Summer Soap, Part 6: A fascinating chat... but another dead end

This year's summer soap, The Lost Recipe, is a summer mystery with a romantic subplot and an underlying theme of food - and involves a search for a long-lost recipe. It was written by Emma Tirlot from the MA in Creative Writing Programme at UCC. Catch up with previous episodes at echolive.ie.  In the sixth episode, Claire and Fionn continue looking for the lost recipe

Episode 6: Barry’s Tea

Whitegate sits on the edge of the water, in Cork’s natural harbour, precisely, as I’ve learned during our drive.

I park along the main road. Further down, a pier stretches over the water. An open snack bar stands at its edge, tables overlooking the calm bay. Big white clouds travel fast across the blue sky, throwing shadows over the landscape. Only the cries of seagulls and crows disturb the peaceful quiet. I place a hand above my eyes to peer at the town across the estuary.

“It’s Cobh over there.” Fionn rounds the car to stand beside me. “Very touristic. There’s a museum about the Titanic there.”

I tilt my head, “The Titanic stopped here?”

“Yes. Well, it didn’t sail all the way into Cobh, which was named Queenstown at the time. The ship waited outside the bay, and a shuttle boat took around 120 passengers from Cobh to it. That was the Titanic’s last stop before crossing the Atlantic.”

“Wow, I had no idea.”

He smiles, “Cobh is a must-see. When you visit the Titanic museum, they give you a passenger ticket. At the end of the visit, you find out if they survived the wreck or not.”

I raise my eyebrows, “I’m not sure whether that’s genius or absolutely horrifying.”

******

Fionn leads the way uphill to a detached home. The bright red door is a sharp contrast to the dark stones. I ring the bell and a woman in her thirties opens, a baby on her hip. Catherine invites us in, mumbling an excuse for the collection of pastel-coloured toys and baby clothes scattered around the house.

The sitting room is bright with a glass sliding door opening onto the yard.

“It’s like I’m working two jobs with this little one!” Catherine says while placing the baby in a high-chair.

******

Theo, her little boy, is busy chewing a plastic elephant when Catherine comes back with tea. To my surprise, I’m growing accustomed to Barry’s Tea, although I’ve noticed that in Ireland, tea is always infused while the water is too hot. I think it gives it a bitter taste. Maybe that’s why they add milk to it. I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around the whole milk-in-the-tea thing.

“This is pretty much all I have left from the generations beyond my grandfather.”

Catherine reaches for the large leather-bound photo album sitting on the table and lays her palms flat on it. “When my grandma passed away... I was around eight years old? Anyways, my grandad sold the house and everything that was in it… I don’t know what became of it all. I think he got rid of everything.”

My mind flies to gran’s house - where I was supposed to spend my summer - still untouched, with everything exactly the way she’d left it. I was already incapable of finishing the aromatic herbs she’d made; I couldn’t imagine letting go of anything.

Catherine continues: “I didn’t know much about the bakery until Fionn called. I mean, I knew that there was a business in the family on my mom’s side, which got destroyed by a fire, but that’s about it. I didn’t know that they were in business with another family, nor that they won some awards!” She smiles.

“Anyways,” she pushes the photo album towards us, “you can take a look at this, but I am not sure you will find anything interesting. And about this specific recipe, I’m sorry, I wish I could help you more.”

The album contains grainy, monochromous pictures, pasted on stiff yellow pages. All of the pictures are carefully dated, most of them labelled with names or events. One of the pictures draws my attention. A man in an army uniform.

“This is...”

“My great grandfather, Henry.”

“Henry Gallagher.” I’d seen him in many of Margaret’s pictures, “he went to war?”

Catherine nods. “He fought in the First World War. He made it home, I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”

I smile. “Thank-you for taking the time to speak with us, I know you must be really busy.”

I glance at Theo who seems to be attempting to lift the tray off his high-chair, but his fingers aren’t quite co-ordinated enough.

Catherine looks at her son and chuckles. “You’re lucky, he’s in a good mood right now!”

I reach into my purse and hand her the brown envelope in which I’d gathered a few photographs of the bakery. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees the woman standing behind the register.

“Yes! This is my great grandmother, Mairéad! I can’t believe these exist...” Catherine lays the pictures on the table one after the other. “Can I take a picture of them?” She asks.

“Of course! Actually, let me get them copied for you,” I offer.

“Oh, that would be lovely.”

******

Fionn and I walk down to the pier in silence. Our meeting with Catherine had given us no other lead, other than John, her cousin in Kerry, to whom she had promised to reach out to the hope that he had any information or archives on the bakery.

I point towards the coffee shop out on the pier.

“Comfort pit-stop?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

Corkbeg Cafe has one of the most scenic decks I’ve ever seen. A large crow lands on the fence just as I spot the ‘beware of crows’ sign. Instinctively, I slide my carrot cake closer to me.

“I guess it couldn’t have been that easy,” I say

“Not all hope is lost,” Fionn chimes in, “we’ll see what she can get from her cousin.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “You really think there could be something there?”

He looks down at his mug, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “I don’t know.”

I blow out a breath and look up to the estuary. A large cruise ship is making its way towards Cobh.

Fionn leans over the table, catching my attention. “Are you okay Claire?” He asks, knitting his brows.

“Don’t I look okay?”

“You haven’t even tasted your carrot cake.”

I peer at the pastry, untouched, before looking up at Fionn patiently waiting. I sigh. 

“I’m wasting so much time. This biography is not going to write itself. There is no way we’ll find this recipe, and I just... Fionn, I don’t know anything about Irish baking, how am I supposed to come up with anything Mrs Kelly hasn’t already thought about?

“Claire. She wanted you for the job. I think that’s for a good reason. We’re not completely out of leads, research takes time, so many dead ends before finding what we’re looking for.”

“That’s the problem, we don’t have time! We have a couple of weeks and then...” My shoulders slump.

“Listen, let me take on the Irish baking research. I’ll send everything I find. Focus on whatever Margaret gives you for the biography. Anything. I know she’s reluctant about sharing her family history, but maybe you can change her mind down the road.”

“Fionn, you don’t have to... You still have your research and...”

“I want to help,” he insists, “If you’ll let me, I want to help you.”