The spoiled order

An original nineteenth-century-style fiction passage set in the 1890s. This is newly written practice material, not a historical extract.

When Clara opened the oven, the little cakes were no longer golden. They sat in two black rows, each one as hard and dark as a lump of coal. Smoke crept around the iron door and curled towards the ceiling.

Ten minutes earlier, Clara's mother had knocked at the bakery's side entrance. She had come only to say that Clara's father had found three days of work at the docks. Clara knew that she should have returned to the oven at once, but the news was so welcome that she had remained by the door, asking questions and smiling. She had forgotten Mr Alden's warning that the cakes needed watching closely.

Now the order for Mrs Grant's evening party was ruined. Clara carried the tray into the yard and pushed it beneath an empty flour sack. The sack concealed the cakes, but it could not conceal their bitter smell. When she returned to the kitchen, she opened a window and began polishing a spotless mixing bowl.

Mr Alden entered with the order book beneath his arm. “Where are Mrs Grant's cakes?”

Clara stared into the shining bowl. “I thought Ned was watching them.”

The words came quickly. For one relieved moment, she almost believed them.

Ned, the youngest apprentice, was called in from the stable. Flour marked one side of his face, and he was still carrying the basket he had been sent to collect. Mr Alden asked him three times about the cakes. Each time, Ned said that he had known nothing about them. His answers grew quieter, while Mr Alden's voice became colder.

Clara gripped the edge of the table. She could explain everything by saying that her mother had brought important news. She could promise to be more careful. Yet first she would have to admit that she had hidden the tray and allowed Ned to be accused. She imagined losing her place at the bakery. Her own weekly earnings were small, but at home every coin was counted.

Mr Alden removed Ned's apron from its hook and laid it on the table. “If I cannot depend upon you, I cannot keep you here.”

Ned reached for the apron. Clara watched his hand close around the cloth.

“It was me,” she said.

Nobody moved. The kitchen clock seemed suddenly loud enough to shake the pans on the wall. Clara's knees trembled, and she pressed them against the table to keep herself upright. Then she told them about her mother's visit, the smoke and the flour sack in the yard. She did not look into the polished bowl again.

Mr Alden fetched the ruined tray. “The cakes can be made again,” he said, “but Ned cannot be given back the last five minutes.” He returned the apron to its hook. Clara waited for him to dismiss her. Instead, he placed fresh flour on the table and told her that she would stay to prepare a second order under his supervision. He made no promise about the following week.

Ned worked beside her without speaking. Clara wanted to ask him to forgive her, but an apology seemed too small while the burnt smell still filled the room. She measured the ingredients and began again. This time, when the new cakes went into the oven, she remained on the stool before it, although her back ached and the kitchen grew hot.

By dusk, the second order was ready. Mr Alden carried it to the front of the shop without praising her. Clara stayed behind to scrub the blackened tray. When the last mark had gone, she opened the window as wide as it would go. Cold air entered the kitchen, but the smell of smoke lingered.