* * *
From that point until the wedding day, Libby was a whirlwind of activity. I helped her as much as I could, although she was terribly efficient.
Dolly Mops went in first and performed heroic acts of cleaning above and beyond the call of duty, transforming the barn into a clean and pleasant place. Apparently they discovered spiders so big they could have saddled them and ridden round the courtyard, had there been any harnesses left in the tackroom.
After that, we all helped paint the rough-hewn walls, including Ben, who emerged from finishing his latest series of artworks in time to tackle the tricky upper bits. When he heard about the Italian theme of the reception, he really got into the swing of it and retired back to the studio to paint a bold backcloth on cotton duck, depicting the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was hung at one end, behind where the bride and groom would be sitting, and looked rather splendid, especially the opulently rococo clouds.
The electrician had already installed more lighting, including antique-style wall sconces and several power points. The tackroom, too, was being turned into a sort of utility area for food preparation and storage.
Providing the buffet proved to be the easiest thing of all to arrange in the end, once Libby had consulted Maria. It was all to be prepared at the flagship Cazzini restaurant and sent up in a refrigerated van overnight. Giovanni, Maria’s husband, now heads the family business and, being too busy to come himself, lavishly gave Tim and Libby the food and champagne as a wedding present.
Background music would be provided by a folk rock group, the Mummers of Invention, whom Nick Pharamond had recommended, but Libby and Tim were to slip away to change and leave by mid-afternoon to fly to Pisa for their honeymoon.
Gina would probably be firmly in control by then, and able to see that everything was cleared away and returned to where it should be, by the following day, and to look after Maria and Pia.
Tim and Libs were quite soppy together, which made me feel a bit wistful, because I didn’t think Ben and I were ever like that, even when we were teenagers…and I never got to walk up the aisle in a cloud of love and white lace either.
But I should be thankful for what I had, because love can’t be rose-coloured and fluffy for ever, like those clouds in the backdrop; it has to settle into something more everyday eventually—though no less deep and meaningful, of course.
I said as much to the photographer that Glorious Weddings sent round, but he was a morose man and only grunted. I only hoped he didn’t cast a pall on Libby’s reception when he came to take that picture of the happy couple hovering over the Leaning Tower of Pisa with a cake knife.
Chapter Nine
Pisa Cake
I seem to spend every spare moment making parsnip wine lately, though since it is one of the finest wines, the end result is worth it! Not all root vegetables make good wine and, having once tasted Jerusalem artichoke wine at a friend’s house, I would strongly advise you against it.
‘Unforgettable’ would be the politest thing I could say about it.
‘Cakes and Ale’
Charlie Rhymer, the editor of Skint Old Northern Woman magazine, emailed me to say that she thought my cover was well and truly blown, and thanks to the Country at Heart article, everyone had figured out who I was. Then she sent on a load of fan emails that were cluttering up her inbox.
Now they are cluttering up mine.
I think I will have to work out a standard cheery reply to send to them all. Several ask for recipes or advice, and I can’t possibly spend all my time answering individually.
It had been so much easier to write my column under the cover of anonymity, like a blog…Now I would have to be much more careful what I said!
The wedding was now literally only days away and Libby and I were standing in the Old Barn admiring the transformation.
Carefully angled lighting subtly lit up the beautiful, rough-hewn beams, and rush matting covered the stone floor. Large space heaters stood in the four corners of the huge room, hired for the occasion, like the trestle tables and chairs stacked up along one wall, ready to be set out.
In the tackroom, now turned into a neat and tidy preparation area, were boxes of plates, cutlery, glasses and all the hundred-and-one other things necessary. A huge red fridge, destined afterwards to replace the inadequate one in the Blessings kitchen, stood in the corner.
‘It all looks wonderful, Libby! I never thought you’d pull it off, in the time.’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ she said witheringly. ‘And what’s more, it’s given me another great idea.’
I groaned. ‘You haven’t got time for anything else, Libs—you’re getting married at the end of this week!’
‘Yes, but it’s not an idea for my wedding, it’s something more long term. Once I’d realised what a wonderful wedding reception venue this place could be, it occurred to me that we could hire out the barn for other people’s receptions. There’s obviously a dearth of places in this area, since I couldn’t find one.’
‘Well…yes, I suppose you could,’ I said, turning it over in my mind. ‘You know, I think you’ve hit on a great idea!’
‘Well, you needn’t sound so surprised.’
‘Sorry, I just hadn’t really thought of you as a businesswoman before, that’s all.’
‘I’m not a complete featherhead, you know,’ she said patiently.
‘You aren’t a featherhead at all,’ I assured her. ‘I never thought you were. No, it’s a really great idea, but wouldn’t you need planning permission and that kind of thing?’
‘Oh, I’m sure we would, but Tim could sort that out. And we’d have to make the tackroom more of a proper kitchen, though we wouldn’t cook; it would be buffet-style only. And if they have a small wedding party, couples could even marry in the Great Chamber, if they didn’t want a church wedding!’
‘I can see you’ve been really thinking this one out, Libs.’
‘Yes, and I think it could be very lucrative. Maybe Tim could give up being a solicitor eventually, which he hates, and just help out and garden. The wedding parties could have lovely photos done in the grounds, once they’re tidied up a bit.’
‘But you’re a bit out of the habit of working, Libby—or of being tied to one spot.’
‘I think I would enjoy it. It would be a challenge. And if we only open for the main wedding season, May to September, we’ll have lots of time to go and do whatever else we want. Maybe we should open earlier the first year, though, to try and recoup some of the expenses of doing the place up—and, of course, we’ll be very upmarket and pricey.’
‘Would you run it all yourself?’
‘Yes, of course. And I’ll feature some of your cake designs in the glossy brochure I send out, if you like, so you’ll probably get even more orders.’
‘Yours has been an absolute nightmare to make, Libby. You can’t imagine how tricky it was to get the Tower of Pisa to lean sufficiently without falling over.’
‘I think they’re having that problem with the real thing,’ she said absently, jotting something down on the back of yet another list.
When Libby and Tim came over to the cottage that evening to have a private viewing, they both seemed delighted with the cake, so I only hoped subsidence wouldn’t affect the foundations before the big day.
In the morning, when I went next door to collect Mac for his walk, I found Harry sitting in his armchair by the fire, a letter in his lap and his eyes unfocused. Strangely, he always seems more vulnerable when he hasn’t got his hat on. Perhaps it’s the sight of all those baby-fine silver curls.
‘Harry! What is it—bad news?’ I was afraid something awful had happened in New Zealand, but was reassured when he looked at me and gave a wry smile.
‘No, not really. It’s just the Ministry of Defence about that medal. Seems I’m not qualified for it, after all.’
‘You’re not? But you were on the minesweepers for six months, so where’s the problem?’
‘Apparentl
y I’m seven days short of qualifying. Here, see what they say for yourself.
He handed me the letter, typed on thick cream paper that had been heavily embossed at taxpayers’ expense, and I sat down in the chair opposite. Mac, looking resigned, lay on the mat, though he kept one hopeful eye on me while I read,
Service Personnel and Veterans Agency
An executive agency of the Ministry of Defence
Ministry of Defence Medal Office
Dear Mr Hutton,
Further to your enquiry concerning the Minesweeping medal, I have assessed the application and can give you the following information.
The Naval General Service Medal with Minesweeping Clasp 45/51 is awarded for serving 180 days on a minesweeper from the end of the hostilities in 1945 to 30 September 1951.
Your time spent on a BYMS between 12 June 1946 and 1 December 1946 totals 173 days.
Therefore I regret to inform you that you do not qualify for the Naval General Service Medal with Minesweeping Clasp.
I am sorry to give what must be a disappointing response and can I thank you for your enquiry.
There was an illegible squiggle for a signature, but underneath was printed, ‘Clive Wapshott for Chief Executive.’
I read it twice, in total disbelief, before I looked up. ‘You mean, just because you served a week less than the six months, they’re not going to give you your medal? After you went right through the war and the Far East and everything, before you did all those months minesweeping? But that’s ridiculous!’
‘No, that’s the Forces for you. Everything has to be down to the precise terms or you get nothing,’ he said, seeming, now the first disappointment had worn off, to be amused rather than anything. ‘If I’d realised, I wouldn’t have bothered applying.’
‘And it’s a horrible letter, written by some jobsworth enjoying laying down the rules!’ I thought it seemed so cruel too, dashing elderly servicemen’s hopes like that, however resigned and unsurprised Harry seemed by it.
‘Well, that’s it,’ he said. ‘Now, are you taking that poor dog for his walk, or what?’
That nasty, smug letter occupied my mind all the way through the village, over the fields and back again—and the more I thought about it, the more upset and angry I got.
In the High Street, Violet had to hail me twice from her tricycle before I heard her, and I probably walked straight past several people I knew.
Harry was in his shed when I got back and wouldn’t let me in when I knocked, though Mac sidled in through the few open inches of door. I dare say Harry had begun making my Christmas present; he makes the loveliest little wooden boxes and tiny hanging cupboards and things like that.
‘Harry, would you mind if I borrowed that Ministry of Defence letter and wrote back to them? I’d like to give them a piece of my mind!’
‘Help yourself, our Josie. But it won’t get you anywhere, you know. They don’t bend the rules, don’t the MOD.’
‘Maybe not, but I’ll feel better,’ I said, and went home to drink nettle tea and pen a stinging reply to the email address helpfully printed on the letterhead.
Dear Clive Wapshott,
I have seen the letter you recently sent to my uncle, Harold Hutton (your reference above).
Apparently he cannot receive a minesweeping medal because he served only 173 days on a minesweeper, a mere seven days fewer than the required 180 days.
I cannot tell you how disgusted I feel by this piddling, petty-minded, pettifogging and paltry decision. When most people were celebrating the end of the war, he and many others were still fighting on in the Far East under dreadful conditions. Then when he finally got back, he was sent to risk his life again minesweeping around the coast for six months. I don’t know what happened to the seven days—perhaps he was suffering one of the recurrent fevers he had for years after the war, probably due to not having enough water on board in the Far East with which to wash down his malaria tablets.
I am sure you are sitting there saying pathetic things like ‘we can’t bend the rules’ and ‘oh no, it must be the full 180 days’ in a totally jobsworthy way. Perhaps you ought for a moment to contemplate what sort of life you and everyone else working at the MOD would have had (and bear in mind that I and the rest of the taxpayers are paying your wages) had my uncle and many other young men not given up the best years of their lives, and in many cases life itself, to fight that war.
I am quite sure that this letter will get nothing except a brush-off reply, but the almost unbelievably trifling nature of your missive shows such a lack of respect for my uncle’s generation that I felt I must express my feelings.
Luckily my uncle, who is now 82 and in frail health, has a sense of humour and has seen the funny side. He will survive the disappointment—he’s survived a lot worse, after all. He earned his medal, he doesn’t need a bit of metal and a ribbon to prove anything to me or the rest of his family. We know he’s a hero.
Yours sincerely,
Josie Gray
I felt a bit better after emailing that off, but not much. Ben agreed with me that Harry’s treatment by the MOD was disgraceful, but then what sane person wouldn’t?
Ben went down to London yet again, though he assured me he was just delivering the new series of his artworks, which he’d now completed, and would be back almost immediately, together with a suit and shirt suitable for ushering duties.
I thought, he’d better be.
Actually, this time he seemed more resigned to the trip rather than eager to go, which was something, I suppose. But since he’d have to take the van, it would leave me without transport until he got back, unless I borrowed Harry’s cherished old Vauxhall Cavalier, which I only do if desperate.
‘The Egremont Gallery has got a client who might be interested in buying the whole new series,’ Ben explained. ‘He likes my work, but he lives in Switzerland and he’s only here for a few days. I’ll be back before the wedding.’
‘I know, I just wish you didn’t have to go again so soon. And what about that woman?’
His face went blank. ‘What woman?’
‘The one stalking you,’ I said patiently. Really, he was amazingly single-minded where his work was concerned, to the point of forgetting everything else! He had no idea that I’d told Libby about the patroness. Her advice, predictably, had been to go to London with him and ensure we were seen as a couple everywhere, until the stalker got the idea and gave up.
‘Oh, her. I think she’s over the worst now. She’s not ringing me half as much,’ he said optimistically, with a charmingly boyish grin, then gave me one of his rib-cracking, but very reassuring, hugs.
This time there was no heart laid out in vegetables anywhere to be seen, but at bedtime I found a tin of chocolate sardines under the pillow that I remembered the Graces giving him last Christmas as a thank you for all the chopped firewood he’d taken them. He must have had them stashed in the studio ever since, because they smelled a bit musty and tasted slightly odd when I tried one, and I wasn’t quite sure what kind of message they were meant to convey…
I had lots to occupy myself with in his absence, because as well as the Pisa wedding cake, Libby had decided she wanted a hundred and fifty mini cappuccino cupcakes. She’d seen a photograph in a magazine of little cakes arranged up a sort of spiral stand and ordered two of the stands, though they hadn’t arrived yet. The cakes would be made with free-range eggs from Harry’s hens, of course, and each was to be topped with an icing rose, tinted blush pink with natural food colouring.
The buffet of antipasti would also include a whole fresh salmon and salads. For dessert, there would be tiramisu or, of course, my little cupcakes. I was to deliver them to the barn very early on the day of the wedding, and then later go across to Blessings to help Libby get ready, and also to put on my own dress and a bit of makeup.
I did wonder if maybe Libby was right (as she sometimes was) and, if I made a bit of effort, it might stun Ben into seeing me in a whole new light—prefera
bly one coming through a stained-glass window as we exchanged our vows at the altar.
But meanwhile there was work to be done, and I’d just started making the little icing roses for the cupcakes when Violet Grace popped in.
‘I don’t want to disturb you when you are so busy,’ she said, admiring the first row of roses, ‘but we would be very grateful for your opinion on our wedding present to Libby and Tim.’ She unwrapped the tissue paper parcel she was carrying to display a large, white linen tablecloth. ‘What do you think? Will it do?’
The Graces must have stayed up every night since they got their invitations, for the tablecloth not only had one of Pansy’s deep, gossamer-fine crocheted edgings, but Lily had embroidered a whole bouquet of flowers in the middle, including lots of fat cabbage roses, and the happy couple’s names.
‘Oh, it’s beautiful!’ I exclaimed.
‘Do you think so? Not too old-fashioned?’
‘Not at all. Retro is back in again.’
‘Really?’ Violet looked slightly puzzled. ‘Lily chose flowers symbolic of love and faithfulness—so romantic!’
‘They’ll love it. It will be a Blessings heirloom!’ I assured her. ‘In fact, I’ve a feeling that once she sees it, Libby will want to have it on the table under the wedding cake at the reception.’
Violet went quite pink with pleasure. ‘In that case, we will wrap it up today and take it straight to Blessings. I have some silver tissue paper at home that will do nicely.’
‘Did you come on your trike?’ I asked. ‘Only, if you did, I wondered if you would like to take back a few extra vegetables? I seem to have a glut of some things.’
‘Do I have enough Acorns, dear?’
‘Yes, loads, because of Lily altering the bridesmaid’s dress at such short notice, plus all the Acorns Pansy’s earned by knitting me that lovely rainbow cardigan out of leftover wool,’ I assured her. ‘And my friend Stella’s given me lots more of her old hippie clothes and some of them need taking in, if Lily doesn’t mind.’
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