Text 1: Bread before dawn, by Leila Morgan

An original contemporary blog.

My shift begins at half past eleven, when the high street is silent and the last bus has gone. Inside the bakery, however, the mixers are already thundering. By six o’clock, we must have produced eight hundred loaves, as well as the rolls and pastries for three other shops.

I weigh the ingredients for each batch and watch the dough carefully. A timer helps, but the dough behaves differently on cold and humid nights, so I still have to judge when it is ready. There is little room for error. If one batch is late, the proving shelves fill up and everything behind it falls out of sequence.

The work is hot and physical. We lift heavy trays, hurry between steel tables and stand for almost the whole shift. At three in the morning, when my arms ache and flour has found its way into my shoes, I sometimes wonder why I do it.

Yet there is a strong sense of companionship. Four of us work overnight, sharing jokes and keeping an eye on one another’s ovens. My favourite moment comes just before we finish. The shop lights come on, the first customers arrive, and the shelves are full of bread that did not exist when the town went to sleep.

Text 2: A letter from a baker’s apprentice, by Edward Hale

An original letter written in a nineteenth-century voice; a period simulation, not an archival document.

In this letter, written in 1892, a young apprentice describes his work in a city bakehouse.

Dear Thomas,

You ask how I fare in my new employment. I go down to the bakehouse at ten each night and seldom see my bed again before seven in the morning. We must have the household loaves ready when the shop opens, and the master will not tolerate an empty shelf.

Everything is done by our own strength. Two men turn the dough upon the great table while I carry flour sacks, fetch water and shape the smaller loaves. The oven is fed with coal and gives such a fierce heat that even in January we work with our sleeves rolled high. By dawn, my back feels as though I have carried bricks all night.

The master watches the clock closely. If the dough is neglected or the oven loses heat, the whole night’s labour may be spoiled. Last Thursday, a tray caught on the oven door and twelve loaves fell upon the floor. We worked twice as fast to replace them before the shutters were raised.

It is hard work, but not miserable work. The older bakers sing as they knead, and they have been patient with my mistakes. When people queue outside in the morning and the warm loaves disappear into their baskets, I feel some pride in having helped to feed half the street.

Your affectionate brother,

Edward

Explain briefly, using information from both texts, what it was like to work through the night in a bakery.

Make it clear which text you are referring to.