Special Mention - Sally Curtis
Sweet Revenge
By Sally Curtis
Madge Eastencroft perched in the front pew, knees clasped, feet together, her green
woollen coat buttoned up to the neck. She was always impeccably dressed but
today, the week before Easter Sunday, she was even more striking in her sartorial
choice for she was sporting a hat of such epic proportions that anybody who sat
behind her immediately got up and moved seat. Some would consider a pea-green
brim and a pink crown edged with a yellow ribbon arresting enough but it was the
incredible display perching on its top which drew most attention: four felt daffodils,
six Easter chicks, a couple of rabbits (complete with carrots) all surrounding a basket
piled high with mini-eggs.
“She’s glued them on,” asserted Edna Strutt to her friend Maureen as they settled
themselves into their pew. “No way can that woman keep as upright as that without
a giant ice-pop shoved up her backside.”
As if she knew she was being discussed, Madge turned her head with the
confidence of one who was not concerned about being buried beneath a chocolate
avalanche. In the lift of an eyebrow and the twitch of a lip, all the antipathy she felt
for Edna was laid bare and Edna returned the sentiment.
For years, both women had vied to be the matriarch of Lesserwell Village, whether
that be leading the Parish Council, hosting fundraisers, organising neighbourhood
watches or simply being the person everybody in the village leaned towards for
advice and whom nobody defied.
“Typical of her to try to outdo everyone like a cherry liqueur in a box of fruit jellies,”
whispered Maureen. “ When will she understand it is you who keeps this village
running?”
Edna adjusted her own hat -- a green felt trilby with a full-size plastic tulip tucked into
the band. At that moment, the vicar took to the pulpit. A respectful hush befell the
congregation. It was only his second month in Lesserwell and the ageing
parishioners were coming to terms not only with an outsider but also someone so
young – someone who seemed rather avantgarde in his ideas.
This week, the new vicar was espousing the merits of forgiveness, especially for the
youths from the neighbouring village who had pulled up old Tom Huntley’s prize
marrows after a night on the scrumpy.
“Aeros,” muttered Tom, clearly not in a forgiving mood.
After the final hymn, the vicar announced the notices.
“I am very excited to experience my first Lesserwell Springtime Celebration which
will kick off in the village hall next Saturday with tea and coffee – thank you Maureen
for organising that – followed by the best stalls Lesserwell can offer: bric-a-brac,
hand-crafted delights and a tombola, culminating in the Easter bonnet competition,
although I can see some of you are already making strides in that direction.”
Madge stroked the brim of her hat and sat up even straighter.
“And to add to this fine tradition, I am introducing something new,” he continued.
A wave of wariness rippled through the church.
“For the first time, there will be a competition for the best cake-slash-chocolate-
slash-sweet creation on an Easter theme. The winner will receive the inaugural cup
and will be given the honour of judging the contest next year.”
Once outside, small groups formed discussing the lesson as well as the
impertinence of assuming his contest would catch on. Madge was the last to exit as
she liked to talk to the vicar without anyone behind her tapping their feet.
“Naturally, I will ensure I am free to judge the very first cake competition, Vicar,” she
stated.
“We haven’t made a decision about judges just yet,” he told her.
She drew back her shoulders, the chicks and rabbits eye-balling him.
“I rather think that decision can be made right here and now. Rest assured, I
undertake all my duties diligently.”
“I’m sorry Mrs Eastencroft but I do have to consider everybody who might be
interested. After the issue with who was going to direct this year’s am-dram
performance, I’ve actually started compiling a list for such roles. If you would like to
put your name down ...”
“Put my name down? How dare you,” she bristled. “I will have you know I do not ‘put
my name down’.”
The vicar stepped back and sideways, trying to find the sanctuary of the church but
Madge mirrored his actions as if she were his dancing partner.
“You may be new here, Vicar,” she continued, pressing her finger into his shoulder,
“but my reputation goes before me. Good day to you.”
Scurrying into the church, he pushed the door closed. A couple of minutes later
there was a knock. He considered ducking down between the pews but thought
better of it: an injured body would be harder to discover there.
“Hello?” called a voice. “It’s Edna. Edna Strutt. Are you there, Vicar?”
He stepped out from the shadows, visibly relieved.
“Mrs Strutt. How lovely to see you.”
“I see that slab of peanut brittle was harassing you. Exactly what we’ve all come to
expect. Anyway, I just wanted to catch you and tell you not to bother looking for
anyone to judge the inaugural cake competition. I consider myself an expert and ...”
His stomach lurched. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs Strutt ...”
“Edna, please.”
“Edna,” he continued. “But I am compiling a list of people who have expressed an
interest in volunteering for such things. You can ...you can ...”
“Vicar? Are you quite alright? What are you trying to say?”
“If you wish, you can ... put your name down.”
Edna grabbed the back of a pew.
“I’ll have you know that I have been judging competitions for over forty years. Here I
am, offering my expertise and you, having been here but two minutes, think you
know better. You go ahead but be warned -- most of the village is made up of
Butterkist popcorn heads.”
She turned on her heel and was gone.
Two days later, the official announcement appeared on the Church noticeboard.
Easter baking competition. Entries to be left no earlier than 10.00 am. Lesserwell
Village Hall. Judges: Tom and Judith Murtle.
“Well, of all the custard slices to choose,” fumed Madge. “If that flapjack doesn’t
appreciate my judging skills, I’ll win the thing,” and she hurried off to design her
entry.
“Tom and Judith? That pair of Walnut Whips? Are you sure, Maureen?” fumed
Edna. “I’ll give them something to judge. Go and get me a dozen eggs, will you?”
***
The aroma of sugar, syrup and chocolate hit Edna as she entered the village hall. A
trestle table ran the length of the back wall, weighted down by an array of Easter
fare: daisy-esque cupcakes, chocolate chicks, fudgy ducks and Easter baskets full
of egg-shaped delights. Holding a large box like someone carrying a bomb about to
detonate, she surveyed the table, surprised by how many entries had already been
placed there; she was sure the cakes were not to be brought prior to ten o’clock.
More bad organising. She hunted for a spot but the only space big enough was on
the left-hand edge of the table at the back. This, she knew, was the worst spot: if the
first sight, soon be forgotten, judges move right, so placed at the bottom. She deftly
set about repositioning the offerings clearing a space in the centre. She set a
pedestal on the table and, unboxing her creation, positioned a gargantuan rabbit
head on it. Made from pink and grey sponge, the ears stood at least one foot tall,
the nose, eyes and teeth fashioned from fondant icing. Happy with her cunning, she
nipped into the kitchenette to make a proper cuppa before Maureen arrived brewing
up her dishwater thin tea.
As the kettle boiled, Madge arrived, wheeling her shopping trolley with the
nervousness of a new mother. She eyed the table. The top spot, she noted, was
gone but that was not going to deter her. She picked up the ridiculous rabbit head
and moved it to the right-hand end of the table – the second worst spot as by then
everyone has had enough looking at sponges – seen thirty cakes, sick of the bakes,
placed in the middle, winning’s a diddle.
She lifted her creation from her trolley. It was a chocolate Jesus. Standing two feet
tall, the attention to detail was astounding: the draping folds of his tunic, his hands in
prayer, his flowing hair and compassionate eyes. Confident of a win, Madge popped
into the ladies to freshen up so she would look her best for the photograph.
When Edna came back from the kitchen, instead of being awed by her rainbow
rabbit, she stared into the eyes of her Lord. Taking the imposter, she looked in vain
for a space on the table but finding none, stood it on a chair by the wall whilst she
repositioned her masterpiece.
“Morning,” called Maureen, as she entered the hall. A few villagers followed her in
ready for a cup of weak tea and a Mr Kipling. At that moment, Madge returned from
the toilet.
“What the treacle parkin do you think you are doing, you torte?” she shouted at
Edna. “How dare you move my entry.”
“I beg your pardon?” replied Edna. “If that thing is yours, then it was you who moved
mine in the first place, you scheming old bag of butterscotch. I had this spot and you
know it.”
“Mine wouldn’t fit anywhere else, so I just moved yours across a little. And do not
call me a bag of butterscotch.”
“I’ll call you more than that,” continued Edna. “You’re like a giant humbug – you just
go on and on.”
“That’s rich, coming from you! Always thinking you’re the big Battenburg, throwing
your weight around. Although it’s not surprising – there’s plenty of it. You’re like an
over-stuffed profiterole.”
“Ladies, please.” The vicar was silhouetted in the doorway. “This is very unseemly.
What in heaven’s name is going on here?” He approached the women. “I’m sure we
can sort out this little misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” screeched Madge. “This ridiculous Spangle of a woman
didn’t just move my entry aside, the conniving Curlywurly hid it by the wall and on a
chair of all things.”
“She moved mine first,” fumed Edna.
“Please ladies,” tried the vicar again. “This is so unnecessary. Besides, I know the
centre spot was taken by Mrs Finnigan first thing this morning, so I think both of you
have been playing games here.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” called Maureen from the kitchen hatch, “but I think you should
look behind you.”
All eyes focussed on the back wall. Chocolate Jesus was melting -- his toes were
dribbling over the edge of the chair, his hands slumping from prayer to pleading, his
head bowing.
“My entry!” screeched Madge. “You put him on that chair in front of the radiator on
purpose, you choux-bun,” she accused. “I always knew you were a meddlesome
mille-feuille.”
“Fudge you,” returned Edna. “I had no idea there was a radiator there.”
“Of course you knew. You always were as sly as a sticky toffee pudding. I haven’t
forgotten loaf-gate when you poked your fingers in my bloomer!”
“I’m telling you, Kit-Kat face, I didn’t know.”
“Ladies, please,” intervened the vicar. “Mrs Eastencroft, I really think you should do
something. We seem to have a rather large puddle forming.”
By this time, Chocolate Jesus was on his knees, his neck melting into his shoulders.
“Well, I guess you’re out of the competition,” sneered Edna.
“Please, Mrs Strutt. That’s very un-Christian. We should commiserate with Mrs
Eastencroft. After all, she put a lot of effort into her entry. Remember the Lord’s
message ...”
A lump of pink sponge whizzed past his ear and hit Edna straight between the eyes.
Madge stepped forward, a one-eared rabbit under her arm. She pulled off the other
ear and flung it at Edna.
“Take that, you soggy-bottomed fruit cake,” she yelled. Like a bull, she charged
toward Edna unaware how far Jesus had now trickled along the floor. Her sole slid
on the chocolate halo and her feet were gone from under her. Edna’s rabbit rose
into the air and then fell like a cloudburst of sponge and icing.
“Enough!” shouted the vicar. “You two – and I hesitate to say ‘ladies’ – should be
ashamed of yourselves. I have never seen anything like it. Gather yourselves, leave
the hall and I never want to see your Daim faces for a very long time.”
The watching villagers took a collective intake of breath. Did the vicar just use foul
language? They’d been right all along – he was too young, too ‘out there’.
Edna stared down at Madge prostrate in a puddle of chocolate. In tandem, the truth
hit them. Edna offered her hand and taking it Madge hauled herself up.
“So this was the plan, was it?” accused Edna. “How dare you play us off against
each other. The reason you turned down our offer of help is clear. You want to be
the biggest Toblerone in the village and thought you could do that by pitting us
against each other.”
“I would never have imagined that a man of the cloth would turn out to be such a
Rum Baba,” chimed in Madge. “I will certainly be writing to the Diocese.”
The two women linked arms and, chocolate covered and sponge flecked, marched
out the village hall already planning their sweet revenge.
“Remember Vicar,” Madge called over her shoulder, “nobody takes us for a pair of
doughnuts.”