Hetty's Farmhouse Bakery

by Cathy Bramley

  There was a noticeboard propped on a stand at the entrance and Joe released my arm to study it. Three other people, two men and a woman, were doing the same thing and I stood to the side to give them space.

  ‘There are people from John o’Groats to Land’s End here tonight,’ said Joe. ‘Let’s see if we’re all mixed up or arranged in geographical order, north to south.’

  One of the men laughed. ‘I can’t make any of it out without my glasses, the print is too small.’

  His dialect was pure Cornish and my mouth lifted into a smile. With just a few words, the man had taken me right back to the time I’d spent in Padstow. How Gil and I had teased each other about our accents.

  ‘There, look,’ said the woman, tapping the board with the tip of her fingernail. ‘Taste of Cornwall.’

  ‘And we’re here, Hetty, table five,’ said Joe.

  ‘Well done. Come on, Gil,’ said the man, clapping his friend on the back. ‘We’ve found our place. Table nineteen.’

  Gil? I looked up at the group from Cornwall, just as one of them whirled round to look at me.

  ‘Hetty?’

  My hand flew to my mouth as I found myself looking at a man who was instantly recognizable as the boy who had mended my heart only to lose me again to Dan.

  He pushed past his friends to get to me, his expression a mixture of dazed and happy. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Gil Pemberton,’ I murmured. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Chapter 20

  This was mad; I had never expected to see Gil again in my life. Yet there he was, hands on hips, right in front of me, a big grin plastered on his face.

  ‘It’s good to see you!’ He inched closer and I braced myself for a hug but he seemed to think better of it and patted my bare arm instead. His touch sent a shiver through my body. I felt like a teenager again.

  ‘You too.’ I scanned his face, drinking him in. ‘My legs are shaking. And my hands.’

  I held them out in front of me, one of them still clutching a glass.

  He showed me his. ‘Ditto.’

  We both laughed and a ripple of joy bubbled through me.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ He glanced at Joe briefly, who I’d completely forgotten about. Joe was staring at us, jingling his coins in his pocket.

  ‘The food thing,’ I said, flapping my hand, unable to string a sentence together. ‘For Cumbria.’

  ‘Oh, the food thing,’ Gil teased, ‘yeah, me too.’

  He ran a hand through his hair. Still the colour of the Cornish sand. I was tempted to touch it to see if it was stiff with sea salt as I remembered it from early mornings spent riding foam-topped waves. He’d been slim and athletic; his muscles taut from hauling himself on to his surfboard. He’d bulked out a bit, but there was no mistaking that he was Gil Pemberton.

  ‘Let me guess?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re still at Pemberton Pasties?’

  ‘Yep. Man and boy.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘Dad’s retired now, so I’m in charge.’

  I smiled, remembering his boast that he was going to surf his way around the world from championship to championship before settling down. Had he ever done it, I wondered? Or had he, like me, set his dreams aside and slipped seamlessly into adulthood?

  ‘So Hetty Wigglesworth from Holmthwaite,’ he marvelled, shaking his head. ‘I’d recognize that cheeky smile anywhere.’

  ‘You haven’t changed a bit either. Except for those.’ I pointed to his smart black trousers. ‘I’ve only ever seen you in shorts.’

  ‘I still have a “shorts unless it snows” rule.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that we get much snow in Cornwall.’

  ‘I get your share,’ I said. ‘Usually on the days most of our ewes decide to lamb. And in Cumbria we probably only get two shorts-worthy days a year.’

  ‘So.’ He nodded slowly. ‘You’re a farmer’s wife?’

  ‘And pie entrepreneur,’ I said airily.

  Gil was still gazing at me in disbelief. ‘Still got that wild red hair.’

  ‘Copper, I call it.’

  ‘Whatever, I loved it. Not so freckly these days, I notice?’ He pretended to peer at my cheeks.

  ‘No, but my daughter inherited my hair and my freckles.’

  ‘You have a daughter? I have one of each.’

  ‘Really?’ I laughed. ‘I thought you said that family commitments wouldn’t fit in with your free-spirited lifestyle.’

  ‘I said that?’ He pulled a crazy face. ‘Jeez, no, my kids are everything to me.’

  ‘Married?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I found someone to replace you. Eventually.’

  His brow wrinkled slightly as if he was catching hold of a memory. I wondered if it was the same as the image my mind had, a loop of us entwined in a moonlit sea.

  A hand touched my shoulder.

  ‘You two clearly know each other well,’ Joe said with an awkward laugh.

  ‘Old friends,’ Gil said easily, holding a hand out to him. ‘I’m Gil from Pemberton Pasties.’

  Joe raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. ‘Joe Appleton, in charge of Cumbria’s Finest.’

  ‘And isn’t she just,’ said Gil, winking at me.

  Joe laughed. ‘I’d have to agree with you there.’

  I blushed; this was surreal.

  Just as Gil was introducing his two friends, a couple with their own fresh seafood company in Truro, a line of black-and-white-clad waiting staff appeared from a door beside the bar.

  ‘Take your seats now, please,’ cried a stern-faced woman.

  Two members of staff went to hold the double doors, and the others glided into the ballroom.

  Joe placed a hand in the small of my back. ‘We’d better go. Good to meet you, Gil.’

  Gil and I smiled at each other. I didn’t want to say goodbye, there was so much more to catch up on, so much I wanted to ask, but Joe propelled me forward.

  The sight of the ballroom made my breath hitch: it was decorated with bunting, balloons and huge displays of summer flowers, the perfume from which filled the air. The room was enormous and packed with table after table of happy people, dressed in their party clothes, laughing, chatting and chinking glasses.

  Joe pointed out our table and forged in front, ploughing a path through the crowds, and suddenly Gil caught hold of my elbow.

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow at the exhibition? Perhaps we could grab a coffee?’

  I felt a frisson of guilty pleasure and nodded.

  ‘Great, it’s a date.’ His lips touched my cheek and then he was gone.

  I pressed my fingertips to my cheek where he’d kissed me. What was I doing? Meeting up with men wasn’t me at all. ‘Grabbing a coffee’ wasn’t me either. A loud gong sounded. I hurried after Joe and decided not to worry; I was probably reading too much into it. After all, I was in London, not Carsdale. People probably grabbed coffees with each other all the time.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ a booming voice relayed through the speaker system, ‘I give you your host for this evening, Mr Harrison Finch!’

  Thunderous applause accompanied by cheering and whistling ensued. I reached my seat beside Joe just as everyone got to their feet to welcome our celebrity speaker into the room. I was busy for the next few minutes introducing myself to the others on the table, sneaking my phone out to take pictures of Harrison, who was, if it were possible, even more gorgeous in the flesh than I’d imagined. Finally, everyone settled down as plates of the most delicious lobster terrine began to appear in front of us.

  I tucked into mine immediately, conscious that my food-to-alcohol ratio since arriving in London was horrendously off balance.

  Joe poured us both a glass of wine. ‘So how did you meet Gil from Pemberton’s Pasties?’

  I swallowed a mouthful of lobster and told him how I’d fled to Cornwall after splitting up with Dan and worked in his bakery.

  ‘Free pasties and lessons in crimping,’ I said cheerily, ‘turned out to be the ideal therapy to mend a brok
en heart.’

  Joe pleated the edge of his napkin. ‘I was furious with Dan for what he did and the way he treated you, even if he did regret it the next day. He came to see me when he found out where you’d gone, wanting my advice.’

  I blinked at him. ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him he was a bloody idiot; I told him he’d had it all and thrown it away and that if he really cared for you, he’d leave you alone because you deserved better.’ He shrugged. ‘And as you know, I haven’t seen him since.’

  I stared at Joe. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t been more sympathetic to his friend, and that he could tell me about it now so casually.

  ‘Well, I’m glad he ignored your advice,’ I said evenly, ‘or I’d probably still be down in Cornwall.’

  He stroked a finger along his jawline. ‘Would that have been such a bad thing? Gil seemed pleased to see you.’

  ‘I resent that,’ I said crossly. ‘Dan and I are very happy. Besides, if I’d stayed in Cornwall I wouldn’t have had Poppy and I can’t imagine life without her.’

  ‘Of course, I apologize.’ He held up his hands. ‘It’s all ancient history now, although I wouldn’t get too friendly with Gil.’ He leaned forward and added in a whisper, ‘He’s your competition.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. His pasties would be in the same category as my savoury pie.

  ‘Has he entered before?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Joe nodded gravely. ‘Pemberton’s Pasties have won bronze, silver or gold for the last five years.’

  ‘Have they really?’ I said, sipping my glass of wine and making a promise to myself to make it my last. ‘Then tomorrow should be very interesting indeed.’

  Chapter 21

  The next morning there were a few bleary eyes on the Cumbria’s Finest stand at London’s Olympia exhibition hall. Not mine: I’d switched to water after that first glass of wine with dinner. Joe, especially, was like a bear with a sore head, or maybe a blue-arsed fly might be a more accurate description, I thought, watching him pace the length of the corridor giving phone instructions to a lost delivery driver.

  Although in his case, it was probably nerves rather than the after-effects of alcohol which had plunged him into such a dark mood. All the Cumbria’s Finest finalists last night had agreed what a great job Joe had done in his first few months as chief executive, and today the pressure was on to see if all that hard work would pay off. Personally, I’d packed my low expectations along with my summer dress for my pie’s performance in the Britain’s Best Bites final, but I’d met such talented people last night, and tasted their wonderful food this morning, that I had every confidence that as a group we’d be returning to the Lake District weighed down with medals.

  Cumbria’s Finest’s exhibition stand was much bigger than I’d expected and more professional too. It was on the upper floor on the balcony overlooking the main theatre kitchen where Harrison Finch would be announcing the winners later on. We had a great position next to a wide staircase, which gave us a bird’s-eye view of everyone as they came up the stairs.

  In fact, everything was bigger than I’d expected. Olympia was filled on both levels with every food and drink imaginable and already buyers from all over the world were strolling along the aisles tasting samples, collecting brochures and in many cases placing orders.

  It hadn’t dawned on me until now just what a huge event this was. I’d never been to a trade show before unless you counted the annual livestock supplies fair in Carlisle. This was far more aromatic.

  ‘Is it me, or is it hot in here?’ said Pam the Jam from behind large sunglasses. I’d got chatting to the lady with the fig jam and she’d told me to call her by her nickname – everyone did, apparently. She fanned her face with a map of the exhibition.

  ‘It’s the glass ceiling,’ I agreed, raising my eyes to the curved roof above us. ‘It’s like being in my potting shed, but on a massive scale.’

  ‘Everything in London is on such a large scale, you could fit my whole village high street in here.’ She looked up too and then stumbled, grabbing hold of my arm. ‘Oh crumbs, my head’s still spinning. The bed in my room was so uncomfortable, I didn’t get a wink of sleep.’

  Privately, I thought the rum and cokes she’d been downing when I left to go to my room at eleven o’clock might have had something to do with it, but I kept that observation to myself. I left her spooning jam into a cut-glass dish and arranging broken crackers on a plate for tasting. Three of my pies were already set out beautifully on vintage plates that Anna and I had found in a charity shop. The fourth was right now being judged in the grand theatre kitchen.

  Joe had finished his phone call and was now doing a final inspection of our stand.

  ‘Okay, listen up,’ he called, beckoning us all into the middle of our area. He cracked his knuckles nervously.

  ‘The judges have had everything from us that they need,’ he said. ‘We’ve done all we can. There’ll be an announcement in an hour or so and you’ll be called to the theatre for the results. I shall stay here to man the stand but I’ll be rooting for you all. Any questions?’

  We all shook our heads.

  ‘In that case, enjoy your day and network like bosses. Oh, one final thing, there’s a rumour that Harrison Finch is on his way round – could be a good photo opportunity for your businesses, so make the most of it.’

  My stomach fluttered; I was definitely up for that. I’d taken a few blurry ones of him last night, but I’d been so far away that he could have been anyone. In fact, from a distance, he really did look like my husband.

  I’d thought about Dan a lot last night. Being with Joe, who was so attentive, and then bumping into Gil, who couldn’t wipe the huge smile off his face, had really given my ego a boost. I felt feminine and desirable for the first time in ages. But that didn’t mean I was about to run off and have an affair, far from it. I loved Dan and I wanted him to know exactly how much.

  I was going to follow Anna’s advice, I decided, and have a huge overhaul of my nightwear. I mean, no one likes to go to bed with someone in more layers than an Arctic explorer, do they? And a regular date night. That was something else we had to work on. Now that Poppy was thirteen, we could perhaps start leaving her on her own for an hour or two. We could pop out for a walk, or go to the pub. Whatever we did, we needed to spend time away from the farm, just the two of us. I’d fallen asleep dreaming up all sorts of plans for a relaunch of our love life …

  I took my phone out of my pocket and perched on one of the display tables. Dan had texted me earlier to see how I was. He’d been up and out with Cameron taking fifteen lambs to market this morning. He’d left Viv in charge of the slumbering teenagers and had written a list of easy jobs for Bart to get stuck into before he got back around lunchtime.

  I took a few quick snaps of the stand and sent the best one to Dan. He sent me back a thumbs-up emoji and then a couple of seconds later a picture of a red Border collie puppy came through, looking the spitting image of Rusty.

  ‘Oh, adorable,’ I murmured to myself. I swallowed hard. I swiped the picture away and closed my eyes. I wasn’t ready to replace Rusty with another dog, not when the thought of him could still reduce me to tears.

  ‘It’s him! It’s Harrison coming up the stairs,’ Pam the Jam squealed.

  ‘Just relax,’ said Joe, making a calming gesture with his hands. ‘Just act naturally.’

  ‘Food from the Lakes,’ Harrison Finch said, beaming and opening his arms wide as he approached us. ‘Could there be a fairer sight?’

  Yes, I thought, fanning my face, I’m looking at it.

  The butterflies were on the rampage in my stomach; he was so much better looking in real life than I’d imagined. I had to take some pictures; Anna was going to be so jealous.

  ‘Oh my God, he is such a hotty!’ said Pam in a choked voice. ‘Look at that bum!’

  She elbowed me so viciously that my phone flew out of my hands and straight into Rupert’s jug of rhubar
b juice. She gasped. ‘Ooh, sorry pet!’

  ‘My juice!’ Rupert cried.

  ‘My bloody phone!’ I yelped, plunging my hand into the bottom of the jug.

  ‘Keep it together, guys,’ Joe hissed under his breath, stepping around the drama to meet and greet Harrison, who was looking a bit nonplussed at the lack of welcome from the Cumbrian contingent.

  ‘That’ll have to be thrown away now,’ said Rhubarb Rupert, pouting. ‘It’s not cheap, you know.’

  ‘Neither was my phone,’ I muttered darkly. ‘Besides, you owe me one after your behaviour last night.’

  Rupert paled and glanced quickly at Joe to check he wasn’t within earshot. But Joe was handing Harrison pieces of Cumberland sausage dipped in delicious onion marmalade from Coniston.

  I shook the phone vigorously to remove as much liquid as possible while Rupert grabbed the jug, scowling, and went to dispose of the juice. Pam repeated her apology and handed me a tissue.

  ‘Over here,’ said Malcolm from Grasmere Grains, offering me a bag of couscous. ‘Turn it off and stick it in this to let it dry off.’

  By the time I’d found a spare bowl and buried my phone in the couscous, Harrison had moved on to the Taste of the West Midlands stand further along and I’d missed my chance for a photograph.

  ‘Did he even taste my pie?’ I asked Pam dejectedly.

  She chewed her bottom lip. ‘No, love, sorry; he said he’s gluten free.’ She perked up. ‘But he took a jar of my jam.’

  Half an hour later word got round that the judges had finished their tastings in the theatre kitchen and were back in the green room making their final deliberations. I’d recovered from the phone incident, although the phone itself hadn’t. I could switch it on, but nothing came up on the screen. Malcolm agreed to look after it for me and promised to tell me as soon as it showed signs of life.

  The atmosphere had fallen a bit flat after the Harrison debacle and no one was in the mood to ‘network like a boss’ as Joe was hoping, so I was really glad when a familiar figure tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Do you fancy coffee?’ said Gil.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ I replied.