Chapter 5
BREAD AND BUTTER PUDDING AND SUNDAY DINNER
Sunday rolled around in a blur of lambing late nights and early starts.
When Rachel got up from a few hours’ sleep on the Sunday lunchtime, having done the previous night shift in the lambing shed, the smells that greeted her as she opened the kitchen door were delicious! Jill was preparing a roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. The meat must have been cooking away in the Aga, along with roast potatoes.
‘Wow, that smells divine,’ Rachel commented.
Maisy turned around, perched on her little wooden stool beside her grandma. ‘Mummy, I’m Grandma’s special helper today. We’ve made bread and butter pudding for Tom,’ she said, grinning.
‘That sounds very scrummy.’
‘Hello love,’ Jill added. ‘It’ll be ready in a half hour, so if you want to take a shower first.’
‘I’ll just grab a cup of tea.’ Rachel stifled a yawn. There was never enough sleep nowadays. She ran her fingers through her bed-head hair, finding a strand of straw stuck in it. No wonder her mother was suggesting a shower, she probably looked like that scarecrow character, Worzel Gummidge, right now. She switched on the kettle, asking Maisy about her morning, and listened to her chitter-chatter whilst she sat at the big pine table, cradling her mug. The tea started to work its magic, and Rachel began to feel a little more human. ‘Right, I’ll just whizz upstairs and get ready then.’
‘See you soon, Mummy. Don’t forget Tom is coming so you need to brush your teeth and your hair too,’ said Maisy seriously.
My, she really must have been letting standards slip these past few weeks. Rachel looked down at her grubby jogging bottoms and T-shirt. She certainly hadn’t brushed her hair as yet either. As she moved, she realised there might also be a slight whiff of sweat mixed with odour of sheep about her – nice. Hmm, Maisy might in fact have a point. Rachel shook her head smiling. Nearly-five going on fifteen, that girl!
Tom arrived at one o’clock prompt with a warm smile, a bottle of red wine and a unicorn-themed colouring book for Maisy. He had also ‘made the effort’, and was out of his usual dirty-denim farm gear, dressed smartly in a pale-blue shirt and a pair of beige chinos.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Jill greeted him, whilst stirring the gravy. ‘How’s the lambing going?’
‘Fine. About three-quarters through now. There’s a light at the end of the lambing-shed tunnel.’
‘Yes, we’re getting there too,’ added Rachel. ‘Thanks again for your help the other night.’
‘Ah, you’re welcome. These things happen. It’s all part of the job.’
‘Well, it was really appreciated,’ Rachel confirmed.
Tom then lifted Maisy up in his arms and ruffled her blonde hair. ‘Hi, Maisy. How’s tricks?’
‘Good … Is that for me?’ She’d spotted the colouring book he’d brought in with him and scampered down as he nodded, saying, ‘Aha, it is.’ Delighted with her gift, and after adding a quick ‘Thank you,’ she went off to find her crayon set.
‘Take a seat, Tom,’ Jill said. ‘Make yourself at home. Dinner won’t be long.’
Sat at the table next to Tom a short while afterwards, Maisy piped up, ‘Tom, have you seen Pete, my lamb?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Can we go and see him now, Mummy?’
Rachel was about to carve the joint of beef, as the final stages of the meal were coming together. ‘I’m sure Tom’s seen enough lambs of his own this week …’
‘It’s okay, I don’t mind,’ he said, smiling.
‘Well, maybe after dinner, Maisy. In fact, it’s nearly ready now, so go and wash your hands, and then you can help put some water glasses out on the table and three wine glasses for the grown-ups.’
‘O-kay.’ Maisy headed reluctantly off to the downstairs bathroom.
‘Tom, maybe you’d open the bottle of red you brought?’ Rachel asked, hunting down the corkscrew in the cutlery drawer. They didn’t generally have wine with their meals. It was considered a bit of a luxury in their squeezed budget of late.
They were soon all sitting down to eat around the farmhouse table. Rachel had served out the plates of roast beef and crispy Yorkshire puddings with a selection of fresh vegetables, golden roast potatoes and Jill’s gorgeous gravy. At Jill’s request, Tom had taken up the seat at the head of the table. Rachel felt herself stiffen seeing him sit there. For a second, she could picture her dad, Robert, in that very place settling down for his Sunday roast. When she was big enough, she’d carefully carry his dinner plate across to him, piled with meat and vegetables and one of Mum’s delicious Yorkshire puds. Dad would give her a wink and a big smile. There were so many memories just waiting to creep up on Rachel. Tom was most welcome, of course, but it was still difficult seeing someone else sat in her father’s place.
The dinner-table conversation flowed as they chatted about their respective farms and Maisy told Tom all about her swimming lessons and the animal paintings she’d done. They ate and talked, and drank the wine. It was a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon and a real treat after cold nights and long days lambing.
‘This is truly delicious, ladies, thank you. I hardly bother cooking a roast dinner for myself. It just takes too long. I come in starving usually and need something straight away.’
Jill gave Rachel a knowing glance. ‘Don’t beat yourself up Tom, you’ve got your hands full,’ she replied.
‘I do cook, but simpler stuff. Steak, gammon, pasta, pop a pizza in the oven, that kind of thing.’
‘Grandma’s made pudding too!’ Maisy added, gleefully.
‘That sounds good.’ Tom grinned.
‘There’s bread and butter pudding or brownies. I don’t like the nasty currant things in the pudding, so you can have mine,’ the little girl offered Tom.
‘Well, remember you need to finish your dinner first, Maisy,’ her grandma reminded her. ‘Including the broccoli trees.’
‘A-huh. I know.’
‘I can certainly recommend the bread and butter pudding, despite the nasty sultanas,’ added Rachel with a wry smile. ‘It’s divine – the custard’s all light and fluffy and nutmeg-flavoured.’
‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe,’ Jill beamed proudly. The recipe was handwritten in the family’s baking cookbook, which Rachel had nicknamed ‘The Baking Bible’, and though Jill knew the instructions off by heart, she still liked to have the page open at Grandma Alice’s swirly handwriting as she prepared the ingredients. It almost felt like she was there beside her.
It was lovely to see her mother smiling, Rachel thought. Jill had been weighted with grief for far too long.
They were soon tucking into bowls of bread and butter pudding, with its golden crispy top, soft fluffy custard and sultana middle, with a blob of thick cream melting down over it. Maisy was already happily sporting sticky fingers and smudged lips from her chocolate brownie.
‘This is amazing, Jill,’ Tom enthused. ‘Takes me back to visiting my granny in her cottage kitchen years ago. The Aga was always on and there was always something smelling wonderful, ready to come out of the oven just for you. She used to make this pudding too, I remember it well.’
‘The old recipes are often the best, I think. I have a whole book handed down from my mother and her mother before her, with extra recipes I’ve discovered over the years popped in there too. Along with my stalwart Mrs Beeton’s of course, and a few tweaks from Mary and Delia.’
‘Berry and Smith – they’re Mum’s best friends, you know,’ Rachel added with a grin.
‘You know, you could make a business out of selling these, Jill, and that glorious sticky toffee pudding I had the other night. Bet you have more pudding delights up your sleeve too, by the sounds of it. I’d certainly be queuing up to buy some.’
‘Oh, yes, proper old-fashioned puddings,’ Rachel agreed. ‘You might just be on to something there, Tom.’ The seed of an idea that had started in her mind the other evening was find
ing its first shoot. ‘What do you think, Mum?’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. I’m just a home baker, that’s all.’ Jill batted away the suggestion. ‘Any seconds for anyone?’ she added, spotting that Tom’s dish had been swiftly cleared.
‘Blimey, I’m full as a tick … but you know what, that’s an offer I can’t refuse, so maybe just a spoonful. I have a feeling I’m being fattened up.’ Tom laughed.
‘Definitely.’ Jill grinned.
Rachel looked across at Tom. He was of medium build, but well-muscled, and was around six foot tall. His physical lifestyle meant he was fit and well, and he could no doubt pretty much eat what he liked without putting weight on. He caught her glance and smiled warmly across the table. His eyes were a deep liquid brown – she’d never really noticed quite how dark they were before.
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to move after all this, but I really should be getting back soon to check on my ewes.’
‘You still haven’t seen Pete,’ chanted Maisy.
‘Of course, you can show him to me on my way back,’ said Tom.
‘You’ve surely time for a cup of tea first?’ suggested Jill. ‘Let your meal settle for few minutes at least.’
‘That’d be great, Jill. Just a quick one. And thanks again to you and Rachel. This has been a real treat.’
‘It’s been lovely to have you here,’ Jill added.
Rachel nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, thanks for coming. It’s been really nice.’
Fifteen minutes later, and Rachel, Maisy and Tom were on their way to visit Pete the lamb.
‘Now then, you have to be gentle with Pete as he’s only little.’ Maisy was in full bossy mode, as though Tom had never had anything to do with a sheep in his life.
He and Rachel shared a look of amusement.
‘Of course, Maisy,’ he answered in a serious tone. ‘So, which little guy is he then?’
‘This one.’ She pointed, peering over the metal railing. ‘Come on, Petie boy.’ The little lamb perked up, seeming to know his name, and trotted towards them, followed by the others. ‘Mum, can we feed him?’
‘Yes, I don’t see why not. I’ll make sure Simon knows he’s had his tea, when he comes in.’ She was having a night off tonight herself – oh yes, that would be bliss. A hot bath and cosy bed were calling her name already.
Rachel scooped out the lamb. His short wool was soft and curly-ridged under her hands. ‘I’d better go and mix up some milk feed for him and the others.’ She passed him to Tom, who knelt down so Maisy could stroke Petie. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
When she came back a few minutes later, Maisy and Tom were deep in conversation about the lambs that had been born the night before. He then told her about the Texel he’d had to help out with a few days back, and she was fascinated.
‘You had to use a rope, Mummy?’ Her little girl’s eyes were like saucers now.
‘Hah, suddenly lambing’s not so boring then, Maisy.’
It was lovely seeing them chatting away though. Tom able to bring the drama and the magic of the lambing shed alive for her little girl. It reminded her of times with her own father for a moment, whisking her back to being a little girl on this very farm …
‘Quick, Rachel lass. This one’s about to give birth.’ Her dad grasped her arm firmly but kindly with his strong farmer hands, guiding her towards the pen. ‘We’ll leave her be and just watch from here, quietly now. She’s doing a grand job by herself by the looks of it.’
And they sat together on a straw bale, overlooking the pen. The ewe was panting heavily, as she lay on her side. There was a show of some whitish sticky stuff, and … oh … wow … two little black-and-white hooves pushing through. Then, all of a sudden, out it all came in some weird balloon-looking thing. The mum was soon up and licking her baby … a whole new lamb … a whole new life.
Nearly twenty years ago and Rachel had been allowed to stay up late for a few precious hours with her dad in the lambing shed.
She was just five years old. But she’d never forget that special day – some memories lasted a lifetime.
Rachel was jerked back to the present as Pete the lamb kicked out hungrily, spotting the bottle in her grasp.
She realised with embarrassment that her eyes had misted with tears, and she turned away for a second to compose herself. Breathe.
‘Better get this little one fed then, Maisy. You take the bottle now,’ Tom said.
‘I’ve done it before. You do it like this.’ She tilted the angle just right, as the lamb made jerking sucks on the teat.
‘Great, you’ve got it down to a fine art, I see,’ said Tom.
Once the milk was emptied, which didn’t take Pete long at all, Tom stood up to put him back in the pen. ‘Sorry folks, but I’d better go.’
‘Aw.’ Maisy pulled a face.
‘Come on Maisy, Tom’s already stayed later to see Pete.’ Rachel looked across at Tom. ‘I bet you’ve got loads to do too.’
‘Certainly have. A farmer’s work is never done.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Bye, Tom,’ Maisy said reluctantly, hugging his leg.
‘Bye, Maisy. Be a good girl for your mum now.’
‘O-kay.’
Rachel watched him as he walked to his pick-up truck and set off along the drive with a wave and a toot especially for Maisy. She had a warm feeling she couldn’t quite explain as she watched Tom go. He was great to have as a neighbour. It felt like they had someone on their side.
Chapter 6
PUDDINGS AND PLANS
Later that evening, with Maisy in bed and Mum up in the bath, Rachel sat at the kitchen table with her laptop out and a mug of hot chocolate, chewing the end of her Biro. She had loads of the farm’s paperwork to catch up on. There seemed to be a never-ending stream of documents and reports to complete and return. She was tired but thank heavens she wasn’t needed in the lambing shed tonight.
It was quiet and cosy in the kitchen with the warmth of the Aga, and Moss there lying beside her too. They did have a small office, but Rachel preferred working here, in the hub of the farmhouse. She got some admin work done and then she found herself mulling over the conversation at dinner and – more crucially – Tom’s suggestion whilst they’d been spooning in their bread and butter pudding. Might there be something in this pudding-making idea?
It might just give Jill a new focus, a sense of purpose, Rachel mused. She’d been lost since her husband’s death two years ago; it was almost like a part of her had died with him and it was so sad to see. Baking was something she’d always loved doing, and Rachel could see that little spark reignited within her when she was back with her recipe books and ingredients in the kitchen these past few weeks. And, any income it might produce certainly wouldn’t go amiss in helping out the farm’s finances. They needed every penny they could get at the moment. The first lambs wouldn’t be ready to go to market for sixteen weeks yet, and the end-of-year subsidies were being stretched thin as it was. Oh crikey, she still needed to have that conversation with her mother – about just how big a financial hole they were in – but the lambing season had stalled that particular conversation. And Rachel realised she’d been ducking out of it too. She really didn’t want to give her mother anything else to be concerned about, not when she was finally showing the first signs of recovery.
Rachel did enjoy baking too, when she found the time. Her raspberry and white chocolate cheesecake, sugary-crisp yet soft-in-the-middle meringues and carrot cake had always been hits with her family and friends. Once lambing was over, and with Maisy now at school, she’d have a bit more time to experiment in the kitchen once the daily farm chores were done. She might even get The Baking Bible out herself and have a go at some of the old favourites too.
She googled ‘starting up a catering business’, jotting down some notes. She and her mum could easily sign up for the hygiene qualifications they’d need – that’s if her mum warmed to the idea. Then Rachel found herself googling �
��puddings’. A feast of delights hit the screen – taking her back to her childhood with Mum there in her pinafore, Dad sat at the farmhouse table and something sweet and comforting about to come out of the Aga – golden syrup sponge, sticky toffee pudding, treacle tart, and jam roly-poly …
Smiling to herself, Rachel remembered the time when Dad couldn’t decide which pudding he wanted. It was a toss-up between three, she seemed to remember, so Mum just went ahead and made a whole feast. He said that that was real love right there on a plate, as he helped himself to a generous portion of each two hours later, laughing that he was only having so much to please his lovely wife.
Rachel scrolled over the images with an ache of loss in her heart as she looked across at Dad’s empty chair. Why did he have to go and leave them? How the hell had that happened? So many whys and unanswered questions. She felt a tear crowd her eye.
But it was no good getting nostalgic. She had to hold it together to keep the farm going for the three of them now, look at ways of making it more profitable, to keep them afloat. She couldn’t be the one to let them all down, to see it sold off. Primrose Farm was their legacy – and their beloved home.
So, if the pudding idea could help the farm, and as it was something Jill really enjoyed, it was worth at least looking into. There were plenty of people who stayed locally in holiday cottages who might like a treat, there were busy mums and wives with little time to bake, people on their own like Tom, the elderly – a whole host of potential customers who might like to buy a lovely homemade pudding.
There was a pudding on the screen now, the packaging wrapped in muslin. Hmm, Rachel’s mind turned to Eve, her crafting friend. She’d know how to make something similar. Ooh, maybe they could have a selection of puddings, wrapped in something pretty with a bow around and a ‘Primrose Farm’ tag.
Rachel's Pudding Pantry Page 4