by Katie Fforde
Lucien shrugged. ‘It would mean so much for his bakery to win this. We have to do everything we can.’
‘Can we win the prize? With me as your assistant? I really respect your ambition, Lucien, but don’t bet your wages on it.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve given up gambling. We’ll work hard and do our best. That’s all we can do really. Now, you get the fire lit and, while it’s heating, I’ll give you a few basic bakery lessons. I’ve kept some dough back so you can practise. We have a lot of rolls to make. This is a sourdough—’
‘I remember, with the mother.’
‘That’s right. Now, you need to do it two-handed…’
‘I know it sounds crazy but we don’t leave the ovens on their own,’ said Lucien. ‘We have to keep checking the temperature so we can get the bread in when the right temperature is reached.’
‘I totally get that. They have to be kept an eye on,’ said Philly. ‘So don’t you sleep at all?’
‘Shifts,’ said Lucien. ‘You sleep first. Then I’ll catch some zeds.’
Philly shook her head. ‘You and your slang – what would your nanny think?’
‘Oh!’ he said, enthusiastic. ‘Let’s tell her all about this. It would finish her off!’
‘That’s not kind,’ said Philly.
‘She’s not kind,’ said Lucien. ‘She was horrible to you.’
‘But I wish her no harm. Bad karma.’
‘OK, I won’t.’ He looked at her, his eyes glazed with something – it could have been lack of sleep or passion. ‘I don’t suppose you’re on the pill, are you, Philly?’
‘No, Lucien. I’m an Irish Catholic. Why would I be on the pill?’
He sighed deeply. ‘If I’d thought properly about what I was asking you to do, I’d have nipped down to the shop and got some condoms. But I didn’t. So—’
‘We could just take the risk,’ said Philly, suddenly desperate for him.
‘No we couldn’t. Supposing you got pregnant? We’d have to get married in a hurry—’
‘Not these days,’ said Philly insistently.
‘With your parents? With my parents? They’d be livid!’
‘And they wouldn’t give you the money for the bakery—’
‘It’s not that, it’s all the other stuff. They’d always accuse you of trapping me. No, we won’t start.’
Philly felt a pang of disappointment even though she knew he was right. ‘OK.’
Philly felt slightly dizzy. She had slept a little in the three days since she’d been in the bakery, but not much. It was now five a.m. on the morning of the food competition. They had to get the van loaded and drive it across the country to the fair.
But what Philly had lacked in sleep she’d made up for in learning. She’d learnt how to just flick the flour across the work surface so not too much was added to the dough. She’d learnt to knead bread, holding it down with the heel of her hand, pushing it away from her, reshaping it, over and over until the gluten strands had been created. She’d learnt to test for this by stretching a sample between her fingers. She’d learnt to make rolls two at a time, one in each hand, and she’d nearly learnt to cut off a lump of dough of exactly the right weight first time. She felt she’d had a personality transplant. She’d started off as someone who sowed seeds and brought them up to grow strong and healthy, and now she was a baker. It had been a baptism of fire – wood fire – hot as hell but producing amazing loaves of all shapes and sizes, rolls, and enriched doughs making iced buns, fruit breads and brioches.
‘Are you ready? We need to load up,’ said Lucien. He looked even worse than he had when Philly had arrived, but also exhilarated. The adrenalin was keeping him on a high. Seeing his excitement, Philly prayed that even if they didn’t win, they would do well. He deserved it so much.
‘Think so. To be honest, I’d drop if I had to do more than just sell the stuff,’ said Philly.
‘I’ve exhausted you. I’m so sorry.’
She laughed. ‘You’ve done worse than exhaust me these last days. You’ve shouted, you’ve nagged, you’ve bullied—’
He looked stricken. ‘Darling, I—’
‘It’s fine. I’ve loved it. And I’ve learnt so much. I might even fancy becoming a baker myself!’
‘Well, that’s good. And there’s something else I’m going to do to you—’
‘Lucien, much as I want to, I don’t think I’ve the energy to have passionate sex with you right now.
He laughed ruefully. ‘Don’t tempt me. What I have to confess is that my parents are coming.’
Philly was so short of sleep, she panicked. ‘Oh my God! I can’t go. They mustn’t see me.’
He shook his head. ‘No. We’ve done this together. If they disown me because I broke my promise, too bad. We’re a team, Philly, and if I’ve learnt nothing else the past few days it’s that I’m not ever going to be separated from you again. Whatever happens.’
‘But, Lucien, apart from them cutting you off without a shilling or whatever it is, I’m terrified of them. They think I’m a bogtrotter.’
Lucien was distracted for a moment. ‘What’s a bogtrotter?’
‘Never mind.’ This wasn’t the time to explain obscure derogatory expressions applied to the Irish over the centuries. ‘Haven’t I got enough to cope with without your parents turning up their noses at me? Making a huge scene? Is that what we want in a public place?’
Lucien thought this was funny. ‘My parents are far too British to make a scene in public. Anyway, I’ve told them to come once the judging is over so it won’t matter what they do then.’ He paused.
‘Let’s get this show on the road!’
The stall looked beautiful when they had finally finished setting it out. There were several sorts of bread made with different flours and different shapes. There were round loaves with their tops cut like a chequerboard; long loaves slashed three times; shorter bloomers; and square tin loaves. Then there were many different rolls. Philly felt so proud to have been part of creating such a wonderful display.
Then they put on their baker’s caps. ‘You look seriously cute in your hat,’ said Lucien.
‘And you look ever so slightly ridiculous in yours,’ she said. It was true, but he still looked incredibly handsome.
The show started slowly and Philly suggested they buy some butter from a nearby stall and cut up some bread so people could try it. The butter went so well with the wood-fired baked bread that the cheese and butter stall bought a couple of loaves so people could sample their butter.
Soon after this came the judging, a dreadfully tense time. Lucien was questioned; Philly was tested for lack of experience prior to this event; both seemed to pass. But the judges gave nothing away. They picked up loaves and knocked them, examined the crust, cut into them and examined the crumb. They ate samples – quite big samples that, to Philly, looked more like lunch. Eventually they moved on and Lucien and Philly relaxed.
As ten o’clock came and went so did more people and soon Philly and Lucien were really busy. Philly’s experience on the market stall she shared with her grandfather, though far slower paced, came in very handy. But it was her barmaiding that made her so quick at dealing with money and giving change. It was a transferable skill and she was far faster and more efficient at selling the bread than Lucien was. But he was brilliant at chatting, telling people about the wood-fired oven and why it made such amazing bread.
‘We’re doing this for Geraint really, and for his bakery,’ he reiterated to Philly. ‘This business is so important to him. If he can’t be here to tell people about it, I have to. And that last man is quite a famous food writer!’ he added proudly.
‘Oh, excellent!’ said Philly.
‘Actually, Phil, as you’re so good at the change and stuff, would you mind if I went for a walk round? Chat to some people? Networking is so important and I think maybe we should think about starting an online ordering system, with a catalogue, so people can get these great products without h
aving to live near the producers.’
‘Sounds a good idea. You go off. I’ll be fine here.’
She was fine and really enjoyed selling a product people really loved. She directed people across to the dairy stall and received people they had directed to her. They were nearly sold out of bread and she was thinking what a good entrepreneur Lucien was, as well as a brilliant baker, when she looked up and saw a familiar face.
She just said, ‘Next, please? How can I help you?’ hoping the woman in front of her would somehow stop being Lucien’s mother, and stop looking at her as if she were Eliza Doolittle before she’d had the Professor Higgins makeover.
‘You!’ said Camilla. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Selling bread. For Lucien,’ said Philly. She was nervous but defiant. She had nothing whatever to be ashamed of. Maybe she and Lucien had gone against his parents’ wishes but she was proud of what they’d produced. ‘What can I get you?’ she added politely.
‘I don’t want—’
‘Here!’ Philly produced a sample of one of the few remaining loaves with a deftness that impressed even her. ‘Try this. It’s a sourdough but we like to think that while we’ve got the texture, it doesn’t taste too sour. And fermented foods are very good for you,’ she added, hoping this revealed her as a caring person and so not entirely unsuitable for Lucien.
Camilla’s hand responded automatically to the offered plate of bread and butter. She took a piece.
‘Hi, Ma!’ Lucien appeared from behind, put his arm round his mother and kissed her robustly on the cheek.
Camilla jumped. She had been chewing and was taken completely by surprise. Philly, momentarily sorry for her, hoped she wouldn’t choke.
No sooner had she swallowed her mouthful than Camilla was attacked again, this time by a bear of a man, who picked her up and hugged her as if she were a small baguette. ‘Camilla, your son is a bloody genius baker!’
‘Geraint,’ said Camilla. ‘I thought you were with your wife?’
‘I was,’ stated Geraint, who had a voice to rival Brian Blessed’s. ‘But we have a lovely boy now. They’re both doing fine and I had to come and find out if we’d got our gold medal.’
‘And we did!’ said Lucien, going to scoop Philly out from behind the stall and hugging her. ‘We did it, Philly.’
‘Your boy’s been a bloody star, Camilla. Worked like a slave for me, and it seems like his girl is the same – a bloody hard worker.’
‘You won a prize?’ asked Camilla.
‘Bloomin’ gold medal for our heritage bread!’ boomed Geraint.
‘I couldn’t have done it without Philly,’ said Lucien triumphantly. ‘Dad can—’
Philly trod on his foot. This was no time to sound like a rebellious teenager. Fortunately he understood her message.
As if summoned, ‘Dad’ appeared. ‘Lucien?’ His eyes flicked towards Philly. ‘Isn’t that—’
‘Darling?’ Camilla warned. ‘Geraint’s here.’
Geraint enveloped Jasper in his arms and then punched his shoulder, causing him to stagger slightly. ‘Lucien’s done you proud. Done me proud. Took everything I threw at him and then ran with the ball. Best apprentice I’ve ever had or will have. You should definitely back him, man! He’s the business!’
Lucien, who’d had his arm round Philly, squeezed her to him. ‘I couldn’t have done any of this without Philly. She’s been brilliant too.’
It was Philly’s turn to be caught up in a giant’s embrace, squeezed briefly and set back down again. ‘With a woman like that beside him, a man can do anything,’ said Geraint. ‘Like my Myfanwy. And now I’ve got my medal I’ll go back to the hospital and tell her all about it. But, Jasper, mate, your son is the real deal. You should be incredibly proud of him!’
Philly watched Geraint move through the crowds, people parting before him, and then she looked at Lucien’s parents.
‘Well,’ said Jasper. ‘Maybe we’d better go out for a meal and get to know each other a bit better.’
‘Love to, Dad,’ said Lucien. ‘But when we’ve finished up here, we need a bit of sleep.’
His father looked at his vintage Rolex. ‘OK, shall we make it tomorrow? Call me.’
‘Yes, darling,’ said Camilla and then turned to Philly, hesitant but gracious. ‘And thank you, dear. You’ve obviously worked very hard for our son.’
Philly suddenly felt a bit tearful at this volte face. ‘I didn’t do it because he’s your son.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Camilla, ‘but I’m grateful anyway. And very, very proud of the pair of you.’ She paused. ‘So, where are you staying?’
‘We’ve been sleeping on the floor at the bakery,’ Philly said.
‘I have a key to Geraint’s house,’ said Lucien. ‘We’re staying there.’
They had just drawn up outside Geraint and Myfanwy’s house when Lucien’s phone whistled. It was a text.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘It’s from Geraint. He says we should go to the Mowl House Hotel. There’s a suite booked and paid for. It’s a thank-you present.’
‘Wow!’ said Philly. ‘How amazing. But could I shower and change first, do you think?’
‘Nonsense. If we shower and change we’ll never get there.’ And he turned round to Philly. ‘And if I don’t show you exactly how much I love you, very soon, I think I’ll go crazy!’
25
Lorna sat back on her heels and put down the hand brush. She moved the camping lantern nearer to the shells so she could see them more clearly and then she ran her hand lightly over them. She smiled. The pattern was clear and the shells on the walls of the grotto all felt secure.
There were a few more sections that she needed to clean before she could put off the inevitable no longer. In other words, before she had to replace the missing shells on the ceiling.
She had all the shells she needed. The chest she had found in Burthen House had been brought down and she had already sorted them out. She knew which ones she needed to replace the missing ones, to make the stars, spirals, triangles and parallelograms.
She knew she was too emotionally involved in what she was doing and also she knew why she was hesitating: she wasn’t sure what material she should use to fix the shells although it was obvious whom she should ask. Jack. And she could not ask Jack.
She gathered up her things and went out from the cool dampness of the grotto into the garden. At least there she was confident that she knew what she was doing.
It was late afternoon, and Lorna was tying in a rambling rose, trying to persuade it that its supporting arch had always been there and hadn’t just been put in the previous day, when she saw Philly approaching.
‘Hello,’ she called anxiously, studying Philly carefully. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed when Philly reached her. ‘You look – well!’ What she meant was ‘loved up’, but she didn’t want to embarrass Philly, who really seemed to be walking on air.
‘Hi! We just got back. Seamus suggested I should come over immediately and see what you’ve done here.’ She looked around. ‘It looks – utterly amazing!’
Philly was looking even prettier than usual, Lorna thought; her skin was glowing and her eyes were sparkling. ‘It was good of you to leave Lucien to come back here.’
‘Oh, he came back with me. His apprenticeship with Geraint – that’s the baker – is over. He’s passed. His father is going to back him.’ She looked around eagerly. ‘I can’t believe how much you’ve done. I’ve not been away a week! It looks like a proper mature garden. How has that happened?’
Lorna smiled, slightly guilty. ‘Mostly thanks to your amazing contacts book and I’m afraid your polytunnels are practically empty. I’m really glad to see you before you went in them, but don’t worry too much. We’ve gone very Chelsea. Most of the things are still in their pots.’
Philly looked at her. ‘But you’ve done so much. You must have worked night and day?’
Lorna laughed. ‘Well, most of the daylight hours have been sp
ent here.’ Not only was she determined to get the garden as near to finished as she could, given that things took time to grow, but she didn’t want to have any time or energy to think about Jack. Although she did think about him, all the time.
‘So, give me the tour,’ said Philly. ‘As if I haven’t seen it before, which actually I haven’t really. It’s changed so much!’
‘OK.’ Lorna was pleased that Philly seemed so relaxed about having had her plant stock hijacked. ‘But shall we get a cup of tea to take round with us? We’ve got a camping stove in the shed. All mod cons.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a shed.’ Philly gestured to the building shaped like a dovecote. ‘It’s far too pretty, with roses climbing up it and all! What is that one?’
‘It’s a Rambling Rector,’ said Lorna. ‘I got the shed from the same people I got most of the mature ramblers. They’d done a show and were very happy to sell me them. But before we get too involved with the garden, tell me about you and Lucien. Did you manage to see Lucien without his parents finding out? Hang on, let me fill the kettle first.’ Lorna nipped outside to the tap that was attached to the side of the dovecote, filled the kettle and went in again quickly.
Philly was admiring a noticeboard covered in vintage seed packets. ‘This is lovely.’
‘Isn’t it fun? So pretty. I couldn’t resist it. If Anthea doesn’t want it I’ll have it somewhere at home. Now: biscuits in that tin – and tell me everything.’
‘Well, Lucien’s parents have relented. They no longer think I’m horrendously unsuitable. I mean, they probably still do think that but they’ve had to come round to the thought of me. Lucien was so determined. They took us out to dinner and everything.’
Lorna shuddered. ‘Oh, was that all right?’
‘It was actually. Jasper kept filling my wine glass and they were so impressed with what Geraint, the baker who Lucien was working for, said about Lucien – us both really – they couldn’t grumble about me having an Irish accent.’
‘Wow! So how did you go from zero to hero?’ Lorna held out the biscuit tin.
