Mother's Day exclusive: Cake by Helen Simpson But when I told you and your brother about it - you weren't very old then either, you were both about the same age as them - I was very struck by what you said. You both said, you'd rather have the mum's memories of you as babies and funny things you said and did and things like that, with photos of her holding you or beaming at you, than a box just about her. And I thought, of course. Of course you would. Sift six ounces of flour with a teaspoon of baking powder. When I was expecting you I imagined you might be born on Midsummer's Eve because the ETA we'd been given was the 15th June, which is near enough. But as it turned out that beautiful hot flower-filled summer you were late, weren't you; you didn't arrive until the first of July. You were a perfect, calm, alert baby girl. I was amazed, after the protracted drama and violence of your two-day journey, broken collar bone and all, at how composed you were. Seven-and-a-half pounds. They laid you in the glass hospital cot on your side and when I met your blue eyes - that dark newborn blue like Delft china - I was amazed. You knew me! When we got home there was a bank of flowers, more than I've seen in my life before or since - roses and lilies and larkspur from all our friends, every jug and mug full of carnations and white daisies. That's why I still fill the kitchen with flowers in your birthday week - they're all in season, and I bake your cake surrounded by them. At first you lay quietly in your Moses basket. Asleep, you played a silent flute, graceful long curling fingers up near your sweet face, eyes closed, lips parted to pout out a little purse of air. Oh, you smelt delicious, I couldn't resist stroking your forehead with my nose, sniffing up your fabulous innocent smell. It was like clean washing and fresh gardens. Once you were here I couldn't bear synthetic smells. I switched to unscented soap; I wanted you to know my smell too. Cream the butter and sugar together with a fork. And you fed like a dream, you even let me read a book while you were feeding. Your dad used to call you little milksop. I sampled a few drops of my own milk at one point, I remember, through curiosity, and it tasted fresh and slightly sweet with a faint vanilla scent like this sugar. Stir in the eggs and beat until light and fluffy. It was you who decided when you were ready to move on from a diet of milk and puréed baby mush. How funny, I can date it exactly, like Juliet's nurse - it was your dad's birthday, six months and three weeks on from yours, and we'd taken you out for lunch with us to a French-style brasserie for the first time. You were sitting beside me in a high chair. When I looked up from the menu of moules frites and onglet aux échalottes, I was just in time to see you grab a piece of baguette from the basket on the table. You went at it like a ravenous meerkat. I almost fell off my chair. We couldn't stop laughing, your dad and me. You always made us laugh even when you were little and you still do, with your showers of talk and fantastical digressions. There was that time one summer, when you and me and your brother were playing in the sea, jumping in the waves and shouting. "Picasso!" you declared during a lull, floating on your back. He's the one that cut off his ear. "No he's not," I said. "That was Matisse," said your brother, doggy-paddling away, looking to me for confirmation. No, it was Van Gogh. Wasn't it, Mum. Why did he? "He was sad and mad," I replied. "No, he did it to impress his girlfriend," you insisted, bobbing up and down. " "See how much I love you, how I've suffered for you, I've sent you my ear." Then she ate it. She did not! I said, outraged. "She did," you sparkled, nodding your head, dancing in the waves. She cooked it in a frying pan, then she ate it. We couldn't stop laughing, the three of us; we were spluttering and choking and falling about in the sea. Do you remember? Fold the flour into the mixture a little at a time. I've got my grandmother's old cake tin ready by the scales, lined as she showed me with greaseproof paper snipped and fitted to size. That's where you got your lovely green eyes from, your great-grandmother. She used to make seed cake in this tin, a very plain cake flavoured with half a teaspoon of caraway seeds. It was good and wholesome, but more austere than we're used to now. Whereas my mother's cakes - your grandma's - were altogether quicker and sweeter: a chocolate refrigerator cake packed with glacé cherries, or a Victoria sandwich with butter icing for our birthdays. Zest the lemon using the fine side of the grater, and stir into the mixture with two or three tablespoons of milk until it reaches a dropping consistency. At your 13th birthday party you were luminously beautiful, as if lit from inside by candles, in a white dress with silver sparkles. We stood together at the front door to ward off gate-crashers. Almost all the still-almost-children arriving were nervous - the little flush high on their cheeks, the gabbled or absent greeting and a roll of the eyes like a startled horse. Then, half an hour in, they had acquired a cockiness, strutting round like pirates or arrogant nobles, high on the cushion of air lifting them off the ground in the generalised terror and desperation to be accepted and if possible to rule the roost, to dominate - to be a star. It was a night of high emotion - little trios and quartets of girls storming across rooms together or knotted into furious tête-à-têtes. The wordless boys got uppish and stroppy, jostling each other, showing off. Some of them tried to set fire to the garden shed; they were the ones who'd arrived together and presented you with three goldfish in a small glass tank. You were trembling with shock and excitement at the unavoidable immediacy of it, and your eyes met mine imploringly for a second as you took hold of their unwieldy offering. Spoon the mixture into the prepared tin and level off with a palette knife. When your next birthday loomed you said, "I can't believe I'm going to be 14 next week. I'm going to post leaflets everywhere saying I'm available for light gardening. Then the 15th brought a slew of cards bursting with braggadocio about Bacardi Breezers, and "Almost Legal" scrawled naughtily across them. Chloe, Zoe, Lulu, Hannah, Scarlett - they all came back after school and sang heartily to you in the back garden over the candle-decked lemon drizzle; then the six of you scoffed several pounds of strawberries dipped in sugar. You wrote each other long birthday letters, rammed with the detail of shared lives and protestations of undying loyalty. "You're nothing to do with me," you told your mothers. I only need you for lifts. One morning when I went into your bedroom to wake you for school you looked up at me from your pillow with loathing and blurted, "I dreamed it was my birthday and you said, "Now darling I've bought you a really special birthday present, and at first you may not think it's special but it is and it will teach you to be responsible. It's a flock of sheep, you'll need to look after them and remember to feed them and keep the gate shut and so on." " From my position of weary maternal power I realised that overnight I had become your very own memento mori in bulging middle-aged shoes; your personal wet blanket, chaperone and killjoy rolled into one nauseating bundle. There followed showdowns in changing rooms and bust-ups on high streets; handles were flown off all over the place, and I started to feel quite glum; until, one day, ding! it dawned on me that it was nothing personal. It was just part of it, and a useful and necessary part of it at that. It wasn't me you couldn't stand: it was me-the-mother. Remember the story of Proteus in your favourite book of Greek myths? Well you were like Proteus, the god of changeability, and my job was to hang on to you for dear life while you struggled against me, transforming yourself into a leopard, a snake, a pig, a bristling tree. I had to hold on to you, yes, but I also had to get off your back. That was the trick, the paradox. I'd say, "It's a lovely sunny day"; you'd say, "Don't tell me what to wear." Hold fast; back off! Freedom and security in a balance; closeness without intrusiveness. It's what we all want, and not just when we're young. And then, two or three birthdays ago, after the achievement of that necessary second separation, the weather picked up and we found ourselves to our mutual relief united in once more agreeing that it was indeed a lovely sunny day. Squeeze the juice from the zested lemon and add it to four ounces of sugar. Strictly speaking, this thin syrup is a version of glacé icing, but sharper and grittier. Poured over the cake while it's still warm from the oven it will form a translucent glaze, right at the other end of the scale from the showy tooth-deep pastel frosting on a cupcake. That seems to be the default career option for recent graduates now that the job market's imploded: set up a cupcake business from your mother's kitchen. No worse than languishing in some unpaid internship, I suppose; but talk about "let them eat cake." Don't give up on politics, sweetheart; don't say nothing you do will make any difference. Things change. Remember those sheep in your dream? Hedged about as we are with snake-tongued bullies and greed-merchants, the main thing is to be brave and speak up. But what do I know. The heat of the changing world will act on you and you'll rise to it. That rich homely smell always surprises me. A tin of sticky raw ingredients goes into the oven and turns into something delicious which didn't exist before. It's very basic magic; and if I could wave a magic wand over the future I'd wish you luck, which everyone needs; and satisfying work that pays enough and allows you to look after your children too (if you have them) without half-killing yourself; and the love of a good man (or woman). Don't ever say yes, by the way, unless you like the way they smell. That's vital, along with integrity - but smell comes first. Take the cake out of the oven. One of my best, though I say so myself. And allow it to cool for a few moments before carefully turning it onto a wire rack. Perfect. Prick all over with a fork in a criss-cross pattern, then pour on the lemon syrup while the cake is still warm. Mmm: delicious! And I've remembered the candles. Happy birthday, darling girl. © Helen Simpson 2013. Helen Simpson's most recent collection of short stories, In-Flight Entertainment, is published by Vintage