Chapter 2

Every morning for the first week, I presented myself to Sister Martha and she gave me my daily instructions. In all that week, she never smiled, and was stern in a quiet way. Occasionally I saw some of the other sisters drifting about, but most of them paid me little attention. The older one, Sister Gloria, who had admitted me on the first day, was the only one who spoke. She would also appear every now and again with a very welcome mug of tea, or even glass of chilled water. But mainly I was left to my own devices.

But on the Tuesday of the second week, things changed.

On that morning, as I presented myself in Sister Martha’s office, the Precentor had a harassed expression on her face. She spent some moments consulting her computer and the clipboard on the wall, and then seemed to come to a conclusion.

‘There will be a change of plan today,’ she announced. ‘Several sisters have been struck down with a virus and are unable to undertake their normal duties.’ She sighed, tapping a pen on the desk.

‘Unfortunately, they both work in the bakery. Which means that Sister Agatha is having to try and cope on her own.’ She gazed at me for a moment, her lips twitching as though holding back mirth. ‘Have you ever done any baking?’

I blew air between my lips. ‘Whew. No.’

The trace of the smile was repeated.

‘Well, no mind. It’s not that difficult and Sister Agatha will show you what to do. She will be grateful for any help.’

Sister Martha rose and I followed her through the building. This time, I couldn’t help noticing the slight swing of her hips as she walked. I realised the Precentor actually had a rather voluptuous figure.

We left the main building, crossed a courtyard and entered another building which stood to one side. As we walked down a long corridor, I began to notice a rise in the temperature, and there was a very tempting smell of fresh bread. The Precentor opened a door at the end of a corridor and ushered me through. As the heat hit me, she called over my shoulder: ‘Sister Agatha, Mr Sinclair has agreed to offer you some help. I’m not sure how helpful it will be but I hope you can make good use of it.’

With that she closed the door and I turned to look round. I was in a large white-washed room. To one side were tall windows which gave a view of the tops of adjoining woodland. On the opposite side, were a series of large ovens and metal cupboards, the metalwork grey or blacked with age. They positively shimmered with heat which radiated out into the room, making sweat break out instantly on my face ... Large stripped-pine tables were positioned down the centre of the room, covered in flour and dough, while at the back of the room, were several doors and wooden shelves. Below the windows two large commercial food mixers were at work, spinning dough in huge metal bowls.

Sister Agatha appeared suddenly from one of the doorways at the end of the room, and I was taken aback. Having seen several of the sisters around the priory, I had imagined her to be another grey-clad elderly figure. But in fact, the woman who approached me was very different. Young and slim, she wore a loose-fitting muslin top and a matching skirt which fluttered about her a she moved. The garments were dusted with flour and little splatters of what I took to be dough. A cotton cap covered her hair but long strands of wispy blonde hair had escaped from it, and was now sticking to her forehead and cheeks, also marked with smears of flour.

‘So,’ she gave me a bright smile. ‘You’re the new hired-hand?’

I grinned back at her, conscious of her eyes looking me up and down.

‘Good. I need some help. Even yours,’ she laughed. ‘But we’ll have to do something about the clothing.’

A slender, floury hand gesticulated towards me. I looked down at the jogging pants.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked, perplexed.

Sister Agatha gave a little laugh.

‘Two things. Firstly hygiene. We wear clean clothing every day when preparing food.’

He nodded, not wanting to admit that the pants were several days old.

‘Secondly,’ she continued. ‘You’re going to get too hot in those.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Come here,’ she beckoned, and led the way to one of the doorways at the end of the bakery. ‘We have some spare clothing.’ Opening a cupboard she pulled out some cotton trousers and a smock similar to her own. ‘Try these.’

I waited until she had slipped from the small room, then stripped to my boxers. But when I turned round, she was standing leaning against the door jamb, watching me. She smiled but said nothing, ... but I couldn’t help thinking her cheeks looked a little more flushed than before.

Back in the main room, she began unloading loaf tins from one of the shelves. I sprang to help her lining them up on the tables in the centre of the room.

‘This is a lot of loaves,’ I commented. ‘I haven’t seen that many sisters about the place.’

Sister Agatha laughed. ‘No. We supply bread to several of the artisan bakeries in places like Thetford. Every couple of days we have to do a larger bake to supply them. Today it’s loaves and rolls.’

‘Not loaves and fishes, then?’ I ventured.

She gave a little giggle. ‘Not today’.

Minutes later, one of the large mixers have a beep and ground to a halt. She pulled up the mixing arm and tipped the bowl forward. Then grabbing a handful of flour, she scattered it on the centre table and doused her hands and wrists.

‘Like this, see?’

She pulled a hank of dough from the bowl and laid it carefully in one of the tins. I followed her actions and when we had filled most of them, began transferring them into the metal cupboards.

‘Warming bins,’ she explained. ‘Makes the dough rise before baking.’ I nodded, picking up quickly.

As we continued working the heat rose and I was soon sweating. I couldn’t help noticing that Sister Agatha’s smock was beginning to cling to her body. The shape of her breasts soon became quite noticeable. They were relatively small, but the way they moved revealed that she had abandoned a bra.

After an hour or more we loaded the loaf tins into the ovens, paused for a drink of water from the sink, and then pulled dough from the second mixer. This time, the plan was to make rolls.

‘Ever done this before?’ she smiled, raising an eyebrow. More of her hair had slipped from her cap, now forming a fringe over one eye. ‘No? Ok, this is how we do it.’

She pulled two small handfuls of dough from a heap now on the table and slapped them onto the floury surface. Cupping her hands over each of them, she began to roll them in circles.

‘Allow the dough to roll under your palm, ... cup your fingers and don’t press too hard. The trick,’ she explained,’ is to keep your hands dry with flour. That way the dough won’t stick.’

Lifting her hands, she revealed two neat round balls of dough. Carefully she placed these onto a baking sheet.

I mimicked her actions while she watched approvingly, and soon we were rolling out dozens of rolls, both white and wholemeal. We were standing close now, our elbows bumping occasionally, and at one point she playfully bumped me to one side with her hip.

At last, the loaves and trays were in the ovens. She set a timer and stood with her hands on her hips. The damp cotton was now clinging to her breasts, clearly revealing the little points of the nipples. Her skirt was clinging to her thighs, outlining her lower torso with surprisingly revealing detail.

She stood for some moments looking at the clock and then, turning towards the back of the bakery, she opened a door.