Chelsea Buns

The shop emanated its usual aroma of yeast and vanilla. The windows were fogged with humidity, framing the various pastries and biscuits inside. Today had been a rather slow day for Margaret, so she sent Henry home early; a local boy attending uni working to make a little extra coin. Margaret stayed behind to finish the batch of bread and rolls for tomorrow morning. They needed a proper overnight rise. 

Alone in the bakery at last, she moved around the kitchen light on her feet. A pinch of salt, one and a half tablespoons of dried yeast, four hundred and fifty milliliters of water, one and half pounds of bread flour, and as a secret ingredient a heaping dollop of honey. The oven was preheating at two hundred degrees celsius as she coated the counter in flour. Fresh snow like powder sprinkled down onto the light wood. Her arms were dusted white, which would eventually find its way into her hair like always. 

Margaret kept the electric mixer for her employees, but she herself had never taken them out of the cabinet. Everything she did was done by hand. She poured all of the ingredients into a large mixing bowl and began her therapy. Her fingers raked through the flour, until the consistency transformed into a tacky paste. As the dry ingredients melted together, a dough began to form. It was now time to begin kneading. Kneading bread was second nature to Margaret. Most bakers she knew loved to ice cupcakes or fill pastries, but she loved kneading bread. There was something so tender and trifling about it. Palming and spreading it, then rolling it back into itself over and over. A dancing rhythm of ingredients. It was important to make sure the gluten was activated by stretching it paper thin without any tearing. That was how she knew when it was properly worked and ready to rest. 

Once she was done with the dough, Margaret grabbed a large bowl and lathered it with olive oil. The pungent nutty scent glided over the metal. She reminded herself as she placed the mound of dough in the bowl, that she had to lock up shop on time tonight. Richard had reminded her about the late hours she spent experimenting, and wanted her home at a decent hour this week. She then covered the bowl with cling film, and set it aside to rest. 

The bell on the shop door rang, and in came a younger woman with a bulbous body in the shape of a jelly bean. She waddled around and soaked in all of the delicious smells of today’s goods. 

“Hi there love,” Margaret said. 

“It smells amazing in here,” the woman replied. 

“Well I sure hope so. Everything is made fresh daily. None of that artificial stuff around here.” Margaret said as she grabbed remaining dough to knead. 

“I don’t even know where to start. I was pulled in by the mouthwatering smells from down the way”. 

“Well, you can’t go wrong here, love. I recommend the chelsea buns, they’re fresh out the oven. But everything is quite scrumptious, if I do say so myself,” Margaret said. She smashed the dough thoroughly against the countertop. The woman came closer, basking in the display of sweets and bakes. Her eyes darted back and forth from sugary to savory. There were cookies, biscuits, breads, cakes, scones, meringues, and bountiful foregin pastries.

“Looks like you’ve got your own bun in the oven,” Margaret said. 

“Yeah,” she said while she caressed her globed body. “My fiancé goes on and on about the food from here, so I thought I’d stop by and see for myself. Put it to the test with a craving like mine,” the young woman said. “Do you have anything gluten free?”

Margaret shot up from her dough with a pierced glance. The cocoon of a woman was too distracted by the display case of goodies to notice. She pounded the glob of gluten beneath her spotted aging hands. The therapy became strenuous as she battered down and stretched the dough. The young woman peaked over the counter, eyebrows raised, awaiting the options of knock off bakes. 

“Well, we have a gluten free chocolate cake, peanut butter cookies, vanilla cupcakes, and I’m pretty sure our socca is gluten free as well,” Margaret said, not looking up once from her craft. 

“Not nearly as many options as there should be. Let’s see, I think I’ll take two orange scones, one yorkshire pudding, a loaf of ciabatta, and half a dozen spiced cupcakes,” the woman said. Margaret massaged her dough and looked up at the woman. 

“You know those all have gluten in them, hun,” Margaret said. 

“Oh and add a whole victoria sponge as well,” the woman said. 

Margaret separated from the activated glob and began the assembly of non gluten free items for the gluten free lady. She went to the back and grabbed a large box and a basket to house the treats safely on their journey. When she returned she neatly packed each child in place, careful not to crush or crumble. Margaret threw in a few gluten free cookies, knowing they would not be missed. As she looked up from the basket on the counter and red was all she saw. The woman’s legs were splattered with vibrant liquid. She looked like a medium rare steak surrounded and submerged by its deep oozing juices. 

“Is this supposed to happen? Oh God, I don’t think this is right. Is it?” the woman asked. “I think I need a towel. Do you have a towel?”

Margaret scurried around the counter and sat the woman down on the bench by the door. Both of the women’s eyes were owl-like, one stared at the pool of red bodily fluids in the middle of the floor, while the other looked to her belly. 

“We need to get you to a hospital, right away,” Margaret said. 

“Wait, what? The baby is coming? But it doesn’t even hu- OH MY BLOODY HELL.”

“Do you have anyone I should call? Your husband, parents, maybe an ambulance?”

“This little son of a bitch,” the woman said as her face contorted. “Would you mind taking me?”

“But I told my hus-”

“JESUS FUCKIN CHRIST”

“Alright. Okay. Okay. My car is just out the back. Are you okay enough to walk if I help you?” Margaret asked. 

The woman slowly rose with Margaret cautiously watching. Margaret wrapped her arm around the young woman’s waist and carried the both of them towards the back. Slowly they shuffled past the seeping stain. Margaret made a mental note to pick up some Pine Sol. 

“Wait, wait wait-”

“Are you okay?”

“Could you grab my basket of bakes?”

Once they were both in the car, and on their way, Margaret made a few phone calls. First she called Henry and asked him to come in and finish locking up shop. She made it a point to have him check on the dough she abruptly left unattended to, and briefly mentioned the horror scene left behind. Then she called her husband and told him that an emergency happened at work and that she would update him once she figured everything out. She could hear in his voice some hesitation, but she reassured him she would fill him in as soon as things calmed down. Then finally she asked the woman for her husband’s phone number. 

“Here, his name is Dickon, and he’s not my husband yet,” the woman said as she handed her phone over. The phone rang three times before an automated woman’s voice came through. 

“-Hi Dickon. I think your wife may be going into labor. But something isn’t quite right and I’m driving her to the hospital. I would get there as quickly as you can. So yeah, I guess we will see you there hopefully. Oh, also she’s in good hands, she should be fine. Okay see you later, bye”. 

The car ride was filled with more cuss words than Margret had used in years. Groaning and curtled movements came from her passenger seat. The woman’s pleated hair whipped back and forth, like a wired rope waiting for contact. “Can you go a little faster?” the throbbing young woman asked. Margaret pushed up to five over and began sweating. She moved to the fast lane, darting and weaving past cars. The woman clutched the leather seats with each merging movement. Soft smooth motions for her passenger. “Slow down, slow down, it hurts too much,” the woman said. The speedometer trickled back down to the speed limit and grunts grew. 

When they reached the hospital, Margaret helped the young woman to the entrance. A nurse came out right away with a wheelchair. 

“I think her water broke, but it was mostly blood. She’s been in a lot of pain,” Margaret said. 

“What’s her name?”

“My name is Sophia,”

“Her name is Sophia,” Margaret unnecessarily repeated.

“Ok Sophia, we’re going to get you all taken care of.”

The nurse took a hold of the handles and led them to the maternity ward. She was saying things to Sophia in a hushed tone, which Margaret didn’t feel like was her business to hear. The wheels screeched and moaned with each rotation. Margaret followed along closely behind, glazed with fluorescent lighting, which made her appear much older than she was. She stared down at Sophia, painted in dried blotchy speckles. It was hard to keep up with the nurse. She was moving down the hall with a calm exterior but a quickening pace. The nurse took a sharp left turn into room 408. She wheeled Sophia into the room, locked her up, then met Margaret at the door. 

“Are you family?” the nurse asked.

“No- but can I-”

“I’m sorry ma’am but I’m gonna have to ask you to wait in the waiting room,”

“Can I wait until her hus-”

But before she could finish her sentence, the door was shut in her face. She stammered back and sat down in the chair closest to 408. There was one light in the waiting room that flickered, holding on to the last moments of life; fighting for each burst. Margaret focused on the light, and thought of the unborn baby in the other room. She hoped Sophia’s baby would last like this trickling light. Her thoughts then moved to when she and Richard tried for kids. It has just been them two all along. Little mini me’s to rising buns. She opened the bakery after she lost her third. The miscarriages took a toll on her body, so they decided to stop trying. The process of creating something from scratch was like creating life. She gave a piece of herself into every bake that she made. Her bakes rose and grew, then ventured out into the world. She was so proud of what they had become, fulfilling a desired temptation for someone else. All she needed was Richard and her bakery. She spent hours perfecting her recipes and finessing batters. Her flavors coated each taste bud when eaten; bursting with spices, sugars, jams, and custards. Many of her days were spent experimenting with new flavor combinations and exciting new treats. Currently she was working on a new creme brulee recipe, and kept going back and forth on whether or not to add it to the menu. Richard loved creme brulee. She was going to surprise him with her newest recipe this week, and she knew he would be absolutely delighted when she did. Every bake was tested and sampled by him, causing him to get a little uncomfortable with his now snuggly fit pants. Margaret felt bad about being late once again. 

Nurses and doctors came rushing to room 408. Machines, monitors, and supplies skated across the floor and into the room. Clamor and medical talk was all Margaret heard as she snapped out of her thoughts. The door closed behind her once again, and she was left with the lonely struggling light. She wanted the baby to be okay, and for this to be a story that she would look back on and laugh. She wanted this complete stranger to experience creating something from the very beginning on her own. 

Margaret heard more running footsteps from down the hall. This time it wasn’t a nurse or a doctor, it was not even a stranger. Richard was slicked with sweat with a face of suffocation. He ran past each door, scanning the numbers. His eyes were wide and lost. 

“Richard?” Margaret called out. 

He stopped in his tracks then rushed towards her. She stood from her faux leather teal chair and sunk into him. He held her, letting time pass as they stood in the waiting room. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked. 

“I- I thought you’d be hungry, and m- and could use some company,” he said. 

He ruffled around in his large bag and pulled out a banana, some bread from home, and some bars that Margaret had made just two days ago. She saw a blanket and what looked like either a t-shirt or a battered cloth. He handed her the snacks and sat down next to her with a calming crooked smile. 

“God I love you,” she said while she ripped into the brioche. 

Richard looked around as more people moved in and out of room 408. The quiet waiting room was growing with rickety wheels, sloshing bags, bustling footsteps, and exoctic medial talk. His eyes darted around the movement, and then landed on room 408.

“What’s going on here,” he asked.

“It’s been a crazy day, and not the kind of crazy I enjoy.” She snapped the banana and peeled back the rubbery exterior. “This woman came into the shop, right as I was thinking of closing up for the day-” Margaret stopped peeling and looked up at Richard. “How did you know I was here?”

“You told me over the phone when you called, remember?”

“I thought I told you I would let you know once things calmed down,” she said. 

“I mean Margie, how else would I know where you were?”

“I guess I just-”

The doors to room 408 burst open. With it came an orchestra of alcohol, blinking screens, and scrubbed up saviors. A new nurse came out and walked towards Richard and Margaret. 

“Are you two family to Sophia?” she asked.

“No, but we’re friends. Good friends. Close friends. Is she alright? Is the baby okay?” Margaret said.

“We had her stabilized when she first came in, but then she started bleeding again. We don’t exactly know what the problem is, but we do have to get the baby out now.” said the nurse. 

“Oh my God. That’s terrible. Is she hungry? I have a basket of food for her,” said Margaret.

“We gave her some relaxation pills, and need to prep her for surgery. So no food or drink. If her family comes by, tell the front desk and we can get them in with her. We will keep you updated on anything further,” she said.

The nurse returned to the hustling chaos. Margaret slumped back in her chair, thinking of all the things she should bake as a get-well-soon gift. She would make as many gluten free things that she could muster. As she dreamed up her soon to be creations, Richard stood. 

“I’m going to get some coffee. Do you need anything?”

“I’ll take one as well dear,” she said. 

His face was pale, while sweat trickled down his brow. He stammered over to the front desk and asked for paper cups. Margaret started to think of a gluten free sponge recipe, with flavors to distract. Chocolate and orange had always been one of her favorites. She could not wait to get back to the kitchen and deliver something that no one would ever know was gluten free. She started making a list of ingredients in her head. Eggs, sugar, rice flour, baking powder, butter, cream cheese, and an orange. She would tweak it as she worked, but for now her base list was made. Richard handed her a coffee, and she pulled two sugar packets out of her pocket. She always had at least five packets on her. Purse, wallet, or pocket, she never wanted to be unprepared. Margaret then moved from the cake to the frosting. She wanted to do a chocolate ganache so she would need dark chocolate chips and coconut cream. She began to walk herself through the steps, thinking of each ingredient and its role. 

The door to room 408 creaked open, disrupting daydreams of zesty cake. Richard was standing by the door, when a nurse popped her head around the corner. Margaret bounced up and dashed up to meet Richard. They both stopped talking when she arrived.

“What’s going on,” Margaret whispered. Richard did not look her in the eyes, and stared at the nurse. 

“You can come in if you’d like,” the nurse said. 

“Oh perfect, I’d love to see-”

“Sorry ma’am, only family members are allowed.”

“Then why did you say we could come in?”

“Because I was told he’s the father.”