I used to be a baker.

Forget what Gemma said. I didn't just work at the bakery. I baked. I'm a baker. I was a baker.

Yes, I only worked at W. Mandeville Bakery on Saturdays, and yes most of my day was spent at the counter helping customers, but I baked too. I made bread and pastries and cookies and cupcakes. Liam used to call me Haroldthebaker. Fast, like it was all one word. And no, it wasn't ironic, as Louis tried to claim. Like when you call a short person stretch. Louis. I bake. I'm a baker.

Dammit. I don't know why they're all insisting I'm not. I'll just have to take you there when we get back to Holmes Chapel. It's really a charming place, filled with really charming people.

I started working there when I was 14. I don't talk much about my dad, I've realised. I suppose because he wasn't around much, on the road with See Ya Next Wednesday. I love him, and I get along pretty well with him now. But it wasn't always so.

Like when I was being bullied in school, and my mum called him (I think he was in Japan for a gig) to talk about what to do because I was crying and refusing to go to school, and he told me to 'man up, and fight back.' (Because crying isn't manly, apparently. But hitting is...)

Or when I won the battle of the bands, and he wasn't there, even though I had invited him. And he was in town. In fact, come to think of it, I don't think he's ever seen me play live...

Or when mum had to sell her grandmother's antique cabinet to pay the bills.

I didn't speak to him for almost a year when that happened. He's not rich, not by a long shot, but he certainly was well to do. Well off enough to pay a sight more than he had been, especially as he'd paid the same amount from the time I was 7 to when I turned 16. £ 200 in child maintenance was not enough for two teens. With mum teaching only half-day preschool, she didn't have much, and Robin's job at the factory was base pay. Mum never wanted to rock the boat, so she never took the matter to the CMS (the people who decide what's a fair amount). I think she worried that dad would ask for split custody. We struggled so much in those days, not that mum would really let us see--she did her best to hide the harsh realities from us.

But that day, the day she cried as she asked me (along with Liam, Jack, and Josh) to carry the cabinet out to the truck for the lady who'd bought it, that day she couldn't hide it anymore. Once we'd strapped the cabinet down, I pulled the lady aside and asked her if she'd ever be willing to sell it back. She glanced at my weeping mother, clutching to Robin, gave a subtle nod, and slipped her card into my hand.

So I went straight from that task into the village, wandering past the fire rescue, library, and post office to the row of small boutiques and services. The corner shop, the Costa Coffee. I went into each and asked the staff if there were any openings. Many were people I knew, kids from Gemma's year or familiar faces from church. But none had a position.

After a good hour of being rejected, my spirits trodden on, I decided to take the long way round the other side of the village, past the last few shops, kicking at the loose gravel in the road in frustration. I needed to do something to help mum; I had to get a job. I just had to! My angst at being turned down over and over, paired with my desperation, made my eyes a bit misty as I neared W. Mandeville Bakery. I smelled the fresh bread baking before I even opened the door. The bell tinkled overhead as I walked in, and I was greeted by a cheerful older lady.

"Well, hello!" She cheered.

"Hi, ma'am," my tone exposed my sour mood.

"Now, none of that ma'am nonsense," she waved her hand through the air, dismissing the formality. "What can I get for you, young Mister Styles?" I knew she looked familiar. Perhaps the grandmother of one of my school mates?

"A job," my voice quavered. I turned away and pulled my polo shirt up over my face, blotting at the stupid tears inexplicably bubbling over. I was crying for mum. I was crying for the pain I knew my mum was in, and the helpless feeling that I couldn't do anything to make it better.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders and led me behind the counter, to the kitchen at the back. "Sit down, sweetheart," she gestured to a stool by the work surface, which was dusted with a layer of flour. There were two other women in the back, who came bustling over.

"What's happened?" asked the one with darker hair and glasses.

"He's come in looking for a job," the nice old lady answered. "And must be havin a rough time of it."

I nodded and sucked in a deep breath, feeling a bit humiliated to be crying in front of these nice old ladies. "I'm sorry," I wiped my face clean. "I'm sorry to be such a bother--"

They all started fussing and cooing at me, comforting me. Not a bother, oh what a dear...stuff like that.

"Have you ever held a job before?"

"No, not really. But I'm very responsible. And punctual. And..." I looked at each of them, right in the eyes, as I tried to figure out what else I had going for me. My stomach grumbled. "And I love pastries."

They howled with laughter.

"Oh, this one is a keeper."

I smiled weakly up at them. "And I've helped my mum at home, when she bakes. I mean, I wouldn't say I could dive right in and do it on my own, but I could definitely be a help. And I'll clean. Anything. I'll do anything."

"We were just saying that we needed to hire a helper, someone to carry the heavy pans for us." The ladies looked at one another and then back at me. "Just one question, lad. What's got you in such a state? Why d'you need the job so much?"

I took a deep breath, and I told them everything I've just written here, pretty much. "I just want to relieve some of her stress, and maybe if I raise enough, buy back her cabinet. It held more sentimental value for her than any amount of money, so I know it had to've been hard to part with."

"Oh, dear," I was covered in kisses and entangled in an embrace with as many arms as an octopus. "You're hired. I'm Eloise."

I shook the blond's hand. "Harry," I said.

"My name is Jaqueline, but you can call me Jackie, love," offered the woman I'd met in the store, pulling me into another brief hug.

"Barbara," said the third, snaking her hand around and pinching my bum with a wink.

(Don't kill her, Maddie. She's a nice old lady.)

I spent the next two years working there diligently, performing any task they set for me. In truth, I really mostly did the heavy lifting. I was impressed they'd managed for so long without help when I lifted a mixing pot full of cake batter and poured it into the waiting pan. My arms strained against the weight of it. But when things were quiet, in those drowsy times between breakfast and lunch, lunch and dinner, the ladies would teach me their craft. I can still make some of the recipes from memory, like their delicious butter rolls. Or fig tarts.

It was a wonderful place to work, and I miss those nice old ladies, especially when Sal gets on my case. I worked hard for them because they were lovely. They treated me as an apprentice, instructing me in the trade. They gave me great advice when my life got challenging. And they always supported me; every show I played back in those days was graced by a small gathering of the W. Mandeville family. Not even my wild days with Cassie derailed my position nor relationships there. And eventually, I earned enough to bargain back my mum's cabinet. I gave it to her for Mother's Day, just two years after she'd sold it.

And now, after reading this back, I've come to a realisation. I think some of my hang-ups about money stem from my issues with dad, perhaps because he fritters his money away on unimportant things, like a boat, a fucking mini yacht, while my mum has struggled for years. It wasn't fair to judge you by his actions, but I think that may have been what lay underneath all my insecurities and issues surrounding your wealth. He was well off. She wasn't. He left. You are well off, I'm not, and I feared you leaving me. I see now why Dr. Kline had you write that journal!

And God am I glad she did.

~~~~~

Hiiii! Thanks so much for reading. I am having the most fun writing this story, digging into and imagining Harry's past. If you're having fun reading, vote! Comment (I looooove comments. Comments are my fav). And maybe even share it.

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And I guess I'm going to take this last chance to say goodbye to Jayme JeddieJay again. Jay, your writing is inspirational and dark and insightful and just fucking beautiful. I really regret not fangirling at you sooner so we could have had more time. Best of luck, friend. I'll keep my eyes out for those perfect analogies you always manage to spin like fine thread, sewn into your books.