‘I couldn’t manage without her,’ he commented as they moved away. ‘Unlike Brian, who I don’t need at all, but cannot get rid of.’
Gary asked, ‘Why not?’
Alan sucked air in through his teeth. ‘He’s part of the furniture. He’s been head of the event committee for years, and until he does something that would justify removing him, I can see no way of freeing myself. Besides, he will be back running the event next year. I just wanted to show the city what this competition could be with a little bit of imagination and effort. This is to be our largest event ever,’ Alan boasted as he led them through the various stalls. Some were those of professional traders, there to sell their wares and getting set up in advance. Others were from local charity groups; another subject Alan spoke of rapidly and frequently. They were to be located in the first part of the marquee through which everyone would funnel on their way in due to Alan’s decision to bring them in through the museum.
Reaching the far end where the marquee stretched to the left and right, yet another voice rang out with an angry undertone. ‘Mr Crystal! I want a word wi’ thee!’
Angry Competitors
Wondering what fresh hell this might be and beginning to regret accepting the VIP treatment from the event organiser, Albert slowly swivelled himself around to see a man in baker’s whites approaching. He was in his fifties, with a jowly jaw line which gave his face the look of a bulldog.
Alan greeted him with a smile. ‘Mr Ross, is the preparation area to your liking? Have you found everything you need?’
‘Nevermind all that, Mr Crystal,’ Mr Ross wasn’t to have his intentions diverted. ‘I’m a fair man and I speaks my mind.’ Alan’s smile remained in place as he attempted to encourage Mr Ross to speak his mind. He didn’t get the chance to because Mr Ross just kept on talking. ‘There’s something afoot here, Mr Crystal. Some teams seem to have preferential positioning in the competition hall.’
‘Yeah,’ said a second man, now arriving behind Mr Ross. A woman was with him, his wife probably, Albert decided. ‘That bunch from Wetherby are acting as if they don’t need to do any test baking. They’ve been asking us why we are bothering and trying to goad me into placing a side bet on the outside. They seem to know which heat they are in, but the draw hasn’t taken place yet.’
‘Aye,’ echoed Mr Ross. ‘There’s summit’ not right ‘ere, I tell thee.’
Alan’s face coloured slightly as he tried to defend himself. ‘I can assure you both, there is nothing amiss with the arrangements. The preparation area was made available today for the various teams to familiarise themselves with layout and perform some test bakes ready for the big competition tomorrow. I know how important this opportunity is for you all.’
‘Important?’ repeated Mr Ross as seemed to be his habit. ‘It’s not important, Mr Crystal. It’s life changing. If the winner is awarded the contract with Bentley Brothers, they’ll never worry about money again as long as they live. Never mind the cash prize, Mr Crystal, it’s the contract we are all here for.’
Another man, this one wearing all black, decided to join the argument, but he wasn’t against the event organiser like the others, he was against his baking opponents. ‘Still moaning are you, Ross? Perhaps you should pack up early and leave before you waste your time tomorrow.’ To his right stood another man, tall and skinny with youthful versions of his father’s features, the name on his black tunic was Oliver’s Bakery, Wetherby.
Mr Ross’s face twitched in annoyance. ‘See what I mean, Mr Crystal? This man’s Yorkshire puddings are a joke compared to mine.’ Mr Ross turned his head to yell across the marquee. ‘Aiden! bring the puddings lad!’
They were forced to wait, but only for a few seconds as a young man came running with a tray of Yorkshire puddings.
‘Look at these, will thee?’ bragged Mr Ross. ‘How is anyone going to beat these?’
Albert eyed the Yorkshire puddings, which were probably the highest he had ever seen. They were towering, crisp, and golden.
Mr Ross jabbed a finger at his rival from Oliver’s Bakery. ‘Yet he feels he can win and is confident enough to taunt me. It’s not right, I tell thee.’
Alan raised both his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Please, gentlemen, and lady,’ he added quickly, remembering the woman present. ‘Everyone enters the competition with an equal chance of victory. The puddings will be judged on the same set of criteria: crispness, rise, flavour, and colour. The heats are to be judged by me, but the final, which I can assure you, you all have an equal chance of reaching, will be judged by a panel. There is no way to cheat the panel of judges. The puddings will be baked in full view of the audience and event staff. The winner of each heat will progress to the final and will get another chance to bake for the grand prize. There are, of course, other trophies up for grabs, so if you are lacking confidence you can enter the sweet treat contest or compete for the most innovative dish. I hear there haven’t been many entries for the decorative dish contest yet, perhaps you should all think about vying for a chance to scoop that prize.’ Alan span the suggestion as if it were something really worthy of winning, but the contestants stared at him like he were being a fool.
‘Stuff and nonsense, Mr Crystal,’ growled Mr Ross. ‘No Yorkshireman worth his salt would waste time making fancy shapes with Yorkshire puddings. I’ll win first place, you mark my word, Mr Crystal. You too, Oliver.’ He
