For days pungent smells of cinnamon and nutmeg have wafted out my cookery room as we mass produce mince pies for carol services and staff Christmas parties. We’ve had lessons making marzipan fruits, coconut ice, chocolate truffles and Christmas logs to take home as special gifts, but the most spectacular treats were the rich, dark fruit cakes stacked in my larder ready for their final shroud of marzipan and icing.
The class had strict instructions to decorate the top with green holly leaves and blobby red berries and to finish with a shiny red ribbon tied in a giant bow. But Jessica plonked a grubby plastic Father Christmas on his reindeer sledge on top of her cake and put a glittery tinsel band around its circumference.
‘We always have ‘im on our cakes, miss and decorate it like this.’
Mr Bush the headmaster came in to judge the Best Christmas Cake competition – I’m trying to show him that I don’t spend my lessons cooking for my supper. And Jessica with the plasticly decorated, rather common Christmas cake won. Some people have no taste.
For this last afternoon of term, my class of noisy boys is going to make peppermint creams as a Christmas present for gran – or more likely they will eat them on the way home.
Gavin is back from his suspension and arrives late in bullish mood. I’ve been dreading the moment I have to start educating Gavin again. Well not exactly again. I can’t make any claim to have educated Gavin.
‘Hello everyone, and welcome to the peppermint cream lesson. Get yourselves ready and start to sieve your icing sugar into your bowls.’
Peppermint creams
Gavin thunders down to my desk and towers over me.
‘I’m going to make rum creams, Miss. Don’t like peppermint. And anyway rum is more Christmassy.’
He eyes me provocatively and sways unsteadily. His right hand clutches a bottle of rum. Half of the contents are missing. I wonder how Gavin knew what we were cooking today. I imagine he grabbed the smallest boy and threatened to throttle him if he didn’t disclose the information.
‘Tell me what she’s cooking else I’ll kill yer’ might have spluttered from his lips.
Through clouds of sugary dust I watch the class busying themselves and I sense their nervousness. A confrontation is imminent.
‘Gavin – get ready to cook and leave the bottle of rum on my desk.’
To my amazement, the rum is placed next to my pile of marking and Gavin ties his apron over his school blazer.
‘Gather round class – I’m going to show you how to crack an egg to separate out the white.’
Gavin has disappeared. Thank God. Perhaps he’s gone home. The bottle of rum looks out threateningly trying to find its owner.
Cracking eggs to separate the whites is a delicate task and large clumsy boy hands frequently break the yolks and we have to start again. I sometimes wonder if this is a ploy to use the spoilt eggs for making omelettes at the end of the lesson.
A sudden movement catches my eye. Gavin rises from behind his table and starts to attention. On his head like a helmet is one of my large pudding bowls and his right hand is raised in a Nazi salute.
‘Achtung! Miss I told you I am using rum!’
The group is silent. No one wants to be noticed. Especially not by Gavin.
‘Gavin – we can’t use alcohol in the classroom. It’s forbidden and anyway you are under drinking age.’
‘Miss, you let the girls put brandy in their Christmas cakes last week – are you picking on me?’
Gavin puffs up like the Green Giant on the adverts for those tins of sweetcorn. Only Gavin is bigger. And not jolly, not green and not friendly. And certainly not singing ‘Ho, Ho, Ho.’
But he’s right about the brandy, and surprisingly quick witted now he’s drunk. But Gavin’s wrong that I would choose to pick on him. Not unless I had two beefy minders with me for protection and a clear running track to the exit.
Gavin stumbles to my desk and grabs his rum. The rest of the group squeeze the icing dough, and roll and cut out shapes. A factory line of peppermint creams is under production in a kitchen silent with tension.
I must face my fears and deal with Gavin. He thuds his great body weight down in my chair and lets out a gigantic yawn. A quiet mumsy approach might work here.
‘Gavin – the room’s hot – you must be tired. Put your head down and just rest.’
Obediently he spreads his giant fleshy arms on my table, rests his head on his bulging forearm and begins to doze.
I turn to the class, industriously packing up their sweets and clearing away. We smile conspiratorially together. The mumsy plan has worked. Peace is restored. I have won. And next week it is the Christmas holiday.
