Here in South-West England, a heated topic occupies a lot of our time. When eating scones, should the clotted cream be applied first, or the Strawberry jam?
People in Cornwall insist that the jam goes on first, but here in the more civilised county of Devon, we put the cream on. And we did invent the delicacy, so we should know.
The debate can get heated, although I cannot see why. After all, when eating toast, do you put the marmalade on before the butter? Logic like that escapes some people.
Enough Said.
At my writers group this month, one of the prompts was “The Scone Affair.”
Here is my attempt.
Happy reading.
The Scone Affair.
Joyce sat at her usual table in the crowded café. Befitting her status as a regular customer, the reserved sign had been placed out for her, she was here every afternoon at two, enjoying her favourite, a pot of Earl Grey and a cream tea.
She had only been sitting for a couple of moments when her food arrived. It was brought to her by a waitress she didn’t recognise, she looked at the badge on the dark apron they all wore. ‘Sally’, it said.
“Here’s your cream tea, Madam,” the girl said, placing down a large silver tray and setting it out just so. Joyce looked at her, she had dark straight hair parted in the middle like two curtains, and an over-made-up masked face with the large eyebrows that all the girls these days seemed to affect. It made them all look the same. Joyce recalled it was called the Instagram look, whatever that was.
She found the desire for similarity among them strange. When she had been younger, everyone had tried to look different. When she had departed, Joyce poured herself a cup of tea, added a little milk and turned her attention to the scones.
Carefully, she cut one of them in half, put the jam on and followed it with a dollop of clotted cream. Inside, she felt pleasure at the small act of rebellion. She might have been in Devon, but this was the Cornish way. But then, she was a proud Cornish woman. Derek, her late husband, had teased her about it when they first met. “When we get married and move to Devon,” he had said, “you will have to do it the correct way, or there will be trouble.”
She smiled at the memory. Derek had been gone a long time now, and she missed him. She had loved him deeply despite all his little flaws. Fortunately, having lots of money and leaving it all to her had not been one of them.
“Is everything alright with your cream tea?”
Sally had returned. “Yes, thank you,” she said, “as usual, it’s excellent.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said the girl, “but are you Cornish?”
Joyce smiled. The girl had spotted the way she had put the Jam first on her scone
“Yes, I am,” she said. “My late husband, Derek, used to tease me about it. I think of him every time I do it.”
“That’s a nice memory,” said the girl. “But we are in Devon, so technically you’re doing it wrong.”
That was a bit cheeky, thought Joyce, but then perhaps a girl was just trying to make conversation. She turned, as if to go, then she leaned in close.
“I know what you did,” she whispered. The words struck fear into Joyce’s heart. In fact, she dropped her scone in shock. How could she know? After a second, she looked up, ready to deny it and ask what she was talking about. But Sally had gone.
Joyce tried to eat another mouthful, but the sweet scone and toppings had turned to ashes in her mouth. She got up and went to pay. She had to get out into the fresh air. She felt like everyone was watching her.
“Excuse me,” she said to the girl at the till, “but the waitress, Sally. I haven’t seen her before.”
“Sally?” said the woman, taking Joyce’s money. “We haven’t got a Sally working here.”
Joyce felt faint. She grabbed at the counter to stop herself from falling. “But she just served me,” she said. “Can I speak to Heather?”
Heather was the manager and a personal friend.
“Heather’s on a day off,” said the woman. “Here’s your change, have a good day.”
Not knowing what to think, but feeling more and more uneasy, Sally headed out into the street. As she walked back towards the bus stop, she saw a black apron poking out of a rubbish bin. Quickly, she pulled it out; before she looked, she knew what the name badge on it would say.
Later that evening, Joyce was at home, feeling a cold dread. Her head throbbed, and her stomach churned. Who was that waitress? What did she know?
She had kept the secret for nearly 20 years. Derek had not turned out to be the perfect catch. Starting with his criticism of the way she ate a cream tea, he had proceeded to undermine her confidence at every level.
In desperation, she had taken to putting tranquillisers, prescribed for her, into his food, including his favourite scones.
They had helped to quieten him down and give her some peace. When he had tripped and fallen down the stairs in the middle of the night, the police had thought it was an unfortunate accident.
When she finally slept, her dreams were of that night. She saw Derek’s face again, the shock when he realised that she was pushing him, not stopping him from falling.
The noise he made, as he bounced down the stairs, was replaced by the hammering on the door.
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