Image description: The YeastEnders village of Walnutford, with baked-goods characters gathered in Almond Square outside The Queen Victoria Sponge.
Three hours earlier, the Queen Victoria Sponge had been packed.
On the tiny stage, the Yeastie Boys were making enough noise to loosen the icing on the ceiling.
“GOOD EVENING, WALNUTFORD!”
The pub erupted.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell stood behind the bar, watching suspiciously.
“They’d better behave themselves this time.”
Phil the Pudding frowned.
“You booked them again?”
“They were cheap.”
“One of them left a baguette in the ladies.”
“And he’s been told to use the gents this time.”
One of the Yeastie Boys grabbed the microphone.
“This one’s called Fight for Your Right to Pastry!”
The pub erupted again.
The Yeastie Boys launched into the song.
Fatbread punched the air.
“TUNE!”
Dot Crumble covered her ears.
“Are they supposed to sound like that?”
Dotty Crumble laughed.
“It’s music, Gran.”
“I preferred music when you could hear the words.”
“You used to go dancing.”
“Yes. People had trumpets then.”
On stage, one of the Yeastie Boys attempted to leap onto a speaker.
The speaker fell over.
He didn’t.
Peggy pointed at him.
“That’s coming out of your fee!”
“ROCK AND ROLL!”
“So is the microphone!”
At a corner table, Rye-vita studied Crusty Carl’s stolen delivery sheet while Sticky Nick watched the windows.
Roxy Rhubarb leaned over.
“Found anything?”
“Plenty,” said Rye-vita. “None of it good.”
By half past eleven, the Yeastie Boys had finished.
Most of the crowd had gone home.
Two members of the band remained at the bar arguing over who owned a suspiciously long baguette.
Peggy stared at it.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Then Carl’s phone rang.
Bruno Brioche.
The laughter disappeared.
By eleven fifty-eight, everyone knew the Queen Victoria Sponge was being used on current Buttered Bunch paperwork.
And from somewhere beyond Almond Square came the rumble of engines.
One van.
Then another.
Then another.
Sticky Nick looked through the window.
“They’re here.”
Rye-vita grabbed her coat.
“The mill?”
Nick nodded.
Peggy reached for her tiny silver fork.
“You’re not going without me.”
Phil stared at her.
“Mum, that’s a fork.”
“It’s never let me down.”
Dot picked up her handbag.
Nick frowned.
“Ma, you’re staying here.”
“I most certainly am not.”
“Why?”
“My knitting’s in the car.”
Everyone stared at her.
“What?”
“I left it there Tuesday.”
Outside, three plain white vans rolled into Almond Square.
But they didn’t turn towards the old flour mill.
The first stopped outside the Queen Victoria Sponge.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Doors opened.
Figures climbed out.
One of the Yeastie Boys looked through the window.
“Is this part of the gig?”
“No,” said Peggy.
“Can it be?”
“No.”
At the centre of the group stood a broad, immaculately glazed brioche in a dark coat.
Sticky Nick’s face hardened.
“Bruno.”
Bruno Brioche looked up at the Queen Victoria Sponge sign.
Then at the flour sack on the pavement.
He smiled.
Peggy pushed open the pub door.
“This your rubbish?”
Bruno looked at her.
“You must be Peggy.”
“And you must be paying for that flower tub.”
Bruno frowned.
“What flower tub?”
Behind him, one of the vans rolled backwards.
CRUNCH.
Everyone looked.
Peggy’s flower tub lay flattened beneath a tyre.
Bruno slowly closed his eyes.
Peggy raised her tiny silver fork.
“That’s twelve ninety-nine.”
One of the Yeastie Boys leaned through the doorway.
“OI! YOU GONNA PAY FOR THAT?”
Peggy turned.
“I can handle this.”
“Want us to write a song about it?”
“No.”
“We’ve already got a chorus.”
“Inside!”
The Yeastie Boy disappeared.
Bruno stared at Peggy.
Then he smiled.
“Perhaps we should talk.”
Peggy stepped into Almond Square.
“Perhaps you should get your wallet out.”