Spice. Robert A. Webster

Cake.

      Dave Smith and Dave Jennings were the two bakers Cake employed. To avoid confusion, Cake called Dave Smith ‘Big Dave’ for being tall, while Dave Jennings was ‘Small Dave,’ because he was short, and Sarah, Tracy, and Jackie were the serving ladies.

      The contents of the display cabinets had been set out with each product symmetrically laid out.

      One section of the temperature-controlled display case contained loaves of bread, sandwiches, and rolls, such as Roquefort and almond sourdough, shepherds loaf, gourmet sandwiches, parmesan and oregano submarine bread rolls with vegetarian fillings. Another section contained pastries, including Latin puff pastry and other shortcrust and flaky delicacies. The final section of the refrigerated glass case contained cakes and desserts such as crème de la crème, which would be the envy of every fine dining establishment in the world, let alone a street bakery in Lincoln. Cake and his small team created delicacies, such as white chocolate and amaretto truffle, strawberry Arnaud, and macaroons haute couture. The pièce de résistance for the opening was Cake’s interpretation of the Louis Vuitton patchwork cake.

      The Daves’ heads had not stopped spinning since they started working with Cake. He truly was a master, although they found him a little eccentric. Every time he completed a dish, he would smell it several times, frown, and announce that there was still something lacking. They couldn’t understand why, because everything Cake created tasted delicious and looked spectacular.

      The bakery had new equipment, stainless steel baking ovens, dough mixers, dividers, and other speciality equipment. It gleamed with stainless steel sheeting on the walls, sinks, and sections of the floor, with air-conditioners and other temperature control machinery in storage compartments for specific products. An ultra-modern 21st-century bakery resembled a 19th-century French pâtisserie.

      -Chapter Three-

Safe Haven

      Ravuth shielded his eyes against the bright beam shining in his face. The man wielding the torch spoke, but Ravuth couldn’t understand him. The man lowered the torch and Ravuth could make out a large silhouetted figure as two soldiers rushed over and shone their torches at him.

      A soldier spoke to Ravuth in Khmer, “Who are you and where did you come from?”

      Ravuth replied with a quake in his voice, “My name is Ravuth. I am looking for my family and I came from the jungle.”

      The man in the background spoke to the soldiers, who ordered Ravuth to go with them. Terrified, he did as instructed and they went into a well-lit tent where a soldier told Ravuth to sit.

      He could now see the man who was a large, rotund foreigner with a grey beard. He wore a black smock with a white circular collar and a smiling old face that put Ravuth at ease.

      The man said something to a soldier and left the tent. The Thai soldier told Ravuth that he was in a refugee camp near Chantaburi, Thailand, that housed Cambodians fleeing from the southern province Khmer Rouge. He told him that the man who just left the tent was Father Donal Eggleton, an English priest who ran the camp.

      Donal returned to the tent with a hot bowl of noodles. He laid it on a table, motioning for Ravuth to eat.

      Ravuth ate, while the soldiers and priest spoke amongst themselves.

      When they had finished, the Khmer-speaking Thai soldier told him, “You are safe and can stay here.” Then the soldier noticed something.

      “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to the banana leaf box tucked into Ravuth’s shirt.

      Ravuth took out the box, removed the photographs, and handed them to the soldier.

      “These are of my family,” he said.

      The Thai soldier looked at the photographs and showed them to the priest who looked and then handed them back to Ravuth. He then said something to the soldier who told Ravuth,

      “Keep them safe. We don’t get many people coming through now. This camp is only a transit stop. It is the first port of call and from here we move the Cambodian people to permanent camps in Thailand or send them abroad if eligible.” He looked at the bedraggled youngster, smiled and said, “Good luck finding your family Ravuth.”

      The priest again said something to the soldier who translated, “We will take you somewhere to sleep and come see you in the morning.”

      They took Ravuth to a small bivouac and then left. Feeling confused, but safe, Ravuth lay on a thin grass mat under a low canvas roof canopy. He held onto his box, which he placed on his stomach and fell asleep.

      The next morning Ravuth awoke at daybreak and wandered around the camp. The Cambodian refugees were starting their day, and pots of rice and water bubbled away on open fires. Ravuth gazed at his country-folk, who, although happy to be safe, had a look on their faces, which Ravuth could only later describe as fear and despair.

      A family invited Ravuth to join them and share their food. They told him how they and others had escaped the Khmer Rouge when they overthrew Phnom Penh. The father told Ravuth of their horrific journey to the Thai border, both in their motorcar, and then on foot. Ravuth could see the fear in the parents and the trembling children’s eyes as they told him of the atrocities they had witnessed, their narrow escape, and the chilling accounts of what had happened to the others in their party who never made it to the camp. He listened and after hearing similar stories from the other refugees, Ravuth felt trepidation for the safety of his family and cried himself to sleep every night for the first few months.

      Ravuth spent the next few years at the transit camp. He learned that the Church of England still had several missionaries and clerics in Cambodia who they now believed slaughtered after setting up the camps there. With only a few Cambodians who had escaped the Khmer Rouge coming in, word permeated through the camp of the genocide and atrocities committed in Cambodia.

      After showing his photographs to the Cambodians who came through, and with no one recognising his family, he became disheartened, fearing that he would never see them again.

      Ravuth settled into a lonely unrewarding life. Father Eggleton and the occasional visiting missionary taught him English, while the Thai soldiers taught him Thai. He could now speak three languages, although he could only read and write in Thai and English. Ravuth made himself useful in the camp, both as a cook and a translator; an invaluable asset with the new refugees brought in. He put the terrified individuals at ease, by cooking them Cambodian food, although he noticed the later arrivals looked so malnourished they only sipped water and most died soon after arriving. Father Eggleton and Ravuth grew close. Donal had spent his life with the clergy and never married or had children, so he cared for him like a son. Ravuth never knew his date of birth, as birthdays were not something rural Cambodians knew or celebrated. Father Eggleton knew this could pose problems for Ravuth. With birth certificates made in Thailand for Cambodian refugees’ repatriation, the priest applied for a passport, giving Ravuth the same day and month as him, guessing him to be around his late teens. Several weeks later, Donal handed Ravuth a small brown-paper-wrapped package, smiled, and said, “Happy eighteenth birthday, Ravuth.”

      Ravuth eyes widened as he opened the present and flicked through the small bible, which he later put in his treasure box.

      The year was 1978. Now in his late 50s, Father Eggleton’s health deteriorated because of the damp climate, poor hygiene, and diet, along with the tropical diseases exposed to over the years in the dirty camp. The English church council decided that Donal had done enough in his lifetime to help the underprivileged and needy. It was now time to replace him for a younger priest. They wanted him back in England to spend his remaining years at a quiet country parish. Donal agreed but insisted on one stipulation.

      The young Cambodian had never seen nor heard of an aeroplane before, let alone been on one. Ravuth sat on board a DC-10 Thai International aircraft, bound for Heathrow Airport, London. He squeezed father Eggleton’s hand as the plane went airborne, but once they flew above the clouds, Ravuth felt excited but nervous. He stared out of the plane’s window, overawed by this strange new world on his way to a new life.

      Ravuth drank a Coca-Cola and enjoyed the fizzy sensation and the taste of the first cold drink he had ever had.

      The