The Recipe for Happiness… Everyone in the block eagerly watched as the new tenants moved into the second-floor flat—a family led by the factory workshop manager, whose role was quite prestigious in their quaint English market town. “Why would they choose to live in this old Victorian place?” wondered pensioner Mrs. Nora Andrews aloud to her friends. “Surely with his connections, they could’ve bagged themselves a flat in those new builds.” “Don’t be so quick to judge, Mum,” her daughter Anna—thirty, still single and all bold lipstick—chimed in. “Who needs a new build when we have these grand Victorian ceilings, big separate rooms, a generous hallway, and the balcony’s as good as an extra room! Besides, they got their phone line connected straight away. In our block of nine, only three flats even have one.” “You only care because you want to chat on the phone all day,” her mum scolded. “The neighbours are sick of it. Don’t go badgering those people—they’re important and busy.” “Oh, they’re not so serious,” Anna replied, rolling her eyes. “They’re young—a nine-year-old daughter, Natasha. Practically my age, maybe five years older.” The new neighbours turned out to be charming and polite: Lydia worked at the local school library, while John had a decade’s experience at the button factory. Anna loved to keep everyone apprised of their business when she joined her mother and her friends in the courtyard. “And how do you know all this?” the women quizzed. “Well, they let me in to use the phone! Not like some people who’d rather I didn’t call my friends for half an hour about nothing,” Anna shot back, meaningfully. Anna soon became a regular visitor to the newcomers—sometimes turning up in new dresses, other days in cosy dressing gowns—all in pursuit of friendship with Lydia and John. One afternoon, she noticed John decisively closing the lounge door when she arrived to use the phone—a gesture that became a habit. After her calls, Anna would peek into the kitchen to thank Lydia, who would reply only with a polite nod and ask her to close the front door. “Can’t—I’m elbow-deep in flour,” Lydia would say, displaying her hands. “Our lock’s French; it snaps shut itself.” “Oh, are you baking again—more pastries? I wish I could do that,” Anna would sigh. “Yes, cheese danishes for breakfast. No time to bake in the morning, so I do it now…” Lydia smiled, turning back to her dough. Anna would grimace and leave, frustrated she hadn’t been invited to linger. One evening, John mentioned, “Lydia, I know you don’t want to seem rude, but she monopolises our phone every evening—my mates can’t get through. This can’t go on.” Lydia agreed, “She comes in as if our home’s a waiting room!” Soon Anna, dolled up once again, plonked herself on their hallway stool for another long call to a friend. “Anna, will you be long? We’re waiting for a call,” Lydia asked after ten minutes. Anna nodded, hung up, and produced a chocolate bar: “Brought a treat—let’s have tea, get to know each other.” She headed to the kitchen, setting the chocolate down invitingly. “No, sorry—please, put that away. Natasha has an allergy. Chocolate is a strict no-go here. I’m afraid tea together won’t work. Don’t be offended, but in our family, chocolate is off the table.” “What? Off the table? I just wanted to say thanks…” Anna blushed in confusion. “No need for thanks, but please, only use the phone for emergencies—doctor, ambulance, fire crew—that’s different. Even in the middle of the night, we understand. But for anything else, please…” Lydia managed, “John needs business calls, and Natasha’s doing her homework. We try to keep things quiet.” Anna retrieved the chocolate and left, fuming—to her, Lydia was just jealous of her youth and looks. “She’s just envious I’m younger and prettier,” Anna told her mother. “I tried to be nice—brought my own chocolate—and she didn’t even offer me a cuppa!” “Silly girl,” Nora chided her, “Stop butting into other families. They don’t want you forever using their phone. Make friends elsewhere—better yet, find your own fella and your own phone!” Anna’s final push for friendship was to ask Lydia for her famous cheese danish recipe. “Could you write it down for me? I’d really like to learn,” Anna pleaded. “Why not ask your mum? Our mums know everything!” Lydia replied, surprised. “Anyway, I bake by instinct—never measured a thing. Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” Anna flushed and trudged back. She knew full well her mum had a battered old recipe notebook stuffed with secrets, most of them devoted to baking. But Anna didn’t want to bake herself, and her mum had stopped, struggling with her weight. But Anna retrieved the book, leafed through, and found what she needed—her mother was astonished. “You’re going to bake?” “Well, why not?” Anna replied, closing the book around the dog-eared page. “Is this about that boy, Simon?” her mother asked. “I thought you’d finished with him, like all the others.” “Not at all! He’ll be back.” Anna snapped. “Suit yourself, but you’d better get a move on if you want to settle down.” A few days later, the unmistakable aroma of baking filled the flat. “Is it possible? Baking—here!” her mother exclaimed. “You must be in love!” “Shh—not so loud!” Anna laughed. “Ready for a taste test? They’re cheese danishes—classic ones.” The kettle boiled, cups were out, and on a plate glowed golden danishes, like tiny suns. “You’ve still got it!” her mother exclaimed. “Not bad at all.” “Don’t just humour me—try one,” Anna insisted. “Tastes just right!” her mother confirmed. Anna remembered her father’s words: “Edible—that’s the highest praise.” “I’ll invite Simon over for tea. What do you think, will he like them?” Anna grinned. “He’ll love them! I won your dad’s heart with these very danishes,” her mother replied. As Simon became a regular for tea and laughter echoed from the kitchen, Anna’s mother grew used to her daughter spending more time at the stove—with Simon, no less. The news they planned to marry brought tears to Nora’s eyes. Anna slimmed down in anticipation of her wedding, Simon teasing, “Don’t forget to bake danishes for the wedding feast!” The big day was celebrated simply, with Anna, her mother, and her aunt preparing treats for just twenty family guests. The couple set up home in a grand room of their Victorian flat, and with time, every neighbour enjoyed the luxury of their own telephone. Anna made quick calls now—no more lingering. “Oh, Rita, can’t chat—my dough has risen and Simon will be home soon. Talk later!” She hurried to the kitchen to check on her pillow-soft dough—Anna was expecting a baby, on the cusp of maternity leave, but still couldn’t resist baking up treats for her husband, and herself. Homemade cheese danishes—such delicious happiness! And Simon simply adored her for it, for her baking, her kindness, and her warmth.

The Recipe for Happiness…

The entire block watched as new tenants moved into the flat on the second floor. They were the family of the factory foremanquite the personage in their small English market town.

Why would they want to live in one of these old terraces? mused Mrs Edna Foster, the retired busybody, to her friends. With his connections, surely they couldve nabbed a place in that swanky new development by the park.

Oh Mum, dont be so quick to judge! her daughter, thirty-year-old, unapologetically single Jane, chipped in, eyeshadow as bold as her opinions. Why would anyone want a new build when you can have a classic Victorianhigh ceilings, huge rooms, a real hallway, and that balconys practically another room. Plus, theyve got a phone line straight away! Only three phones in our whole block of nine flats, dont forget.

Some people use those phones for actual emergencies, you know, Edna chastised her daughter. Our neighbours have had just about enough of your endless chinwags. Dont you dare start popping round to these new folksthey seem the serious, busy sort.

Oh, not that serious, Mum! Theyre quite young. They have a daughterEmilyshes only nine! Jane pouted, Theyre nearly my agewell, maybe a few years older.

Turns out, the newcomers were rather pleasant: Linda worked at the local school library, and John had racked up a decade at the factory.

Jane, as always, reported all this to the ladies whenever she joined her mum in the communal courtyard for evening banter.

How do you know all this already, Jane? the neighbours quizzed her. Honestly, youd make a fine detective.

I pop round to use their phone! Jane boasted, with a pointed glance at those whod pretended not to be home when she came calling. At least some people dont mind!

So Jane made her rounds, dialing friends and colleagues from John and Lindas flat, plonking herself down in everything from her Sunday best to a comfy housecoat, clearly angling for a deeper friendship.

One day, Jane clocked John pointedly shutting the lounge door the moment she started a call. It soon became routine. Still, Jane grinned at Linda in the kitchen afterwards, always thanking her, while Linda merely nodded and asked her to pull the door closedgently, as the French lock clicks itself.

Oh, what are you making this time? More pastries? Honestly, youre always baking! Jane exclaimed. I cant bake to save my life.

Linda replied, Cheese scones for breakfast. But mornings are too rushed, so I do them ahead. Then shed turn her back to knead the dough with an expert flick.

Jane wrinkled her nose, sensing shed outstayed her welcome, and marched off feeling wronged.

Linda, love, John said over his cup of tea that evening, I know you find it hard to say no, but our phones tied up all evening now. My mates have stopped calling altogether.

I know, sighed Linda. Shes coming and going like its her own sitting room! Not sure how we stop it.

That very night, dolled up as ever, Jane once again perched on the entryway pouffe and started yet another marathon call.

Jane, are you nearly finished? Linda gently prodded after ten minutes. Were expecting an important call.

Nodding, Jane hung up, but immediately pulled out a chocolate bar. I brought something sweet! Proper English mannerslets have tea together, my treat!

She waltzed into the kitchen and set the chocolate on the table.

Oh, no, please put that away. Emily cant have sweetsshes allergic, poor duck. Chocolates a big no-no for usabsolute taboo, sorry. No tea today.

Taboo? Oh. Well, I only meant to thank you, thats all, Jane said, cheeks ablaze.

No thanks needed, Linda replied, hardly looking at her, but pleaseonly use the phone in an emergency. Doctor, ambulance, fire brigadefairs fair, any time, day or night. But as for the chit-chats not so much, Im afraid. John needs work calls. Emilys revising, and we try to keep it quiet.

Jane snatched up her chocolate and left in a huff, convinced Linda was simply jealous.

She knows Im younger and prettier, thats all, she huffed to her mother that night. I tried to be friendlybrought her a chocolate, no less! But couldnt even get her to pour a cuppa

Youre daft and headstrong, thats your trouble, Edna shot back. I blame myself, really. You cant insert yourself into other peoples families. They dont need your calls. Their flats not Piccadilly Circus. Youve been shown the door, and rightly so. Instead of sulking, find yourself a nice chap, get your own line, and let people ring you instead!

Janes last-ditch friendship attempt with Linda involved showing up, notebook in hand, on a mission to get that cheese scone recipe.

Id love your recipe! I ought to learn how to make something besides toast she chirped.

Linda blinked. Why not ask your mum? Parents know more than we give them credit for. Anyway, I never measurejust go by feel, so I cant help you. Sorry, I really must dash. Mum will know best!

Jane blushed, trudged home, and none too enthusiastically rifled through her mums battered old recipes notebookthe kind every English kitchen has stashed somewherepages packed with tiny looping handwriting, some smudged with years of gravy and cake batter. In there was everything from cottage pie to trifle, and (yes!) a cheese scone recipe, much to Ednas astonishment.

Youre baking something? Whats brought this on? Edna squinted.

Whats so strange about that? Jane replied, folding the page carefully.

You and that chap of yours, Scotthas something sparked up again? asked Edna slyly. Didnt think youd survived your last bust-up.

Maybe, maybe not! If I fancy it, hell come running, Jane retorted.

Well, I hope you give it a try. About time you tied the knot. Need a hand? Edna offered.

No, Im just mentally preparing, Jane replied tartly.

But a few days later, Edna returned from her evening constitutional to the unmistakable smell of fresh baking.

Good grief! Is that baking? Am I in the right house? she gasped.

Lower your voice, Mum, Jane grinned, Just try one! Not piescheese scones. Real ones.

Kettle boiled, cups were lined up on the spotless counter, the scones golden as a summer afternoon.

You really do have a knack, love, Edna said, sampling one. I thought youd forgotten everything I taught you, but you pulled it off. Well done, you.

Dont butter me uphonest opinion, now! Are they any good, or just edible?

Edna took another bite. Taste for yourselfmore than edible! Proper job! Echoing Janes late father, even.

Right. Ill invite Scott round for tea and scones. Think hell like them?

Hell be over the moon. I remember your dad couldnt get enough of themwon his heart, I did! Edna chuckled. Bake, invite, and meanwhile, Ill be off to watch telly next door. About time you learned that loves not just about hairdos and fancy frocks.

Soon, Scott was popping by for scones and tea, and Janes mum grew used to the laughter wafting from the kitchen. Arguments dwindled, and the kitchen saw more action than ever.

When Jane told Edna that she and Scott had finally registered at the registry office, Edna actually teared upat last!

Jane slimmed down, busy preparing for the big day; Scott kept hinting about cheese scones at the wedding breakfast.

The home wedding was a modest affairJane, Edna, and Aunt Lucy cooked for two days, though there were only about twenty relatives expected.

The young couple made their home in the large bedroom of Ednas three-room flat. A year later, the council finally sprang for phone lines for every flat in the block. Jane was overjoyed, at first ringing everyonebut these days, her calls were short and sweet.

Listen Rita, I have to dash! The doughs rising and Scotts due home! shed say before hanging up, apron already tied and beater in hand. Her scones rose like little clouds, and she was counting down the days to maternity leave, but still kept bakingwhether for Scott or, honestly, just for the sheer joy of fresh scones and a bit of peace.

After all, a good cheese scone and a loving home: what more could anyone want?