I jumped out of bed and pressed my face to the window. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still raging. I couldn’t see anything at first: the whole of Plumberry was in darkness. Then a little light appeared in Len’s garden. And then another in Mags’s garden. Two figures lit by torches moved towards their shared boundary. Now I could see what the crash had been: Len’s old apple tree had blown over, its trunk had smashed straight through Mags’s fence and its roots had left a huge crater in Len’s garden.
The torches flickered for a few more seconds and then went out. Mags and Len must have gone back inside.
I snuggled back into bed, waiting for my heart rate to slow, and pulled the duvet up around my ears to block out the sound of the howling wind. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Plumberry seemed to be fighting a losing battle with Mother Nature tonight and only tomorrow would reveal who the winner had been.
Chapter 19
I woke the next morning to complete silence. The wind had dropped, the clouds had vanished and the sun beamed cheerfully from a pale blue sky, as if to announce that normal service would now be resumed. But the total silence wasn’t normal, even for a Saturday.
I padded downstairs through the kitchen and opened the back door. The dogs bombed past me and sniffed the air inquisitively before performing their usual morning business. I wandered down the path and peered into Mags’s garden. The fallen apple tree took up the full width of the lawn and the fence and trellis lay splintered underneath its trunk.
‘What a kerfuffle!’ Len called from his garden. He was wearing a white vest and had bright green braces keeping up a baggy pair of trousers. His wispy white hair swirled about the top of his head like candyfloss.
‘What a night!’ I called back, shielding my eyes in the low sunshine. ‘Such a shame to lose your lovely apple tree.’
He flapped a hand dismissively. ‘Pshh. The storm did me a favour; I can’t eat apples with my teeth these days. Besides, I get a better view of Mags now,’ he said with a wheezy chortle. ‘No, it’s the power cut that bothers me. I wanted to watch Formula One racing this weekend.’
So that was why the house seemed so quiet: the power was still off. No humming fridges or clicking on and off of hot water.
‘It won’t be long till it’s back on, though, surely?’
‘Might be ages.’ Len shrugged. ‘We lost electricity for three days last winter. Nobody bothers with us little villages. And I was listening to the news on my wireless, another tree has come down and blocked the main road between Thickleton and Plumberry, so nothing and no one will get through, including the engineers.’
This was not a good start to the day. The village could be cut off for ages and we were without power. The Challenge Chester team would have to walk to the cookery school. And what about Tom? And, I remembered suddenly, the fridges at the cookery school would be full of food. If the power wasn’t turned back on soon, it would all have to be thrown away. On top of all that I was supposed to be being filmed this morning for national television . . .
I’d have a cup of tea, I decided. Everything seems brighter after a cup of tea.
‘I can’t even make myself a brew,’ Len said. ‘The kettle’s electric.’
Damn, I’d forgotten that.
‘Oh well, every cloud has a silver lining,’ he said, rallying suddenly.
‘Oh yeah?’ I eyed him dubiously.
‘Do you fancy a whisky?’
An hour later, I was walking briskly along Plumberry high street, mentally juggling a hundred to-do lists and taking deep breaths of fresh summery air to clear my head. I’d left the car at home just in case there were any roadblocks between here and the cookery school and the exercise was serving to calm me down.
Despite the lack of electricity, Plumberry was positively sparkling this morning, as if completely washed clean by the storms of the night before. It was impossible not to feel uplifted as I passed the lovely old-fashioned shops with their striped awnings. The flowers in large wooden planters had been changed since I’d first arrived at the end of April, from spring bulbs to summery bedding plants. They had taken a bit of a battering in the night, but the frothy pink fuchsias and purple petunias still managed to provide bright pops of colour along the pavements.
This was my silver lining, I mused, as I waved to a couple of the shop owners who were comparing storm damage on their doorsteps: blue skies, warm sun and cheerful flowers.
As I turned off the high street towards the old mill, Gabe phoned me.
‘Is that Verity Bloom, soon-to-be TV star?’
‘Oh shush,’ I laughed. ‘Don’t remind me. Besides, my plan is to stay as much in the background as possible.’
‘Remember those films you and Mimi used to make?’ He sounded wistful.
‘How could I forget?’
The YouTube cooking videos we used to mess about with had been on my mind since waking up. Mimi had been the lead ‘presenter’ with me as her sidekick. Much as I would be today. I felt my stomach churn; sometimes I wondered how I got myself into these situations, I really did.
Gabe cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Noah and I are setting off in The Neptune this morning so we should be in Plumberry in about ten days, depending on how many stops we make. There are one or two antique dealers en route. I might call in and advertise my furniture restoration skills.’
I smiled to myself as he outlined his journey along the canals, through the Midlands and up to Yorkshire. He had been in such a rush to get everywhere once; now he was happy to take his time, enjoy the journey and take in his surroundings.
‘Gloria will be thrilled and probably much more mobile by the time you arrive,’ I said. ‘Is Noah there?’
I had a quick conversation with Noah about his new pyjamas and signed off.
Gloria had enlisted Mags to help her get ready this morning. She was still insisting on coming to see the filming, even though she’d got exhausted simply travelling up one flight of stairs on her bottom to the bathroom, and my heart ached with sympathy for her. As much as I wanted her to feel part of our exciting day, I didn’t want to put her recovery in any jeopardy either.
The district nurse was due to visit her early this morning and part of me hoped that she might ban her from leaving the house – at least then I wouldn’t have to worry about her doing herself an injury at the cookery school.
Across the car park I could see the boys from the microbrewery next door sitting outside in the sunshine. There were three of them: Simon, Bruce and Rick. But because they all had beards large enough to provide habitats for woodland creatures and all dressed the same in tight jeans and checked shirts, I could never remember who was who. As I got closer I saw they had rigged up a camping stove with a small tin kettle balanced on top of it. Two of them were sitting on upturned crates and one on a beer barrel. I raised my hand and waved, hoping they’d offer me a hot drink. I’d turned down Len’s whisky and had only had orange juice so far this morning and my caffeine levels were dangerously low.
I hardly ever saw them; their business was only small and according to Pixie, who was always first with the gossip, they ran the brewery in their spare time alongside day jobs and generally spent the whole weekend here.
The kettle began to whistle.
One of them jerked his head towards the mill. ‘The power’s off and the landlines are down.’
‘The phone lines too? Oh no.’ I grimaced; stupidly I hadn’t thought to give Cheryl my mobile number.
‘We were supposed to be bottling today,’ said another, folding his arms.
The third one did a fake sigh. ‘Guess we’ll just have to sit and drink beer in the sun instead.’
Then they all laughed.
‘Bruce is making tea,’ said one of them, pointing to his friend. I made a mental note: Bruce’s shirt was grey and white. At least I could now identify one of them. ‘You can have some but you’ll have to fetch your own mug.’
I thanked them and went inside to find Cheryl’s
number and a mug. Bruce’s industrial-strength tea was nectar. I slurped half of it down and took my phone out to call Cheryl.
But before I could even dial her number everyone arrived.
Mags, driving at a snail’s pace, had managed to stretch Gloria across the back seat. She parked in front of the cookery school doors and the brewery boys helped Gloria out. Tom had come on foot – he’d had to abandon his car near the toppled tree – while Pixie had cycled in on her brother’s bike. Next, a group of strangers strutted towards us like a rock band. There was a James Dean lookalike complete with leather jacket and shades, a girl whose jaw chewed constantly and a man with the thickest glasses I’d ever seen. They all seemed to be carrying bags and aluminium cases of varying sizes, except for a plump man in a tracksuit, bringing up the rear, who had a large camera perched on his shoulder.
‘Welcome to the Plumberry School of Comfort Food. I’m Verity Bloom,’ I said, waving my arms about nervously. My voice had gone all high-pitched too. It seemed that I’d gone camera shy before the thing had even been turned on. I cleared my throat and introduced the rest of the team.
The man with the glasses stepped forward to shake my hand.
‘I’m Goggles, the director. This is Chester Fulwood, presenter, obviously. Cheryl, our researcher, and Jonno the cameraman,’ he said, pointing to each member of the Challenge Chester team in turn.
‘We’ve all been so looking forward to your visit,’ I said, studiously avoiding Tom’s eye as I shook hands with everyone. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t get past the fallen trees.’
According to the local news, the road was blocked at both ends of the village so at the moment no vehicles could access Plumberry from either direction.
‘We left the van near the roadblock,’ said Goggles. ‘There was a team of blokes with chainsaws attacking a fallen oak tree, so the way should be clear soon. We’ve carried everything we need for the shoot.’
‘Hey, I’m Pixie,’ said Pixie, pushing herself in front of Goggles to get to Chester.
‘Cool name.’ He stretched out a hand to shake hers and then pulled her in close to kiss her cheek. She went pink and grinned goofily.
‘I loved the show this week,’ she said. ‘When you went commando.’
Chester threw his head back and laughed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He looked like an advert for expensive aftershave. Or jeans. Or toothpaste.
Mags, who’d settled Gloria on a chair next to the camping stove, perked up considerably. ‘Oh, I missed that episode. Will it be on catch-up?’
‘I think you mean training with the Commandos,’ said Cheryl.
Pixie went pinker.
‘Anyway, shall we get set up?’ Cheryl added with a yawn.
‘In a minute,’ said Goggles, rubbing his hands together. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’
It was the most random tea party ever: the cookery school team, the brewery boys and the TV crew, sipping from an assortment of mugs in an empty car park under a gloriously sunny sky. It was almost impossible to imagine the torrential wind and rain from yesterday.
‘Now,’ I said assertively, feeling as if I should try to corral everyone into action, ‘the power cut does provide us with a challenge. No pun intended, Chester,’ I said with a nervous laugh.
‘We’re all self-sufficient,’ said Jonno. He’d been wandering round the building ‘panning’ with his camera. He gave it a pat. ‘Battery-operated.’
‘Sadly, we’re not,’ I said. ‘We can make the dough for your Eiffel Tower but none of our ovens works on gas. So until the power comes back on we can’t bake it, I’m afraid.’
Hurrah. I even managed to look disappointed.
‘Shame we haven’t got an outdoor clay oven,’ said Tom, scratching his chin.
His beard was more like stubble and was neatly groomed, adding a rakishness to his face rather than the full-on hairiness of the brewery beards. I much preferred his.
‘We had a cracking wood-fired oven at Salinger’s. Brilliant for bread and pizzas.’
‘Can’t we build a makeshift one?’ Gloria suggested.
‘I could build a fire good enough to cook on, I suppose,’ Tom offered. ‘I was a Boy Scout in my youth.’
‘Shame you don’t still have the uniform,’ Mags murmured. ‘I’d pay good money to see that.’
‘Er, just a minute.’ Cheryl chewed on her gum frantically. ‘This is primetime TV, love, there’s no makeshift about it.’
‘Well, that’s me told,’ Gloria mumbled and turned her head away.
‘Psst,’ I said to Mags, jerking my head for her to join me away from the others. ‘What did the district nurse say when she came?’
‘She phoned to say she couldn’t make it because of the power cut,’ Mags whispered. ‘There are tonnes of emergency cases apparently. I heard Gloria say she’d taken all her medication and that she felt fine.’
I glanced over at her sitting next to the brewery boys. She did look all right, I just hoped she stayed that way. On top of everything else, the last thing we needed was for her to end up back in hospital.
‘What are you two muttering about?’ Gloria narrowed her eyes.
‘Mind your own biscuits, Glor,’ Mags tutted. She trotted back over to her. ‘Now, let’s get that leg propped up.’
Just then two transit vans with electricity company logos on the sides pulled up into the car park and four men clambered out. One of them had his legs crossed.
‘Any chance I could use the toilet? We’ve been stuck in a hold-up because of the tree and I’m desperate.’
Tom took him inside and I quizzed the others about the power failure.
‘Will we be reconnected soon, do you think?’ I fretted. ‘It’s just we’re trying to film a TV show. And we’ve got food we’ll need to rescue from the fridges too.’
There was much sucking in of air and shaking of heads. Hard to say, seemed to be the consensus. Apparently the lines were down in several places, including one a little further downstream where a cable was dangling in the river.
‘Oh, bumbags. Poor Granddad,’ Pixie exclaimed. She was staring at her phone and chewing her lip.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, crossing my fingers that given the present company, Granddad’s dilemma wasn’t bowel-related for once.
‘I’m going to have to nip up to him later. Mum says his Meals on Wheels service has been cancelled. Poor old sod. It’s sausage and mash on Saturdays.’
‘There’ll be loads of people in the same boat,’ said Rick (or Simon). ‘Hardly anyone in Plumberry has gas. And we haven’t got a pub that serves food any more.’
Hmmm, that was true.
Everyone started talking at once about the pub that went bust because it only served microwaved food (Tom looked pointedly at me), and about the old people they knew who wouldn’t be able to boil a kettle and all the food that the shops would have to throw away if the refrigeration systems didn’t come back on soon and I could scarcely hear myself think.
‘Quiet!’ I yelled. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Gloria clapped her hands together. ‘I knew it! Verity has the best ideas. She’s a marketing whizz, you know.’
‘However, it doesn’t involve bread or the Eiffel Tower because, under the circumstances, I don’t think that’s doable,’ I continued. ‘Goggles, what about changing Chester’s challenge?’
Cheryl butted in before the director could even open his mouth.
‘No way.’ She flicked her hair over her shoulder. ‘We’ve already announced in the last show what the next challenge is.’
Goggles frowned. ‘I don’t see that we’ve got much choice. Unless we cancel completely?’
‘You can’t do that,’ Mags squeaked. ‘I didn’t give my best mate a strip-wash for nothing this morning. Challenge Chester is what’s kept her going, even when she got a carpet burn on her bum from the stairs. You’ve got to do it.’
There was a whimper from Gloria.
Jonno swung his camera ro
und to Mags. ‘Can you just say that bit again? Starting from strip-wash.’
‘Nooo.’ Gloria sank lower in her chair and buried her face in her hands.
‘OK,’ I said grimly. It’d certainly be a challenge. ‘Here’s what we’ll do . . .’
After a bit of lateral thinking, I’d allocated everyone a task. Well, all except Cheryl who’d gone for a look round the brewery with Rick, Simon and Bruce. Pixie and I were hunting through the cupboards to see what food we could use. Mags had gone up to the village to beg some spare meat and vegetables from the shop owners in return for a free lunch and Tom was leading the TV crew in building the largest outdoor barbecue grill I’d ever seen with sheets of stainless steel purloined from the brewery.
‘We need something we can make in one pot,’ Gloria had mused, hunting through her recipe bible, which I’d retrieved from her desk for her. ‘Something that won’t take too long to cook.’
Mags had pulled a face. ‘I was going to suggest a big pan of Scouse with all the pickles, but that tastes best when you leave it cooking for ages.’
‘Oh well, never mind,’ Tom jumped in hastily. ‘What about some sort of risotto?’
Pixie scuffed the toe of her Doc Martens on the floor. ‘We’ve, er, got plenty of rice.’
So it had been decided we’d make something rice-based and once Mags returned from her local foraging spree, we’d finalize the exact recipe.
Upstairs in the storeroom, I opened a cupboard and two giant bags of rice fell out. There were another three bags behind them.
‘Who ordered all this rice?’ I wondered aloud.
‘It was on offer.’ Pixie shrugged sheepishly. ‘Stock up on the basics and you’ll never go without, that’s what my Granddad always says.’
‘I bet Granddad never runs out of loo paper,’ I said wryly, lugging ten kilos of rice downstairs with Pixie carrying her body weight in tinned butter beans behind me.
We set up a makeshift kitchen at the side of the old mill, with the waterwheel in the background. We’d originally started off on the deck at the back of the cookery school but the river was running so fast because of the previous day’s rainfall that Chester had to shout at the top of his lungs above the torrent of water cascading past and Jonno had complained about the poor sound quality.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 18
