Short Story Competition 2021

3rd Prize – Pamela Gough with:

Cake for a Wake

I get some strange requests. Of course, I get the usual: cakes for weddings, birthdays, christenings and so on. I get asked to create cakes in the shape of spaceships, golf courses and even a camera for a keen photographer. This request, though, was a first. It was a funeral cake, of all things. It seemed slightly indecent, like dancing on the grave. Still, I wasn't going to turn it down: work had been in short supply lately, with the ban on gatherings.

I've only been doing this since I retired. People are often surprised when they see me, but plastering's a great apprenticeship for this - I can get my icing smoother than anyone. My mates down the pub stopped laughing when they heard how much I can charge for a cake.

The days of your granny making your wedding cake are pretty much over: grannies are too busy seeing the world or jumping out of aeroplanes.

It was the deceased's daughter who contacted me. When she asked me if I did funeral cakes, I replied, 'Of course, we can make cakes for any occasion,' little realising what she meant.

'I mean a proper funeral cake with Mum on it.'

I was a little taken aback, but business is business, so I said, 'Yes, of course. Can you supply a photo of your Mum?'

'You don't understand. I want the cake to look like she is now. You know, a coffin-shaped cake with my Mum in her best dress. You could go to the funeral home to have a look at her.'

For a few seconds, I was speechless. Then I managed: 'I'm not sure if they will let me in.'

'I'll tell them to expect you.'

I turned up next day at the undertaker's premises, and was shown into their chapel of rest. Soft music played in the background, presumably to calm bereaved relatives, but at that moment I felt more like a stiff drink. I hadn't been to see either of my parents in their coffins. I'd been with them when they died, both in St Crispin's, the local hospice, and I thought anything else was rather ghoulish.

Mrs Venables, for that was the deceased's name, was lying in an oak coffin wearing a crimplene dress in a rather unlovely shade of blue. Her thin legs were encased in thick tights (or maybe stockings, I didn't look) and ended with a pair of highly-polished black shoes. The undertakers seemed to have done a good job: her face looked peaceful, as if she was sleeping, and the lines, of which she must have had a good many, seemed to have melted away. They hadn't been able to do much with her hair, though, which hung in wiry grey wisps round her head.

'Is this common?' I asked the serious young man who had shown me in.

'Sir?'

'Making a cake modelled on the body?'

'I think this is the first time we have heard of such a request but the bereaved all handle grief in different ways. Our job is to help the relatives through this difficult time; we can be of no help to the deceased.'

After what I thought was a rather pompous speech from such a young man, I asked him if it was alright to take a photograph.

I took a few snaps from different angles, including a couple of close-ups of the face, all the time thinking how surreal this was, taking photographs of a corpse in order to make a cake.

Later, I rang the customer to let her know that I had been to the funeral home and to discuss the size of the cake and so on.

'I suppose you think this is a bit strange,' she said.

'Perhaps a little unusual,' I said, aiming for the diplomatic approach.

'It's because of my brother. He lives abroad and might not get here in time to visit the funeral home.'

'Ah, I understand.' Although I thought this emphasis on looking at the corpse in the coffin was verging on the morbid. Still, I suppose it was thoughtful of her.

As it turned out, the deceased's son wasn't even in time for the funeral. His plane was late, so that by the time he arrived, the ceremony itself was over and all the mourners were back at the house, knocking back egg-and-cress sandwiches and getting steadily raucous (or maudlin, in some cases) on cheap plonk. The cake still sat in splendour at the centre of the table.

Of course, I wasn't there, but I got the details later from my mate Terry who, it turns out, vaguely knew the deceased and invited himself to the funeral with at least three ulterior motives: he fancies the deceased's granddaughter, he thought there might be some antique pieces going cheap and, as he put it, 'I couldn't miss a chance to see your first funeral cake.'

'What the f*** is that?' was the son's response on seeing my handiwork.

'It's a funeral cake,' replied his sister sweetly.

'It's ... it's... sacrilege,' he stuttered. The whole thing soon escalated into a full-scale slanging match.

'So then what happened?' I asked.

'Dunno, mate, thought I'd make myself scarce. I didn't want to be there when the glasses started flying.'

So my first foray into funeral cakes had not been an unqualified success, and I would not be disappointed if it was my last. I settled down to the usual run of celebrations, with the odd risqué cake for stag and hen nights - the hens usually being ruder than the stags. If I tell you that one sweet young lady said, 'Just model it on your own,' you'll get the idea. I thought my wife Sally's comment of, 'You won't need much icing, then,' was a touch hurtful.

My peaceful life was soon shattered, however, by a phone call.

'Are you the man who makes cakes?' asked the caller.

'Yes, how can I help you?'

'You made the cake for my mother's funeral, didn't you?'

Oh dear, I thought, I hope he's not going to start on me now.

'Did my sister tell you why she wanted it?'

'She said that you might not be in time to see your mother at the chapel of rest.'

'She knows I hate all that kind of thing. And a cake, of all things! Surely a simple photograph would have been enough?'

I was at a bit of a loss here, as those were more or less my sentiments.

'Look,' he said, 'I wonder if you'd mind meeting up. I'd really like to discuss this with you.'

This all seemed a bit strange, but I agreed to meet him that evening.

As I walked into the pub, a middle-aged man rose and beckoned to me from a table in the far corner.

'I recognised you from your Facebook profile,' he said. 'I'm Tom Venables.'

Once he'd got me a drink, he asked me again what his sister had told me about the cake.

I repeated what I had said before. 'I admit, I thought it a bit irregular, as I don't go in for all that kind of thing myself.'

'Neither do I, and my sister knows it. Are you sure she didn't give any other reason?'

I assured him that was all I knew, and he said, 'Shall I tell you what I think? She had that cake made for the express purpose of making me angry.'

'Why would she want to do that?'

'It's my mother's will. She left everything to be divided equally between the two of us, on condition that we were on friendly terms after her death. Now my sister is claiming the lot, because she says I started the argument.'

'Didn't you know about the will?'

'No, but I bet she did. She's in cahoots with that solicitor. He was even at the funeral - he's the one who's prepared to give evidence that I'm the guilty party.'

I took a sip of my beer. This sounded like a family matter, and I didn't really want to get involved. On the other hand, this explanation for the cake sounded more plausible than the one the sister had given.

'I can't see how I can help you.'

'No, it all seems rather hopeless, doesn't it? If I could only prove that she knew about the will and acted deliberately to deprive me of my inheritance...'

We sat in silence for a while until our drinks were finished.

'If you remember anything that might help me, would you get in touch?' he asked, and handed me a piece of paper with his contact details.

I assured him that I would, although I didn't think it was likely.

When I got home, Sally was sitting in front of the television with the local newspaper on her lap. I sat next to her and gave her a peck on the cheek. As I did so, I noticed a photograph on the front page of the paper.

'I know her,' I said.

'Another of your fancy women is it?' said Sally giving me a playful dig in the ribs.

'It's the funeral cake woman,' I said, and told her the whole story.

'She often comes in the shop,' said Sally. 'She's seeing that solicitor chap.'

So this could be the proof that Tom needed. But Sally was still talking.

'It says here that she's given all her Mum's money to the St Crispin's hospice.'

I read the article that Sally pointed to and gasped at the amount of money involved.

'Do you think that's all of it, or just the brother's share?' I asked.

'You could find out - it's all online these days.'

'Probably cost a bit, though.'

'Go on, have a look.'

So I got out my phone and it was pretty easy. There's a government website, and I soon found her - Edith Mary Venables. For the princely sum of £1.50, I could see the will and the grant of probate, which showed me the amount involved. There it was in black and white: 'Net value of estate.' I gave a whistle.

'She's given all the money to the hospice, not just Tom's.'

'Wow,' said Sally.

I took the piece of paper with Tom's details from my pocket and looked at it.

'What's that?' asked Sally.

'Nothing important,' I said, as I put it in the recycling.

About the author:

Pamela Gough is retired and lives in Derbyshire. She divides her time between writing short fiction, looking after her grandsons and tending her vegetable patch. She often finds inspiration for her writing whilst out in her campervan.

She is in the first two of Virginia Woolf’s stages of writing: she writes for herself and friends, with no burning ambition to reach the third stage, although the occasional competition win or shortlist is good for her self-esteem.