As Saturday drew nearer and Anna slowly became more comfortable with her new surroundings, Cathy’s assumption that she’d make something to take with her to the party kept popping back into mind. The thought of cooking had started familiar cogs turning in Anna’s head. She could do a few bits and pieces, couldn’t she? Nothing too labour intensive, but delicious, nonetheless. It might even be fun to try out her ‘new’ kitchen properly. Gradually, Anna’s thoughts of Geoff were replaced with thoughts of food: her food, not his. She never had to cook another bloody Geoff Rowcliffe recipe in her life. The thought made Anna smile.
After toying with a few ideas, Friday morning saw Anna driving back to Fraserburgh for provisions. Back at the Fishergirl’s Luck, the kitchen filled with herbs, spices and oils as she unpacked and found homes for everything she needed and the additional items that had simply taken her chef’s fancy. Standing amid the rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, Anna had rediscovered the pleasure of shopping for produce, of finding the unexpected and thinking spontaneously about flavours and textures. Sure, a megabrand supermarket wasn’t a patch on standing in the middle of Borough Market on a Friday morning. But then even Borough Market had lost its magic, the rough-and-ready nature that had sustained it for a century replaced by hipster brands relying on tourist curiosity and city workers more interested in picking at bits and pieces than in cooking themselves.
By late that evening, the fridge was full, because once Anna had started she hadn’t wanted to stop. This renewed joy in cooking had come as a complete surprise. She’d thought that might be something else she had left behind in London, in her other life.
With her kitchen wiped clean and all her equipment tidied away, Anna thought she was just a little more in love with the Fishergirl’s Luck than she had been before. She ran her hand up the stone wall as she climbed the stairs, thinking that the place probably deserved a fresh lick of paint.
Seven
When Anna woke the next morning to sun streaming through her new curtain, she was already thinking about food. She must have dreamed of cooking, and was left with a nebulous memory of presiding over the creation of an elaborate feast. Anna lay looking up at the low pitch of her ceiling, watching the luminous patterns cast there by the morning sun and trying to remember the details of what that shadow-self of hers had cooked. She had dreamed of food a lot when she was younger, the thrill of discovering a talent for a profession to which she aspired suffusing every moment of her consciousness. In those early days Anna’s sleeping mind had conjured ideas for whole dishes so often that she had kept a notebook by her bed and developed the habit of scribbling them down before they scattered after waking. As the years had passed, though, this night-time tendency of her subconscious had atrophied, shrunken into non-existence by constant thwarting. Always working in others’ kitchens meant that Anna so rarely got to cook meals of her own design. This persisted even once Geoff had become chef-patron of his own place with enough clout to listen to her ideas, had he felt so inclined. He never did.
Anna got up and went downstairs to fill her new kettle, because tea was always a good place to start. Taking the milk out of the fridge, she was reminded that, really, she’d already cooked enough. Still, she was still eager to follow this renewed seam of creativity.
I haven’t made anything sweet, she thought. I could take some dessert.
As she leaned back against the kitchen counter, contemplating what would be appropriate, her gaze fell on Bren’s recipe book. She picked it up, leafing through the dry pages, wondering if there was anything within that would work. It seemed like a nice idea to take something of Bren’s along to this first meeting with her neighbours.
A recipe for raspberry and hazelnut shortbread caught Anna’s eye, both because it sounded delicious and because there was a lovely little sketch of two wild raspberries still on their canes in the corner. There was a note alongside, in writing so tiny that Anna had to turn the book sideways and squint to make out the words.
Almonds good, too, but DM hates hazelnuts so that’s favourite for domino night or the greedy so-and-so will scoff the lot. Nuts better chopped, not ground – June 1983
The note made Anna smile, but also wonder. DM? Could that be Douglas McKean? Either way, she didn’t have any hazelnuts, but Anna had picked up a bag of whole blanched almonds with her shopping. And she hadn’t been able to resist the punnets of ruby red Scottish raspberries that had been in abundance at the supermarket, and so it was that Bren’s almond and raspberry shortbread joined the party.
* * *
‘Well,’ said Frank, later, laughing as he contemplated the array of plates and trays on their kitchen table, ‘we’re none of us going to starve, at any rate!’
‘You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,’ fretted Pat. ‘You didn’t have to bring anything with you at all – we said.’
‘It wasn’t any trouble,’ Anna told them both. ‘I was really enjoying myself, which is why I went a bit overboard. I also wanted to apologize for not accepting your invitation sooner. I’m sorry. I think this week has been a bit overwhelming.’
‘You’re sorry?’ Frank asked. ‘Don’t be daft. We’re just glad you’re here. And would you look at all of this!’
‘Everything looks delicious,’ Pat agreed. ‘And so pretty – it’s like an art exhibit. Everything’s identical too! I can’t even fold a T-shirt the same way twice.’
Anna laughed, mainly at herself. ‘Old habits die hard. The place I worked before I came here counted tweezers and a spirit level as essential kitchen gadgets.’
‘You won’t find me complaining,’ Frank said, picking up a prawn on a lemongrass skewer and devouring it whole. ‘Mmph. That’s amazing.’
‘Frank!’ Pat smacked her husband’s arm in outrage. ‘You’ve left a hole, and no one else has even arrived yet!’
‘Sorry,’ Frank said, without a single trace of remorse. ‘Right, Anna. What can I get you to drink? We’ve got wine in all the colours, beer, gin and tonic… There’s even some orange juice if you’re so inclined, although as far as I know we’ve yet to have a teetotaller in the village.’
‘White would be perfect, thank you,’ Anna said, with another laugh. ‘I could do with a drink, to tell you the truth. I’m a bit nervous.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ Pat told her, as Frank turned away to the fridge. ‘Everyone we’ve invited is lovely.’
‘Do all of your friends live here permanently?’
‘Most, but not all – or at least not yet,’ Pat said. ‘David and Glynn come over from Inverness most weekends, and for holidays. David’s mum and dad owned their place as a holiday cottage all the way through David growing up, so he’s about as much a part of the village as you can get, and Glynn loves it here too. Their plan is to retire to Crovie, but they’re a ways off that yet. Rhona’s originally from Fraserburgh but didn’t want to go back after her divorce so she found a place in Gardenstown. Marie and Philip live in Edinburgh. They’re both lawyers and always busy but they love to come up as much as they can. Terry and Susan—’
‘I’m never going to remember all this,’ Anna laughed again.
‘No need to fret, lass,’ Frank said, handing her a glass of wine with one hand and deftly sneaking a roast pepper roll with the other, ‘one look at this lot and they’ll all be eating out of your hand.’
* * *
By eight o’clock everyone else had arrived – David and Glynn first, bearing bottles of wine and enthusiastic hugs for Frank and Pat. Then Rhona appeared with Marie and Philip, then Terry and Susan. They all welcomed Anna with handshakes and smiles. As time went on, she relaxed, warming to the company and the ebb and flow of chat, which soon turned to her purchase of the Fishergirl’s Luck.
‘It’s so good to know that Bren’s place will be lived in again,’ Rhona said. She was a tall woman with a tanned, freckled face, hazel eyes and dark, blousy curls that she continually pushed back behind her ears. ‘When I saw that Old Robbie had put it up for sale I was
half tempted to buy it myself, but there would be no room for my workshop.’
‘You have a workshop?’ Anna asked. ‘What do you make?’
‘I’m a potter. Kitchenware, in the main – mugs, plates, bowls, that kind of thing.’
‘It’s beautiful stuff,’ Susan chimed in. ‘I love buying Rhona’s work, everything makes such wonderful presents. I think most of our friends and family own a mug or two. We’ve got a whole dinner service, and we adore it.’
A murmur of assent rippled around the group, and Rhona smiled as Pat said, ‘It’s where our tea mugs come from, Anna, if you remember them? The ones with the blue glaze. The colour always reminds me of the sea at dawn.’
‘Oh yes!’ Anna said. ‘I thought at the time that they were beautiful. What a fantastic skill to have.’
‘Well, I’m still learning,’ Rhona told her. ‘I only took it up when I moved here. There was a workshop as part of the property, and I’d always wanted to give it a go, so I thought, “What the hell, Rhona, you’re not getting any younger – why not give it a try?” There have been so many things I put off for some nebulous time in the future when everything would miraculously fit together like some cosmic puzzle. And I decided, it’s now or never.’ She smiled at Anna. ‘You know how it is.’
Anna laughed into her wine glass. ‘I suppose I do. That’s pretty much how I ended up buying the Fishergirl’s Luck.’
‘It’s a bold thing to do,’ Terry said. ‘Not just buying somewhere so out of the way, but committing to live there, too. Especially in a place like Crovie. I admire you, Anna.’
Anna made a face. ‘Well, living here was the original plan, yes. But I pretty much decided on my first day that I can’t stay. For a holiday, maybe, but living here permanently? I really don’t think I can.’
The company gave a collective laugh that had a note of sympathy running through it.
‘I completely understand how you feel,’ said Glynn. ‘When David first brought me here I honestly couldn’t imagine coming back once, let alone to live. I couldn’t see how anyone lived here at all, or even why anyone would want to. But this place has a way of getting under your skin and staying there.’
‘Philip and I were the same,’ Marie agreed. ‘But we’ve owned our place here for twenty-five years now and sure, this coast can sometimes be difficult, but it’s beautiful. And so are the people.’
Maybe it was the wine – she’d knocked back a couple of glasses too quickly, driven by nerves – but at that moment, Anna felt a warm buzz growing in her chest.
‘If you don’t mind me asking though, Anna,’ said Terry, a moment later, as he held a plate of food in one hand and a beer glass in the other, ‘what about your career? I assume you left your job to come up here. If you’re not going to stay in Crovie, will they take you back? Or are you thinking of taking a different route entirely now?’
‘The honest answer is that I haven’t a clue,’ Anna told them, swirling her drink around her glass. ‘Originally, when I left London, I thought I was leaving cooking for a living behind, too.’
‘Oh, that would be a shame,’ said Susan. ‘You clearly have a huge talent. Everything here is delicious.’
‘Thank you,’ Anna smiled. ‘It’s just… I suppose I had reached an impasse in my career, and I’ve no real idea of what to do next. That’s another reason I ended up buying in Crovie, really. Thanks to the sale of my parent’s place, I was able to buy the Fishergirl’s Luck without a mortgage, and with my own savings and what Dad left me, I’ve got enough to live on for a year, maybe longer if I’m really careful. My plan was to use the time to figure out what I’m going to do for the rest of my life, because for years I’ve felt… I don’t know, a bit lost, I suppose. As if I’m aimlessly drifting along.’
Rhona tutted in sympathy. ‘Aye, hen, I know what that’s like, believe me.’
‘But now,’ Anna gestured to the plates that Frank and Pat were offering around, ‘after making my own food, exactly the way I wanted – I’ve realized how much a part of me it is. It’s what I do, it’s what I am. It’s how my brain works! So now I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it. I’ll have to work out where I want to work. That’ll probably dictate where I go.’
‘You should reopen the Crovie Inn,’ Philip suggested. ‘That place has a whole kitchen sitting there, not being used.’
There was an enthusiastic chorus of ‘yeses’, but Anna demurred. ‘Oh, I’d never be able to run my own place. I’m strictly a kitchen urchin, built for taking orders, not leading from the pass.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Frank asked.
Anna opened her mouth to reply and then stopped. They had been Geoff’s words, she realized, never hers. She’d been hearing them for so long – her entire career – that she’d never before thought to examine the truth in them.
‘I’m… I don’t have the experience,’ she said, shaken by her realization. ‘Or the capital, either.’
‘Well, I think it’s a great idea, and it’s obvious that the food wouldn’t be a problem. Where was it that you worked in London?’ Terry asked. ‘What sort of place? It must have been fine dining, judging by what you’ve fed us here.’
Anna gulped a mouthful of wine, the nerves of earlier returning. For a moment she wondered whether she should lie, and then decided that the truth was the only option. ‘It was a restaurant called the Four Seasons.’
‘Bloody hell,’ David said. ‘You mean Geoff Rowcliffe’s place? Didn’t that get another Michelin star last year?’
‘Yes,’ Anna said quietly. ‘It did. We did.’
There was a moment of silence, and then Rhona laughed.
‘Crovie has a Michelin-starred chef!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘Not me. It was the kitchen, under Geoff.’
Susan snorted. ‘Please. I bet, like anything of that sort, all the real hard work is someone else’s.’
Anna allowed herself a smile at that. ‘Anyway, I’m not there anymore.’
‘How long had you worked there?’ Pat asked.
‘Since it opened. Fifteen years, give or take. Long enough. Too long, to be honest.’
‘I like his programmes,’ Marie volunteered. ‘There’s a new one starting next week, isn’t there?’
‘Yes, I read a thing about it yesterday,’ Rhona said, and Anna’s heart sank. ‘It sounds quite good. He went out and found little out-of-the-way places in the UK and learned new recipes from the owners. Pity there’s nowhere here he could come, I’ve always rather fancied him. He’s recently split up with his long-term partner too, apparently. Another opportunity lost to me! Come on, Anna, reopen the Inn and persuade him to visit, for my sake!’
Everyone laughed. Anna felt Pat watching her and kept her eyes on her glass, instead. Then the doorbell rang. She was nearest the door and saw a chance for an escape, however brief.
‘Shall I – get that?’
‘Sure, love,’ Pat said with a smile, as if she could read Anna from across the room. ‘It’ll be Old Robbie. He said he was going to be late.’
She was so preoccupied with the excruciating mess of a conversation behind her that she went into the hallway and opened the door without really thinking about what was on the other side of it. She’d heard ‘Old Robbie’ and her mind had conjured the grizzled, weather-beaten face of Douglas McKean. So when she pulled open the door to be confronted by a man who could be mistaken for Robert Redford in his forties, standing on the step with a broad smile and a bottle of wine in each hand, Anna’s mental processes ground to a complete and utter halt.
‘Um – hi,’ he said, his smile faltering after a few seconds of her silence. ‘You must be… Anna?’ He wrestled one bottle under his left arm and held out a hand. ‘I’m Robert MacKenzie. I sold you the Fishergirl’s Luck?’
Anna opened her mouth but found it still wasn’t connected to her brain. She closed it again, then shook his hand and finally managed to take a step back to let him in.
‘Of
course, sorry,’ she said, in a rush. ‘Sorry, sorry. Come in, they’re all in the sitting room. It’s nice to meet you.’
He moved past her, looking a little wary. Not surprising, she supposed, and kicked herself.
‘Sorry,’ she said again, feeling a need to explain herself. ‘But – you’re not old.’
He blinked, then frowned. ‘I’m not – what?’
Anna exhaled, finally finding her way back to equilibrium and wondering whether she might have been the subject of some sort of elaborate local hazing ritual. ‘Since I got here everyone’s been calling you Old Robbie. And the first person I met was Douglas McKean, who is certifiably ancient, and then Pat and Frank said you two were friends, so I… I thought you were—’
‘Old,’ he finished for her, the smile back again. ‘Ah, well. Some people would say I am. My son’s also called Robert, and so around here, I’m Auld Robbie and he’s—’
‘Young Robbie.’
‘Exactly.’ Robert MacKenzie grinned again. ‘Sorry for the confusion.’
Anna grimaced. ‘Sorry for looking like a loon when I opened the door. So far this “getting to know your neighbours” thing is making me feel as if I should just become a recluse.’
He laughed, a deep booming sound that filled the hallway and tugged a smile at her lips. ‘Oh, you don’t want to do that around here,’ he said. ‘That really is a sure way to become a basket case.’
The noise from the other end of the hallway suddenly grew more distinct as Pat opened the living room door.
‘Everything all right?’ she asked. ‘Robbie, you’d better come and eat some of Anna’s food while there’s still some left. Another five minutes and you’d have missed it all.’
* * *
The evening progressed, meandering its way between those gathered with chat about friends and families, as well as a fair bit of village history, gossip and intrigue for Anna’s benefit. She laughed along with the tales of mischief accomplished by past residents still much missed, many of the stories tied to the time that the Crovie Inn had been a thriving business, and apt to sell its wares far past official closing time. There were stories of the Fishergirl’s Luck, too, which were told with such affection that Anna wished she were able to turn back the clock and visit when Bren had been alive.
The House Beneath the Cliffs Page 5
