‘Good fun, though.’ I smiled.
Harry’s eyes met mine. He grinned and shook his head slightly. You and your fun, he seemed to be saying.
There was accommodation for five horses and Storm, a chestnut stallion with a white stripe down his nose, was in the end stall; the others were empty. He was gorgeous.
I reached up and patted his neck and Harry fetched a carrot out of his pocket, pausing to smirk at me before feeding it to the horse. This time I didn’t ask if he’d got anything in there for me.
‘That’s it, I’m afraid,’ he said. I had no idea whether he was talking to me or Storm but I studied the toe of my wellington boot just in case.
‘Your sister was a great horse woman, I remember,’ said Uncle Arthur.
‘She was,’ Harry agreed. ‘These stables were always full when I was growing up. Do you remember, Freya? All four of us had a horse.’
I nodded. ‘How is Jenny these days?’
‘She’s well, as far as I know. Don’t see much of her, she lives in Scotland.’ He sighed. ‘If you remember she couldn’t wait to get off the farm when she was growing up. Ironically, she married a salmon farmer. They’ve got two lovely girls.’
My heart ached at the forlorn expression on his face. It must be hard for him without any of his family nearby: parents on the south coast and his sister far away in the north.
Uncle Arthur shook his head. ‘You Graythwaites seem to have all migrated and us Moorcrofts are all coming home to roost.’
Jenny was older by six years and she had had the most beautiful pony ever, snowy white and—
‘Harry,’ I said suddenly, ‘didn’t you used to have a carriage?’
He raised an interested eyebrow. ‘Yes. Still got it in one of the sheds. Why?’
‘Watch it, Harry, you’ll be roped in to her wedding business before you know it,’ Uncle Arthur chuckled, turning away from the stables. ‘Now, come on, what about this land you’re after?’
Computerized or not, Harry’s office was far messier than Uncle Arthur’s had been before I took charge of it. (‘Needs a woman’s touch,’ Auntie Sue declared later when I told her about it.)
The smell was a bit ripe, too, but I forgave him that because the source of it, taking up a third of the floor space, was a wire pen containing a wriggling, yapping, tail-chasing litter of plump puppies, presided over by a red setter with a big smile on her face. I hadn’t realized dogs could smile, but Harry’s evidently could. One of the puppies bounded over to the edge of the pen towards me and in a flash I was in love.
I scooped up the puppy, held the squirming, yeasty-smelling body to my face and yelped as it started to chew a strand of my hair, which was the exact same colour as the puppy’s fur.
‘Look, it’s me in dog form,’ I laughed, holding the puppy up to my cheek.
‘Really?’ said Harry, scratching his nose. ‘I hadn’t noticed. The mum is called Belle, I haven’t named the puppies.’
‘Odd choice for a farm dog,’ sniffed Uncle Arthur, drawn to Belle nonetheless. He stooped to ruffle her silky ears.
‘I know,’ admitted Harry, looking sheepish. ‘I’d planned on getting something sensible, but when I arrived at the dog sanctuary I saw Belle and fell for her immediately. Apparently, she was too bonkers for the family who’d bought her and she needed re-homing. No one would take her on because she was pregnant at the time.’
Oh. How lovely was he? I realized my expression had gone all gooey and buried my head in the puppy’s fur.
Uncle Arthur and Harry began poring over plans of their respective land and brochures about short rotation coppicing for biofuels, which I know I should have been interested in but, come on, what’s more interesting than puppies? I tuned out and climbed into the dog pen. Belle stood up, stretched luxuriously and leaped out of the pen, leaving me in charge.
Twenty minutes later, I had been nipped, licked, climbed over and even weed on, and two puppies had fallen asleep in the crook of my arm. Meanwhile the two men – the new and the old face of farming – had come to a satisfactory agreement about Uncle Arthur’s spare acres and were making moves to wrap up their meeting.
I reluctantly laid the puppies down in a much-chewed wicker basket, climbed out, hoping nobody noticed the wet patch on my jeans, and joined them at the door.
‘This has been my biggest concern,’ Uncle Arthur was saying, pumping Harry’s hand up and down enthusiastically. ‘Sorting out who would take care of my land after I’m gone. And you two have solved that for me. I can’t thank you enough.’
My uncle rested one hand on my waist and the other on Harry’s shoulder. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and his old eyes filled with tears. Harry’s gaze met mine, he smiled softly and just as I had that snowy night all those years ago when the lambs had been born, I felt a connection between us, like we were part of something very special.
Chapter 37
One morning in November I was in Clover Field, the small one at the back of the orchard, checking on the progress of the new shower block. There was a sharp wind whistling down through the valley towards Lake Windermere and although I was bundled up in layers, the cold was nipping at my extremities and I was looking forward to getting back into the tea rooms and thawing out over the steam of the coffee machine.
Clover Field was the chosen site for our shepherd’s huts; it was hidden from the house by the orchard but was close enough for Goat to extend the farm’s plumbing system so that guests wouldn’t have to use the house.
‘This one, I think,’ I said, tapping a 1940s-inspired bathroom range in Goat’s catalogue.
‘My old gran had something like that,’ said Goat, his tone implying that that wasn’t necessarily an endorsement. He was standing on his long leg with the short one propped up on his toolbox. ‘And she had one of those doll thingummy-jigs with a knitted skirt to hide her loo paper.’ He shuddered. ‘Don’t you think customers will want something a bit more modern in here?’
‘Look at that, Goat.’ I pointed over to where Eddy was fixing a stainless-steel chimney into the first shepherd’s hut. ‘If they want modern, they’ve come to wrong place. We’re vintage all the way, even down to our loo-roll holders. Good tip there, thanks.’
He rolled his eyes as I handed back the brochure and headed across the wet grass, off to visit Eddy.
I was greeted by the sight of Eddy on all fours inside the hut, dressed in a dirty khaki boiler suit with his bottom in the air. His little dog, Buddy, scampered towards me and stood on his hind legs for some fuss.
‘Hey, Eddy, looking good.’ I meant the hut, not his rear end, but once the words were out of my mouth, I didn’t feel that I could correct myself. I gave Buddy a tickle under his chin and he padded back to his spot in the corner.
‘A right pig of a job this has turned out to be,’ grunted Eddy. He had his head in the log burner and his voice echoed through the flue hole in the top. ‘I’ve cut the ’ole in’t roof for the chimney in’t wrong place.’
‘Oh dear.’
I pressed my lips together to keep a laugh from escaping. Eddy didn’t like us to think he was enjoying his new job too much. The truth was a different matter: he loved the shepherd’s hut so much that on a fine day, he’d taken to eating his lunch out here, sitting on a camping chair and drinking beef tea from a flask.
And who could blame him? The hut looked amazing. The furnishings weren’t in yet, although they were ready and in storage in the shed, but the kitchen was finished, the interior had been decorated and the tiles around the log burner were in place.
I’d toyed with the idea of plumping for an array of Cath Kidston-style colourful prints, but in the end had taken my colour palette from the view out of the hut windows: wood panelling for the walls, soft greens and dove greys for the fabrics, and I’d found a gorgeous range of enamel storage tins in pale blue for the kitchen. The effect was gentle, calming and extremely relaxing, which was exactly what I wanted my guests to experience when
they stepped inside.
It didn’t seem to be working for Eddy, though.
‘Can’t we just shunt the log burner up a bit?’ I asked timidly.
He withdrew his head and scowled at me. He had black streaks down his face and looked quite menacing. ‘I’ll have to,’ he muttered, ‘but it won’t be symmetrical then.’
I was saved further debate about the importance of a symmetrical fireplace by a sudden wheezing at the door of the hut. I turned to see Auntie Sue, dressed in Uncle Arthur’s anorak and wellies, red-faced, wide-eyed and completely breathless.
‘Ooh, is the buyer here?’ I gasped.
Now that the cattle had all passed their TB test with flying colours, the Hereford herd was up for sale again, and the lady from Gloucestershire who we’d had to cancel in May was still interested in buying them. She was due at the farm that morning.
I glanced quickly at Eddy. That might explain why he was even more of a grump than usual. I rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and he patted it.
Auntie Sue shook her head, still panting. ‘Freya, lass, it’s your friend Anna on the phone. She says there’s been a flogger on the interweb and we’ve had thousands of smacks!’
My eyebrows shot up. ‘Is Anna still on the phone?’
Auntie Sue nodded. Her grasp of the internet was still a bit patchy and due to her breathlessness I wasn’t sure if this news was good or bad.
‘Thanks, Auntie Sue,’ I yelled, jumping down from the hut and racing across Clover Field to my new office.
I scrambled up the wooden steps to the loft above the milking parlour. The office wasn’t quite finished, but it had electrics, a phone line, a desk and chair, and my wall planner, so the plastering and flooring could wait for the moment.
‘Anna!’ I dropped into my chair and took a deep breath. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Oh my God.’ Anna’s voice was fizzing with excitement. Phew. The smacks must be of a good variety, then.
‘Did you know you’ve had a YouTuber with three million subscribers to her channel at the tea rooms?’ she shrieked. ‘From BRIGHTON! All THE top vloggers are in Brighton.’
‘No,’ I laughed, ‘I didn’t know any of that. But it’s a good thing, I take it?’
Come to think of it, the last hen party we’d had in was from Brighton. It must have been one of them. Waif-like little things, immaculately groomed and incredibly demure. Not one of them looked like they might be online A-listers.
‘Well, she only vlogged from the tea rooms and stuck pictures of some cows on Instagram and this morning alone, you’ve had fifty thousand hits on your website!’
Anna continued to look after our website for us, add news, update the menu, that sort of thing. Her company also hosted it on her server, whatever that meant.
‘What does that mean for us?’ I asked.
Anna squealed with delight. ‘It means the Appleby Farm Vintage Tea Rooms have arrived, Freya. It means you’ll need to make more scones because your bookings are going to go through the roof, baby!’
‘Really?’
‘And, more good news …’ Anna paused dramatically. ‘I’ll be seeing you soon. Charlie’s bringing me to Tilly and Aidan’s wedding.’
‘Oh, Anna!’ I squealed. ‘I’m so pleased. No, actually, I’m more than pleased. This is brilliant!’
‘Seriously?’ she asked, sounding worried. ‘Because the last thing I’d want to do is—’
‘Anna, stop,’ I insisted. ‘Charlie is a love and so are you. I’m thrilled. Really.’
I did my happy dance round the office, she joined in in Kingsfield and we ended the call whooping with joy to each other. The phone rang instantly. I took a booking for a twenty-first birthday party. It rang again. Could we host an office party? Another hen party? Afternoon tea for fifteen? I switched the answer phone on and looked out of the window. The car park was busy – not just with the family hatchbacks and mumsy four-wheel drives, but with cute little Fiats and Minis.
I hurried to the tea rooms and had to push my way through the throng to the counter. Lizzie and Mum, cheeks flushed, looked at me with relief. I grabbed an apron and joined them.
‘Yes, please?’ I beamed at the person at the head of the queue. ‘What can I get you?’
As soon as I’d had a chance I’d brought them up to speed with our YouTube début and the excitement of that and the evident increase in business had produced just enough adrenalin to see us through the day. By closing time the three of us were completely worn out and as soon as Lizzie switched the sign from open to closed, we collapsed in a heap.
‘Best. Day. Ever,’ declared Lizzie, from her spot on the floor where she’d slid down the glass doors. ‘Lots of today’s customers were potential brides, you know. Your vintage company idea is going to fly, babes – I mean, boss. Hey!’ she said suddenly. ‘We could have a vintage festival here next year; we could be the vintage Mecca of the North West!’
‘Right now I’m more concerned with cakes.’ I frowned. I was leaning on the counter, surveying the sparse remains in the food cabinet. ‘Auntie Sue is so busy packing for their move that she’s only just keeping up with normal demand.’
‘I’ll help,’ said Mum, scooping a pile of crumbs from the table in front of her into a napkin. ‘I’ve wanted to suggest it for ages, but I didn’t want to tread on Sue’s toes. And if we’re going to be baking more that gives me the perfect excuse to order a new oven.’
I clasped my throat, horrified. ‘You aren’t thinking of getting rid of the Aga, are you? A farmhouse kitchen needs an Aga.’
I pictured a basket of snoozing kittens in front of it and mentally added kittens to my growing list of the menagerie I planned on introducing to Appleby Farm at the earliest opportunity.
‘No, it can stay; we’ll need the extra capacity. But I thought we could get a large stainless-steel professional oven. I’ve always dreamed of one of those. The Aga is lovely, but I get the feeling it’s in charge of me rather than the other way round. And if we continue to attract a younger crowd like today, I thought we could try a few more current recipes.’
Lizzie wrinkled up her nose. ‘What. Like buns?’
Mum laughed and shook her head. Her hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon and she looked just as well-turned-out now as she had at ten o’clock this morning. My heart squeezed with pride. Not just because she was so pretty but because she had adapted from her life as a banker’s wife in a luxurious Parisian apartment to a waitress in my tea rooms at a tumbledown farm in northern England, seemingly without a murmur. There was a lot more to my mum, I realized shamefully, than I’d given her credit for.
‘No, Lizzie,’ Mum replied, ‘like macarons, or individual lemon tarts or a tiramisu slice.’
Lizzie winked at me at the mention of tiramisu and I shot her a warning look.
‘That would be amazing, Mum, if you would.’ I sighed gratefully. ‘We might even have to source another supplier if things continue like this, as long as they follow our recipes for consistency.’
‘Ooh,’ Lizzie’s eyes lit up, ‘we could do an Appleby Farm Vintage recipe book!’
‘You and your ideas, Lizzie,’ I laughed. ‘No wonder I’m shattered. I can’t keep up.’
Lizzie got to her feet, hugged us all goodbye and set off for home. She was still living in a room at the White Lion and for once I envied her the tiny uncomplicated space. As soon as my parents moved in in a week or two they were transforming the whole middle floor of the farmhouse into a master suite with bathroom and dressing room. And the new downstairs reception room and bathroom hadn’t been finished yet. The place would be in chaos right up until Tilly and Aidan’s wedding and my head spun just thinking about it.
I must have sighed out loud because Mum appeared at my side and put her arm round me.
‘Darling,’ she said gently, ‘as your mother, who loves you very much, I can’t help noticing a distinct lack of social life, not to mention boyfriends.’
I laughed softly and le
aned my head against her. ‘I’m fine, Mum, honestly. Getting the business off the ground and being able to pay you and Dad back is my number-one priority at the moment. A social life can wait for now, as can men.’
Mum pressed a kiss into my hair and I felt the tension ease from my shoulders.
‘Never put your career before love, Freya. Your job will never love you back, never share memories with you when you’re old, never give me a grandchild to spoil rotten.’
‘I’m not making a choice to be single, Mum; it just hasn’t happened.’
‘Do you know, I gave up my career for your father?’
I shook my head.
‘I’d just finished a cordon bleu cookery course in Manchester and had accepted a trainee position at a pâtisserie in Paris starting in three months’ time when I met him.’
‘Mum!’ I pulled away to stare at her, amazed. ‘Why don’t I know this?’
‘I thought you’d be appalled.’ Her hand fluttered to her pearls and she twisted them into a knot. ‘Equal opportunities and all that. Such an old-fashioned thing to do these days. Different in the seventies, of course.’
‘A pâtissière?’ I marvelled. No wonder she was so flippin’ brilliant in the kitchen!
‘Your father was doing well at the bank at the time and was in line for promotion. There was no way he could have come to Paris with me. He said that even though we’d not been together long, we would have to stop seeing each other, that I already meant so much to him. He couldn’t bear to fall in love with me, only to have his heart broken when I left. So I wrote and told them I wouldn’t be coming.’
‘Poor Dad,’ I said, thinking that there was a side to him, too, that I hadn’t been aware of. My spine was tingling at the thought of such love between them, but there was something else that I couldn’t quite put my finger on …
‘We got to live in Paris in the end, of course, and now it appears I’m about to become a pâtissière,’ Mum continued happily. ‘So I’m getting my career after all. A little belatedly.’
Appleby Farm Page 33
