‘Shortcrust-pastry-pies – niche?’ I said dubiously.
‘I mean trade only,’ she said hurriedly. ‘They don’t sell direct to the public.’
‘Wow.’ I picked up the pie box reverently and stroked my finger over its little cellophane window. The box was slightly too big for the pie; it had too much room to slide about, but even so, I thought it was marvellous. ‘A Sunnybank Farm pie.’
‘You don’t mind, then?’ Naomi heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I’m so glad. It’s just with the TV cameras coming I didn’t want to pass up the chance to talk about my plans.’
There was a flurry of activity outside the office in the front area of the shop and the other member of staff, Edwin, appeared. He coughed politely to announce himself.
‘The TV crew are here,’ he said, fingering his bow tie nervously. ‘They’re asking where they need to set up.’
Naomi did an audible gulp. ‘Thank you, Edwin, will I do?’
He stepped forward, tugged her sleeves down and brushed a speck of fluff from her shoulders.
‘You’ll do magnificently.’
He gave a little bow and turned on his heel. Edwin used to be a butler for a posh house in London but he had left after being criticized by his Lordship once too often for his whistling nostrils and fled to Cumbria. He’d since had his sinuses drilled, which had alleviated the problem, but he said he’d never go back to a life in service.
‘Break a leg,’ I said, holding up the pie in a box.
She inhaled deeply to calm herself, stepped forward and took it from me but stumbled over the wheels of the swivel chair I was on.
‘Ouch,’ she yelled, dropping the box in my lap.
‘I didn’t mean literally,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’
She dropped to the ground, kicked off her flimsy ballerina shoe and clutched her foot. ‘Stupid shoes. I think, ow, ow, ow, I think I might have broken a toe.’
‘Ice,’ I said, jumping to my feet, taking care not to let the chair roll over her feet again. ‘Where’s the freezer?’
She grabbed my arm as I made for the door. ‘Get Edwin or Tess to fetch the ice.’ There were tears in her eyes and she squeezed my hand. ‘You’ll have to show the TV company the Sunnybank Farm pie. Please, you’re the best person to talk about it.’
‘No, this is your moment,’ I insisted. ‘You’ll be fine in a second.’
Even as I said it I could see that she wouldn’t be. Her face had gone grey and clammy and when I looked down at her foot it already looked red and swollen.
‘All right, I’ll do it.’ My stomach wobbled with nerves as she smiled her gratitude through gritted teeth. ‘And I’ll try not to let you down, although I can’t promise anything.’
Tess came to the door, looking frazzled. ‘Hurry up, I sent Edwin in to get you. Blimey, Naomi!’ she gasped, catching sight of her boss on the floor. ‘Now what are we going to do? The news reporter is getting restless out here.’
‘Hetty’s taking my place. Help me up,’ Naomi said, wincing as she reached a hand out to Tess. ‘And don’t fret, Hetty, it’s not live and they’ll only want a quick soundbite. You go.’
And pie in hand, I did as I was told.
Back out in the shop a crowd of beaming customers were jostling for position behind Kirsty, our bubbly and enthusiastic local reporter, who today was all teeth and tweed as befitted a country girl. She held her microphone as if she was about to burst into song and the atmosphere in the shop was buzzing with the prospect of being on the TV. In front of her stood an androgynous sort of person with long hair, a willowy body and a chunky camera. A red light appeared on the top of the camera and Kirsty cleared her throat.
‘Today we’re here in Carsdale on the banks of the glorious River …’ Her eyes slid sideways and Edwin whispered ‘Esk’ lightly just out of shot.
‘I can’t believe she doesn’t know the river’s name,’ muttered the old lady who’d been concerned about flies on pies to her husband.
‘Esk,’ Kirsty continued smoothly, ‘visiting the wonderful Sunnybank Farm Shop run by Naomi Willcox.’ She lowered her eyes this time to some scribbled notes on a card in her hand. ‘Her family, the Greengrasses, have been farming here for generations, but it was Naomi’s dream to bring this traditional Cumbrian stone building to life again.’ She paused, noticing me holding my boxed pie at this point, and gestured for me to join her. ‘Naomi has curated all the best produce from the area under one lovely slate roof and today the shop is celebrating its fifteenth birthday, isn’t that correct, Naomi?’
She shoved the microphone so close to my lips that it vibrated against my skin and I flinched.
Kirsty was giving me a rictus smile; she was clearly waiting for me to speak but I had completely forgotten the question.
‘Hetty Greengrass,’ I said hesitantly, leaning over the microphone.
Kirsty shot an anxious look at her camera person and then at the pie box. ‘And is this one of your products?’
I flicked open the box and lifted it up to the camera. ‘Yes, this is one of my favourites: spring lamb, pearl barley and thyme picked fresh from the farm garden this morning.’
‘It smells lovely,’ Kirsty said, smiling into the lens. ‘And you don’t make it in a tray, I see?’
‘Free-form pies are my speciality,’ I said, relaxing now I was on familiar ground. ‘You can’t beat cutting that first slice out of a pie and seeing layer upon layer of filling.’
Kirsty nodded intently as if she’d never heard anything so interesting in her life.
‘And what’s the secret to a good piecrust?’ She turned to smile at the customer behind her. ‘If it’s not a trade secret, that is!’
Everyone laughed obediently, even though it wasn’t really funny.
‘Well, strictly between us,’ I said, getting into the swing of it, ‘you have to keep the filling dry; there’s no soggy bottom on my watch!’
The laughter increased and I even managed a smile myself.
‘And Sunnybank Farm is a sheep farm, isn’t it?’ Kirsty asked.
‘Yes, mainly Swaledales and our rare-breed flock of Soays.’
‘So is that one of your lambs in there?’ She wrinkled her nose and pointed at the pie.
Oh crumbs.
And it was all going so well. I felt my mouth dry up and floundered for something to say. I had a dirty secret where Sunnybank Farm lamb was concerned. No one knew; well, no one except Anna and I’d sworn her to secrecy.
‘Well, is it your lamb?’ Kirsty gave a sharp laugh. ‘Or not?’
‘It’s Cumbrian lamb,’ called Naomi, limping towards us. Kirsty pivoted towards her and the crowd parted to let her through. At last, I was out of shot, thank heavens. ‘We don’t have a butcher’s counter at the Sunnybank Farm Shop yet, although we do have plans for expansion …’
I felt someone tug my sleeve and turned to see Tim’s friendly face smiling at me. ‘Shall we?’ he whispered, nodding towards the door.
I put my pie down gratefully and fled.
Chapter 7
At six o’clock, the three of us were all back in the kitchen ready to catch up on each other’s day over dinner. I ladled out dishes of lamb and spinach curry while Dan chopped up a fresh red chilli to sprinkle over his. Poppy filled a jug of water and set glasses on the table.
Naomi had phoned earlier to thank me for the pies. In spite of her injured toe she had had a brilliant day: the shop takings had been through the roof and she was thrilled with the media coverage and the turnout and all the feedback she’d had from the Sunrise Breakfast Club. The news piece was apparently going to be aired this evening at six thirty and she and Tim planned to celebrate with a glass of champagne, although, she confided, he had a bit of a dodgy tummy from too much rhubarb juice. I’d laughed at that; if he was suffering, imagine what the Aussie sheep shearer was going through. Her toe was too swollen to drive, but Tim had driven her round to Anna’s, who declared it ‘a right mess’ and strapped it up for her. As far as Anna
could tell, there were no broken bones so she should be fit for her twenty-two-mile fell race in two weeks’ time. I’d needed a sit-down just listening to that.
‘My pies went down well,’ I said, scraping the extra rice into a bowl for Rusty before I remembered. I gave myself a shake and put it in the fridge instead. ‘But I came away feeling like I was the biggest underachiever in the family. Even the other farmer’s wife I met was running multiple businesses, bringing up multiple kids and holding down a day job.’
‘Don’t feel bad, Mum,’ said Poppy. ‘Not everyone is destined to be a high-flier.’
I sighed, sliding plates in front of Dan and Poppy before fetching my own. I knew she meant well and I didn’t especially need to be a high-flier, but getting off the ground would be nice.
‘And don’t underestimate how much I need you on the farm, Hetty,’ Dan said kindly. ‘Without you we’d have to pay a full-time farmhand to help with shepherding and that would eat up most of our profit.’
‘I know,’ I said with a sinking heart. Dan meant well too, but all his comment succeeded in doing was to make me feel guilty for wanting more out of life.
We had a lad, Cameron, from agricultural college helping out three days a week; he was starting up his own flock at his parents’ beef farm and wanted the experience. And it had been the same way for the last fifteen years: relying on students to get us through the busiest times of the year – birthing, shearing and getting the lambs ready for market. How did Freya Graythwaite manage, I wondered, juggling both farms and holding down a job?
‘You’ve got me as well now, Dad,’ Poppy piped up. She shovelled in her curry as quickly as she could, probably due to the ‘no screens at mealtimes’ rule. ‘It’s half-term this week, I can help.’
Dan nodded absentmindedly. ‘And Bart seems keen; the dogs responded well to him. It’ll be good to get him trained up.’
‘I’m keen,’ Poppy reminded him hotly. ‘And I can already work with the dogs.’
‘I know, love,’ said Dan patiently. ‘But you’re only twelve—’
‘Nearly thirteen.’
‘Okay, nearly thirteen. I know you want to help now, but when you’re older you might want to get a job in the village.’
‘At a shop or a café?’ Poppy said in disgust.
Dan looked at me for assistance. Sometimes I felt more like a referee than a wife and mother.
‘Anywhere,’ I said. ‘You can go anywhere, do anything. Maybe a shop or maybe helping out Sally at the vet’s.’
‘But why?’ Poppy sat back, her green eyes flashing with frustration. ‘Dad, I see what you’re doing, just because he’s a boy, you’re giving Bart all the attention. Well, girls can be farmers. I’m not letting what happened to Auntie Naomi happen to me. It is so not fair!’
When Mike died and Dan inherited the farm, he had been devastated. Partly because his hero had died so suddenly, but also because he knew his plans to train to be a vet would have to be placed on permanent hold, even though it had always been Naomi who’d taken the greater interest in farming. But Viv was adamant that Mike’s wishes were to be carried out and besides, Tim hadn’t wanted to live on the farm. And so Naomi threw herself into setting up the farm shop and Dan had taken over the reins. There’d been no way the farm could have supported two families; it simply wasn’t profitable enough. And as it was, we’d taken out a mortgage to buy Viv her own home when she decided to start a new life away from the farm.
It would be different for us: there was only Poppy to inherit. Right now, staying on Sunnybank Farm was Poppy’s dream life. And while I knew Dan was secretly proud of that, he was also determined that she’d get a chance to explore the world beyond Sunnybank Farm.
He smiled at his daughter. ‘You’re right, he did get more attention today, but that’s because he’s new and if I don’t watch him he could have an accident. Whereas you’re a pro.’
He shifted in his chair and shot me a sideways glance, evidently proud of that reply.
Poppy wasn’t so impressed. ‘You even let him go on the tractor today. On his first day!’
‘Bart’s feet reach the pedals, love,’ Dan laughed. ‘On your first day on the farm you were shorter than most of our ewes.’
‘Exactly,’ she said darkly, ‘because farming’s in my blood.’
Dan held up his hands to curtail further argument. ‘He’s taller than you and stronger than you. You can’t fight facts.’
The phone rang, breaking the tension, and I got up to answer it. It was mounted on the wall by the back door, handily positioned so that you could come in from the farmyard, lean in and make a call without having to take off your boots.
‘Sunnybank Farm, Hetty speaking.’
‘You’ll be having your dinner.’ It was my mother-in-law. Six o’clock was and always had been dinner time; it just seemed to fit in with the chores on the farm. ‘I shan’t keep you.’
She always said that and usually contradicted herself by talking for England. Not that I minded, I loved Viv, and loved having her so close by. She’d been a substitute mother for me, especially when my parents had first left the UK and I’d missed having them to talk to.
‘I don’t mind either way, Viv,’ I said. ‘It’s only curry.’
What I meant was, it was only lamb curry and I’d got a thing about lamb. Unfortunately, it was Dan’s favourite meat; he would eat it every day if he could. I couldn’t.
‘I was on the bus coming back from the hospital and when we came down the hill towards Carsdale I saw some of your tups in Harry Sadler’s barley field.’
‘Thanks, Viv, I’ll let Dan know.’
The tups – or rams – were in a field of their own at the moment, separated from the ewes for the summer until the mating season, or tupping, began again in autumn. If Viv said the tups were ours, they would be. Each farmer had a distinct mark and every ewe, lamb and tup was marked so we could identify whose is whose. Ours had a red line across their back. Plus, our tups were Swaledales, and the only other farmer near enough, Ian Kirk, kept Herdwicks and no retired farmer’s wife would mix those two up.
‘Don’t tell me.’ Dan sighed, scraping up the last of his curry. ‘Bloody sheep have got out.’
‘Yep,’ I said, coming back to the table and filling him in on their whereabouts.
‘As my dad used to say, sheep have two aims in life: to escape and—’
‘To die,’ Poppy finished for him.
‘Exactly.’ Dan grinned at her. ‘You know.’
‘As I said,’ said Poppy archly, ‘farming is in my blood.’
Dan sighed in defeat and I bit my lip to stop my face breaking into a smile as she stood up, stacked her plate in the dishwasher and walked into the living room.
‘I’ll get the telly on ready. I’m putting it on Snapchat.’
Dan caught my eye and grinned. ‘And I’ll text Harry. Let him know I’ll be over as soon as my wife’s had her first TV appearance.’
Five minutes later, Dan and I were sitting on the sofa and Poppy was kneeling on the floor in front of the TV with her phone held up ready to capture my big moment. My stomach was churning.
‘I’m more nervous now than I was at the time,’ I said, glad Dan was here so I could bury my face in his chest if it was awful.
‘You’ll be great.’ He lifted his arm to make room for me as I snuggled up to him. ‘And you’ve got a lovely smile; you’ll be good on TV.’
I breathed in his familiar scent and felt my heart rate calming. ‘Aw, thank you. Naomi warned me I’d probably only be in view for a few seconds. A soundbite she called it.’
‘Shush, shush, this is it!’ Poppy yelped and started to record it on her phone.
The camera panned across the front of the shop and paused on the flower troughs outside while a voiceover introduced the piece. And then there was Kirsty, all toothy smiles and flicky hair, standing in the shop and talking to the camera with that big microphone in her face and forgetting the name of the River Esk. I smiled a
t Edwin’s voice softly prompting her from the wings.
‘I’m there, just to the left of her,’ I hissed to Dan, pointing at the screen.
‘Shush,’ he chuckled, ‘and can you loosen your grip?’
I looked down to where I’d balled his shirt up in my fist. ‘Sorry.’
‘Her family, the Greengrasses, have been farming here for generations, but it was Naomi’s dream to bring this traditional Cumbrian stone building to life again,’ said Kirsty.
‘Like me,’ said Poppy pointedly, giving Dan a haughty look. ‘I’m the next generation of Greengrasses.’
‘This is me now,’ I squeaked. ‘Oh …?’
They’d done some cutting and pasting with the film and instead of Kirsty beckoning me to join her, it jumped to some interior shots of the shop, showing customers tasting food, ending on a close-up of my pie in a box in my hands.
‘Naomi has curated all the best produce from the area under one lovely slate roof and today the shop is celebrating its fifteenth birthday, isn’t that correct, Naomi?’ Kirsty continued.
And then there was Naomi, still looking a bit uncomfortable after her accident and talking about how proud she was of her shop and her expansion plans for the future. I pushed myself up from Dan and leaned forward.
‘This is supposed to be me talking about the farm and my pies,’ I muttered.
‘And finally, we spoke to farmer’s wife Hetty Greengrass who told us her secret to a perfect Sunnybank Farm pie,’ said the voiceover while I yacked soundlessly away in the background to Kirsty. Until suddenly there was sound:
‘You have to keep the filling dry,’ said the telly version of me, grinning like a lunatic at the camera. ‘There’s no soggy bottom on my watch!’
‘And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.’ Kirsty finished her report standing outside the farm shop. ‘There are no soggy bottoms on Sunnybank Farm.’
‘So that was my soundbite,’ I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. ‘About soggy bottoms. What a buffoon.’
‘Never mind, Mum,’ said Poppy, hooting with laughter. ‘I still love you even if you are a buffoon.’
Hetty's Farmhouse Bakery Page 7
