The Vengeful Secret

Cecelia fought back a wave of nausea as she stood on the threshold of the community hall. For years, she had entertained childish fantasies about revenge. But what seemed justified in theory suddenly felt unnecessarily cruel. Shameful, even.

You’re going to regret this, Cecelia thought, grasping her cake box with both hands. Don’t do it.

Buying laxatives and cake mix had felt deliciously wicked. The combination offered a shimmering window of opportunity, but she had never intended to actually go through with it...had she?

It was an impressive turnout for the small rural town, with close to two hundred people weaving in and out of crowds, gossiping, inspecting stalls crammed with jams, cakes, amateur artworks and crafts. On the far side of the hall was a table flush with rosettes, trophies and hamper baskets.

You’ve indulged yourself, she thought. Now leave, before anyone sees you.

Cecelia hesitated. The mere prospect of revenge was enough to leave her smugly satisfied. She could have gone through with it, but she had chosen not to. Somehow, that felt better.

She was turning to leave when a bony hand grasped her arm.

‘Cecelia?’ Mrs Rouke’s eyes sparkled through the magnifying lens of her glasses. ‘Oh, it is you!’

Cecelia’s stomach twisted. ‘Actually, I was just about to go -’

‘Nonsense, you can’t leave without saying hello!’ Mrs Rouke placed her hand on the small of Cecelia’s back and herded her inside. ‘Why, I was so thrilled when I heard about your exhibition. And to start your own business too! Quite impressive, I must say.’

Cecelia flushed pink. ‘Don’t let Dad exaggerate. I just run a small art class from my studio.’

‘We all have to start somewhere! But it’s nice to see that city life has kept you humble. How many years have you been living in Melbourne now? Four? Five?’

‘Nine,’ Cecelia corrected, looking over her shoulder at the exit.

‘My goodness, doesn’t time fly! I remember when you were but a child….well. To have established yourself in a new city, it’s quite the achievement.’ Mrs Rouke’s mouth twitched. ‘All you need next is a husband.’

Cecelia managed a smile. She was only half listening, trying to find a polite excuse to leave.

‘Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to visit your father more often - oh!’ Mrs Rouke’s eyes dropped to the box Cecelia was cradling, as if noticing it for the first time. ‘Now, what do we have here?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing really, just -’

Mrs Rouke opened the lid and peered at the chocolate cake nestled inside. ‘Why, this looks lovely Cecelia. I hadn’t realised you’d taken to cooking! Then again, it’s been many years…’

Mrs Rouke took the box from Cecelia’s hands and moved towards the cake stand. Cecelia gathered her scattered wits and followed in her wake.

‘No, Mrs Rouke, I’ve changed my mind -’

‘You’ll have to speak up, Cecelia!’ Mrs Rouke said over her shoulder. ‘I’m hard of hearing!’

‘I don’t want to enter,’ Cecelia shouted, skirting a large group of seniors.

Mrs Rouke scoffed. ‘If Miss Haberford deems her pastries competition-worthy, then you have nothing to worry about.’ The words were probably louder than Mrs Rouke had intended; a small group of women in an adjacent stall looked on reproachfully.

Cecelia stammered to find an excuse. ‘It’s not that...I...I don’t even think I’m eligible! I haven’t lived here for nine years.’

‘You’re still a Bowral native, dear. I’m sure Margaret will make an exception.’

Cecelia was about to snatch the box from Mrs Rouke’s hands when she saw her. She stopped in her tracks, Mrs Rouke’s asinine chatter fading into ambience as her pulse quickened.

Mrs Joyce had a formidable presence, even in her autumn years. With a furrowed brow and a puckered mouth, she exuded severity. Her rigid posture emphasised her matronly figure, dressed in dark skirts that swept to the floor.

Cecelia felt a tightening in her chest of panic. Suddenly she was eleven again...

...standing before her classmates on a cloudy afternoon. Mrs Joyce was reading her work aloud to the class, her voice dripping with derision. Once she had finished, she thrust the book back to Cecelia with a grimace. ‘In all my years of teaching, I have never had to deal with a student as stupid as you. You need to apply yourself, Cecelia, or god forbid what will happen to you…’

...Cecelia gingerly approaching Mrs Joyce’s desk after school to submit her homework. Her teacher didn’t bother to look up from her page. ‘You think I’m going to waste my time marking this…?’

...Mrs Joyce’s eyes glittering as she drilled Cecelia with difficult questions she couldn’t answer...

...Mrs Joyce calling Cecelia into the classroom during lunchtime to hand her a failed grade. ‘I want you to keep this work,’ Mrs Joyce said. ‘Look at it years from now and remember how stupid you were and what you put me through…’

…Mrs Joyce belittling her in front of her classmates, spittle flying from lipstick-stained teeth…

…There were layers upon layers of memory. For the first time, Cecelia started to hate school. She struggled to complete homework and pay attention in class, creating a cycle of poor grades that validated everything Mrs Joyce had told her. At such a formative age, her teacher’s abusive words carried a special authority, warping Cecelia’s perception of her intelligence for years to come.

Most of Cecelia’s memories from school were fragmentary, snippets of smells, conversations and images that had become vague and dreamlike over time. But her mind had preserved every detail about Mrs Joyce - including her role as a food judge in the annual fete, year in, year out.

It was only yesterday that Cecelia decided to enter the contest, when she crossed paths with her former teach while taking a walk. Mrs Joyce hadn’t even given her a second glance.

She didn’t even recognise me.

The realisation was crushing. Cecelia had been in Mrs Joyce’s class for just one year, but the trauma had cast a shadow into the future. It had taken until her twenties for Cecelia to shed all doubts about her inferiority, to regain her confidence. To recognise that Mrs Joyce was abusive towards children because she knew she could get away with it.

‘Cecelia?’ Mrs Rouke blinked at her. ‘Is everything alright?’

Cecelia was jolted out of her reverie. ‘Yes, I thought I just...nothing.’

Mrs Rouke handed her cake to Margaret, the lady behind the cake stall. Cecelia’s cake was delicately transferred onto a numbered cake stand, and placed alongside the other entries.

‘I just need your first name and phone number,’ Margaret said, passing her a piece of paper.

Cecelia hesitated, then signed her name with a flourish.

***

Miss Haberford stepped before the microphone and politely cleared her throat. A hush settled over the community hall as she made a short speech, thanking the fete’s sponsors and introducing the local judges. Mrs Joyce stood beside her, hands clasped behind her back in an imperious manner.

Cecelia excused herself from Mrs Rouke and moved towards the chocolate cake stand. Squat and slightly sunken, her unremarkable cake was nestled amongst multi-tier cakes with glossy chocolate glazing.

A few minutes later, a small crowd gathered around the stall. Mrs Joyce pulled out an ornate, silver fork from her breast pocket as Margaret sliced into the cakes and laid them out for her to try. After a small mouthful, Mrs Joyce withdrew a large spotted handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her mouth as she assiduously scribbled notes onto a clipboard.

Cecelia’s cake was the last one she tried. Margaret cut into the cake, transferring a generous slice onto a plate. Mrs Joyce’s expression remained guarded as she inspected it. As she drew the fork to her lips, a thick glob of frosting smeared her chin. Mrs Joyce chewed slowly, a shadow of a frown crossing her face; apparently, she hadn’t noticed.

Cecelia’s heart was hammering in her chest. She had been generous with the laxatives, knowing Mrs Joyce would only take a bite. She had added it to both the cake batter and the icing, likely affecting the taste.

Mrs Joyce looked thoughtful, as if she was trying to identify a subtle flavour. Evidently curious, she helped herself to a second mouthful. There was a quiet murmur in the crowd, and Cecelia had to bite her lips to prevent herself from laughing. After a pregnant pause, Mrs Joyce wiped her chin and made notes on her clipboard.

Cecelia shadowed her as she continued judging food. Mrs Joyce moved onto the carrot cake stand, then lamingtons. For twenty minutes, Cecelia watched on with bated breath.

The dose wasn’t strong enough, Cecelia thought, trying to hide her disappointment. She only took two bites.

But as Mrs Joyce was judging preserves, her hand moved quickly to her stomach. She dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief, wincing unexpectedly.

Showtime.

Cecelia turned away from the crowd and calmly collected her cake from the stand. She looked over her shoulder; Mrs Joyce was whispering something into Miss Haberford’s ear, her eyes darting to the exit.

Cecelia quickened her pace and exited the community hall, tossing her cake into an open bin beside the toilets. The cubicle door was propped open invitingly.

Cecelia ran inside. She grabbed a near-empty loo roll, threw it into the porcelain bowl and flushed. The water rose, making strange suction and gurgling noises as the blocked plumbing began to overflow.

She was almost knocked off her feet as she left the bathroom. Mrs Joyce was shrieking, flinging aside anyone who was blocking her path. Miss Haberford followed gingerly in her wake, apologising to an affronted-looked family and stepping carefully around the footpath.

Cecelia kept her head lowered as she returned to her car. Vengeance had never felt so sweet.