Besides, I wanted Aaron to win in case it helped him find work. The spaghetti man already had a job with the council.
I’d been hoping Harriet’s twice-baked stilton soufflé would be a contender for a place in the top three, but unfortunately she’d had an issue with steam and it looked more like a crustless quiche, quivering apologetically under a rocket garnish. Annabel’s zabaglione with poached apricots and a honeycomb topping had shown initial promise too, but something had gone wrong in the whisking and it had pieces of cooked egg in it.
Nonetheless, overall the contestants had far exceeded my expectations (and my capabilities, come to that) and we’d narrowed it down to three: Jack’s loin of rabbit with wilted greens and a cream sauce; Aaron’s ravioli (minus truffle oil); and from the chairwoman of the Women’s Institute, a pan-fried pigeon breast with crispy croutons, a red wine jus and a cauliflower purée.
The cookery school team had sampled every dish and Tom was having a final taste and scribbling notes as he did so. I was impressed as usual by his attention to detail and utter professionalism in everything he did. Finally, he lifted his head, put his notebook in his breast pocket and nodded. ‘Bring everyone back in, Mags; we’ve got our winner.’
The contestants filed back in and took seats in rows in front of the teaching station. Credit where it was due, they had all cleared away after themselves beautifully and the kitchen was spick and span ready for tomorrow’s Bake Off. Just as well: I’d already got enough to do this afternoon. I’d bought some props to decorate the room with; we wanted it to look as much like the warm and welcoming set of Great British Bake Off as we could.
A hush fell across the room as Tom took centre stage to announce the results.
‘Thank you all for entering the inaugural Plumberry Signature Dish competition. Given the tradition of good food in this village, it’s no surprise that today’s cooking has been of an exceptionally high standard. You should all be proud of yourselves and what you’ve achieved. But of course there can only be one winner and that’s . . .’ Tom paused in the spirit of every game show across the world and the tension in the room was palpable, ‘Aaron for his sweet potato and goat’s cheese ravioli.’
We all applauded Aaron whose face turned as beetroot as his ears. And then gradually conversation began again as people swapped recipes and disaster stories and generally allowed the morning’s tension to seep away.
‘Oh, this is much more what we’re used to,’ said Mags, pressing a hand to her bosom. ‘All that competitive banter this morning gave me heartburn.’
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m hoping tomorrow will have more of a village fête feel about it. I’ve got bunting and flowers and I’ve even ordered some pretty tablecloths.’
‘This has been the most brilliant day of my life,’ said Aaron, coming to join us.
He had been wandering around numbly shaking hands and being kissed. His eyes still looked dazed with disbelief and he had the sweetest smile that showed up his dimples. ‘I’ve never won anything before today.’
‘And it’s going to get better,’ said Tom, stepping forward to shake his hand. ‘I’ve arranged an internship at Salinger’s for a month, if you’d like it? It might not pay much, but I guarantee you’ll learn a lot.’
‘Oh, man! Are you serious?’ Aaron’s eyes filled with tears and he grabbed hold of Tom and hugged him.
My heart squeezed for him; he really was a deserving winner. And as for Tom . . . What a thoughtful thing to do.
The phone rang and I scurried into the office to answer it. It was Gloria.
‘Now you’re not to worry,’ she panted, ‘but I’ve had an accident.’
‘Don’t move,’ I yelled. ‘I’m on my way.’
Chapter 24
I raced home at top speed with a pulse rate to match to find Gloria sprawled out, half in the downstairs loo and half in the hall, with Comfrey and Sage licking her face and whimpering. She was lying on her side, luckily not on the hip she’d broken. Her ivory linen dress gave her such a ghostly appearance that I let out a huge sigh of relief when she turned her head to look at me. Her features were screwed up and her blue eyes seemed huge against her porcelain skin and hollow cheeks, but at least she was conscious.
‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, darling,’ she said weakly.
A shudder of guilt slithered down my spine; Gloria had been released from hospital on the proviso that she had someone looking after her. She simply shouldn’t be left on her own all day; it was too dangerous. Things like this – or worse – were bound to happen.
I knelt down beside her. ‘No, I’m sorry. You poor thing. Where does it hurt?’
‘Nowhere really. I bumped my head on the door handle and I think there’s a lump somewhere.’ She prodded the side of her head above her ear gingerly. ‘Ouch. There.’
‘What happened?’ I slid my arm under her shoulders and propped her up to a sitting position.
‘I was opening the door to come out of the loo and one of my crutches slipped. I didn’t dare move in case I damaged something by struggling.’
‘And have you damaged anything, do you think?’
She wriggled her toes on the leg that had been plastered to the knee.
‘Only my pride,’ she said, half-laughing.
I carefully helped her up, taking all her weight while she got her balance, and fitted her crutches to each arm. All the while Comfrey and Sage bounced round us, frantically yapping as if telling me how worried they’d been.
We made our way unsteadily into the living room and Gloria lowered herself gratefully on to the sofa. I made us both a drink and returned from the kitchen with the lunch I’d prepared for her before I’d left in the morning.
‘Gloria,’ I said hesitantly, ‘I really don’t think you should be here on your own . . .’
She nodded. ‘I agree. Tomorrow I’ll come into the cookery school.’
‘I meant that perhaps you could have some convalescence somewhere lovely,’ I chided.
‘What?’ She looked at me, horror-struck. ‘Sit in a bath chair all day with a blanket on my knee until it’s my turn for a push round the grounds? No thank you.’
‘It wouldn’t be that bad,’ I said half-heartedly.
Mimi, what am I going to do with her? If she was my mum, I could be firmer, but it doesn’t seem fair to insist. Wish you were here.
I could hardly force her out of her own home even though she had shunned all offers of help from the district nurse. She had grudgingly made an appointment with the physiotherapist for Friday, but I think she had only agreed to that because she wasn’t given any choice. She was so damn stubborn; just like Mimi had been, never taking the easy option, never accepting defeat for one second. And whilst I admired her independence it frightened me to death on a daily basis.
She spread a napkin on her lap and took a tiny bite from her cheese and pickle sandwich.
‘Please let me come into work. I’m so bored here, I can’t get out into the garden without help because of the steps and I need a change of scene.’
She blinked her blue eyes at me.
‘All right.’ I nibbled my lip. ‘But I still think we should call the doctor to take a look at you after that fall.’
A look of fear flashed across her face before she pulled herself together. ‘There’s little point. They’re closed now for the afternoon, so we wouldn’t get an appointment today, even if I needed one, which I don’t. So . . .’ She patted the chair beside her. ‘Tell me all about your morning.’
I did as I was told and gave her an edited version of the morning’s events. I hadn’t told her that Tom had spent the weekend with his ex, nor that I’d been beside myself with worry when he hadn’t turned up this morning, so instead I told her all about the full-to-bursting cookery school, the fabulous food that had been produced under her roof and all about our winner, Aaron, and the fantastic opportunity Tom had arranged for him at Salinger’s.
It did the trick; she was thr
illed to bits and by the time I’d finished I could see her eyelids beginning to droop. I made sure her crutches and phone were in easy reach, pressed a kiss to her cheek and left her to have an afternoon snooze.
Back at the cookery school, Tom was holed up in the office on the phone to suppliers, ordering food for the next few days’ courses, and Mags and Pixie were arguing about who should reprise Mary Berry’s role in tomorrow’s Plumberry Bake Off competition.
‘Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser,’ said Pixie, very boldly, I thought.
‘Correct. But I’m both and besides, I’ve been to her house for an Aga cookery demonstration. So I win.’ With that Mags smiled smugly and folded her arms. ‘She was charming and said she liked my nails.’
‘Actually, there are three of you in the running to be lady judge,’ I announced. ‘Gloria is planning on being here.’
Mags lifted an eyebrow. ‘Is that wise given her recent falling-out with the toilet door?’
I shrugged. ‘No. But you try telling her that.’
‘How will she get up the stairs?’ Pixie asked. ‘On her bum?’
Mags pointed to the fire escape door on the far wall. ‘That leads to the brewery and a lift shaft that used to serve this half of the mill too. I think Gloria did some sort of deal with the landlord to use the lift as and when required.’
Pixie went off to investigate and I tiptoed into the office so as not to disturb Tom and retrieved the box of pretty Union Jack bunting.
‘Have you really met Mary Berry?’ I asked five minutes later as the two of us stretched the stream of flags across the room.
‘Oh yes. I met all the greats while I was in publishing. Lovely lady.’ She gazed wistfully out of the window. ‘Good times.’
My phone vibrated and I looked at the screen to see a text message from Rosie.
When’s that pasta making course and is there any room left on it?
I ran downstairs to Mags’s computer in reception and opened up the bookings screen on the website to check; there was one remaining space. I reserved it and sent a text message back.
Friday afternoon, one spot, who wants it?
Rosie replied instantly.
ME!!
I laughed softly to myself and typed another question.
And will you be able to stay over?
Her reply pinged back quickly.
On a Friday night?? Naturalmente!
Friday? My stomach flipped. Tom had a table booked at Platform Six on Friday. If Pixie was right and he was planning to ask me, I wouldn’t be able to go. Never mind, a catch-up with Rosie was exactly what I needed after the stress of the last few days.
I beamed as I sent her a text back.
A girls’ night out! I’ll chill the prosecco!
By six thirty I was back at Gloria’s cottage serving supper. I’d made a Cheesy Cod Casserole with jacket potatoes and a huge bowl of sugar snap peas, which someone had left behind after the Signature Dish contest. Haute cuisine it was not, I thought, ladling it on to three plates, but it was quick, easy and above all, comforting after a tiring day.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ I called down the hallway to Mags and Gloria.
It was a sunny evening but too cool to eat outside so we opened the French doors to the garden and sat at the kitchen table. Comfrey and Sage lolled on the patio like little bookends, keeping guard and barking if a butterfly dared to come too close.
‘It’s so lovely to see you cooking again,’ Gloria said, helping herself to vegetables.
‘This is one of the few recipes my mum taught me,’ I said. ‘Not like you and Mimi, Gloria. In fact, I think I learned more from you than I did from Mum.’
Gloria and I shared a smile.
‘Your mum was a secretary, Verity, working long hours, whereas my job was also my passion,’ she said generously. ‘Cooking and styling food comes as naturally to me as eating. “Don’t play with your food” was one of the first things I can remember my mother saying to me. “I’m not playing; I’m making it pretty,” I used to reply.’
‘“Get your hand out of that cake tin” was what mine said to me,’ Mags said with a chuckle. ‘Although she was a big girl, so I think I inherited my love of food from her.’
‘I don’t think I’ve inherited too much from my mother other than Cheesy Cod Casserole,’ I said with a lopsided smile, ‘and I don’t think that’s much to boast about. Ooh, your pills, Gloria.’
I passed her her tablets and she shook some out into her hand.
‘I disagree,’ Mags declared, scooping the centre out of her jacket potato and loading the skin with butter. ‘It’s lovely to have family recipes passed down. You must miss your family over in Canada?’
I shook my head. ‘I love my parents dearly, but we’ve had a turbulent relationship in the past. Mum and I get on much better now we’re on different continents.’
Mags cocked a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I can’t imagine you falling out with anyone.’
I squirmed in my seat, conscious of my face heating up.
‘My brother has done everything by the book in my mother’s eyes: met a nice girl, settled down and procreated,’ I said, passing her the vegetable dish. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve fallen short of her expectations.’
‘Oh?’ Mags stared, consumed with curiosity, her loaded fork poised in front of her mouth.
I went redder, wondering just how deep a hole I could dig before falling in completely. Fortunately, Gloria was miles behind the conversation and still talking about food.
‘Anyway, darling, it was a pleasure passing that love of cooking on to you and Mimi. I always looked on it as my legacy.’
She stopped and her eyes welled with tears. I guessed what she was thinking: that she should have gone before her daughter and not the other way round. That was the natural order of things. What good was having a legacy if you had no one to pass it on to?
‘I think about legacy a lot,’ Mags admitted, ‘not having children of my own. What will be left of me when I go? What can I leave behind to remind people that Mags was ’ere?’
‘I don’t think you’ll be forgotten for a very long time,’ I said, trying to jolly her along a bit. ‘Besides, surely you don’t have to have children to leave a legacy?’
‘I hope not because otherwise that would leave me in a bit of a pickle,’ said Gloria in a wobbly voice.
Mags and I exchanged glances as she put her knife and fork together neatly and stared out of the window. As if sensing her change in mood, the dogs trotted into the kitchen and pushed their noses against her leg.
‘You’ve got Noah,’ Mags soothed, patting her arm.
Gloria swallowed. ‘I know, and lovely Gabe, but I so loved every stage of Mimi’s life from baby to adulthood and I can’t help but think about all the mother-and-daughter things we’ve missed out on since.’
Her words touched a nerve with me and I felt a lump swell in my throat. If only Mimi were still here . . .
‘I would never dream of trying to take her place.’ I faltered for a second, unsure of myself. But wasn’t that exactly what I was doing? I pushed away the uncomfortable thought. ‘But I’ll be here to pass on your legacy. If you’d like me to?’
She took both of my hands and squeezed them gratefully.
‘Thank you, darling. Thank you. Life is so short, Verity.’ Gloria’s tone was suddenly urgent. ‘Promise me you won’t waste a single chance to be happy.’
I felt tears pricking at the back of my throat and I managed a small smile.
‘Promise. Anyway,’ I said, determined to jolt my two lovely friends out of their melancholy, ‘we don’t need to worry about any of that just yet. You’ll be as fit as a fiddle before you know it.’
‘Unless you carry on chucking yourself off the loo,’ said Mags with a chortle.
‘Let’s drink to our health.’ I fetched a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass; only a small one for Gloria, who wasn’t strictly allowed alcohol with the painkillers she was on.
�
�Cheers.’ Mags downed half of hers in a single swallow.
‘Tom called me earlier,’ said Gloria brightly. ‘He was asking for Friday morning off. Naturally I said he could; the Perfect Pasta course is only on in the afternoon.’
My ears pricked up.
‘Did he say why?’ I asked nonchalantly.
Her brow wrinkled. ‘Er, a solicitor’s meeting in Manchester, he said; something to do with selling Salinger’s.’
That was very speedy of him; it seemed that once he’d made up his mind he got straight on with it. I liked that in a person.
‘Which reminds me,’ Gloria continued, ‘I must give my own solicitor a tinkle. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on. I think it’s important to keep on top of your affairs when you’re single.’
Mags topped up her glass.
‘Here’s to affairs,’ she said, lifting her glass. ‘And staying on top.’
We all laughed and the mood was instantly lighter.
‘To affairs,’ I echoed, sipping my wine.
A warm sensation came over me as the alcohol hit my bloodstream. Or maybe it was the image of a gruff Irishman that had popped deliciously into my head?
Later that evening I took the dogs out for a walk through the village. The sun was low in the sky and the shops along Plumberry high street were bathed in a golden glow. We had slowed to a snail’s pace outside the butcher’s shop as Comfrey and Sage sniffed the closed door and scoured the pavement for meaty treasure when my phone rang.
‘Verity, it’s us,’ said Mum in a shouty voice.
‘Dad as well,’ said Dad more discreetly.
My heart swelled. I’d always had an easy relationship with Dad, and had done with Mum, I supposed, until we had our big clash a few years ago. But now, whether it was having been away from Nottingham for a month, or perhaps the stress of looking after Gloria on my own over the bank holiday weekend, it was lovely to hear their voices.
‘We’re on hands-free!’ Mum trilled.
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 23
