The Plumberry School of Comfort Food

by Cathy Bramley

  I peered sideways at him. His dark hair was shiny with water droplets and there were tiny curls clinging to the nape of his neck. I fought the urge to reach out and touch them. ‘Didn’t have you down as an outdoorsy guy.’

  ‘Me? Brought up on a sheep farm in Northern Ireland.’ He put the car into reverse and we sloshed through puddles and out of the car park. ‘Have you heard of the Giant’s Causeway?’

  ‘Of course.’ I was impressed. ‘I’ve never been but the pictures are beautiful.’

  ‘Well, it’s nowhere near there.’ He grinned.

  I laughed. ‘You know you’re quite . . .’

  ‘Quite what?’

  ‘Good company when you relax, let your guard down.’

  ‘Thanks. I think.’

  Now was my chance to tackle him about his teaching style. Mags’s comment about the morgue popped into my brain. As much as I didn’t like to be the one to point out his failings, I’d promised Gloria that her cookery school would be exactly what she wanted it to be: a place for sharing her love of food and having fun.

  I decided to bite the bullet. ‘If only you could be a bit more like this when you’re teaching.’

  He groaned. ‘Not this “cooking should be a barrel of laughs” thing again. Can’t you just accept that we’re all different? Agree to disagree?’

  ‘We definitely disagree,’ I confirmed. ‘Those poor students looked on the verge of committing hara-kiri this morning.’

  ‘You’d rather they were rolling around the floor clutching their ribs hysterically whilst in possession of six inches of Japanese steel, I suppose.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Good. So that’s settled. Now can we drop it?’

  ‘You’re impossible, Tom MacDonald.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His eyes glinted with amusement.

  Rain drummed on the car roof and the windscreen wipers batted backwards and forwards at top speed and neither of us spoke for the length of Plumberry high street. I bristled with irritation, although Tom seemed oblivious as he concentrated on driving. But when we hit the country roads the silence was too much to bear.

  ‘Any plans for the weekend?’ I said eventually to break the mood.

  He shot me a sideways glance.

  ‘I’ll be at the cookery school offering assistance to new bread bakers in case they have any problems with their Eiffel Towers.’

  It took a second to sink in.

  ‘You will?’ My face broke into a smile.

  Oh, the relief! Just knowing he’d be there tomorrow when the TV crew arrived made me feel better. And you never know, perhaps I’d persuade him to take my place with Chester Fulwood in front of the cameras after all . . .

  ‘Indeed I will.’

  He stared ahead and I studied his handsome profile. He was impossible and irritating but I couldn’t help but like him.

  ‘You have no idea how ecstatic I am to hear that.’

  I was tempted to hug him but after the mood of only a few moments ago, I didn’t dare. I punched his arm instead.

  ‘Ouch. I think my new bruise is a bit of a clue,’ he said drily.

  It took us an hour to manoeuvre Gloria from the ward into the car. We had to wait for her drugs to be dispensed, hunt down a wheelchair and go through copious lists of dos and don’ts from the ward sister before she’d let us leave with the patient. But eventually we got her settled in the passenger seat, with the chair pushed back as far as it would go and me wedged in the back with her crutches across my lap.

  ‘You’re sure you’re OK?’ said Tom for the umpteenth time, reaching across and doing up the seatbelt for her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said with a weak smile.

  She looked a little grey to me and her forehead looked moist. It could have been rain, I supposed, but she certainly wasn’t a picture of health. My stomach churned with worry; I was sure another couple of days in hospital would have been the best thing but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘I’ve made a bed up for you in the living room. Mags and I carried a spare one down from upstairs, but are you absolutely sure you want to come back home?’ I said, unable to stop fussing.

  ‘Bliss.’ She sighed, closing her eyes as she sank back against Tom’s upholstery. ‘I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, darling. Now tell me everything I’ve missed.’

  ‘We’ve got eleven booked on to Perfect Pasta next week,’ I began.

  ‘And the Knife Skills course went well today,’ Tom added. ‘In fact, I was demonstrating how to brunoise when—’

  Gloria made a soft snuffling noise and her head dropped forward. I peered round to look at her face. She was fast asleep.

  ‘It’s the way you tell ’em,’ I said with a grin, catching Tom’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

  Chapter 18

  Gloria only awoke for a few seconds during the next hour or so and that was when we helped her to hobble from the car through the rain and into her cottage.

  Comfrey and Sage, who’d spotted her from their perch on the windowsill, whimpered with heart-warming joy when she came in and soon the three of them were snuggled up in bed together in the living room.

  I closed the door, leaving only the low glow of a table lamp to light the room, and joined Tom in the kitchen.

  He was standing at the door, looking out at the garden where the wind was flattening Gloria’s poor rose bushes. ‘So much for the spring weather; I’m used to heavy rain in Northern Ireland, but this is awful.’

  ‘Tea?’ I asked, automatically reaching for the kettle.

  ‘Please.’ As he checked his watch, his stomach let out a piteous growl and he pressed a hand to it.

  ‘Or maybe I should get going; we’re getting into “essential journeys only” territory out there, and if you hadn’t already guessed I’m hungry.’

  ‘Stay for a little while. Please,’ I added. ‘I don’t fancy an evening on my own, watching the storm clouds gather. And I can feed you.’

  He looked back at the skies doubtfully and at the cooker, also doubtfully.

  ‘It won’t be up to your usual standards, of course,’ I said, scanning the cupboards for inspiration, ‘but I can offer you toast and a tin of soup?’

  ‘A feast,’ he said with a grin.

  I was about to clamp the tin opener over the edge of the can when the back door opened and Mags appeared wearing a rain poncho and red stilettos.

  ‘Cooee! Meals on heels!’ she trilled, brandishing a large casserole dish. ‘I made us a chicken and chorizo stew.’

  I abandoned the soup.

  Mags dished up three generous portions of the stew, while I uncorked a bottle of Spanish red wine and Tom sliced some crusty bread. I checked on Gloria in case she was peckish but she was still out for the count.

  I inhaled and my mouth watered. It smelled Mediterranean and spicy and warming and perfect for a stormy English night.

  Tom took a mouthful and closed his eyes. ‘Mags, this is a bowl of sunshine.’

  She patted her hair. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

  ‘Now, while the three of us are together,’ I said, sipping the Rioja, ‘I’ve had my best idea yet.’

  ‘Does it involve making bread into rude shapes?’ Mags winked at Tom.

  ‘So childish.’ I tutted. ‘No, Dave said something to me the other day and it got me thinking.’

  ‘Was it a way to ameliorate profit margins?’ Tom asked, tweaking an eyebrow.

  ‘Sort of,’ I said carefully. ‘In the long term. After bank holiday Monday next week, we have two days without courses. How about we open up the cookery school and run some competitions? I’ll run one and Tom, you run the other.’

  ‘What for?’ Tom frowned.

  ‘I love this idea already,’ said Mags, scooping up sauce with a crust of bread.

  ‘Firstly because it will give people a chance to try our facilities for nothing,’ I explained.

  ‘I can’t see Dave going for that one,’ Tom doubted. ‘What about the cost
of all the food?’

  ‘The entrants have to bring their own ingredients. So no outlay for us. And secondly, it gives you and me a chance to test our theories.’

  ‘What theories?’ Mags and Tom said together.

  ‘I think people would like a day of fun, like on Great British Bake Off, don’t you?’ I gave Mags a please-help-me-out look. This would be the ideal way to demonstrate to Tom that the courses at the cookery school would be more enjoyable if the day was more relaxed.

  Mags caught my drift. ‘Definitely.’

  ‘So I’ll run the Plumberry Bake Off,’ I continued. ‘We’ll invite contestants to come along and bake their very best cake, then we judge it.’

  ‘Like the show-stoppers round!’ said Mags. ‘Brilliant idea.’

  ‘Exactly. Tom, on the other hand,’ I said slyly, ‘quite wrongly, thinks people want a challenging, stressful environment while they cook up some complicated signature dish topped with a smear of this and a dribble of that.’

  He flashed his eyes and I held his gaze with a challenge.

  ‘I’m not wrong,’ he said confidently, helping himself to seconds. ‘That is what keen cooks want.’

  ‘We are all on the same side, remember,’ Mags pointed out.

  ‘Of course we are!’ I reassured her. As long as I won.

  ‘But if it gets punters in, I’m all for it,’ she added.

  I looked at Tom. ‘And? What do you think?’

  ‘I’m all for a MasterChef-style contest, something to push the boundaries of everyday home cooking.’ He nodded. ‘I like it. It could be the Plumberry Signature Dish competition.’

  ‘And winners get to attend a course of their choice as a prize,’ Mags said.

  ‘With a friend,’ I added. ‘So are we all agreed?’

  Tom smirked. ‘If I do it, will you stop with the whole “food is fun” thing?’

  I had a sudden flashback to my conversation with Liam last night about helping him: If I do it, will you leave me alone? I really must email him that presentation tonight before I forgot. At least that would be one thing off my mind.

  Tom was still waiting for an answer. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  I tuned back into the conversation and stuck my hand out. ‘Deal.’

  By nine o’clock, the kitchen was clear, I’d designed a flyer, Tom had drawn up some competition rules and Mags had done a sterling job drumming up some actual contestants. Gloria had woken up and eaten two slices of cheese on toast, which she’d shared with Comfrey and Sage, and the three of them were asleep again. The rain was still coming down in diagonal sheets.

  ‘Pixie says two of the other barmaids are definitely up for entering and she’s sure the manager of the cheese shop will want to take part in Tom’s competition,’ said Mags. ‘And the pub landlord has agreed to put a poster up.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I beamed, standing up to put on the kettle.

  Both competitions were beginning to take shape and I was glad I’d suggested the idea. Next week would have seemed a bit flat otherwise after all the excitement of filming the Challenge Chester show.

  Eek, what was I thinking? I’d completely forgotten about the metre-high bread tower I was supposed to be baking in the morning. It wasn’t exciting; it was terrifying.

  My hands trembled as I poured water into the kettle. It was too late for second thoughts now. I was going to have to style it out, come up with a bright idea to make slabs of bread and piece them together like some sort of gigantic Jenga . . .

  ‘No tea for me, thanks,’ said Tom. ‘I’d better head off.’

  ‘Me too,’ added Mags.

  The wind had picked up and the window panes were rattling in their frames as the two of them made for the door.

  I waved them off as an enormous clap of thunder broke overhead. Comfrey darted between my legs, relieved himself against the fence and scurried back inside.

  ‘Be careful, you two,’ I shouted above the noise of swirling wind.

  I poked my head into the living room to see Gloria still dozing in the dimly lit room. The sky was leaden with angry-looking storm clouds and not a chink of light penetrated them. I sent up a silent prayer that Tom would get home safely and closed the curtains.

  Suddenly the sky was split in two by a crack of lightning that ripped through the clouds and cast a momentary flash of light over the houses opposite.

  Comfrey and Sage sprang to their paws and immediately burrowed to safety beneath Gloria’s duvet.

  Gloria stirred and opened her eyes. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Thunder and lightning. The storm must be right above us.’ I knelt down beside her and Sage poked his trembling nose out from under the covers for me to stroke him.

  She patted the covers. ‘Keep me company for a while and tell me your news. I want to hear all about Noah’s sports day,’ she asked, nestling her head back against the pillows.

  ‘He was a superstar,’ I laughed softly, remembering his little face beaming when the nursery teacher had put a medal round his neck.

  ‘I’d love to have seen him.’

  She had lost weight since being in hospital and her eyes looked huge, staring up at me sadly.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll fetch my bag,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I took photos on my phone.’

  Gloria shuffled herself up to look at them. My action shots weren’t great but she could get the gist. She chuckled at the one of Noah holding his egg firmly on to the spoon with his thumb.

  ‘Here’s one of Noah and Gabe when the races had all finished.’ I showed her the screen.

  ‘Look at the pair of them enjoying themselves,’ Gloria marvelled.

  Without Mimi. The words were left unsaid, but I knew what she meant.

  Noah was demonstrating how to hula-hoop to his dad, who hadn’t been able to master rotating his hips. I swiped the screen to the next picture. It showed Noah and me hugging. His pudgy arms wrapped round my neck, both of us were laughing.

  My heart twisted as I remembered standing in for Mimi in the mums’ race.

  ‘Goodness me,’ Gloria gasped, ‘what a beautiful boy he is . . . that face . . . and such lovely eyes. Oh, gosh.’

  Suddenly she pushed the phone away. ‘Thank you, I think I’ve seen enough.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I frowned as she brushed a tear from her eye.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all. It’s been a long day, that’s all; I think I need to rest.’

  I nodded, slipped the phone into my pocket and stroked her hand.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked softly.

  A second burst of thunder, even louder than the first, rumbled across the sky and Sage’s nose retreated further down the bed.

  Gloria fiddled with the neck of her nightdress and wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘Just my tablets, please.’

  I fetched a glass of water and tipped out some painkillers for her.

  ‘Can you put the TV remote on this side,’ she asked, patting the table next to her bed.

  ‘Of course.’ I smiled.

  ‘And move the little lamp over here.’

  I obliged.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ she decided, ‘I think I preferred it where it was.’

  I suppressed a smile; I could almost hear Mimi’s voice in my head telling her mother to make her mind up. The two of them had always got on brilliantly and I knew instinctively that Mimi would have moved up to Plumberry like a shot to look after Gloria if she’d been alive.

  The thought brought a familiar niggle of sadness and I tried to shake it off.

  I moved the lamp back and smiled. ‘There. Better?’

  She nodded. ‘You are good. Mimi would have lost her patience with me by now,’ she said wistfully, reading my mind. ‘She was a terrible nurse.’

  ‘Nothing to do with you being a terrible patient,’ I laughed, pressing a kiss on to her soft cheek. ‘I’m going up to bed myself now, I’ve got a bit of work still to do and I’d better get some beauty sleep before tomorrow.’


  ‘Goodnight, darling,’ she said, waving me out of the room.

  ‘Shout if you need me; I’ll leave the door open.’

  ‘Verity?’ Gloria called, as I got to the top of the stairs.

  I ran back down.

  ‘Yes?’ I said breathlessly.

  ‘I don’t want to be a burden, you know, so just say if I’m being a nuisance, won’t you?’

  Her blue eyes blinked at me dolefully. She looked little and old all of a sudden and I felt a lump form in my throat.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ I put her mobile phone where she could reach it and kissed her again. ‘Living here with you and the dogs, with Mags next door and working at the cookery school with Tom and Pixie . . . I feel very privileged. I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.’

  ‘Not even back in Nottingham with Noah,’ she paused, ‘and Gabe?’

  I took a deep breath and shook my head. Much as I loved being with them I had to start forging my own life.

  ‘I’m glad.’ She smiled gently and closed her eyes. ‘I’m glad.’

  I ran back up the stairs, listening to the rain hammer against the windows and the wind whistling down the chimney, my heart beating a tattoo in my chest. Despite my nerves about tomorrow and the horrendous storm churning up everyone’s gardens, I was telling Gloria the truth. There was nowhere I’d rather be than Plumberry.

  You see, Mimi? Even your own mum reckons you’d have made a terrible nurse. So why do I still feel bad that I’m the one here looking after her and you’re not? When is this permanent shadow of guilt going to allow me to enjoy every happy moment instead of apologizing for it?

  The storm continued to shake and rattle the cottage for the next half an hour, but by the time I was ready to turn out my light, the worst of it had passed and only the wind and rain remained. I pressed my head into the pillows and with my mind swirling with images of edible Eiffel Towers, I eventually dropped off to sleep.

  A terrible noise woke me in the night. My eyes sprang open and my pulse throbbed loudly in my ears. I stared at the display on my alarm clock. Two twenty. The noise was coming from the back garden: a gut-wrenching, painfully slow creak followed by an almighty crash. And then the display on my clock disappeared. I snapped on my bedside lamp. Nothing: there must be a power cut.