Birthday Fudge Doughnuts

There were two large white boxes in Sophie's arms.

It was the morning of my 32nd birthday and it had uncomfortably coincided with my falling very ill with a respiratory infection. I had to get dressed; it was my birthday after all. My lungs were gripped with a deep ache and even the expanse of walking about my home felt overwhelming for me. That morning, Sophie had left Mum in charge of little Findlay while she raced off on an "important errand". And, as she piled the boxes into my arms on her return with "Dad has surpassed himself", it was then I realised that these white boxes were the reason for her disappearing for half an hour on a secret mission.

I think I could smell what they were even before I opened one of the lids. Fudge Doughnuts, just like the ones from St Andrews.

Later, when I spoke to Dad, I learnt the whole wonderful story of how these were found and bought for me, and I shall always remember it.

This summer, my father and I went on a tour of Scotland together. Several sunny days were spent in St Andrews where I relived every memory I could tease out from the years I spent there as a student. Dad listened tirelessly to my storytelling. He must have heard it all a million times. But he laughed and giggled with youthful enthusiasm as though it were the best medicine in the world for him. We became very close through this time. We visited my home on The Scores, we walked around my Department, we explored Cambo Gardens, we did the pier walk... "And we simply must get some fudge doughnuts!" My enthusiasm must have burnt in my eyes so brightly that even Dad was excited about this prospect and, as the baker turned his pincers to the smallest of the three left on the plate, it was Dad who chirped out "Go on! Let's have the two bigg'uns!"

With our paper bag of culinary delight clutched tight, we found a sunny corner of Sallies Quad before we tucked in. Unforgettable.

And this is where my story from the summer mingles with my birthday week. Dad had surreptitiously folded the Fisher and Donaldson paper bag into his pocket that late afternoon in St Andrews; grease-stained maybe, but it carried the bakery phone number. And months later he called to ask if they could send some down. When things started to look doubtful and they said the doughnuts wouldn’t travel well being sent from Scotland to London, one of the men at Fisher and Donaldson suddenly recalled giving the old recipe to a bakery chain in the South East of London years ago. “Coughlans”… and there was one in Beckenham. Dad’s final phone call revealed that Coughlans would make-to-order and this is where Sophie collected them from on the morning of my birthday.

“Dad has surpassed himself”.