I threw back the covers, stood in front of the mirror and drew a deep breath. No more shying away from it, Verity Bloom, it was time to get back in the kitchen.
An hour later, the cookery school seemed to crackle with nervous energy as I beckoned Mags and Pixie up the beautiful wrought-iron staircase to deliver the news about Tom’s continued absence.
I stood at the teaching workstation and cast my eye across the room. In four hours this space would be buzzing with expectant guests, all eager to sample, explore and hopefully sign up for a cookery course on the spot.
And everything was riding on the three of us.
I handed Mags and Pixie a brand-new apron with our logo on it and they eyed me warily. You and me both, I thought, my fingers fumbling with the ties as I wrapped the strings round my waist. Still, I was determined not to let them sense my nerves.
I’d left Gloria at home this morning still wrapped in her robe, sipping Earl Grey. ‘I feel awfully guilty,’ she’d protested. ‘Swanning off to the hairdresser’s while everyone else is slaving away.’
‘It’s all in hand,’ I’d reassured her smoothly. ‘And as the saying goes, “too many cooks . . .”’
Too many cooks wasn’t going to be a problem for us this morning. I studied my team surreptitiously as Mags struggled to do up the apron round her ample curves and Pixie formed an ‘O’ with her mouth and began making Red Indian noises with a pink silicone spatula against her lips.
Mags was a competent if unrefined cook; Pixie was, well, enthusiastic at most and me, I was . . . How best to describe my own skills? Rusty? Dormant?
A sensation like the fizz of sherbet began to build in my stomach and I felt my body tingle. I could do this, I knew it.
There was another saying: if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. And for two years that was exactly what I’d done. Only in my case, it was grief and not heat that had kept me away. But there was no time for dwelling on that today, no time for self-indulgent thoughts of how much I still missed Mimi and how life would have been different for me, Gabe and Noah if she’d still been here. Gloria needed me and if Mimi were here I knew exactly what she’d have said . . .
‘Let’s have some fun in the kitchen this morning.’ I beamed at my fellow cooks. ‘Let’s show Tom what we’re made of.’
‘Phwoar,’ said Mags. She leaned on the worktop and grinned. ‘I’d love to show that boy what I’m made of.’
I was sure he could guess, I thought, trying not to stare at the deep V-shaped cleavage on display in front of me. Today’s ensemble consisted of a pillar-box-red knee-length wrap dress, chunky pearls and, judging by the smell, a generous spritz of perfume.
‘Sugar and spice and all things nice, I reckon, Mags. You are looking particularly gorgeous today,’ I said, giving her a hug. ‘Right, who’s got the list of recipes?’
‘Me!’ Pixie piped up. ‘Asparagus mousse, poached rhubarb with blue cheese on rye bread, crayfish pastry boats . . .’
Mags tootled backwards and forwards to the storeroom, fetching all the ingredients, while Pixie read through the instructions for each canapé. I felt my confidence begin to ebb away and my knees turn to jelly as the pile of complicated supplies grew. Tom had planned on whipping these magnificent mouthfuls up for a hundred guests. He was a professional, cooking his own recipes, which he’d perfected to a T. We didn’t have a hope of producing all that lot. Yet the food was bought and paid for and looking at us reproachfully, and really what other choice did we have?
‘Let’s not bite off more than we can chew,’ I said decisively. ‘Maybe we should adapt Tom’s recipes to make them simpler?’
Mags clutched her chest gratefully. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
I looked at Pixie. ‘What’s your signature dish?’
She looked up from Tom’s notes. ‘Eh?’
‘What do you think you could make?’
She screwed her face up. ‘Er . . . In the cheese shop we do pieces of cheese served with a tiny smear of quince jelly. They always go down well.’
‘OK.’ I nodded, scribbling a note on the paper. Cubes of cheese on cocktail sticks. I suppressed a chuckle at what Tom would make of that.
‘What about you, Mags?’
She cast her eye over the wealth of fine ingredients spread across the work surface and paled. ‘I could always do a pan of scouse? Cheap, easy and good for feeding a crowd. And Tom loved it.’
A memory of Tom turning down a helping of Mags’s pickled onions sprang to mind and I arranged my features into a diplomatic smile.
‘It would be tasty,’ I agreed. ‘But it needs to be finger food. Do you think you could manage the asparagus mousse?’
She looked at me aghast and twisted her pearls. ‘No.’
‘Oh.’ I stared mournfully at the ten fat bunches of delicate stems.
‘But I could wrap the asparagus in Yorkshire ham and roast it?’ she offered.
‘Perfect,’ I beamed. ‘Now what can we do with all this rhubarb?’
‘That is from the rhubarb triangle.’ Pixie leaned forward conspiratorially and tapped her nose. ‘Where strange disappearances happen.’
I didn’t like to point out that she was getting Bradford confused with Bermuda.
‘If it’s Yorkshire rhubarb we must use that somehow,’ I said.
‘My granddad used to swear by stewed rhubarb every day with condensed milk,’ Pixie went on. ‘Said it kept him regular.’
‘Rhubarb crumble!’ I jumped in quick before we got another anecdote about Granddad’s bowels.
‘Now that’s what I call comfort food. We can use those dinky little spoons Tom got for the asparagus mousse and serve it by the mouthful.’
‘And I bet I could manage the meatballs, although I might give that plum sauce a miss. So we’ve all got a job,’ said Mags, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Ready, steady, cook!’
For the next couple of hours the three of us got stuck in. Pixie fetched a radio and we merrily chopped, stirred and whisked like fury along to the music until the first dishes were in the oven or, in Mags’s case, prepped and ready to roast later.
‘So far so good,’ I said, fanning my face with the oven gloves. I checked the clock. ‘We’ve still got time for another dish each.’
‘Can I make gingerbread men?’ Pixie asked.
‘Sure.’ I shrugged.
‘Then I can decorate them all. No two men will be the same, just like the human race. Every one will be an individual. It’ll be my statement. Rich or poor, black or white—’
‘Or ginger,’ Mags interrupted.
‘We may all be different on the outside,’ Pixie said philosophically, ‘but inside we’re just the same.’
‘That’s very deep,’ Mags chuckled, ‘for a biscuit. I think I’ll make mini roast potatoes; we can serve them on sticks with some herby mayonnaise.’
‘I tell you what I can’t find,’ I said over my shoulder while rummaging in the fridge, ‘and that’s those goose sausages.’
Tom had served them tapas-style dotted with a relish made from blueberries and sprinkled with parsley. I’d been planning to grill them, chop them up and serve them on – yes – yet more cocktail sticks. At this rate, everyone would be thinking they’d stepped back in time to a seventies finger buffet. All we needed was a potato decorated to look like a hedgehog to complete the look.
‘He made them from scratch,’ Pixie pointed out. ‘We’ve got a sausage machine in the storeroom. Great it is. Tom let me have a go. Reminded me of the time a lady came into school to show us how to put condoms on bananas.’
I giggled, wondering whether she’d shared that particular story with Tom.
‘It reminds me of a TV programme back in the seventies. People competed for naff prizes by doing things like making sausages.’ Mags chuckled at the memory. ‘It was a scream. Sausages spewing out everywhere quicker than the contestants could catch them.’
‘TV was so weird in the olden days.’ Pixie shook her head.<
br />
‘Sounds daft but the contestants loved it and it was great to watch,’ Mags insisted.
I slammed the fridge door and whipped round to face them.
‘Of course! Mags, that’s it!’ I cried. ‘This is a cookery school. Not a restaurant. And I’ve had an idea: let’s give our guests a hands-on experience. Why not let them make sausages and roll out pastry and decorate their own gingerbread men? It’ll be fun! That’s what cooking should be about. Sorry, Pixie,’ I added, spotting her crestfallen face as she put the cookie cutters down.
‘Verity’s right,’ said Mags. ‘Let’s concentrate on finishing off the canapés that aren’t entertainment-friendly and then set up different stations around the room.’
‘Gloria can do garnishes,’ I said excitedly. ‘Mags can look after decorating biscuits, Pixie can be in charge of the sausage machine . . .’ Pixie punched the air. ‘And I’ll do the pastry,’ I finished.
‘Gloria was right about you,’ Mags beamed. ‘This opening party is going to go with a bang.’
She and Pixie immediately sprang into action and I felt my heart swell with happiness.
Two weeks ago Rosie had asked me what made me happy and I hadn’t been able to answer. But now I could. The Plumberry School of Comfort Food had reawakened my love of food.
Verity Bloom, the cook, was back.
Chapter 10
By eleven thirty, the three of us were pink-cheeked but exhilarated by our efforts. We had finished cooking, washed up and even managed to make ourselves look presentable. The cookery school was looking pretty good too.
Mags had gone to town in reception, polishing every surface until it shone and arranging jugfuls of lilies in each corner.
‘Looks a bit like a tart’s boudoir,’ she’d commented, adding with a wink, ‘but if the cap fits . . .’
The Aga kitchen was set out informally with trays of soft drinks and bowls of snacks dotted around the tables, and the cookery school leaflets spread casually among them. Pixie had retrieved some bread dough that Tom had made earlier in the week from the freezer and it was proving plumply ready to pop into the Aga any minute and entice people in with the smell of fresh bread. The doors to the deck were wide open and the sound of birds singing in the trees opposite and the gentle burbling of the river made the setting even more idyllic.
Upstairs, the teaching kitchen boasted the inviting aromas of coffee (Pixie had made some last-minute coffee granita following a YouTube video), gingerbread and vanilla, and the space was warm and welcoming, light and bright. The little pots of utensils stood to attention on every workstation and there were activities and food samples galore.
I left Pixie and Mags trying to work out how to use the cheese-making equipment and ran down to let the photographer in. Ellen was a stout Yorkshire woman with a bullet-proof hairdo and a reporter’s notepad tucked into the waistband of her sensible slacks. My plan was for her to take shots of the cookery school in its ‘calm before the storm’ state: picture perfect and ready to party.
And the Plumberry School of Comfort Food was just that.
I briefed her quickly and left her taking arty shots of the Aga and just made it back into reception to see Gloria arrive, arm in arm with Gabe who was gawping at his surroundings in amazement.
‘Look who turned up to chauffeur me here!’ she beamed, her happiness shining out from her face. ‘My handsome son-in-law!’
‘Wouldn’t have missed today for the world.’ He rubbed a hand through his curls and grinned at me in a dopey way that I found impossible not to return. I reached up to kiss his cheek.
‘Lovely to see you, Gabe.’
‘Hey, Bloomers,’ he whispered.
I tutted and pretended to look cross.
‘No Noah?’ I asked, feeling a stab of disappointment in my chest. I’d missed the little boy since being in Plumberry.
Gabe shook his head. ‘He’s with Granny. His other granny,’ he corrected, shooting Gloria an apologetic look. ‘I had some work stuff to do en route.’
‘But they’re both coming up to stay for a week soon, aren’t you, darling boy?’ she added.
Gloria was radiant, whether it was from the twenty-four hours of enforced relaxation or the nearness of her son-in-law, I couldn’t tell. Her hair had been styled off her face in soft honey waves, her skin looked bright and her eyes sparkled. At some point I’d have to take her aside and explain the changes to the day, and about Tom’s illness, but not quite yet. Everything had worked out beautifully and there was no need to worry her unnecessarily.
Gabe nodded. ‘We’ve made a pact to see each other once a month from now on.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said, nodding fervently. ‘And Mimi would be too.’
I know she regarded me as a daughter, but in reality Gabe and Noah were the only family Gloria had. It broke my heart that they had been seeing each other so rarely. Perhaps now that the cookery school was finally open, Gloria would allow herself a bit more time off; since I’d been in Plumberry, she’d consistently worked twelve-hour days.
Gloria swept us both in for another hug and the three of us stood in silence for a moment thinking of the darling girl who was missing from today’s celebrations.
‘Are you going to do an opening speech?’ I asked, finally looking at my watch and then noticing her taupe peep-toe heels. ‘You’re looking fab, by the way. Those shoes are too cute.’
Gloria released Gabe and lifted up a foot. ‘Thanks. Not at all practical and if I slip on a puddle of spilt milk, I’ll know about it. But just for once I’d like to be able to look people in the eye and not the Adam’s apple. I will give a speech, I just want to give Gabe a guided tour, before everyone arrives. Come on, Gabe – first the view of our river, to make you feel at home.’
He flashed me a grin as Gloria hooked her arm through his again. ‘Catch up with you later, Verity.’
A small crowd had gathered already and several people were pressing their noses against the glass.
I popped my head outside. ‘Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll be open, I promise.’
‘I hope you’ve got the kettle on, I’m parched,’ called the cheeky old chap I’d met during our Plumberry market research day.
‘We have indeed and it’ll be worth the wait, I promise.’ I grinned at the old man. ‘See you shortly.’
Just then Tom pushed through the crowd and I stood back to let him in.
‘You made it!’ I exhaled with relief, taking Tom’s arm and drawing him away from the entrance doors. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Pathetic, to be honest.’ He rubbed a hand across his face.
‘I am so relieved to see you,’ I said, laughing softly.
His complexion was on the yellow side and he was walking gingerly as if every muscle in his body ached but he managed a weak smile.
‘I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
‘None of us can use the cheese-making kit.’
He blinked at me and nodded. ‘Oh, right.’
He looked through to the Aga kitchen, I glanced down at my toes and for a moment neither of us spoke.
I cleared my throat. ‘But apart from that, we managed. Mags, Pixie and I have been cooking all morning.’
‘I bet that microwave has been doing overtime, hasn’t it?’ he said with a weak laugh.
‘No,’ I said a bit defensively. ‘We’ve made everything from scratch. Not up to your standards, of course, but,’ I lifted a shoulder casually, ‘I hope you approve.’
My admission took me by surprise; but it was true. I wanted him to taste my food, I wanted his opinion and, more than anything, I wanted him to be impressed with what we’d achieved at short notice.
He rested a hand on my arm and gazed at me really intensely. ‘I already approve. It was my job to cater for today and I let Gloria down. But I haven’t managed to keep anything down yet and the thought of cooking. . .’ He shuddered. ‘Anyway, I know you’re not a keen cook, yet you came to my rescue. I
really appreciate that, Verity. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said, going pink. And it had been a pleasure. Spending time in the kitchen with Mags and Pixie had been fun.
‘And is everything else OK, no other problems?’
I wrinkled my nose. ‘I wanted at least one newspaper to attend today. We’ve got our own photographer, but it makes it more exciting for everyone when the press turns up.’ I gave myself a little shake. ‘Not to worry. There’s still plenty to be glad about.’
‘There is,’ Tom agreed. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my cheek. ‘You’ve done a brilliant job, Verity, you should be proud.’
‘Tom!’ Gloria rushed forward to greet him. ‘Let me introduce my son-in-law, Gabe.’
Gabe looked from Tom to me and raised a questioning eyebrow.
And then someone banged on the door to tell us it was noon and Mags and Pixie appeared. Gloria flung the doors back and suddenly the cookery school was open.
The great and the good of Plumberry flooded into reception and we all scurried into our hosting positions. Tom went up to sort out the cheese demonstration and Gabe became the unofficial leaflet distributor while Gloria stood at the entrance greeting each and every guest as they arrived.
Ellen the photographer was doing a sterling job recording the event and I even caught her balancing precariously on a swivel chair at the edge of Gloria’s office, taking a wide-angled shot of the teaching kitchen.
The sausage machine, with Pixie at the helm, was creating much hilarity and Tom and I exchanged bemused glances when two women began a tongue-in-cheek competition about the size of their sausages.
Mags’s gingerbread-men decorating activity went down a storm with children and adults alike and the photographer, having obtained their parents’ permission, snapped away as a group of little ones chomped into their handiwork.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 9
