2nd Prize - Sadie Fleming
Scone with the Wind (A Love Story)
By Sadie Fleming
It was early one bright and Toffee Crisp morning when the beautiful Florentine
d’Orange Mille-Feuille was woken from her slumbers by her mother, Lady Godiva,
knocking frantically at her bed chamber door.
“Mama!” said Florentine, jumping out of bed and ushering her inside.
“Whatever is the matter? You’re all in a Nut Cluster!”
“It would appear,’ said her mother, slightly out of puff, “that you’ve been
putting yourself about a bit lately.”
“Putting myself about?” exclaimed Florentine. “What’s given you that idea?”
“Three gentlemen,” said the exasperated woman, “have arrived here at
Bournville House this morning, all claiming that you have accepted their proposals of
marriage.”
Florentine blushed. “Well, can’t you just tell them I’m no longer interested and
send them away?”
“Florentine! You’re talking like a common tart!”
“But Mama, I can’t help it if men fall in love with me at first sight,” said
Florentine. “I’m too young to marry, you must send them away.”
“Don’t think I haven’t already tried,” said Lady Godiva, flopping down on the
bed, “but they’re still here remonstrating in the main hall, making all manner of
threats to each other in order to win your duplicitous heart. Total profiteroles, the lot
of them, but they simply refuse to back down.”
“I’m sure they’ll soon get bored and leave.”
“Leave? These are three of the most eminent men in the country Florentine;
Viscount Hershey, The Duke of Cadbury and the Count of Montezuma. To back
down would leave them with egg custard on their faces. There’s even talk of a duel!”
“A duel Mama?” Florentine looked confused. “But there are three of them.”
“A technicality Florentine,” said Lady Godiva, getting up and walking to the
door. “Oh, how I wish you’d restricted your Revels to the lower classes Florentine,
then we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
Florentine blushed an even deeper red, recalling the young stable lad,
Freddo, and how expertly he’d handled a Walnut Whip.
“Well,” announced her mother suddenly, “we are where we are, and that’s
that. I shall have to make the necessary arrangements. No doubt the villagers will all
turn out to watch the spectacle. And a doctor must be summoned.”
With that she left the room, leaving the bewildered Florentine wondering what
to do.
As soon as she was sure her mother had gone downstairs, she crept out onto
the landing to listen to her suitors arguing in the great hall below.
“Chouquettes!” the Count was sneering, “I can’t think why either of you
believe Florentine would be interested in you. It’s obviously me she’s interested in.”
“You?” scoffed the Viscount. “You’re off your fruit and nut!”
“At least I’m not an Aero-head like the Duke,” he said.
“That’s the last cheese straw! I’ll kill the pair of you,” shouted the Duke. “No-
one shall come Twix me and my Florentine.”
“You doughnuts!” snapped the Viscount. “’Tis me she loves and no other.”
“You don’t love her, though,” said the Count cruelly, “everyone knows you
don’t have a Daim to your name. You’re just a Bounty hunter.”
“You’re talking out of your Mars!” came the angry retort from the Viscount.
“Everyone knows I’m minted!”
“Makes no difference, I have money and charm...”
“The fudge you have!”
The Duke flipped them both the toffee finger.
“Flake!”
“Chomp!”
And so they continued, until Lady Godiva appeared, looking extremely hot
cross bun.
“Time Out!” she declared. “If you must continue this conversation then please
do so in a Wispa. I see no pain-au-raisin for all this Polly Waffle.”
And so it was arranged that all three of Florentine’s fiancés would meet the
following morning by the Green Triangle to fight it out. There they gathered, scowling
at each other, all looking a little Cornish pasty in the face, the gravity of the situation
now weighing heavily upon them.
The villagers arrived in their droves, many of them bringing a Picnic in case it
dragged on and they got the Munchies. Lady Godiva had outdone herself; Minstrels
provided the music, and liquid refreshment was available at the Starbar, which was
promising to be very lucrative, as even those who had vowed never to drink again
fell off the Wagon Wheel for the occasion.
In the meantime Florentine was distracted, her attention having been captured
by the appearance of Doctor Rowntree Mackintosh, who had chosen to arrive by
public transport; unusual for a man of such high-standing. The moment he stepped
off the Double Decker his little dog rushed over to the nervous Trio and began
playfully nipping at their heels.
“Choux! Choux!” they cried, to no avail, while its owner made half-hearted
attempts to recall the animal.
“Oh what a sweet dog,” said Florentine to the handsome Doctor. “Is it a
Malteser?”
“No, a Yorkie,” said the Doctor. “He seems to like you.”
And so he did, as he had now returned to his master and showed no such
desire to nip the fair Florentine.
“I’m normally a Kit-Kat person myself,” she said, “but I could fall in love with
this Divine creature. What’s his name?”
“Rolo,” said the Doctor, his head suddenly in a cinnamon swirl, and their eyes
met and twinkled like a million Galaxy Stars bursting through the night sky.
Oblivious, the Heroes took their places in readiness. Normally duels are held
at dawn, but due to noisette restrictions they couldn’t begin until After Eight, and for
the same reason pistols were not permitted, so each man was armed with a Club.
At exactly two minutes past a cream horn sounded and a Ripple of excitement
ran through the assembled crowd.
“Attention everybody,” announced Lady Godiva. “I shall now count down from
five, then the rivals will take 3 steps forward, Twirl around, and the contest shall
begin. The last man standing on their Toblerone shall win the hand of my daughter.”
The spectators fell silent, and the countdown began.
It was inevitable that each one of them would try to cheat in some way, and
before Lady Godiva had finished a rough puff scuffle broke out, resulting in jeers and
Snickers from the crowd of onlookers.
For a while it seemed to be an even fight, albeit with a few below the
belt aims at the Curly Wurlies, but eventually all three were incapacitated, the Duke
having taken a particularly bad beating to his cinnamon buns, and the Viscount
landing in an awkward pecan twist that would leave him walking like a Penguin for
some time.
As for the poor Count of Montezuma, he was whacked right in the Bahlsen
Choco Liebniz and had to be stretchered away.
But Florentine had little care for their welfare, for as she gazed into the
Doctor’s rich, dark, intense eyes she knew she had found true love.
They were married within weeks, and everyone in the village was invited to
the Celebrations.
From that day on Florentine made the decision to apple turnover a new leaf,
stop her filo-andering and settle down.
She and her husband were the perfect couple, content to breed Yorkies and
raise several Kinder Surprises, much to Lady Godiva’s Turkish Delight.
And so it was that finally, with never a croissant word between them, they all
lived happily ever baklava.
END