Image description: The YeastEnders village of Walnutford, with baked-goods characters gathered in Almond Square outside The Queen Victoria Sponge.
After the previous night’s shocking discovery that Nana Bakewell’s treasured treacle sponge recipe had vanished, hardly anyone in Walnutford had slept particularly well.
The Queen Victoria Sponge is unusually quiet the next morning. The comforting scent of fresh tea, slightly overdone toast and yesterday’s gossip still hangs in the air, but the usual chatter is missing.
Behind the polished bar stands Peggy Cherry Bakewell, not a tart, but a proud Bakewell pudding. Small in size but solid in presence, her blonde-style bouffant is still perfectly set from the night before, the glossy cherry on top gleaming beneath the lights. A tiny silver fork remains tucked into her apron string like a dagger, though today her mood is darker than burnt crust.
Dot Crumble totters through the door, a light dusting of icing sugar falling from her flaky pastry edges as she walks. Settling into her usual seat by the fondant flower display, she carefully adjusts her icing sugar glasses.
“Well?” she asks. “Did anyone show?”
Peggy shakes her head.
“Only Phil. Everyone else’s gone flaky. Even the Jammy Dodgers youth lot said they were ‘busy’. Busy? On a Thursday?”
Dot peers over the top of her glasses.
“Something’s going on.”
Across Almond Square, the windows of Ye Olde Crumb and Butter sparkle in the morning sunshine. The polished brass door handle gleams, and today’s chalkboard stands proudly outside.
Today’s Special: Treacle Sponge… Perfected.
Inside, Chantelle Chia Bun, one of the new arrivals, wipes down the counter with suspicious precision. She’s sleek and seeded, with a shiny golden glaze and just a sprinkle of smug. Beside her, her sourdough partner, Ryean Crust, flips the chalkboard sign with a satisfied wink.
The back door of The Queen Victoria Sponge suddenly flies open.
Phil the Pudding storms in, his custard patch hastily repaired but already showing signs of another leak.
“Mum!” he growls. “I’ve just seen ’em unloading crates from a van round the back. Not bakery stock. Boxes marked: B.B.L.C.”
Peggy narrows her eyes.
“That’s not a supplier… that’s the Bakewell Baking League Council.”
Dot gasps so sharply that one corner of her pastry top cracks.
“You don’t think they’re… submitting that stolen recipe for certification?”
“They’d be mad,” Phil mutters. “Unless they think no one can prove it’s ours.”
Without another word, Peggy walks behind the bar and reaches beneath the counter. From an old battered biscuit tin, she carefully lifts out a faded, butter-stained scroll tied with a worn red ribbon.
She lays it gently on the table.
Written across the top in flowing raspberry jam ink are the words:
Nana Bakewell’s Original Treacle Sponge Formula – 1952
For a few moments, nobody speaks.
Peggy carefully smooths the corners of the ancient recipe with the palm of her hand.
Dot leans closer.
“I remember Nana saying nobody could ever copy it exactly.”
Phil frowns.
“Why not?”
Dot smiles knowingly.
“Because Nana Bakewell always said the recipe wasn’t just about what went in… it was about knowing how to bake it.”
Peggy gives a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Exactly.”
She taps the faded scroll gently with her tiny silver fork.
“This is our insurance.”
Across Almond Square, Sharon Scone walks briskly out of the rival café, her cherry now reattached, though sitting just slightly off-centre. She fusses with it nervously as she hurries along.
Watching from the opposite side of the square stands Stacey Swiss Roll, her chocolate coating gleaming in the morning sun. She folds her arms tightly.
“Bit early for pastries, isn’t it?” she calls, her voice as sharp as fresh toffee.
Sharon flinches.
“Just doing some… market research.”
Stacey raises an eyebrow.
“Yeah? Well maybe next time do it without crumbs down your front.”
Sharon hurriedly brushes at her apron, only managing to smear a little jam across it instead. Looking thoroughly flustered, she scurries away without another word.
Back inside The Queen Victoria Sponge, Peggy carefully rolls up Nana’s precious recipe and slides it safely back into the old biscuit tin.
She straightens her apron.
Checks that her blonde-style bouffant is still perfectly in place.
Then tightens her grip on the tiny silver fork.
Looking out across Almond Square towards Ye Olde Crumb and Butter, she speaks quietly but firmly.
“If they want war…”
She pauses.
“…they’re going to get a proper Bakewell showdown.”
Outside, the church clock begins to chime as Walnutford slowly wakes to another ordinary morning.
Or at least…
…it would have been ordinary, if someone hadn’t stolen Nana Bakewell’s secret recipe.