“Perfection (5, 8, 6),” the clue we’d found in Noni’s precious sewing kit in the top drawer of the antique desk she kept her sewing machine on said.
I had to admit, I was a bit flummoxed. As long as I’d known her, Noni had championed imperfection and had made a dedicated effort to avoid perfection in everything she did. I remember her laughingly telling me that often that required almost no effort at all on her part. She used to defend any particularly shoddy results hilariously. Even though she wasn't sure she even believed in God, when a project turned out exceptionally badly she’d say God was the only one who created perfect things and that as a mark of respect humans shouldn't try to do the same. “Nobody argues with God,” she used to giggle. Other times she’d loosely paraphrase Aristotle, saying whatever she’d created had "attained its purpose" and was therefore perfect even though it didn't look it.
“I think I might know,” a strangely nervous-sounding Gina said quietly from the corner of the room. No longer brash, Noni’s sister seemed a little lost in a world of long-buried memories.
I had to admit, I was a bit flummoxed. As long as I’d known her, Noni had championed imperfection and had made a dedicated effort to avoid perfection in everything she did. I remember her laughingly telling me that often that required almost no effort at all on her part. She used to defend any particularly shoddy results hilariously. Even though she wasn't sure she even believed in God, when a project turned out exceptionally badly she’d say God was the only one who created perfect things and that as a mark of respect humans shouldn't try to do the same. “Nobody argues with God,” she used to giggle. Other times she’d loosely paraphrase Aristotle, saying whatever she’d created had "attained its purpose" and was therefore perfect even though it didn't look it.
“I think I might know,” a strangely nervous-sounding Gina said quietly from the corner of the room. No longer brash, Noni’s sister seemed a little lost in a world of long-buried memories.
“Go on,” I encouraged. “I'm stumped, so any suggestions are welcome.”
“When we were girls, we both learned the basics of cooking and baking from our own mother,” Gina began, still looking off into the middle distance, like she was trying to focus on something just out of reach. “Noni was brilliant with the savoury recipes. She used to make the best quiche. And the brown bread she used to make to go with it, oh, it was bread the rest of us could only dream of making.
“I took more to the sweet stuff,” she continued. “You probably could have guessed that from looking at my figure though. I think I went up about two dress sizes once I discovered my love for baking, and I've kept them and added a few more since.
“Anyway, from when Noni was about 13 and I was about 11, we had this tradition. Any time there was a birthday in the house, Noni would make a special quiche for tea and I would make a Victoria sponge birthday cake for after. I can still hear her. ‘Gina, your Victoria sponge is perfection itself,’ she used to always say.
“I can’t believe I even remembered that,” Gina said, coming out of her world of memories somewhat. “It’s been so long since I even thought of when we were young, and I haven’t made a Victoria sponge or any other kind of cake in years.”
“'Gina’s Victoria Sponge' fits,” Birdie said, “and I’d bet my bingo book on you being right.”
“Just tell me if it’s a waste of time, but I’d like to try my hand at making a sponge right now,” Gina said, looking around the group for approval. “It really doesn't take long, and if you like I could tell you what Noni was like growing up while I'm doing it.”
“More Noni stories and cake besides,” Faye cackled. “I think the way forward is clear.”
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