The Scent of Cinnamon
He switched off the oven, and immediately regretted it; the silence in the kitchen pressed in suddenly, heavy and exacting. Moments before, the low hum of the extractor fan and the quiet rise of dough had filled the air, as though the bread were breathing in his stead. He loitered awhile, not daring to open the oven door just yet. Inside, behind smudged glass, two small loaf tins waited, their crusts already browning at the edges. He checked his oven gloves, pulled one on, then the other, as if preparing not to take out a cake but to weld steel.
In retirement, hed promised himself not to “let himself go.” That was a phrase from his old work at the factory, where everything was precision and tolerances. If something went awry, it meant you hadnt tightened things properly. Here at home, though, it was time that slipped loose, drifting out of shape. He tried to keep it fixed with routine: a walk to the corner shop in the morning, sorting out tools in the afternoon, the television in the evening. But neither the telly nor his toolbox would hold things together anymore.
One day, hed watched a video online of a man his age baking bread in a simple oven, nothing fancy, no gadgets. Something had clicked. There, at least, was order and methodmeasures and correctionsan error made and fixed.
His first attempt was more home repair than baking: flour scattered on the worktop, water measured, yeast like tiny shavings. Hed followed the instructions, butas he discoveredinstructions insisted on being understood, not just read. The dough turned out obstinate, sticky, refusing to yield. He, not used to things he couldnt command by hand, grew annoyed. Then, while rinsing stubborn dough from his fingers, he found himself laughing abruptly. The laugh came out short, like a cough. So this is retirement, he thought, and the next day he tried again.
By the third try, the kitchen had a rhythm. He stood the bowl on a stool, so he wouldnt strain his back. The timer on his mobile was set, the volume down low, so as not to jar the nerves. He decanted the flour into an old rice tin and labelled it, though the contents were obvious. In the evenings, as his cakes or buns cooled on a rack, hed crack open the window, letting the warm sugared scent drift out into the flats.
Their block was the same as any other: the ancient lift that considered its options before moving, a mat by every door, and on the wall, a faded notice about a residents meeting no one attended. Neighbours were much alike, toosome gave you a silent nod, others muttered hello as if it were a secret code. He was silent-nod type himself, known merely as the bloke from three, punctual with the bins, never fussing with the entryphone.
On the fourth day, as he took a bag of rubbish to the chute, his neighbour from directly opposite stood on the landing, using her foot to keep her door open while coaxing her daughter into a coat. The girl whirled restlessly about, like a toy top.
“You…,” the neighbour started, hesitating between emergency and celebration. “Is it you who’s baking?”
He meant to just say yes but only managed, Mm. Quickly after, so as not to seem unfriendly, he added, Just trying my luck.
It smells wonderful, she smiled. Honestly, I thought someone had opened a new café downstairs.
Café made his humble kitchen and his silence seem absurdly grand. He nodded and retreated, but all evening, he marvelled that scents could speak for him.
The next day, he baked more. Not out of any urge to share; it was simply that the recipe called for two loaves, and he disliked dividing the batch. Two cinnamon cakes emerged. He cut one, tasted it. It was fine, even goodbut finishing an entire cake alone felt like watching the same film twice in a row. He wrapped the second in parchment, found a clean carrier bag, and before he could reconsider, stepped out onto the landing.
He knocked at the flat opposite. The woman answered almost right away, as if waiting for him.
“This is…” he held out the bag, proof of purpose, “So it doesn’t go to waste.”
She glanced from the bag to him. Oh! Thanks. Whats your?
He realised he would have to give his name, not just remain the bloke from three.
“Edward Parker,” he said, quick and shy.
“Im Alice,” she replied, as though theyd known each other for years. Edward, youre a lifesaver. Weve got lessons and clubs todayI cant keep up. Grace, say thank you.
Grace mumbled her thanks, then blurted, Are you going to do some more?
Edward froze. The question was innocent, yet implied future commitments.
Well see, he managed, ears suddenly burning.
Two days later, a note appeared under his door. Torn lined paper, likely from a schoolbook. “Edward Parker, if youve any spare, wed love some. Alice, flat 34.” He picked it up, pressed it to the fridge with a magnet from Blackpool Piersomeone, once, had brought it back from holiday. Now it held a request.
The notes kept appearing. One, unsigned: “Could we have some with sultanas?” Another: “For Saturday, if possible.” A third, with a heart drawn beside from flat 28. He looked at them, feeling how his quietly solitary pastime grew into a neighbourhood event.
He began to get stopped in the lift.
Edward, whats your secret? a lad from the top floor asked, removing his headphones, a sign of genuine interest.
Just flour, Edward answered, instantly realising he’d missed the point.
The lad laughed. No, I meant the yeast! Do you use dried or…?
Dried, Edward replied, Im no expert.
Couldve fooled me. Yours beats anything from the bakery, anyway.
Edward stepped out on his floor and paused, keys unmoving in his hand. Better than the bakeryit was flattering and dangerous both. At shops, folks paid for better. Here, the price was smiles and unspoken expectations.
Those expectations soon became real. Hed trudge home from Sainsburys, the bag full of flour seeming heavier for all that it signifiedbeing waited on. He began buying flour in bulk, then yeast, then cinnamon. Cinnamon was everything; with it, even a Tuesday smelled like Christmas. He found little plastic tubs at Poundland for distributing the bakesless scruffy than plastic bags. They took over the shelf where his jam jars of screws used to stand.
It was a funny thing: a man of few words, learning instead to ration his baking. For if you baked and doled out treats, the expectation would always follow. If you didnt, youd get looks as if youd cancelled Christmas.
One Saturday, the bell rang just as Edward was kneading dough, hands covered in flour. He wiped them on his aprona tartan one hed found at Wilko, which, in secret, he quite likedand answered the door.
A woman from the next block stood therea person he only ever saw at annual meetings. She clutched an empty plastic box.
Hello, are you Edward Parker? she asked, in the manner of someone seeking a doctor.
Yes, thats right.
Word has it you bake. Its my mothers seventieth tomorrow, and wed hoped for somethingproperly homemade. Could you make something? Of course, wed pay.
The mention of money struck Edward strangely. Not as an insult, but as if to fix him in his place: a job, a fee, a transaction. She held out the box, clean and expectant.
Im afraid not, Edward replied, surprised by his own promptness.
Why? the woman pressed. Cant be that much trouble, surely?
He felt the old familiar prick of irritation, the kind from endless queries at work. There, why cant you? always required a list. Here, such a list might sound like excuses.
I dont take orders,” he said gently but firmly. “I do it for myself. If I have any spare, Ill share it. Thats all.
She stood, waiting for more, then briskly tucked away her container.
Alright, fine. She left.
Edward closed the door and leaned against it. His heart beat loudly, as if hed just hurried up the stairs. Returning to his dough, his hands were trembling. But hed said ‘no.’ The sky didnt fall. Only, the flat was a touch quieter.
Next day, he bumped into Alice by the lift. She was juggling a bin bag and rummaging for keys.
Edward, youre not upset, are you? she blurted. Theyre saying you turned someone down, and now everyones scared to ask.
Nothing for them to worry about, Edward said. Just Im not a bakery.
Alice laughed. We get it. Youre justdifferent. Round here its all shouting, or silence. But you… you bake.
He thought of saying he, too, preferred silence, but instead asked, Hows Grace? Settle in at school?
The question surprised Alice, as if hed spotted she had a life beyond thank you notes.
Shes alright. Struggles a bit with reading, to be honest, not so keen, but maths she likes. Im about out of ideas…
I could lend her Edward hesitated. He offered help with actions, not words. Ive an old maths workbook. From my days at the technical college. Would that help?
She regarded him with quiet appreciation.
Really? Thatd be wonderful. Are you sure?
No trouble, really, but he heard how risky those words sounded, so he corrected himself. No bother.
That evening, he rooted around and found the battered old workbook, wiped it over, tucked it in a carrier, labelled For Grace.” He secured the note with a paperclipone found in the same messy drawer as the bills.
Come Monday, he handed it to Alice. She took it with care, as though it were breakable.
Thank you, Edward. I never realised you were like this.
Like thiswhat, he wondered, did that mean? He was only doing what he could.
Later, he reviewed the notes stuck to the fridge, keeping only half, the rest filed away with old paperwork. Requests deserved a place: after all, they were a kind of recordwithout an official stamp. On the fridge, he left a single new sheet, bold-printed in neat block: I bake on Wednesdays and Sundays. If I have extra, Ill leave it on the board by the lift.
That noticeboard was home to ads for lost cats and leaking taps. He stuck his card with a blue tack pina leftover from fixing cupboard doors. Now it marked out his own boundary.
On Wednesday, he baked cinnamon buns. Not too many, not too fewjust a panful, enough to keep the kitchen from becoming a factory. He cooled them, packed into containers, labelled ‘2 each’ and took them out to the hallway. He tacked another note to the liftBuns, flat 36, please take by 9pm.
He didnt loiter to spy on who came for them. He washed his bowl, wiped the surfaces, tipped the spent flour into the bin. On the hob sat a saucepan, warm from heating milk. After switching off the kitchen light, he settled in his armchair, book open, but found he couldnt read; he just listened.
A door slammed below, the lift whined upward, someone shuffled along the corridor, plastic containers rustling. The lift shuddered again. He imagined neighbours lifting their share, glancing at the label, maybe even smiling. He realised he didnt need to see their faces to feel connected. Hed done what he set out to: shared, without giving himself away.
At nine sharp, there was a knock. Edward opened the door to find Grace, her schoolbag nearly larger than she was.
Mum says to give you this, she said, offering a small jarjewel-red jamhomemade, the lid tight.
Edward took it, feeling the gentle warmth from her hands.
Thanks, love.
Grace hovered on the threshold.
Um is it okay if I come on Sunday to do sums? Only Mum gets nervous with homework.
Edward eyed the jam, then the girl. Sunday was his baking dayyet, suddenly, that meant more than just baking.
Come by at two, he told her. Until four. After that, Ill be busy.
He spoke plainly, and the terms seemed clear enough for any child.
When shed gone, Edward shelved the jam next to the flour. The shelf held. He wandered to the lift landingno containers left, just a scrap of paper curled on the floor. He picked it up: Thank you. Delicious. Please dont go to any trouble. No signature.
Back in his flat, he pinned the note on the fridge beside his baking rota. Just then, he felt no need to add or take awayeverything, for now, was just as it should be.
