The Pi Club

Cutting the hot pies into five equal portions is the trickiest part of our little get-togethers. This month, it’s my turn to host, and I’ve made a pumpkin and coconut pie with a thin crusty topping. I love to try something new each time, which is not easy when you’ve been doing this for over ten years.
“That looks amazing,” Maggie says, involuntarily licking her lips. “You’ve done us proud again, Heather.”
I smile broadly and give a little theatrical bow. Although I am tempted, a curtsy would be far too ridiculous in my flour-dusted apron.
“Tuck in, girls,” I say. They don’t need to be told twice.
“Clare, it’s your pleasure next month,” Amanda says, brushing a few golden crumbs from her white blouse.
Amanda groans good-naturedly. “It’s not fair. I always have to follow Heather. She’s the pie queen!”
We all laugh. The same carefree, easy laughter we’ve been sharing for so many years.
“Before we all disappear home tonight, there is something I need to put on the table,” I announce. The room goes very quiet, and I feel all eyes on me.
“We have to make a decision about our monthly meetings. I’m really sorry but I have promised to raise something with you all. I hope you won’t be angry or upset.”
If someone had dropped a pin at this very moment, the sound would have been deafening.

Like so many long-lasting friendships, ours began because of our children: not during our school days, but at our children’s schools.
I first met Jenny and Amanda in the doorway of Happy Hoppers Nursery. It was enrolment day and, just like the little ones, we were blinking back tears and sheltering from the torrential rain. Crowded in the cramped space we all felt as wretched as the weather.
I can’t remember who suggested it, but as soon as the children had been prised from us, we ended up at the Bungalow Café, hands wrapped around steaming mugs of coffee, sharing our apprehension and hopes for this new chapter of motherhood. That Monday morning became something much more than a coffee break, it was the start of something far stronger than the café’s latte and longer lasting.
Maggie and Clare joined us a few years later when all our kids moved into their junior years. Every Monday at 9:00 am, after school drop-off, we’d gather around our table in the bay window and talk about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing. We were mothers, yes, but more importantly, we were friends.
When our kids were older and our presence at the school gates became, in their words, ‘deeply uncool’, we continued to meet. If anything, those Mondays became even more precious. There was always one of us sitting in the window seat at the Bungalow Café, ready to share a laugh or lend an ear. A bond had been formed.
But then life began to tug at us, pulling us all in different directions.
Maggie took a job at the newsagent in the city centre. Clare returned to teaching maths at the local grammar school and Jenny moved house: not far away, but far enough. And then one day, I drove past the Bungalow Café to find it wrapped in scaffolding, in the midst of being transformed into a hair salon. The new signage shouted ‘Hair Today’. And, I said to myself, ‘gone tomorrow’. It felt like the new building construction was about to drop the final curtain on our gatherings.
For a while, the five of us kept in touch through Christmas cards and the occasional phone calls. But it wasn’t quite the same. I was really missing our little circle. I wanted to return to those stories, the honesty, the comfort of knowing you weren’t alone muddling through parenthood, balancing careers and bringing up a family.
So, I decided to do something about it.
With the help of my old address book and a rather complicated social media search, I set up a WhatsApp group and sent out a simple message: ‘I miss you all’.
The replies swept in. They were cheerful, warm, and nostalgic. The clearest message was easy to read: I wasn’t the only one who missed the company.
It was Maggie who asked the question that truly mattered: ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’
Clare suggested that we all go on a week’s holiday to Cornwall. Jenny floated the idea of regular walks along the beautiful local coast. Amanda wanted to start a regular book club. Maggie suggested meeting at the gym.
To get the ball rolling I kept it simple and wrote, ‘Come to mine, next Friday evening at seven. I’ll make a pie.’
A chorus of thumbs-up and smiley emojis quickly followed. We were getting the band back together and I couldn’t stop smiling.
Eagerly I pulled out my little-used recipe book, ‘The Pies Have It’, and flipped through the pristine pages, already picturing our evening. I was ridiculously excited.

The evening turned out to be better than I could’ve hoped.
We laughed. We talked. We caught up on how the kids were doing, where we’d travelled to, new jobs, moving houses. There was so much to say, and not enough time to say it all.
“Why don’t we meet the last Friday of every month?” Jenny suggested.
We all nodded like giddy teenagers planning a secret sleepover.
“Well, come to ours next time,” Amanda said. “And I’ll make a pie. It won’t be as good as Heather’s but I promise it will be edible.”
We burst into laughter again.
“I’ll send a reminder,” Amanda added. “Wouldn’t want anyone to miss out.”
Whether she meant the evening or the pie, I couldn’t say.
Later, as I was finishing up in the kitchen, my phone pinged. Amanda had been true to her word.
‘What a lovely evening. Put this in your diaries! Pie at mine, 29th May, 7:00 pm. Can’t wait.’
Somehow Clare, ever the clever one, changed the name of our WhatsApp group to ‘The Pi Club’.
Pi! That’s what you get when you have a maths teacher with a sense of humour.
Maggie replied instantly: “Let’s hope we keep reoccurring.” I think I got the joke.
The monthly Pi Club had been officially launched.

The silence is eventually broken by Amanda. “Come on, Heather, what is it you have to tell us? I can’t hold my breath any longer.”
“Okay, here goes. You all know the greengrocer in Whitborn. I know you go there too, Jenny. I always shop with them, even if it’s a bit more expensive. Their stuff is always fresh. Anyway, the staff all know me quite well and they also know about our little Pi Club. I usually pick up the ingredients when it’s my turn to make a pie. Anyway, I was in on Wednesday, picking up the pumpkin, and Jan, you know Jan who works there, asked about our Pi Club. Only this time not just shopkeeper’s chitchat but actually asking to join us. Went on to say that pie-making is a greengrocer’s speciality.”
You could have cut the air in the kitchen far easier than I’d sliced the pie.
I raised my eyebrows, looked around the table and waited for the response.
It was Jenny who spoke first.
“No, no, no. We’ve been together for so many years. We’ve been through so much, with the kids and you we’re all great when I had that odd bit of trouble.”
We all nodded. And we all knew exactly what she meant by the “bit of trouble.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Maggie. “I know you all so well. I’ve shared things I’ve never shared with others. Having someone new would change it all. It wouldn’t work for me, it really wouldn’t. Sorry.”
Then Clare looked at me. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Heather, but isn’t Jan… a man?”
“Of course. I thought… I thought you all knew that!” Judging by their faces, that wasn’t the case.
Jenny didn’t miss a beat. “It was a no before, and now I know it’s a man, I think it’s a definite no. I couldn’t have shared all the palaver about my time in hospital. If there had been a new person in the room I wouldn’t have said anything. I might be old-fashioned, or not politically correct, but no, I’m not comfortable with the idea at all. Sorry.”
Amanda, usually the quietest of us, puts her fork down on her plate causing an accidental ring which was loud enough to turn every head towards her as if she was about to make a speech at a wedding.
After a pause, she said, “I totally agree with Jenny. We’ve been through so much. We’ve laughed, cried and been honest. If Jan joined, we might still laugh. And I am sure we would carry on talking. We’d be very polite but carefully reserved. We certainly wouldn’t open up our hearts. We’d hide things away from each other: we’d stop sharing. And that means we would lose our support.” Amanda opened her arms as if to gather us all in and lead a group hug. “What we have here is perfect. Please, let’s not change it.”
The kitchen went quiet again. Clare reached across, took Amanda’s hand and gripped it tightly. I am sure I saw Jenny wipe away a tear.
Clare smiled. “I can’t say it as well as Amanda has done, but to quote my dad, ‘Amanda hit the nail on the head’. What we have here is a history. Our history is fuller and richer than any old textbook. And that hasn’t been created overnight. We’ve been together for years.”
“And we have trust,” Jenny added.
“And we have the best pies,” Clare said, popping the last piece of flakey crust into her mouth.
It was time for me to respond.
“Well ladies, what can I say? That idea didn’t go down too well. Certainly not as well as my pie, thank goodness.” I smiled. “I promised Jan I’d ask, and I’ll be happy to report back. I might even borrow some of your words, Amanda. I’ll drop into the shop on Tuesday when it’s quiet and I am sure he’ll understand. By the way, I agree with you all.”
Jenny chuckled. “You could have taken him a slice of coconut and pumpkin pie. Shame we polished it off.”
“So Amanda, what pie are you making next month?” Clare asked, in an attempt to quickly change the subject into one that was a little more comfortable.
“No idea yet. But one thing’s certain, it won’t be as tasty as this one. Well done again, Heather. You’re the best.”
A small round of applause broke out. We always do that, but it does make you feel very special when it happens. Truthfully, we’d be just as happy if the pie came from Tesco’s. The Pi Club was never really about pies: pies are just an excuse. An excuse to spend time together.
As we started clearing plates and gathering cups, I turned to Amanda. “You know, you’ll regret not inviting Jan to join. Next week you’ll send me a message saying, ‘Please Heather I want Jan to join our Pi Club’”
The room fell deadly quiet again.
I let my comment hang for a few seconds and looked at each of my friends, then continued, “Because if there were six of us, it would be much easier to cut the pie. Five is a tricky number to slice a circle. Unless you’re a maths teacher.” I pointed to Clare.
“You need to know your Pi,” Clare joked. Well, I think it was a joke.
Laughter rippled around, the kind of laughter that grows and grows until your stomach starts to ache. The only type of stomach ache allowed at our Pi Club.
So, the evening ended with five friends, empty plates and heads full of memories: all looking forward to being together again, next month.