Alison Brackenbury

All Change

From our UK edition

Based on a handwritten notebook of recipes from Dorothy Eliza Barnes, my grandmother, a shepherd’s wife, who had worked as an Edwardian cook With girl’s fine nib, in blackest black you scratched down with your steel pen ‘Puzzle Pudding’, ‘Feather Cake’, script tiny, taught, as you were then. Next, sky’s blue strays into the mix, light as fire’s flare through kindling sticks. Pencil races. ‘Elderberry.’ Then biro trembles. No more pens. ‘B.P.’ for Baking Powder. Why? Self-raising flour came too late. Nor did you have penicillin, Pethidine, or the Welfare State. ‘Cake with no eggs’, ‘dried egg’, the pause in your employers’ rich food through wars. ‘Slow oven’.

My Grandmother Said

From our UK edition

It was the First World War. Her husband was away. So she knew fear, but also found new freedom in the day. On Thursdays, with the farmer’s wife, old basket in her lap, by butter slabs, she rode to Brigg, shawled, in the pony trap. Oh how I envied her! I whined to Brigg by bus, for school, no pony’s dancing knees, first sun in elder bush. She would have crossed the Ancholme, seen the canal glint wide. She could buy apples and white thread, jog home, to new moon’s rise. ‘But I was frozen, to my bones, all winter.’ Was that all? My grandfather took up the reins. She settled in her shawl.