The Favourite Child by Freda Lightfoot

small family, she’d opened up her front parlour and taken up baking which had proved a greater success than most ventures of its kind. Parlour shops would frequently open up overnight, more out of desperation than hope, and just as quickly close. Mrs Heap was different. She produced the tastiest pies and pastries in all of Liverpool Street and was well loved by all, particularly the local children who called her Aunt Edie and were often treated to a currant bun or ginger biscuit. Smiling, she handed a bag of pastries to Bella, refusing absolutely to take a penny in payment for them.
    ‘You’ve done plenty for me and mine in the past,’ she insisted, patting Bella’s hand.
    Bella thanked her and decided to share them with her favourite client, who she’d deliberately left till last.
    ‘Will you call in on Sally Clarke when ye have a minute. She had her latest the other week and her husband is itching to get at her again.’
    ‘I’ll pop in on my way home this afternoon. Promise.’
     
    Violet Howarth was a large, amiable woman who seemed to be found most days with her big red hands plunged in hot soapy water. But then as she said herself, with a houseful of brats to keep clean, how else would she spend her time?
    This afternoon was no different. Bella found her leaning over the wash tub in the back yard she shared with her neighbours in Jacob’s Court, her substantial backside quivering with the effort of scrubbing a stubborn shirt collar on the rubbing board. She glanced up at Bella’s approach, and her round face broke into a huge grin.
    ‘Hey up, ‘ere’s a cup of tea and two biscuits walking down me yard.’ This was Violet’s way of saying that she was glad of the interruption.
    ‘I’ve brought you an Eccles cake, for a treat,’ Bella said, holding out the paper packet with a smile.
    ‘Eeh well, thee’s doubly welcome then. I were just thinking of putting t’kettle on. Our Dan’ll be right sorry to have missed yer. He’s only this minute gone on shift. I’d best rinse these through first, then we’ll have a natter.’
    Bella looked up to consider the glowering winter sky, heavy with the threat of rain, then back at the woman who, despite the shawl pinned about her substantial chest, had a dewdrop on the end of her nose and whose bare wet arms were raw with cold. ‘It’s time you did stop. The heavens are about to open. Why are you doing your washing in the yard anyway, instead of in your nice warm kitchen?’
    Violet drew out a large red checked handkerchief from her capacious pocket and blew musically upon it. ‘Cause I’ve just cleaned up in there and I were hoping not to fill it with steam and water again. But yer right. I’ll have to put myself through t’mangle an’ all, if I stop out here much longer,’ and she let out a great cackle of laughter.
    Whenever she laughed, which was often, great rolls of flesh would shake and wobble, performing almost a ritual dance of delight to accompany the raucous sound. For whatever else you might accuse Violet of: a certain brashness, a loud and cutting sense of humour coupled with a casual bluntness that frequently wounded more tender feelings than her own; an undeniable fondness for her food along with other delights of the flesh; taking life too seriously wasn’t a fault you could ever level against her.
    ‘Isn’t it always raining in Manchester?’ Bella teased, as she helped her to carry the dripping washing back inside.
    ‘Nay, that’s a wicked lie made up by a chap who come up from t’south and caught a fish in his turn-ups. Manchester’s a grand spot. Capital of the north.’
    Both women ate two Eccles cakes each, licking up every flake of crisp sugary pastry, every squashy currant. Not a word was exchanged between them during the repast as complete concentration was required to fully appreciate each delicious morsel. When her plate was clean of the last crumb, Violet heaved a great sigh of pleasure and regret as she sank back in