Nothing is as calming as routine. No tonic so soothing to the soul as repetition of a task or mode of behaviour, however mundane or inert, until it becomes a comforting blanket and, without which, a sense of disorder reigns. So it was with Betty Garfield and her morning coffee.
I open the shop, as a rule, for elevenses. It may be considered old fashioned nowadays, what with the rise of the contemptible 'brunch', but I feel 'elevenses' resurrects a sense of the Victorian opulence that was lost with Oscar Wilde, the demise of the Comic Opera and taking the waters at Bath. Betty Garfield would tinkle the door open at precisely 11.15, giving me time to brew the water and put out the cakes, and refresh the posies on each little gingham-dressed table. She would look out at me under her woollen hat, smile and wish me a 'good morning, Maud', taking her usual place by the window. There she would remove her anorak and brush her brown plaid skirt and remark on how desperately she needed the china cup and cafetiere of coffee to revive her spirits. I usually joined her for a cup and a florentine (more of which, later), and we discussed the goings-on at the house across the road. She was alarmed and mildly amused by a lesbian couple who had recently moved in, who had taken to discussing business that was best left 'in the boudoir', as she mouthingly put it, in grisly detail as they pruned their roses (this is not, I repeat NOT, an euphemism). I believed them to be doing it purely for the benefit of my small, woollen-clad friend, who pulled amusing faces when the word 'flap' was mentioned in any context. I refrained from pointing out any obvious homophobia, as I doubt she knew what it meant.
Anyway, as usual, I digress.
Three mornings ago, it was twenty five past eleven before I realised Betty had not yet appeared. I was concerned, obviously, but was in the process of making a delicate blueberry confection and was anxious about my egg ratios. At eleven fifty, however, I had begun biting my lip.
My disquiet worsened; I gave Mr. Taplin the wrong change. My blueberries boiled over to form a terrifying sort of jam at the bottom of my favourite Le Creuset. The egg man knocked at the kitchen door for five minutes before I realised he was there. At half past one, with my brow far more furrowed than I generally allow (one has ones elasticity to think about), I gave Eileen my apron and walked briskly up the hill to Betty's home. She was not there. I (and I am not proud to divulge this) crept around the rear of the property and peered through the kitchen window. There were pots drying on the draining board. I fancied my worst fears realised.
I decided immediately that some sort of calamity had befallen Betty. I am not normally prone to bouts of hysteria, nor do I indulge in capricious imaginings, but at that moment I saw vividly the body of my friend on the bathroom floor, smelling of patchouli and bergamot, a torn shower curtain evidence for a fatal fall. As soon as the tears arose in my eyes (again, all fully uncharacteristic; I can only blame a recent change in my energy supplier) I heard the cry of an elderly gentlewoman from the front of the house. It was worse! An attacker! I looked about me furiously for a cane or garden hoe and found nothing but a rather sickly looking miniature conifer. It was better than nothing, so I picked up the pot and held it aloft, poised to bring it down upon the head of whomever was causing my friend to shout so. I edged past the wheelie bins, past the messy Citroën Dyane she insisted upon keeping despite the imploring looks of her mechanic, towards the front of the building, trying to keep myself as invisible as possible. I halted as I caught a glimpse of my friend, her expression grim, her cheeks rouged...
This gave me considerable pause. Betty's cheeks were rouged? I imagined the dried, cracked pot of Elizabeth Arden discovered at the back of a drawer and the decay of consistency after being left for at least a decade. Betty never wore rouge. I doubted she even used Nivea. But there she was, fumbling in a black, sequinned (sequinned!) handbag for her front door key, the lace gloves she wore making the task all the more difficult. And then I saw him.
A large, grizzled-face chap, all hair and shoulders, stood some way off. He wore a forlorn expression, his body language was pleading. Betty found her key, opened the door and disappeared without a word. The man loitered for a minute or two, before returning to a large silver car and driving off. I barely drew a breath.
I found myself unable to face Betty. Instead, I replaced the conifer and hurried back to the shop to make more florentines. So here they are.
I must give credit where credit is due; this recipe was given to me by an excellent lady who had visited once, tasted mine and decided I would benefit from a little alteration. She was right.
Makes 12-14
50g plain flour
30g chopped walnuts
30g flaked almonds
30g chopped glace cherries
30g raisins
30g butter
50g soft brown sugar
200g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces
1. Preheat the oven to 180°C (Gas mark 4). Line 2 baking sheets with baking parchment.
2. Sift the flour into a mixing bowl, stir in the nuts and fruit.
3. Melt the butter and sugar into a small pan over a low hear. Stir well, until all the sugar has dissolved.
4. Stir the butter mixture into the dry ingredients. Don't overstir or the nuts will lose their texture.
5. Drop the mixture a dessertspoonful at a time onto the baking sheets, leaving 5cm between each one. Press each down gently with the back of a spoon to form a round.
6. Bake for 8 minutes, then remove from the oven. Press down again if necessary to form a round with a palette knife. Leave to cool on the tray for 5 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack.
7. Melt the chocolate in a heatproof bowl placed over a pan of simmering water.
8. As soon as the chocolate is fully melted, use the palette knife to coat the side of the Florentines thickly. Allow to set in a refrigerator.
As I mentioned, I usually enjoy one of these with a morning coffee, but after today's shock I may have trouble not scoffing the lot in a fit of madness.
