Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  He shuddered at the thought, but he could sell the Healey and use it as a deposit. He’d get twenty grand for it, no problem. And a mortgage for the rest. Though he didn’t have a clue how to get one or how much they cost or anything. Their old bank manager, Cowley, would have sorted this out for him, pulled a few strings, but he’d recently taken early retirement. He and his wife were touring the Scottish Highlands and looking forward to a meal at the Honeycote Arms, it had said in his last postcard.

  James. He’d ask James. James was sensible, knew about money, wasn’t going to start any heavy emotional blackmail family shit. And Patrick had always respected James’s opinion. He didn’t want to go to his father for advice: he loved his father dearly, but he had no illusions about his business acumen. Mickey still, at the tender age of forty-five, had the notion that money appeared out of nowhere whenever you needed it, and that although a vague attempt at working for a living was necessary in this day and age, it didn’t do to work too hard.

  As his uncle and his godfather, James had always been fond of Patrick, and had kept a distant but kindly eye on the boy without being too proactive. But since he and Caroline had had Henry, he was surprised to find his sense of responsibility to Patrick had increased, perhaps because now he was a father himself, he realized that Mickey had quite a few shortcomings and Patrick hadn’t really been prepared for life and how tough it could be. James knew Mickey was no angel. His brother behaved appallingly and irresponsibly at times, and if James could now redress the balance, he would. He’d watched Patrick over the last year struggling to grow up and cope, and he thought he’d done pretty well, though his methods were sometimes unusual. After all, he could have turned out to be a feckless wastrel. So when Patrick came to him for advice on Little Orwell Cottage, he thought the boy needed a break and offered to lend him the money.

  Patrick was horrified at first. He hoped James didn’t think he’d gone to see him in the hopes of a sub. He’d just wanted his advice. James brushed away his fears.

  ‘It’s about time you got a place of your own. You’re twenty-four. You need your own space. Somewhere to…’

  ‘Get my leg over in peace,’ said Patrick meaningfully.

  James grinned. He might ooze cool English reserve, but he was a red-blooded male underneath it all.

  ‘Absolutely. Anyway, the point is, if it’s up for auction in a couple of weeks you’re going to need cash. Which isn’t a problem – I can lend it to you, then when you’ve got the place and it’s in your name, you can take out a mortgage on it.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to afford the repayments.’

  Patrick had been on the Internet at the brewery. It was a whole new world to him, but he’d been on a few building society web sites and used their mortgage calculators. On what he was earning at the moment, he could afford the repayments on a hundred thousand max.

  ‘Well,’ said James. ‘In that case, it’s about time I told you about the Maze.’

  He pronounced it to rhyme with vase. Patrick was puzzled.

  ‘What’s the Maze?’

  ‘It’s a painting. By Paul Maze. The one I gave you for your christening.’

  Patrick nodded. The painting had hung in his bedroom for as long as he could remember – a brightly-coloured, impressionistic Cornish seascape with jolly boats bobbing on the water. He loved it – when he was feeling pissed off he always imagined leaping into one of those boats and sailing off into the sunset, into another life.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for the opportune moment to tell you. I got it for you at an auction for next to nothing, just after you were born. I had a hunch it would come good. If I’d known quite how good, I might not have handed it over to you in such a hurry. I’d have bought you a christening mug instead.’ James gave a wry smile. Patrick wished he’d hurry up and get to the point. ‘Anyway, as they say on the Antiques Roadshow, Paul Maze is very desirable. I reckon it would get anywhere between thirty and fifty grand at auction.’

  Patrick was stunned.

  ‘And it’s hanging in my bedroom? Shit, James – you might have told me.’

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? What with everything that went on last year, I didn’t want anyone knowing the answer was hanging on the wall in your bedroom. It’s your legacy, that painting. For you to do what you want with.’

  James didn’t like to actually verbalize his fear that Mickey would have had it down off the wall and flogged it before you could say knife, so desperate had he been. It wasn’t as if the painting could have saved the brewery, only put off the day of reckoning for a few weeks, so he didn’t feel guilty about keeping it quiet.

  ‘I can’t sell it,’ said Patrick. ‘I love that painting.’

  ‘Be realistic, Patrick. What would you rather have? A painting – or a house?’

  ‘But it was a present. From you. A christening present. You don’t sell your own christening presents.’

  ‘It wouldn’t bother me, I can assure you. I bought that for you as an investment. OK, it’s a jolly nice picture. But what’s the point of a painting if you haven’t got a wall to hang it on?’

  Patrick was deeply uncomfortable about the whole proposition, but James, who was enormously pragmatic, told him not to be sentimental. In the end, they agreed that James would buy the painting off him for thirty thousand and keep the difference when he sold it on in order to cover the interest on the rest of the loan for Little Orwell Cottage. Patrick couldn’t stop thanking him and telling him how grateful he was.

  ‘I just hope you’d do the same for Henry one day.’

  ‘Well, of course. If I could,’ said Patrick.

  ‘What I mean’, said James, ‘is I’d like you to be godfather.’

  Patrick was stunned. James carried on.

  ‘Caroline and I have had endless debates about it. By rights, it should be Mickey I ask. But I’ve come to fatherhood so late, he’s getting on a bit to be a godfather. So we decided you would be far better. And I know Mickey won’t mind. In fact, I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

  Patrick was choked, and accepted. He adored his little nephew Henry. He was never entirely sure what to do with him, as it was his first contact with a proper baby, but he was charmed by his giggles and wriggles and never forgot to bring an unsuitable chocolate rabbit for him to devour or a noisy wind-up toy that would drive Caroline to distraction.

  When he drove away later, he wasn’t sure what to feel. Little Orwell Cottage was as good as his. He’d got a painting on his bedroom wall worth a small fortune. But the overwhelming feeling was one of pride. James thought enough of him to ask him to be godfather. He’d never imagined that; not in his wildest dreams.

  15

  A week before the opening night, the Honeycote Arms was due to have a dummy run. First thing in the morning, Barney and Suzanna ceremoniously stuck the sign with his name on it over the door. They stood back and admired the freshly-painted black letters, proclaiming Barney to be the licensee.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Suzanna, because she knew how hard he’d worked to get through all the red tape, the stringent tests, and he’d had to do it pretty much all on his own. He hadn’t had a partner in crime like she had, and she was sure it was deadly dull, even though it was the sort of thing he was good at.

  Barney gave a sheepish grin.

  ‘It feels pretty good,’ he admitted. ‘I never dreamed I’d see my name over a door like that. Pity we can’t bugger off somewhere and celebrate.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Suzanna. ‘I’ve got so much to do I feel sick.’

  ‘You do realize that this is it?’ said Barney. ‘That we’re married to this place, as of next week. That our lives aren’t going to be our own.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the whole idea?’ she said lightly.

  ‘You’re quite happy we’ve done the right thing?’

  Suzanna wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Ask me tomorrow. I’ll have a better idea then…’

  *

  T
hat day was also Mandy’s twentieth birthday. She woke up feeling unusually flat. Keith made a fuss of her at breakfast: he made her freshly-squeezed orange juice and a beautiful bowl of strawberries and blueberries with Greek yogurt. Propped against her glass was a funny card with a cheque in it. She was a bit disappointed. Keith was usually brilliant at presents – proper ones. She didn’t really want money. It didn’t mean anything. She remembered how he’d bought her Monkey the Christmas before last: the horse she’d always longed for. It was the best present she’d ever had.

  Keith disappeared off to work before she was even dressed. It was a big day for the pub, he said. What about her, thought Mandy? It was a big day for her too. Keith saw that she looked a bit disconsolate.

  ‘We’ll make a night of it tonight. At least you’ll be guaranteed a good meal.’

  Mandy thought she might choke on anything Suzanna had cooked. But she didn’t say anything.

  When she got to the brewery, Patrick gave her a card – one which she recognized as the line kept in the village post office. It was cheap and naff. She’d rather he hadn’t bothered. He did have the grace to apologize for not having had the time to get her a present.

  ‘I’m really sorry. It’s just been so chaotic. We’ll go out and choose something, you and me. After the pub’s opened.’

  After the pub. That’s where she always seemed to come these days. After the pub.

  Mandy felt deeply hurt. She couldn’t help being one of those people who considered birthdays important. She never forgot anyone else’s. She always made a huge effort to get them a nice card, one that was relevant to them. And a proper present. In unusual wrapping paper with ribbons and bows. It was, after all, the one day of the year when a person was supposed to feel special.

  She didn’t feel special today. It was quite clear where all the attention was being directed. To rub salt into her wounds, Elspeth spotted the card Patrick had given her and examined it very disparagingly. Mandy wished she’d chucked it straight in the bin.

  Over at the pub, chaos reigned and tempers ran high. There were still workmen crawling all over the place finishing off little jobs, which seemed to get in the way of anything anyone wanted to do. In the end, it was obvious the dining room wasn’t going to be ready, so as a contingency plan they put some old trestle tables up in the games room. Barney didn’t know what they would have done without it – it had doubled up as a boardroom, training centre, office and common room.

  Suzanna rose to the occasion when all the newly-appointed staff, including Kitty and Sasha, arrived for a briefing. She was incredibly clear about what she expected from them, and what they would get in return. They listened intently – even Sasha. Barney was impressed at how she managed to hold their attention.

  ‘We’re paying you well – over the odds – but for that we expect total dedication. You are part of the package people are buying into when they come here. I expect you, obviously, to be polite and attentive, but it goes beyond that. I want you to use your initiative. Anyone who goes blank when they’re asked a question and has to go and refer to someone else isn’t doing their research. I want you in here an hour before service starts. I want you to taste all the food so you can describe it from personal experience. I want you to understand why and how the menu works, know without referring to me or Jonty whether something can be altered.

  ‘I want you to look customers in the eye. Refer to them by name – you should be able to work that out from the booking. Remember them when they come in next time. Be chatty, but not intrusive. Be enthusiastic, but not false. Helpful, but not interfering. Attentive, but not pushy. If they want to fill their own glasses up, leave them to it. You can tell if people want their own space or if they get off on being grovelled to. You need to be chameleons, adapting to the individual needs of each customer.’

  She looked round. Everyone looked a bit daunted. She grinned.

  ‘No need to panic. It’ll come with experience. You just need to observe.’

  She went on to demonstrate table etiquette: where they were to stand when taking orders; how to remember who had ordered what (‘the last thing I want is my waiting staff to stand there asking who’s the guinea fowl?’); how to check that a table was laid immaculately before anyone sat down; how to keep an attentive eye on a party’s needs without interrupting to ask unnecessarily if everything is all right.

  ‘I know this all sounds a bit anal, but it should come across as effortless. For me, the most important thing is that every customer should be relaxed… We’ve got fantastic surroundings, the food is down to me’ – she pulled a funny little face – ‘and if you do your job right, we’ll get there.’

  Everyone nodded solemnly, and as Suzanna spread her hands to indicate her lecture was over, they broke into spontaneous applause.

  At midday, Mandy’s mobile bleeped. She had a text. A picture text with a birthday cake on it. From Rick. She phoned him straight away.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Aha.’ There was a teasing tone in his voice. He didn’t tell her he’d looked at her driving licence when she’d gone to the loo last time they were out. ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘Working, I suppose.’

  ‘Bunk off. Come and meet me. I want to give you your present.’

  Mandy thought about it. No one would notice. They were all too busy running round like headless chickens, getting ready for this evening. And why not? He was the only one who’d actually bothered to get her anything.

  He led her through the backstreets until they came to a double-fronted shop. AMERICAN TATTOO PARLOUR, the sign proclaimed, and Mandy gave a horrified gasp as it dawned on her what Rick had in mind.

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ Rick took out a piece of paper with a Chinese character on it. ‘Here. I chose it for you. M for Mandy. Just a small one. Right here.’

  He slid up her T-shirt and touched her bare skin, just above the hip bone. She took a breath inwards. Half of her was totally turned on by the idea; the other was terrified. She shook her head, laughing. Rick spent the next five minutes doing his best to persuade her.

  ‘A tiny, tiny one. It won’t hurt, I promise. Col is brilliant – he’s done all of us. Anyway, I’ll hold your hand.’

  She couldn’t chicken out. It was so sweet of Rick to think of her. He’d chosen the design specially for her. He’d given more thought to her than anyone else had done. She smiled bravely.

  ‘OK,’ she said and, taking a deep breath, followed him inside.

  When she came out of the parlour, Mandy was as high as a kite with the thrill and the wickedness of what she’d had done. It had hurt, despite Rick’s reassurances, though in a funny way you got used to the pain. And it had been worth it. It looked fantastic, the black against her smooth skin – even though it was still a bit red and sore and would be for a few days. She had a bandage on it for the time being, and a tube of antiseptic cream to apply to make sure it didn’t go septic.

  ‘You’d better get back. Or everyone will be wondering where you are.’

  Mandy didn’t think she actually cared. If it hadn’t been for her father, and the fact he’d be worried, she wouldn’t have bothered. She sighed, and Rick knew, with no more than the gentlest of persuasion, that she’d run off into the sunset with him. But he wanted to be absolutely sure she was hooked when he closed in on her. It was still early days yet. He didn’t want her having second thoughts and slipping through his fingers.

  Rick took her back to her car. She thanked him again for the tattoo. She was so grateful, it was almost pathetic. He felt the tiniest twinge of guilt as he walked away and left her. He supposed it was a bit naughty, telling her it was an M when it was an R. He smiled to himself. He wondered how long it would take Patrick to find out his girlfriend had been as good as branded.

  Mandy sat in her car after Rick had gone. Her head was spinning. Whenever he touched her, it was like being jump-started. And she couldn’t take her eyes off him
, his incredible golden skin that felt like silk velvet. She shut her eyes and fantasized for a moment, imagining the feel of his torso against her bare breasts. Then she stopped. She was torturing herself. He was just a mate. He hadn’t made a move on her at all. She had to accept they were that all-time cliché: just good friends.

  She looked down at the bandage covering her tattoo and felt a sudden rush of panic. What was going to happen when everyone found out? She couldn’t keep it hidden for ever. She must be insane!

  But then, it occurred to her, she’d probably do anything for Rick. Anything he asked…

  At half past six that evening Suzanna realized with a jolt that this was the point at which she had to put her money where her mouth was. And it was a terrifying prospect. Although she’d worked in many, many kitchens, had catered hundreds of times for large amounts of people, somehow this was different. The success was so inextricably down to her – they could have a beautiful setting, attentive staff, a fabulous wine list, but if the food wasn’t up to scratch, they could forget it.

  They’d invited as many people along that they could trust, in case anything did go wrong. Mickey and Lucy, James and Caroline, Keith and Ginny, Jonty’s wife, Toby’s parents and the Liddiards’ next-door neighbours, Ned’s parents. They’d had a raffle at the brewery, four winners being awarded a meal for two. Graham Cowley, the brewery’s former bank manager, and his wife had also been invited as a thank you for all the support he’d shown them over the years.

  They were only running half a menu, as they didn’t have a full house, but Suzanna wanted there to be a choice so the dress rehearsal was as realistic as possible. There would be no challenge in serving up the same dish to everyone. And it wasn’t just for her benefit – the waiting staff had to be put through their paces. She had to see if her systems worked and if everyone had paid attention to her exacting demands.

  So there was roasted guinea fowl in a creamy cider sauce, lamb shanks in a shiny redcurrant and wine glaze or fillets of beef with field mushrooms and shallots. And on each table were to be placed big dishes of dauphinois potatoes, a root vegetable purée, curly kale, carrots and fresh peas – all organic and locally grown, so fresh you could almost still taste the earth they’d been pulled out of.