by Katie Fforde
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Katie Fforde
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Copyright
About the Book
‘Now she was finally here, she realised that no sane person would move to a farm in the country they might not inherit. No sane person obviously, but maybe someone like her who relished a challenge …’
Fran has always wanted to be a farmer, so how she ended up a chef in London is anyone’s guess. But her childhood dream is about to come true.
She has just moved in to a beautiful but very run-down farm in the Cotswolds, currently owned by her old aunt who has told Fran that if she manages to turn the place around in a year, the farm will be hers.
But Fran knows nothing about farming. She might even be afraid of cows.
She’s going to need a lot of help from her best friend Issi, and also from her wealthy and very eligible neighbour – who might just have his own reasons for being so supportive.
Is it the farm he is interested in. Or Fran herself?
About the Author
Katie Fforde lives in the beautiful Cotswold countryside with her family, and is a true country girl at heart. Each of her books explores a different profession or background and her research has helped her bring these to life. She’s been a porter in an auction house, tried her hand at pottery, refurbished furniture, delved behind the scenes of a dating website, and she’s even been on a Ray Mears survival course. She loves being a writer; to her there isn’t a more satisfying and pleasing thing to do. She particularly enjoys writing love stories. She believes falling in love is the best thing in the world, and she wants all her characters to experience it, and her readers to share their stories.
To find out more about Katie Fforde step into her world at www.katiefforde.com, visit her on Facebook and follow her on Twitter @KatieFforde.
Also by Katie Fforde
Living Dangerously
The Rose Revived
Wild Designs
Stately Pursuits
Life Skills
Thyme Out
Artistic Licence
Highland Fling
Paradise Fields
Flora’s Lot
Practically Perfect
Going Dutch
Wedding Season
Love Letters
A Perfect Proposal
Summer of Love
Recipe for Love
A French Affair
The Perfect Match
A Vintage Wedding
A Summer at Sea
A Secret Garden
The Christmas Stocking and Other Stories
For Georgina Hawtrey-Woore
3 December 1966 – 27 February 2017
Much loved and missed friend and editor.
It seems wrong to write a book you won’t read, but I did run the idea past you.
Acknowledgements
Ideas for books often come from more than one place, but the notion for this book came from the wonderful Jonathan Crump, farmer, cheese maker and inspiration to many. He suggested to my daughter (who had gone to his farm to borrow a ram) that I should write about farming and she reported back.
I liked the idea but didn’t completely latch onto it until I came upon a wonderful television programme called This Farming Year. Following the farmers go through the seasons, seeing how much they loved their animals and their land, was inspiring and humbling. While no writer ever wants to make mistakes, the thing I want to get right most is this passion. They work such long hours and days, for very little financial gain, for the love of their farms.
I was inspired to write about cheese many years ago, when I was writing another book and came across Liz Godsell of Godsells Cheese. I knew then that one day I would have to write a book entirely about cheese rather than it just have a walk-on part. I don’t think I thanked her enough at the time!
I have also known Ken Stevens of Hania Cheeses from when I worked in Mother Nature, whole food shop and café, a very long time ago. He has been known as Ken the Cheese locally for ever and he knows more about cheese than anyone.
And while he remained elusive and never answered emails, Owen Bailey of Neal’s Yard Cheese is owed a thank you. He and I talked a lot about cheese when he lived on our barge in London and he was new to Neal’s Yard. That was also a long time ago.
Massive gratitude is owed to my wonderful team at Penguin Random House. Starting with Selina Walker and Cassandra Di Bello for editorial input; Francesca Russell for the wonderful publicity she generates; thank you also to the sales team, including Aslan Byrne, Claire Simmonds, Laura Garrod, Sasha Cox, Natasha Photiou and Kelly Webster; to the entire marketing team, with a special thank you to Celeste Ward-Best; thank you to Jacqueline Bissett and Viki Ottowell, who designed this glorious cover; and thank you to the production team, Linda Hodgson and Helen Wynn-Smith, for ensuring my books make it out into the world on time!
As ever, and may it be for ever, thanks are due to my wonderful copy-editor Richenda Todd who, by her huge efforts, manages to prevent me making a complete fool of myself.
Also always at my side being a Rottweiler in polite, Labrador clothing, is the wonderful Bill Hamilton of A. M. Heath. I would be lost without you – almost literally.
Chapter One
The farm gate clanged shut behind her as Fran steered her little car up the steep track. Now she and Issi had found Hill Top Farm for certain – the name was written (not very clearly) on the post box – she felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This was either going to be a wonderful adventure or a humiliating mistake. She decided not to mention her feelings to her best friend. Issi probably guessed how she felt already.
‘I always wanted to be a farmer when I was a little girl,’ Fran said instead.
Issi, who’d just got back in the car having helped deal with the gate, seemed surprised. ‘Really? I never knew that and we’ve been friends for years. I thought you’d always wanted to run your own restaurant.’
‘That came later. I’d forgotten myself,’ said Fran, ‘but Mum reminded me at Christmas.’
‘Do your parents think you’re mad to do this?’
‘Yup. But they’re being supportive. My stepdad thinks I’ll be back with them before the end of the month, but I’m in it for the long haul.’ She paused. ‘Which may only be a year, if I don’t make it.’
‘Come on,’ said Issi, ‘let’s go and find this farmhouse you might inherit.’
‘It’s not just the farmhouse, remember? It’s the whole darn farm.’
Fran rounded a steep corner and tried to push her nerves to the back of her mind. Now she was finally here she realised no sane person would leave their comfortable life in London and move to a farm in Gloucestershire that they might not even inherit. No sane person, obviously, but maybe someone like her whose
normal life had stalled rather, and who relished a challenge.
A couple of minutes later, they arrived, having bumped their way to the top avoiding as many potholes as they could. ‘I’m not sure a Ka is the right vehicle for this track,’ Issi said.
Ignoring her friend, Fran got out of the car. ‘But look at the view!’
The farmhouse was on a plateau at the top of a hill that overlooked hills and wooded valleys. Beyond them lay the Severn, a silver snake in the far distance, and beyond the river was Wales.
‘I think I remember this landscape!’ Fran went on. ‘We came here once when I was a little girl. I’d forgotten all about it until we were discussing the farm over Christmas, and Mum reminded me. Mum said we’d all been here when Dad was alive, but I must have been tiny – after all I was only five when he died. But this feels faintly familiar.’
‘It is stunning,’ Issi agreed.
‘Come on,’ said Fran, ‘let’s look at the house while it’s still light. It’ll be dark by about four, so we’ll need to turn the leccy on. I’ve got a torch.’ She paused. ‘January’s probably not a good time to move on to a farm.’
Issi laughed. ‘It is what it is. Let’s get in.’
After failing to open the front door, they went round the back. ‘I don’t think people use front doors in the country,’ said Fran as they made their way round the building. ‘Here we are.’ She fitted the key into the lock and turned. Seconds later they were in.
‘Wow! It is dark,’ said Issi.
‘Hang on. I think I’ve found the fuse box. I’ll just get my torch out. There! We have light!’
They were in a fairly big farmhouse kitchen. The friends looked around in silence for a few seconds, taking it all in.
‘An open fire!’ said Issi excitedly. ‘How lovely to have an open fire in a kitchen.’
‘As long as it’s not all I have to cook on,’ agreed Fran, looking round. Although the central light was on, it wasn’t very bright and created shadow-filled corners. ‘Oh, look,’ she went on, relieved. ‘There’s a Rayburn. Probably a prototype it’s so ancient. I do hope it’s not run on solid fuel.’
‘But you’re a chef. You can cook on anything!’ said Issi, laughing at her friend.
‘I’m fine with the cooking,’ Fran agreed, ‘but I have no experience of lighting fires. Oh phew, it seems to run on oil.’
‘And look, there’s an electric cooker as well. You’re in culinary clover.’ Issi seemed to find Fran’s dismay over the cooking arrangements highly amusing.
‘I’ll be OK,’ said Fran, more to herself than Issi. ‘I’m here to farm, not to cook, after all. And I really like all the freestanding cupboards and things. And the sink has a lovely view of …’ She lifted the net curtain and peered through the window. ‘Ah, the farmyard. But it’s lovely beyond that. Come on!’ Suddenly she was more excited than dubious. ‘Let’s go and explore some more.’
The sitting room, which was at the front of the house, was a good size, and the windowsill was covered in pot plants. Some had died, but the geraniums seemed to have survived. There was a three-piece suite draped in crocheted blankets, and a profusion of tables and whatnots covered in photographs. Fran picked a photo up. ‘A woman and a cow, or maybe a bull. There’s a rosette. How sweet!’
Issi joined her. ‘They all seem to be of cows or bulls. There’s nothing to tell you anything about the old lady who owned them.’
‘Except that she was really into cows,’ said Fran, putting down the photo she was holding. ‘Oh, look at the fireplace!’
‘It’s tiny. You’ll need something else if you’re going to warm this room up.’
‘I know it’s tiny, but look at the beam above it. I bet there’s a wonderful original fireplace behind this little coal-burning thing. I long to take a sledgehammer to it.’
‘I’d wait until you’re sure you’re staying put, but I understand what you mean,’ said Issi, looking around her. ‘It’s not exactly shabby chic, but I do like it. This room could actually have been two or maybe even three rooms.’ She looked up at the ceiling, which had large beams at intervals.
‘It’s “old-lady chic”, that’s what it is,’ Fran decided. ‘And I like it too. Although I wish I could investigate the fireplace. I bet there’s something amazing behind all this thirties stuff.’
‘An old bread oven or something to cook on? You said yourself, you’re here to farm not to cook,’ said Issi. ‘If you thought you were going to miss cheffing, you should have stayed in London, cooking for the pub.’
‘No,’ said Fran determinedly. ‘This time I’m going to work for myself and make my own decisions. But I suppose you’re right, I can’t knock the house around, not if I haven’t actually inherited it yet.’
‘So tomorrow you’re seeing your aunt – cousin – what is she?’
‘I can’t remember exactly how we’re related but she’s some sort of connection to my read dad. I’m Amy’s – I suppose I’d call her Aunt Amy – I’m the only relation she could trace. She’s been running Hill Top on her own since her husband died. Now she’s had to go into a care home she thought she should try and leave it to one of her relations. I think she got in touch with another one but, according to the solicitor, he never replied.’
‘Which is why you’re here.,’ said Issi, who then paused. ‘Shall we investigate the bedrooms? They may be damp and we’ve got to sleep in a couple of them tonight.’
‘Thank you so much for coming with me,’ said Fran as they made their way up the stairs. ‘This would all be a bit daunting on my own.’
‘I’m just sorry I can’t stay longer. It’s such an adventure!’ Issi paused. ‘Would you have preferred Alex to come with you?’
Fran shook her head. ‘No way. One of the reasons we broke up was that he wasn’t up for adventure. He seems very happy being an intern for his uncle in New York … Although going on the fact there are supposedly very few straight men in NYC I suspect he has another motive.’ She sighed. ‘No, I really don’t miss him, apart from as a friend, sort of.’
Was she over Alex? Fran knew that Issi was still concerned about this, but she definitely was. He was a kind and lovely man but, when it came down to it, too safe and a bit dull. They’d broken up a few weeks ago after a couple of years together.
Fran knew they’d been going through the motions for a while but the catalyst had been this opportunity – challenge, even. If Alex could have hacked the countryside (unlikely) he couldn’t cope with the uncertainty. A straightforward inheritance might have been different – but probably not. Fran, on the other hand, although terrified, was very excited by it all.
A few minutes later, Fran and Issi were making up beds, helping themselves to soft, old flannel sheets they found in the airing cupboard. Then they found hot-water bottles and filled them, although they agreed they didn’t think the house was damp. Then it was time for supper.
‘So,’ said Issi when they’d eaten most of the moussaka that Fran had made and brought with her, and heated up in the electric oven. ‘You’re seeing Amy tomorrow?’
‘Yup. After my meeting with the lawyer. He said in his letter he’s arranged for me to have a bit of money to run things with but I don’t expect it’s very much.’ She sighed. ‘It is quite daunting when I think about it. I know nothing about farming – and yet here I am. I could have said no when I first heard from Amy’s solicitor but …’ She paused. ‘I wanted to challenge myself.’
‘See if you can run the farm for a year and make it pay?’
Fran nodded. ‘Of course I don’t have to look after the cows myself. There’s a herdsman. Amy would never let her precious cows be looked after by an ignoramus, which is what I am as far as farming is concerned.’
‘And cows are quite big, aren’t they?’ said Issi.
‘Are you afraid of cows?’
‘More to the point, are you?’
Fran swallowed. ‘I really hope not but actually – I think I am!’
Issi laughed. ‘Let’
s finish the wine and then get an early night. You have to be up with the lark tomorrow. Better set your alarm for six. Get used to your new life.’
Although Fran knew Issi was joking, she also knew what she said was true. As for being afraid of cows, she’d just have to find out when she met them.
The next morning they were standing in the kitchen, shrouded in layers of woollen jumpers and clutching steaming mugs of tea. Fran’s long bob had not been straightened that morning, and her blue-grey eyes had no trace of make-up. Nor were her freckles toned down with make up. She felt she looked like a scruffy ten-year-old but had more important things to think about than her appearance. Issi was looking pretty natural as well.
‘It’s the lawyer first? Then your Aunt Amy.’
Fran nodded. ‘I’m not sure how long it will all take. Will you be OK here on your own?’
Issi nodded. ‘I’m going to sort out the pot plants, and maybe do a bit of exploring. I might even move the furniture around a bit and clear out the odd cupboard. Would you mind?’
‘Not at all. I’m so grateful you’re here. I wouldn’t grudge you a bit of entertainment. In fact I think you’re going to have a better time than I am.’
‘In other words, Mrs Flowers is a distant cousin, a couple of times removed.’
To Fran’s huge relief, Mr Addison, the solicitor, a kind, tired man in his fifties, finally summed up the complex relationship that involved different generations and marriages.
‘What do you think I should call her when we meet?’ asked Fran, who was getting nervous at the thought of meeting a woman who, although very elderly now, had apparently been formidable in her time.
‘She’ll let you know, don’t you worry about that,’ said Mr Addison. ‘Now let’s go through the finances a bit. Mrs Flowers has arranged six months of care in her home. She has set up an account with a thousand pounds in it for your use. There is a bit more money but I’d honestly prefer you didn’t encroach on it. Although Mrs Flowers is very well looked after and frail, she may need more than six months’ care, which is going to be expensive.’
