The Victoria Sandwich

Domestic Science: Part two section a)

Recipe for Victoria Sandwich:
4 oz butter or margarine
4 oz caster sugar
2 eggs
4 oz plain flour
Pinch of salt
1½ level teaspoons baking powder . . .

High marks shall be awarded for texture, appearance and economy of preparation . . .

VICTORIA flicked through the pages of the syllabus. She had to pick at least one cake recipe and a Victoria sandwich seemed appropriate from several points of view. It needed a minimum variety of ingredients, all of which were available locally or could be obtained from town; it would be cheap to prepare and quick and easy to cook. Most important, it should not stretch her very limited culinary skills. After all, although her volunteer sending agency had warned here of the need to be prepared to ‘muck in’ when necessary, her proficiency in English history and literature was not exactly the best grounding for all-round teaching.

She was quietly confident as she placed a marker in the book and went to relieve her colleague on break duty. There was just one obvious problem . . .
"No, the oven has not worked for some time," said Mr Conteh, peering through his thick-rimmed spectacles. "Why, I do not know. It worked when I took up my appointment three years ago. I remember being given some biscuits that were too hot to eat. But now . . . " he shrugged his shoulders.
"But I must have an oven to bake the cakes," said Victoria. "It’s a compulsory part of the syllabus with twenty per cent of the marks in the final exam. The girls shouldn’t be penalised because they lack the right equipment. There are ovens in that hardware shop in town near the market. WE must buy one."

"With what?" said the headmaster. "Ovens do not grow on trees. We have no money to buy books and desks, let alone expensive thing like ovens."
"Couldn’t we make one? People make ovens out of clay, don’t they?" said Victoria.
"You’re welcome to try. Start a pottery class, if you like."
The next time she was in town, Victoria investigated the local suppliers. She did find an oven that could have been suitable, but, irrespective of price, received no guarantee that it actually worked. Or rather, the trader assured her that it would make the most superb cakes but refused to guarantee any refund should it prove faulty.

Being of a generally positive frame of mind, Victoria always tried to keep any tone of frustration out of her letters home. After all, her parents had been sceptical enough over her decision to volunteer, without feeding into their assumptions about Africa and Africans. Yet, try as she might to inject a positive note, it was difficult to avoid mentioning the problems she was having with the syllabus.
‘It seems to unfair on the girls here. They’re all so keen to do well, but it will all come to nothing because of this stupid lack of equipment. We have to share four copies of As You Like It between thirty people and crowd them two or three to a desk. I’ll never complain again about shortages in Britain: I’m sure the number of old desks burned every month could supply the schools here more than adequately.

‘I can’t understand why Mr Conteh isn’t more supportive. He says he wants high pass rates in the exams to get funding for next year and yet he rarely gives the other teachers a word of praise. It’s a bit much when some are barely older than the children. And yet they’re all so kind to me . . . I’ve enough dinner invitations to last me until I go home.’
She omitted to mention that Mr Conteh had also said that he was relying on her to get the school good results, which seemed a heavy responsibility on one who, only four months previously, had been at school herself.

Her mother’s next letter was somewhat less than helpful: ‘What do these Africans spend their money on? I know we’ve only just given them their independence and they may be poor but they could surely help pay for an oven if they want their children to do well. Remember how the PTA raised £500 towards a swimming pool at your school? And what about all this corruption we h ear about with political leaders spending millions on palaces and Rolls Royces . . ? I was reading an article in the Telegraph only the other day . . .’

Victoria could not help smiling. Whether such spending was true in the capital she did not know, but the nearest thing to a luxury in the village was Mr Conteh’s Lambretta, on which, it had to be admitted, he did spend an inordinate amount of time in polishing.

"Letter for you," said one of her colleagues a fortnight later. It was in her mother’s writing, bearing several large and impressive stamps marking the 900th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings.
When she opened the envelope, Victoria had to blink several times before reading the letter twice:

‘We’ve been thinking about your problem. As you know, we’ve always been suspicious about giving money to poor countries; one never knows where it ends up. But with our own daughter to keep tabs on things out there in the field it does seem a much smaller risk . . .
‘So rather than send you the money, we’re sending an oven instead. We managed to pick up a very nice one at the local Missionary Mart. It runs off calor gas which you say is available and with Father’s connection he’s managed to persuade a shipping company to ship it out at a very nominal rate. Just call it our little contribution to fighting poverty. We’re sending it off tomorrow and it should reach you in about a month . . . "

Victoria stared at the neat handwriting. Her parents were renowned for their resourcefulness, but to go to the trouble of sending an over . . ? She would never have dared suggest it herself.
When she told the headmaster, he did not appear the least bit surprised. "Perhaps your parents could send out some other equipment? We badly need some new cupboards," he said, indicating a tottering pile of books in the corner. Victoria gave an awkward smile and said that she preferred to wait until the oven arrived safely.

Rather than waiting for confirmation from the docks, Victoria decided to write to the port authorities and give prior warning of the oven’s arrival. In fact, air mail letters seemed to be delivered far more promptly than the internal mail and another arrived from her parents only ten days after the one bearing the news. This time, Victoria pulled out a press cutting from the Epsom and Ewell Advertiser. On it was a picture of her beaming parents standing beside a small white oven.

Victoria scanned the caption with a growing sense of dread: ‘Mr and Mrs Denton, whose 18 year old daughter Victoria is a volunteer teacher in West Africa for a year, have decided to do something practical to help the poor. "Victoria’s school is short of almost everything," says Mrs Rosemary Denton, "and an oven will allow the children to complete their domestic science course. It’s only a little gesture but we know it will do a lot of good where it’s badly needed." ’
Victoria looked around to make sure none of her colleagues was about and hastily returned the cutting to its envelope. She then went to her room and hid it in her suitcase. This was one letter she did not share with her colleagues.

Three and a half weeks later, a telegram arrived. ‘Oven at city docks: please collect . . .’
Waving the note almost with an air of triumph, she approached the headmaster, who soon deflated her request.
"But I’m only asking for the costs of transport and a cylinder of gas," cried Victoria, trying to keep her voice down. "You saw how much an oven would cost in the market in town . . . "
"Yes, but did I ask your parents to send such a thing?" retorted Mr Conteh. "You arrange all this without asking permission and expect me to pay. I have a school to run and budget to keep."

"But we can’t leave it at the docks – they might send it back unless we pick it up right away."
"Oh, all right," grunted the headmaster, stubbing out his cigarette. "But get a small canister of gas. We must be economical."
Victoria could not help but feel a growing sense of elation as she took the bus into the city. She was almost glowing with smug self-satisfaction as she approached a clerk at the office of the shipping line and showed proof of identity.
"Ah yes, from England," said the man. He rummaged in a file and drew out a very creased delivery note. "One Baby Belling oven. Sign here."

As she filled in her signature with a flourish, he added: "That will be five hundred leones."
"What for?" gulped Victoria.
"Handling charge, storage charge, local taxes."
"Storage charge? You’ve only had it five days."
"You don’t pay, you don’t get."

Victoria spent the journey home staring out of the window of a van whose springs appeared to have given up any sort of function a good 50,000 miles previously. In the periods between being bumped against the offending packing case, she calculated that the next month would be characterised by a frugality even she had not budgeted for on her modest monthly stipend. So low were her finances that even a tin of raspberry jam would be beyond her.

Yet all gloom vanished once back at school. Connected up, the oven worked! Seeing it in its white splendour in a corner of the classroom, Victoria made no attempt to fight back the glow of pride. Knowing that any event drew crowds of young and old, she took her first steps into some baking that very evening when the school was closed. ‘Cream fat and sugar very thoroughly . . . ’ Victoria followed the recipe assiduously. A pleasant aroma reminiscent of home emanated from her forty-five minutes of baking. The two baking tins, rusty but functional, produced unequal halves. On tasting the scrapings, the texture seemed on the heavy side. Victoria put this down to lack of baking powder, but it was a fair effort for a first attempt. The other missing item was the jam, so she crushed some sugar and sprinkled it on the top.

At coffee break the next morning, she proudly displayed the cake to her colleagues. "English food?" they laughed and nudged one another. "What is it made from?"
"Oh, simple things: flour, eggs, fat, sugar . . . "
"Eggs?" Their eyes opened wide, the laughter stopped and the slices were returned to the plate on the table. "You know the children here cannot prepare this cake. Their religion does not permit the use of eggs. Their parents will forbid it."
"Well, I know they don’t eat eggs as such," began Victoria, "but these are baked in a cake . . . No one will know . . . "

Mr Conteh was equally determined to retain the goodwill of his pupils’ parents. He forbade Victoria to prepare any food containing eggs.
"But I must follow the recipe in the syllabus," she protested. "How can you make a cake without eggs?"
The inevitable letter arrived from home. "How are your Victoria sandwiches? Remember to rub in the fat gently and beat the mixture thoroughly for a nice light texture . . . "

The domestic science option was dropped from the syllabus when the gas canister ran out after only four uses of the oven. "You were cheated," said the headmaster – and insisted that Victoria should bear the cost herself.

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