by Nancy Warren
“I saw the earl and one of his gamekeepers, Arthur, earlier. They were out shooting ‘vermin.’ I think the whole thing’s a bit icky. Those outfits they wear and those brutal shotguns. ” I shuddered.
“Oh, yes. It’s that time of year, I suppose. I agree that it seems very unnecessary to kill the wild birds so that he’s got more grouse to shoot during hunting season.”
I described the group of bird-watchers I’d come across. “There were about eight in total, mostly older women and men, all wearing bucket hats and carrying binoculars.”
“Sounds like you met the local members of the Somerset Wild Bird Protection Society.”
I remarked that it was strange I’d never seen them walking around Broomewode before.
“They travel through the area a lot, visiting different places of interest. They might be a bit older, but they’re extremely active, and they really have it in for the earl.”
I raised an eyebrow and took another sip of herbal tea. “Tell me more,” I said, intrigued. Was there anyone round here who actually liked the earl?
“Well, they believe that Lord Frome takes his right to protect his flock of game birds a little too far. A blood sport, they call it. In fact, I’m sure I have their brochure somewhere around here. They post them out every couple of months or so with details of conservation aims, indoor talks, local bird-watching trips and…well, honestly, I’m afraid I never get past the first couple of pages.” She laughed. “Far too much to do around the farm.”
Susan went into the hallway, and I heard her rummaging through some drawers, muttering about needing to do a big clear-out. She returned after a minute or so, brandishing a wad of papers.
“Here,” she said, passing me a couple of brochures. “There’s more than I thought. I can’t tell if they want me to join them or if they think I’m an evil farmer running around shooting anything that moves.”
The brochure was thick and glossy, a multi-colored bird I’d never seen before on the front cover along with the words: The Somerset Wild Bird Protection Society: Spring Newsletter. I flicked through the pages to their mission statement and learned that the society had been running for over a hundred years. They were committed to furthering the study of birds in the country and to assist in their preservation. There were two hundred members, and their aim was to appeal to anyone interested in the birds of Somerset, and to preserve the local birdlife. Next to the statement was a series of photographs of their members out walking with binoculars and notebooks. I spotted Marlene, the woman I’d spoken to earlier, immediately. She was wearing the same hat and was looking to the left of the camera with the same stern expression she’d given me. She obviously had an important role in the society.
When I looked up, Susan was regarding me curiously. “I didn’t peg you for a bird-watcher,” she said.
“I’m not, but I’m glad someone’s looking out for the wild birds.”
“I donate money to them when I can. They’re a stubborn bunch, doing good work. But I have to do it secretly, of course, since I’m a tenant of the earl’s.”
“I guess that wouldn’t go down so well if he found out you were funding them, huh, what with his passion for hunting.”
Susan nodded and suddenly looked serious. “Be careful while the earl’s out with his shotgun. He seems to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Chapter 3
I left Susan’s with a basket laden with farm goods. Six happy eggs, an enormous punnet of strawberries, and beautiful sprigs of fresh basil from the herb garden. The basil was bright green and incredibly fragrant. I was hopeful that the fruit and herb combination would come together and make my cake stand out from the rest. Susan also gifted me a few perfectly shaped figs, suggesting that I slice the fruit into wedges and use them as decoration around the base of my layer cake. It was a great idea; the purple color would make the basil-tinged cream and macerated strawberries pop.
I was so grateful to my coven sister Susan for all the special farm ingredients she supplied. Preparing for this competition had taught me a lot about the value of using local produce. Obviously, getting your ingredients locally meant that they were likely to be fresher. In my case, they were literally going “from farm to table” or “the judging table,” I should say. There was no travel time, unlike produce that was imported, so my ingredients were as fresh as could possibly be, with no need for preservatives, and the fruit had had enough time to ripen. Not to mention how I knew for sure that no pesticides had been used on the crops. This meant no compromise on flavor—but also aesthetics. My fruit and herbs were fresh and pretty to boot, and every tiny bit of advantage helped this late in the competition.
It was also a lot kinder to the environment to use local produce. Less energy had been used for harvesting (although Susan would probably disagree; it took a lot of her personal energy to keep the farm running!). And there was also no need to use fuel to transport the goods anywhere. Susan sold most of her crops in local shops, which could be delivered by one of her helpers in an old white van with Broomewode Farm painted onto the side in blue. This also meant that the local economy was supported. Small gift shops like the one in the village relied on the appeal of local produce to sell to tourists.
I’d been so busy mentally extolling the virtues of Susan’s farm, I’d almost missed the turning to get back to the competition tent. Luckily, Gateau meowed and turned right, letting me know just how dozy she thought her owner was.
“Thank you, sweet thing,” I said to her swishing behind. “These strawberries need to be refrigerated before the June sunshine turns them soft.”
Following in Gateau’s paw-steps, I happily made my way back to the tent to deliver my ingredients to the safety of The Great British Baking Contest’s fridges. Despite the pressure, I was looking forward to filming. I was confident that my head was in the game this week. I’d made it so much further than I’d anticipated, and the glory of last week’s win was still coursing through my veins.
I heard panting behind me and turned to see Sly bounding down the path, red ball wedged between his teeth.
“Oh, Sly!” I laughed. “Are you escorting me back to the tent? Aren’t I the lucky one to have not one, but two special creatures deliver me to my destination?”
At this, Gateau let out an aggravated meow. I bent down as I whispered into her ear, “Of course, you’re my number one. Sly belongs to Susan, and you’re my very special familiar.”
None the wiser, Sly barked happily and dropped the ball at my feet. I obliged, of course, and threw the ball high into the air. I had to admit, my aim was getting better. If only I’d had Sly around while I was practicing for the softball team in high school, maybe I would have become a famous athlete. And to my surprise, Gateau didn’t do her usual see dog and run routine. She stayed right by me, raising her little nose into the air to show everyone who was boss, her amble turning into a strut. “Are you getting used to your canine brother?” I murmured. She shot me a look of pure disgust. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. That was a step too far.”
Sly came running back, but to my surprise, he didn’t drop the ball at my feet again, ready for another go. Instead he kept the slobbery thing and took up position next to me on the opposite side to Gateau. I grinned. Flanked between these two, I felt invincible. Team Poppy reporting for duty.
The pond was up ahead, and two swans came into view, their long, elegant necks held high, pristine white features gliding along with no indication of how hard their webbed feet were pedaling through the water. Come to think of it, filming the show was a lot like being a swan. Contestants had to come across as composed and graceful, in control of their mixers and ovens—even like they were having a good time. But beneath the surface was a manic inner swan, desperately trying to remember the right order of their complicated cake method, to not forget the sugar or flour, to get enough air into the mix for a light and fluffy batter. I gave the swans a small nod as I passed. We were kindred spirits.
I paused for a mome
nt to appreciate the gardens, the fine display of flowers and shrubs, inhaling the scent of magnolias again, which were growing by a yew hedge.
“Keee-eeeee-arr.”
A hoarse screech careened through the air. I looked up. There was the hawk again, soaring by the treetops. Was he signaling to another hawk? Perhaps there was a flock of them in Broomewode, but until last week, I’d never seen these magnificent birds in Somerset before. Was it mating season? If only I’d asked the bird-watching group when I’d had the opportunity. If I passed them on my way back to the tent, I’d stop them and see what they knew.
The hawk let out another shrill call. I paused and shielded my eyes from the sun to watch his graceful flight. His wingspan was so impressive—speckled feathers spread out to make a wide, majestic fan, head angled forward in concentration, focused on something I couldn’t see. “What a beauty,” I said to the sky.
I could have stared at him for hours, but out of the corner of my eye, something glinted in the sun. As I turned, I heard the cock of a shotgun, and to my horror, I saw the earl pointing his gun at the hawk. I was stunned, momentarily paralyzed by what I was seeing. Surely he wasn’t…couldn’t actually be… Before I could engage my thoughts with my mouth and scream out “NO,” Sly growled, dropped his ball and ran towards the earl. Gateau followed suit, and the two raced side by side until Sly reached the earl’s feet and nipped his ankles and Gateau took a running jump and scaled his back.
Go get him, girl!
With all my strength, I opened my mouth and yelled at the earl. “Stop! Put that gun down!”
But there was an almighty blast, and gunshot sounded through the air.
I held my breath as I looked up. But between them, Sly and Gateau had thrown the earl’s aim, and the hawk disappeared into the woodland. I let out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness for those two scamps. They’d saved that beautiful wild bird. Seriously good teamwork for a rival cat and dog.
But the earl did not share my joy. Gateau jumped down and joined Sly as they scampered back to my side. I saw now that the earl’s gamekeeper, Arthur, was behind his boss, confusion and irritation on his face.
The earl stomped over to me, red and sweaty, veins bulging in his forehead. “You need to mind your own business, young lady,” he barked, any pretense at being the convivial Lord of the Manor now fully dissipated. “I have every right to shoot vermin polluting my own land. And get those animals away from me.” He looked down at his trouser leg, aggressively brushing a few of Sly’s hairs from the fabric.
As he continued to tell me to keep my “beasts” under control, he began to wave his shotgun about, brandishing it in my direction as if I was one of the vermin polluting his property. Charming. I felt the telltale signs of indignation prick along the small of my back, and I drew myself up to full height, preparing to defend myself, my familiars, and the good of all earthly creatures far and wide.
But before I could launch into a tirade of my own, another man came running over the hill and into view. Oh great. More hunters. But I was ready to stand my ground, no matter how many men with guns showed up.
To my surprise, the running man was Benedict. No gun in hand, just a pair of gardening shears. He was wearing the same outfit I’d seen him gardening in before: an old flannel shirt with grass strains, heavy work trousers with frayed hems, toolbelt around the waist. He was sweating and out of breath as if he’d run a sprinting race.
He stopped and looked hard at me and then at his father, obviously perplexed. It was rare for me to see father and son side by side, and the resemblance was striking. High foreheads, long, straight noses, and that chin that lent them both an imperious edge.
“I heard a woman screaming,” Benedict finally spluttered. “I thought someone was in trouble.”
The earl’s arm shot out, and he pointed at me accusingly. “The shrieking voice belongs to your friend Miss Wilkinson here,” the earl said.
“Your father tried to shoot a hawk,” I said, turning to Benedict. “A hawk,” I repeated. “Which I’m pretty darned sure isn’t on his list of”—here I stopped and air-quoted—“pest species.”
To my relief (and his credit), Benedict looked at his father in horror. “Father, it’s nesting season now. You could be fined or even go to jail for killing a hawk.”
At that, the gamekeeper, Arthur, burst into laughter. “I can’t quite see that happening, can you?”
The earl matched his laughter, which to my ears sounded so superior. Like this was feudal times and he was untouchable.
When Benedict didn’t join in the laughter, the earl stopped and said, with a sneer in his tone, “I was aiming at a raven, but this woman and her pets attacked me and threw off my aim. Arthur was here the whole time. He saw what happened.”
“Indeed,” Arthur said, explaining that he’d witnessed the whole scene. “It was definitely a raven. The young lady’s not from these parts. She doesn’t know the local birds.”
My jaw fell open. I knew what I’d seen, and I wasn’t going to be bullied by two entitled men. Right now, I had no way to prove that bird had been a hawk, but now that I knew they were protected, I’d be doing everything in my power to save that beautiful bird. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt a bond, almost a kinship with the hawk.
Chapter 4
By the time I arrived back at the competition tent, my optimistic mood had been shattered and I felt flustered and annoyed. Lord Frome might be the King of the Castle of this small pocket of Somerset, but that didn’t give him carte blanche to treat the landscape and wildlife as his own personal playground. Even though I should have expected bad behavior from the earl by now, I was disappointed by his cruelty—and I really didn’t appreciate being spoken to like I was an interfering, foolish woman. The way the gamekeeper backed up his boss with such a blatant lie made my blood boil. More than anything, I wanted to show those two men that they couldn’t steamroll me. I was going to prove that the earl was engaging in illegal hunting.
I felt a strong urge to call my dad in the South of France. When I was growing up, he’d taught me the importance of respecting the local wildlife when we’d gone on camping trips. He explained how to only forage what we needed from woodland, which mushrooms would be delicious fried in a dollop of rich butter on the camp stove and which ones would cause a trip to the ER. He’d showed me how to safely start a fire with flint stones, how to keep it crackling with the right amount of dry twigs. I’d love to hear his soothing voice right now, let him tell me that people get their just deserts in one way or another: The universe had its own way of making sure that happened so we didn’t need to intervene. He was so sanguine. I don’t know how he managed to stay calm all the time, but I needed to take a leaf out of his horticulture book, so to speak.
So I took a few deep breaths and then approached the tent, where Martin, the new security guard Florence had made her latest target, was manning the entrance.
He held up one hand to stop me. “I’m afraid this part of the grounds is off-limits to the general public,” he said.
I laughed and pointed to my basket of ingredients, lifting the terry cloth towel to show him my impressive stash. “I’m not the general public. I’m on the show.”
He shook his head. “Filming doesn’t begin until tomorrow morning.”
Was this guy for real? “I was here this morning, with Hamish and Florence—two other contestants. We were putting our ingredients away, but I had to go and collect the rest of mine from the farm.”
“I don’t recall seeing you, miss,” he said.
Go figure. All his attention had obviously been on Florence and her mane of chestnut curls.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fiona, the director, pacing while talking on the phone by the side of the tent. “I’ll get Fiona to vouch for me, shall I?” I said, striding off in somewhat of a huff, my already stormy mood darkening further.
As I got closer to Fiona, I could see that she wasn’t going to be too impressed by my interrupting her call. Whatever
it was she was discussing, it looked heated, and deep frown lines furrowed her forehead.
But these strawberries needed refrigerating, and no security guard with a selective memory was going to stop that from happening.
I approached with caution and waited to catch her eye. “Excuse me,” I mouthed, suddenly meek at the prospect of being a nuisance to the show’s director. “But I need your help.”
She looked at me with exasperation as if to say, Darling, clearly you need more help than I could give you. But to my surprise, she said, “I’ll call you back” into her cell phone and hung up.
I explained my predicament, and she sighed heavily before walking back to the entrance with me.
“Martin, this is Poppy Wilkinson. She’s a contestant on the show. And she was here about an hour ago. Which you should have noticed, if you were doing your job.”
Martin turned pale.
“It’s all very well being vigilant against trespassers,” Fiona continued, “but you mustn’t chase away the bakers or we’ll have no show.”
I suddenly felt very bad for Martin, who, after all, was new and just trying to do a good job. He looked deflated. “Can’t be too careful,” he murmured, and Fiona walked off, no doubt to get back to whoever was stressing her on the end of that phone call.
I felt bad for Fiona. The crew worked so hard. I couldn’t even imagine being the one to call the shots on set. She had to make split-second decisions for the good of the show on a minute-by-minute basis, with multiple cameras and inexperienced contestants. I mean, it was exhausting for us baking for up to four and half hours straight, but imagine being forced to watch us flapping about the tent, stirring and huffing and trying not to sweat into the flour mix, and turning it all into a compelling narrative.