stern teacher.
    ‘We cook pasta and rice and noodles and stir-fries,’ she answered.
    ‘No, I mean real baking: cakes and pies, scones and biscuits.’
    Evie shook her head. ‘We buy all our stuff from Sainsbury’s. Mummy says sweet things are bad for my teeth. I’m only allowed pudding on Saturdays, so we have fruit yoghurts and fromage frais.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s all very healthy, but there’s nothing like a bit of home baking to warm your ribs on a cold day.’ The lady paused and gave her a smile. ‘When I was a little girl, we used to buy the flour in sacks, and a tub of treacle and sugar too. We stored eggs for winter and churned our own butter and milk. There was nothing my mother didn’t make on a Thursday. That was baking day, and I used to run home from school just for the smell coming through the kitchen door; bread, floury barm cakes, oven-bottom loaves, scones, tarts and pastries. You get very hungry on a farm.
    ‘It was a sight to behold, and if we were having company then there were even more to put away in tins until Sunday. Sometimes we’d be snowed in for weeks so we had to have plenty in the larder to tide us over. Who bakes your Christmas cake?’ The old lady was plopping round circles of paper and lids onto the bowls.
    ‘We buy a small one, because Daddy doesn’t eat cake. Nanny says he’s away on business and he can’t live with us now.’ Evie remembered she wasn’t supposed to talk about Daddy. ‘I only eat the icing but Mummy likes the marzipan.’
    ‘I shall have to show you how to bake a cake then.’ The cooking lady nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you have cooking lessons yet.’
    Evie shook her head. ‘I can put topping on a pizza base.’ They carried on filling the bowls and she wondered what Mummy was doing.
    ‘Mrs Snowden …’ she paused uncertain whether to continue, ‘who’s the lady on the stairs?’
    ‘In the painting? That’s Jacob’s wife, Tom’s grandfather … Now she was a real baker and very proud of her kitchen. I’ve got one of her old recipe books. Would you like to see it?’ She