5

But still it goes in. Might as well. Nothing to lose, and it’s not as if anyone will know the difference. It’s not as if we’ll sell any of it. Maybe it’ll bake okay.

Give off that smell which brings people through the door, even if not to buy bread, and they’ll take a slice of Dundee cake home to enjoy over a cup of tea or a warm Special or a mug of whisky.

It goes in. Ten minutes on 9, open the door a few minute, bring it down to 5, close the door, another 20 minute.

“How long as that had?”

“Has what had?”

“The bread.”

“When did it go in?”

“You fuckin’ put it in.”

“Oh that, yeah…”

“Have you turned it down?”

“Only just gone in.”

“When?”

“Er…”

Open the door and it’s already had too long. Dark brown on top, by time it’s done be next to black. Fucking rank smell ain’t going to bring people in. It’s going to drive people the fuck away.

Good bakeries and chip-shops are hard to pass by.

Time was our bread put hooks in your nose, reeled you fucking in.

You’d see fuckers strolling along, opposite way, nothing further from their minds, then doubling back, crossing the road, peering at the window, over the threshold, up at the counter, slavering chops, pointing at this and that.

I’ll have one of them,

one of those,

what are they?

Two of those...

Gannets. Not today. The fucking yeast was bad. Course it was bad. The fridge is fucked.

Knock it down to 4, shove the Dundee in. Might as well, long bake. Hour and 40. Hot fruitcake will mask the bread stench. Of its own rancid butter too, I bet. The rind is strong.

And the brandy. No whisky. Brandy does the same. Scones.

“Wha’ you doing now?”

“Scones.”

“I’ll give you hand once I’ve finished this.”

Down goes the Tennents.

Chug chug ch-

The Tennents.

There was only one Tennents half an hour ago.

Why am I fucking on Kestrel?

Tennents tins crushed all over his end.

Four, with the one in his hand.

“I thought you said there was only one Tennents.”

“No I never.”

“You said Kestrel or Tennents and when I said Tennents kicked off and said there was 12 Kestrel.”

“There’s not now you’ve had four.”

“How many Tennents is there?”

“Not many.”

“How many?”

“Eight.”

“You’re a cunt mate.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha…”

You fucking cunt. Cherries and sultanas. Margarine. That’ll be off. Self-raising. Egg. Some use milk we’ve always used egg. Shiny tops, a proper crust. And the milk'll be fucking off anyhow. Fridge is fucked.

Fuck knows why the boss brung that cunt in here. Well I know why. Fucking fostered the cunt.

Sent him back when he half burned their house down but Alice shouldn’t have told me that so I never told nobody that. I told my missus that but she never come in here so that made no fucking odds.

Like he fucking owed him something, he’ll be alright, he’s a loudmouth is all, but if he gets a chance he’ll come good. Never did. Never will.

“Where’s them fucking Tennents?”

“I’ll get rubbing this butter up.”

“Get the fuck out of them scones.”