Hetty's Farmhouse Bakery

by Cathy Bramley

  There was a peal of laughter from Tess as she led the customer towards the till. She had her hand on his arm; even by Naomi’s high standards of customer service, this seemed unusually attentive. I caught sight of his face and suppressed a smile; he was rather lovely looking: thick dark hair with silver streaks at his temples, dark brows and lashes and gorgeous brown eyes. His outfit was casual, just jeans, open-necked shirt, rolled-up at the sleeves, and deck shoes, but I could see even from a distance that his clothes were expensive.

  ‘Like him?’ I nudged Edwin. ‘He wouldn’t look out of place at Ascot.’

  ‘Mr Brookbanks? He wouldn’t look out of place anywhere.’ Edwin did a little swoon and sighed. ‘Alas, though, he isn’t a camper, he’s a local man. Naomi met him at the Sunrise Breakfast Club.’

  I looked at him again; I’d never seen him before. I’d definitely remember if I had. ‘He didn’t come to the open day.’

  ‘He’s in retail himself so he probably works most Saturdays.’

  ‘Ciao,’ said Tess, passing Mr Brookbanks his receipt and handing him his carry bag. ‘Let me know how you get on with the honey and mustard dressing, bring it in for me to taste if you like,’ she added, waggling her fingers in a cutesy wave.

  Mr Brookbanks mumbled something vague under his breath, stuffed the receipt in his pocket and gave us a thin smile as he passed on his way to the door.

  ‘He can dip his bread with me any time,’ said Tess, fluffing up her blonde hair suggestively, ‘any time at all.’

  ‘What’s the name of his shop?’ I asked, hitching my heavy basket up on my arm. It had six tasty pies in it. At least I hoped they were tasty; they were the key to my foodie fortune.

  ‘Shops, plural,’ Edwin corrected.

  ‘Surely you recognize him?’ Tess said but I shook my head. ‘The Brookbanks family started Country Comestibles, they’ve got the main shop in—’

  ‘What?’ I gasped and dashed for the door, not hanging around to let her finish her sentence.

  This was a golden opportunity to promote Hetty’s Farmhouse Bakery. I legged it outside to collar Mr Brookbanks before he left the car park. I didn’t dare run too fast in case I ended up with a basket full of crumbs and by the time I caught up with him, he was lowering himself into a sleek indigo-blue Porsche.

  ‘Mr Brookbanks,’ I said, panting slightly.

  He paused from shutting the car door and stared up at me, brow furrowed. ‘Yes?’

  I looked at the pies carefully before selecting one. Country Comestibles was Cumbria’s most prestigious retailer and a foodie’s paradise; anything worthy of a place on its shelves had to be extra special. I decided on the steak, chilli and cheese pie. The heat of the spices was an unexpected twist and the tang of the cheese combined with the tender beef fillet I’d used was heaven on a plate. ‘Can I give you this?’

  I levered the box out of my basket and handed it to him.

  ‘A pie,’ he said flatly, looking down at the box in his lap.

  ‘Yes,’ I said breathily. My heart was banging. Sell it to him, Hetty. ‘A pie made with Cumbrian beef and local Eskdale cheese.’

  He regarded me for a long moment, his dark lashes blinking steadily. ‘Makes a change. I usually get given casseroles.’

  ‘Well, this is a bit like a casserole with a coat on.’ I laughed nervously. Mr Brookbanks’ face remained set. ‘I made it. Heating instructions on the bottom.’

  He exhaled. ‘Do I look incompetent? Desperate? In need of looking after?’ he said snappily.

  ‘No,’ I said, taken aback. This was new; I was used to my pies getting a warm reception. ‘You look handsome, I mean smart. I just thought … Sorry, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’ I tried to get the box back from him, mortified, but he hung on to it firmly.

  ‘Okay.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to launch my new range of pies, that’s all, and when I heard you were from Country Comestibles, I—’

  ‘This is for the shop?’ Mr Brookbanks ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah, right.’

  I frowned at him. Why else would I run up to a stranger and thrust food at him?

  ‘Well, that’s just for you to sample, really. Or your pie buyers.’ I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with a trembling hand. I was going to have to work on my sales pitch for next time.

  His lips twitched. ‘My pie buyers?’

  I shrugged one shoulder. ‘I’m still learning.’

  He set the pie box on the passenger seat and swung his feet out of the car. ‘Watch out.’

  I stood back to let him get out.

  ‘Let’s start again.’ He stuck his hand out to shake mine. ‘Gareth Brookbanks. And you must be Hetty.’

  I nodded, glancing down at his smooth fingers, tanned like Dan’s, although Dan’s were rough and calloused and never one hundred per cent clean. ‘Hetty Greengrass. From Sunnybank Farm. And I’m starting a pie company.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ His eyes flicked up to the moors where several hundred sheep were grazing amongst the heather. ‘So it’s a field-to-plate business.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I smiled. ‘My strapline is: From my farmhouse to your fork, with love from Hetty, kiss kiss.’

  I’d paid Otis to redesign the logo for me. It now featured a pie with beams of sunshine radiating from it and the words ‘Hetty’s Farmhouse Bakery’ written below it. The strapline would be printed separately on the boxes. I loved it. So did Poppy. So much so, in fact, that she was thinking of getting her own logo for some branded egg boxes for her egg business.

  He nodded appreciatively. ‘I like it; it fits with our ethos. Maybe lose the “kiss kiss”. Do you shop at Country Comestibles?’

  ‘Um.’ The Greengrass budget didn’t stretch to the likes of Gareth’s fine establishment. ‘I window shop there. All the time. Maybe one day, if I make my fortune selling pies …?’ I gave him a hopeful smile and he laughed softly.

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I do have a soft spot for authentic farm produce. I tell you what, I’ll serve it up to a very discerning customer tonight and let you know.’

  ‘Really?’ I had to stop myself from flinging my arms round his neck. Instead, I grabbed his hand and shook it again. ‘So you do have a pie buyer?’

  ‘I have a six-year-old daughter,’ he grinned, ‘and believe me, she’s not easy to impress.’

  ‘Thank you, so much, Gareth, thank you.’

  He started to get back into his car and paused. ‘And I’m sorry I was rude. I lost my wife earlier this year and I’ve been bombarded with divorcees and do-gooders thrusting food at me.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’ My heart ached for him and his little girl. ‘And I’m neither of those.’

  ‘I can see that now.’ He lifted the lid of the box and smelled the pie. ‘I love the free-form style of this and it looks better than my pastry.’

  ‘You cook?’

  He nodded. ‘Sara, my wife, did the gardening and the kitchen was my domain.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘Unconventional, maybe, but it worked for us. So now Ella and I still eat well, but the garden is a wilderness.’

  ‘I could help?’ I found myself offering. ‘I’m more of a veggie grower, but—’

  ‘You’ve got enough on your plate. No pun intended.’

  We shared a smile and he tucked the flap back down on the Hetty’s Farmhouse Bakery box.

  ‘My wife would have loved this. You’re an entrepreneur. Cumbria needs more people like you and I wish you lots of luck. Goodbye, Hetty.’

  My spirits soared as I waved him off. An entrepreneur, wait until I told the rest of my family about that …

  Meeting Gareth gave me a huge boost and for the next couple of hours, I floated around the nearby villages on a cloud of confidence, handing out pie samples to two cafés, a delicatessen, another farm shop and the little general store at the camping and caravanning site where the sheep shearers from Australia usually stay. And by the time I bumped up the track to the farm with an empty basket at two
o’clock, I was feeling very pleased with myself. I’d had a couple of missed calls from Dan but as I was nearly home, I’d decided to carry on rather than pull over and call him back.

  That was possibly a bad move, I thought, when I pulled the Land Rover to a halt next to my old Renault. Dan was pacing the farmyard, one hand in his hair, the other glued to his phone. Still, I was here now and I was sure he’d be pleased for me about my day.

  ‘Finally,’ he said gruffly, shoving his phone in his back pocket.

  ‘Ah, it’s nice to be missed,’ I said, leaping out of the vehicle. ‘I’ve had a fantastic morning.’

  I walked over to him, swinging my empty basket on my arm, bursting with news.

  ‘Terrific,’ he said flatly.

  I held up my cheek to be kissed and he obliged grudgingly.

  ‘Ooh, stubbly,’ I complained, rubbing my face where his lips had grazed my skin.

  ‘I’m too busy to shave in the mornings, Hetty,’ he said with a scowl. ‘I’m rushed off my feet today and you going AWOL with the Land Rover hasn’t helped.’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’ I pulled a face. ‘But your clever wife has secured four firm orders for pies this morning. My first proper pie orders! How cool is that? Plus, I met Gareth Brookbanks who—’

  ‘How many?’ he said smoothly.

  ‘What?’ I said, taken aback.

  ‘How many pies have been ordered exactly?’ He folded his arms.

  ‘Well, only four,’ I said huffily, ‘but mighty oaks, little acorns and all that.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘So four actual pies,’ he remarked coolly. ‘And how much has it cost us to secure those orders?’

  ‘Er.’ I swallowed nervously. ‘Roughly?’

  He nodded. ‘If that’s all you’ve got.’

  I was still getting around to working out my costings. There were the obvious things like the ingredients. They were expensive, but I was making a top-quality product, I couldn’t stint on them. I’d spent money on packaging, the logo, and I supposed if you were going to be pernickety about it, I’d spent money on diesel driving around with my samples. The Aga was on all day anyway so that didn’t cost anything extra and once I was a proper business, I’d have to factor in a cost for my time. Dan stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Not much,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Oh Hetty, love.’ He exhaled. ‘Ask yourself, do we really need this extra work now? Do we need any more commitments? It’s not as if we’re going to see profit any time soon.’

  ‘Yes, we do need it,’ I argued. ‘At least, I do and it’s not just about the profit. We’ve been through this, Dan.’

  He sighed and looked down at his boots, kicking at a clod of dry mud.

  ‘I think you need a reality check. You said it wouldn’t impact on the farm. You said it wouldn’t get in the way of anything.’

  ‘And it won’t,’ I said hotly. ‘I’ve checked the cade lambs this morning, cleaned out the hens for Poppy and I went to Top Valley first thing because someone phoned to say they thought they saw one of our ewes with her head stuck in the feeder. Which there was, so I sorted that out and checked over the triplet lambs while I was there. And I made your lunch. All before making pies.’

  He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘When you put it like that … Now I feel like a slave driver.’

  ‘You are sometimes.’ I stepped closer, running a hand up his back. ‘Why can’t you ever just be pleased for me?’

  ‘Because you took the Land Rover and I needed it.’

  I’d taken it because although neither of our vehicles were really suitable for visiting potential customers, at least that one aligned to my farmhouse bakery brand. Sort of. But I hadn’t thought to tell Dan I was borrowing it.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t think.’

  ‘No you didn’t.’ He swiped the keys from my hand. ‘Because all you think about is your bloody pies.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I gasped. ‘Besides, I thought you were going to be in this morning and wouldn’t need it?’

  ‘I was but I had a call from a guy in Penrith with a Soay flock like ours, he invited me to go and see a couple of his males for a potential swap. That way we can get a new bloodline going free of charge. I had an hour or two free and I thought I’d go. Now I’ll have to fit it in another time.’

  ‘Free of charge?’ I cocked an eyebrow. It was one rule for him and another for me; that wasn’t fair. ‘The Soay flock takes up loads of your time. They also take up space. We have to pay to feed them in winter and keep them healthy. We’ve invested hundreds of pounds in them and you’ll probably never see a return. You did it because you wanted to. For a little project on the side. We could have had a holiday last year, Poppy could have felt sand between her toes, but we didn’t say anything because we could see how much it meant to you.’

  Dan frowned. ‘Hetty, this is a farm, we keep sheep. And rearing a rare breed gives us an extra string to our bow.’

  I lifted my chin. ‘And so does having a field-to-fork business. I haven’t got good enough facilities yet, but there’s a five-grand prize up for grabs at this London competition and if I win, I—’

  ‘If you win …?’ Dan laughed in amazement. ‘Have you even looked at who the other competitors are? You’re a great cook, but you won’t win.’

  I stared at my husband, crushed by his comments. ‘That is the cruellest thing you have ever said to me.’

  Dan puffed out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to be cruel, but face facts, Hetty.’

  The low rumble of the quad bike slowly approaching up the track that led to the farm shop made us both look round. Fern was padding alongside it, her long tongue lolling, and Cameron was at the wheel. He had the small trailer attached to the back of it and in it, bleating plaintively, was one of our biggest tups.

  ‘Oh hell, now what?’ Dan groaned.

  Cameron turned the engine off. ‘Broken leg, by the look of it.’

  We went over and the sight of the animal in pain and distressed, its back leg at an odd angle, made me queasy. ‘Oh, the poor thing,’ I murmured. ‘It must be in agony.’

  ‘Another bill from the vet,’ Dan tutted.

  He stormed off towards the Land Rover, yelling for Cameron to help him load up the injured tup, and a couple of minutes later they’d gone.

  I stood in the yard with my empty basket, too chock-full of emotions to move. My ego was bruised, I was humming with indignation, aching with disappointment and, more than anything, I was scared of the splinters that had appeared on the surface of my marriage.

  Right now, I had no idea what to do or say to make matters better. My phone rang and I grabbed at it gratefully, shuddering with relief to see Anna’s name pop up on the screen.

  ‘You must be psychic,’ I said with a wobbly laugh. ‘I’m so glad you called.’

  There was a hesitation on the line. ‘You might not be so glad when you find out why I’ve phoned.’

  My heart froze. ‘What’s wrong? Is it Poppy? Is she okay?’

  ‘She will be,’ said Anna calmly. ‘But I’m afraid you’re going to have to collect her from school.’

  Chapter 17

  I drove like the clappers, or at least as fast as my old car would allow. I’d let Dan know and he and I had put aside our row, both of us worried about our daughter. He couldn’t leave the vet, but I promised I’d send him news as soon as I could. The traffic was kind for once and I made it to school in twenty-five minutes.

  ‘Poppy Greengrass, Form Eight B. I’m her mum.’

  ‘Push the door.’

  The school receptionist buzzed me through the first set of security doors and told me to wait on the hard little sofa while she called the nurse.

  I perched on the edge of my seat, heart hammering. Poor Poppy. According to Anna, she’d hit her head on a wall outside and fainted.

  ‘Hetty?’ Anna stood in the doorway, holding open the door to the rest of the school. ‘Come through.’

  ‘How is she?’ I flew ove
r to her. She gave me a quick hug and together we marched towards her little office-cum-sickbay.

  ‘Mostly wounded pride.’ She squeezed my arm and smiled. ‘She’s recovering already, she’ll be fine. Matilda is sitting with her.’

  In the nurse’s room, Poppy was sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped, pressing her hand to a bandage above her left eye. Her skin was as pale as milk and her green eyes looked huge in her little face. Her friend was holding her hand, looking grave.

  ‘Oh, love,’ I said quietly, fighting tears. ‘Look at you.’

  She raised her eyes to mine and gave me a wonky smile. ‘I hope I get a black eye. I’ve always wanted one of those.’

  Anna and I exchanged looks. I sat on the bed next to Poppy and gathered her to me. Matilda edged away, awkwardly. Poppy relaxed against me and I breathed in the scent of her shampoo and school disinfectant and teenage bodies.

  ‘You gave me such a fright,’ I said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Apart from my head feeling like it’s been hit with a hammer and feeling like a total idiot, yeah.’

  ‘You were amazing, Poppy,’ said Matilda gravely. ‘You are so cool in this school right now.’

  Poppy perked up. ‘D’you think?’

  Matilda nodded, wide-eyed, and Poppy snorted with laughter. I let out a breath; she was fine, panic over.

  ‘Can I go to the loo, Miss?’ she asked.

  I smiled at Anna; I’d forgotten Poppy had to address her formally at school.

  Anna nodded. ‘Go together. Matilda, you can go back to your form afterwards and Poppy, you come straight back here please.’

  The two girls left and I flopped back on the bed, exhausted.

  ‘What a day,’ I groaned.

  ‘Two ticks and I’ll be back with some tea for us both,’ said Anna. She slipped my shoes off and lifted my legs on to the bed. ‘And then you can tell me all about it.’

  She was back two minutes later with two mugs and a glass of water for Poppy.

  ‘She’ll be ages yet.’ Anna grinned. ‘For some unfathomable reason, the girls’ toilets hold great allure for our students; they can be gone for hours.’