by Lily Graham
Trickster was the name her aunts used for recipes that needed a bit of coaxing.
Evie frowned, pouring wine over the caramelised plums for a funny recipe called Plum up The Jam that Emma had created when she was about eleven. It was an effective treatment for anyone, like poor Gemma Harris, one of the sisters who ran the teashop in Whistling, who was prone to bouts of melancholy during the Christmas period. ‘Well, I had a little help.’
‘From who?’ asked Dot in surprise. Slowly they all turned to look at Emma, mouths slightly ajar.
Emma took a sip of water. ‘I just kept it from burning, that’s all.’
Dot and Aggie stared at her with their big round Halloway eyes.
Emma rolled her eyes, and Dot went back to tending the ham.
‘The funniest thing happened though,’ she said. ‘You know he’s always been such a confirmed bachelor, old Alfie?’
They all nodded. A lot of people had tried to set him up over the years, but he always maintained he was happiest with a cup of tea, his comfy slippers and his old cat, Michael.
‘Well, I was standing there in the queue, and you know he’s always greeting his customers with a joke, well, he saw, Sandra Pike – you know, the nursery school teacher – and all of sudden, out of nowhere, he comes over all strange, gawking at her like she’s Kate Middleton or something, and telling her that she’s got the most soulful Spanish eyes he’s ever seen. Can you believe it?’
Emma choked on her water.
‘I mean, she’s not even a bit Spanish – and she’s got those cataracts. It was so odd.’
Aggie came over and pounded her back. ‘You all right there, love?’
‘Fine,’ Emma choked.
* * *
The scent wakes her up, one day in the second week of December. It’s warm, and rich, and thick, and hinting of spice, like cinnamon, and of roasted hazelnuts and chocolate. It whispers in her ear, making her toes curl in pleasure, before it leaves like a lover departing with a lingering kiss.
It’s 2 a.m. when she creeps into the kitchen, heart thrumming in her chest, to search for it, wanting more.
She steps forward slowly, almost reverentially, in the dark, feeling a bit like she is on the precipice, between dreaming and being awake, between something old and something new. The herbs and spices that the Halloways have collected over the years all line up along the shelves on the old dresser in small bottles with little blue and white striped lids made of tin. It’s these she seeks out in the dark. There are no labels to guide; that’s not how it’s ever worked, not how it ever would.
She unscrews the lid of the first one, and brings it to her nose. It’s warm, spicy and slightly woody. Her head swims and she pictures crisp dark-gold biscuits, hot from the oven, that snap as you break them in two, yet dissolve in the mouth. She closes her eyes, breathes in the fragrance, like a drug, making her head swim. Nutmeg.
She puts it back, unscrews the next. It’s something sweet, and lingering like liquorice. She remembers lazy afternoons in Provence, old men in flat caps drowsing in the sun as they sip thimblefuls of pastis, after a game of pétanque.
Aniseed.
She puts it back. It’s not that.
Her fingers find a small jar. There are dried leaves inside, with sharp pointed edges, and she knows what it is by that alone, though she lifts it to her nose anyway. Mellow and deep and warming. She pictures cold winter days, long walks on the frosted moors, her every move followed by a short-eared owl, and suddenly the warmth of the cottage, and a hearty stew that warms the bones. Bay.
Not that either.
The next jar makes her rock on her heels. It’s sweet, and slightly sharp, and when she closes her eyes, she sees hot baked earth, golden-coloured grass and sunshine flickering through a canopy of leaves, fruit bursting with juice. Orange peel.
She breaks off a piece to taste, but there’s nothing yet. That’s okay, she thinks. This is enough for now. More than enough.
She unscrews the lid of another. It’s warm, and inviting, telling a hundred stories of sultry summers and monsoon weddings. Turmeric.
She breathes them all in for a moment, standing barefoot in the cold, then takes one up to her nose and sniffs. It’s sharp, slightly bitter, and suddenly she’s six years old again, and it’s not long after she first arrived at Hope Cottage.
* * *
The shop bell tinkles as she enters. Emma’s eyes trace over the name of the store, etched into the glass: Whistle-In Store.
An old man with long grey hair is seated at the counter. He has silvery eyes that glow in the dark, like slits of moonshine.
He stands up. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ he says in greeting. ‘Is this our lass?’
‘Aye,’ Evie nods. ‘This is Emma.’
‘Ee-by-gum,’ he says. ‘Now that’s summat, she looks nowt like Margaret, ’cept for t’eyes. Red?’
It amazes Emma how there are so many people who sound like her mother, a whole village full of them. Though his is the heaviest accent she’s heard since she arrived.
‘Red,’ Evie agrees, then goes on, ‘How you doing there Harrison, feeling better?’
‘Much,’ he says. ‘Ta for that soup.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Evie.
‘So, our lass, have yeh started at the school?’
Emma nods.
He looks at her. His silvery eyes are a bit strange, and they seem to look straight into her heart. ‘People are always a little afraid of what they don’t understand. Yeh job isn’t ta make them – it’s a fool’s road trying ta make everyone like yeh. Some just won’t. All yeh can do in this world, is be yerself, all right?’
Emma blinks.
* * *
Back in the kitchen, she frowned. It’s strange what scent can do, how it can transport you back in time. She’d forgotten about that day. It wasn’t long after Mrs Brimble had come for a recipe for Harrison. Strange; at the time, she was sure she hadn’t known that, hadn’t put the two together. It was only now that she realised he had been giving her good advice.
‘Ours is an edible history,’ Evie said once. It was true. There were memories in each bottle. Like this one, she thought, lifting up the one that always reminded her of home, and of Christmas. Warm and rich. Cinnamon.
Her eye fell on The Book. It was open to a recipe that spoke of new horizons, new beginnings too.
She bit her lip, and mused, ‘I could just go back to bed.’
She could. It would be hard, but she could. But she knew she wasn’t going to do that. Not until she tried to make whatever it was that had woken her up. It had been years since she’d baked. But her fingers knew what to do, how to light the range and coax the old behemoth into life. She gave it a pat, like all Halloway women did, like it was a slightly grouchy pet. ‘I’m just trying something, okay,’ she told it. ‘Just a little trial, is all.’
It made a noise, as if, perhaps, it knew she was lying, that soon enough she’d be back for more.
By the time dawn had crested the horizon she’d made pain au chocolat and cinnamon buns, and sweet orange polenta cake.
She couldn’t taste them but she breathed in their scent anyway.
When Evie came down, she stopped at the door, her hand on her heart. ‘You did this?’ she asked.
Emma nodded, a small, tired smile ghosting her face.
Evie stepped forward, took up a cinnamon bun, then took a bite, and closed her eyes in sudden bliss.
‘It’s good?’ asked Emma, suddenly nervous. Evie’s eyes glazed. ‘Better than good.’
Emma’s grin was huge.
There were other scents too that day. Some a bit of a shock. The sheets were sharp and musty. Her clothes in desperate need of a wash. Even Pennywort reeked. She pressed her nose into his fur and laughed with delight. After that everything got a wash – the duvet, herself and Pennywort, to his utter disgust.
When the rich aroma that was wet dog filled her nostrils, she laughed again, hugging the old bulldog so close that he huf
fed in her ear, making a mild protest but too lazy to do anything about it.
She looked up at Evie in a sudden fit of giggles. ‘He’s so smelly.’
Evie looked at her. ‘You’ve lost it.’
‘Maybe.’ She grinned.
* * *
She was walking back from town, where she’d just dropped off a batch of her cinnamon buns with Aggie, when she smelt it. At the same moment Dot greeted her in the street with her usual, ‘Have you heard the latest? Apparently,’ she went on, ‘Steve Galway’s been given the sack from that auto shop outside town – he was falling down drunk at two in the afternoon, seems he’s got even worse since Mary left him—’
But Emma didn’t hear. She grabbed Dot’s arm. ‘That – what is that?’
Dot shook her head, confused. ‘What?’
Emma closed her eyes. It was the smell – the one that had woken her up this morning. Like chocolate and cinnamon and roasted hazelnuts; sheer bliss. ‘Come on,’ she said, pulling Dot gently but firmly down the hill, past the ribbon of butterscotch cottages, to the edge of the moors, going as fast as her crutch would allow. The mist was coming in and it was cold. Dusk was approaching. Clouds rose above the sweeping expanse of heathland with its carpet of snow.
She could hear birdsong in the distance. The scent wild, and fresh, with bracken and moisture, and somewhere there was that scent that had been whispering to her, just out of reach.
‘This way,’ she said, pulling Dot’s arm.
‘You go on, love – I’ll see you later,’ Dot said with a laugh. ‘Say hello for me.’
Emma frowned, then shrugged, carried on alone.
The light was beginning to fade as she made her way into a clearing that overlooked a river. Amber-coloured bulbs were strung around a small outdoor restaurant in the middle of nowhere, under a Bedouin-styled tent. Inside this were long wooden benches and tables, overlooking the snow-covered moorland that stretched on for miles. The big, pale wooden tables were topped with miniature Christmas trees; the benches were strewn with cosy mohair blankets and next to each were rows of fire pits, keeping the customers warm and snug. In the centre of the tent was a small metal van, strung with fairy lights, displaying a tapas menu written in chalk.
The Tapas Hut
There was soft Spanish music and the low hum of people talking. The air was thick with the scent of fried potatoes, paella, chilli and tortilla, and when she turned she smelt it again, that scent.
‘Pajarita,’ said a mild, mellow voice.
She turned. Sandro was standing behind her. She blinked, confused.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said. His eyes were like dark ink, his smile warm, like the glow of a fire; she felt herself edging closer to it without realising.
She bit her lip, looked away. ‘It’s beautiful here,’ she said, knowing though that the words didn’t do it justice.
‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ she went on.
‘Me too,’ he said, almost in a whisper. The words were uttered close to her neck and she shivered.
‘You’re cold,’ he noted. ‘How about a hot chocolate?’
‘Put it on my tab,’ said another, familiar voice.
She turned, started in surprise.
‘Jack?’
He grinned, ran a hand through his dark blond hair. ‘I was going to call you later. I’ll have another pint,’ he told Sandro, clapping him on the arm.
Sandro nodded. For a second the light from the fire cast a shadow on his face, and she wondered if she saw his jaw clench, or if it was simply a trick of the light.
His phone started to ring, and just before he answered she saw a name flash on the screen. Sarah.
Emma thought of what Evie had said, that he’s always out when he’s got a new girl on the scene.
No wonder he got in so late sometimes. Busy guy.
She frowned, thinking of the scent that had led her here. It had disappeared now; why was her brain playing tricks on her? Jack led her to a table. ‘You all right?’ he asked, seeing her face.
‘Fine. Just a strange day.’ She looked at him now, remembering what he’d said about the Tapas Hut. ‘It’s funny, I thought… well, the way you spoke about this place, that perhaps you didn’t like it.’
He frowned. ‘Did I? No, it’s cool. I just said that it could get a bit rowdy sometimes. Well, as it’s a bit far out it can sometimes attract a bad crowd – a few weeks ago I was here when Steve Galway came around with his mates. I think Sandro had to call the cops.’
‘Oh,’ said Emma. ‘That’s not good. Steve Galway is getting a bit out of hand since his wife left, at least so I’ve heard.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jack. ‘That was so strange, I mean, people are saying…’ His voice trailed off.
‘What?’
He laughed. ‘Nothing, never mind, silly rumours that’s all.’
Emma could guess. People were saying that after years of putting up with Steve, Mary Galway had come to Hope Cottage for a recipe at last. Well, thought Emma, looking out at the moors, so what?
Sandro brought over their drinks, giving her shoulder a squeeze before he left.
Jack raised a brow. ‘Something I should know about?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, we’re friends, I guess.’
‘You have to guess? How does that work?’
Emma looked at him, couldn’t help answering. ‘Maybe the way we used to be friends, though sometimes it was mainly a guess, perhaps?’
‘I should never have let you go that day, I was an idiot. I’ll do better this time, okay?’
She blinked. It was what she’d wanted to hear for the longest time.
Her eye fell on the stream, meandering through the hills in the distance, the castle in the background and the village of Whistling with its rows of cottages like golden dominoes ribboning the cobblestones. She pulled a blanket over her knees and leaned in closer to the burner, saw Sandro walking past, laughing at something someone said, his limbs loose, like they were oiled with butter.
Jack picked up her hand, slipped his inside it. ‘You know, I always wanted to do this,’ he said. ‘Out in public.’
Her heart started to pound. She felt her stomach fill with butterflies.
‘So, why didn’t you?’ she asked.
‘I was afraid.’
She blinked, watched as his gaze fell on a nearby table; a few people seemed to be staring.
Jack averted his eyes, looked back at Emma. ‘There’s something to be said for getting older,’ he said. ‘You’re less concerned about what people will think.’
They sat talking for hours, and it was close to midnight when he walked her home, helping her with her crutch. It was only then that she saw that he must have had a little too much to drink; he was swaying ever so slightly.
‘I think it all rushed to my head when I stood up,’ he said. ‘Forgot to eat, I think.’
Emma opened the door to the cottage, switched on the light. There were the telltale signs of a household at rest, the low hum that came over the house while it slumbered. ‘Come in. I made some buns and things earlier – it’ll help soak up the alcohol,’ she said. ‘Here.’ She moved the basket of baked goods forward.
He helped himself to a bun, closed his eyes in bliss as his tongue hit upon the cinnamon and chocolate combination. ‘Now that, I would have to agree, is magic,’ he said.
His eyes took in the small alcove at the back of the room and he looked at her, his eyes warm. ‘So that’s where you sleep?’ he asked.
She was suddenly shy. ‘Yes.’
He nodded. Then leaned over, touching her face, tracing a faint scar on her forehead from her accident. He pulled her face forward. Her heart started to beat fast. Up close she could smell his aftershave, subtle and inviting, and for just a second she wondered about it, but then she lost herself in the kiss.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Taste came next. As if she were a newborn, her brain learned flavours slowly at first, though it remembered them all t
he same. The tang of a slice of cake, sour and tart, took her back to the first sugary-lemon crêpe she’d tried, down a sunny street on her first trip to Paris. A spicy sausage from a market the next day down in the village took her back even further to a memory she’d all but forgotten, when her mother offered her a taste and her blue eyes danced with laughter at Emma’s expression.
Salt came next. She dipped her fingers in the grains and popped them on her tongue. Was there any dish it didn’t help improve, anything better?
Sugar, probably. The day she could detect that things were sweet, it felt a little as if she’d found her own pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She licked teaspoons of honey and peanut butter and sat at the table smiling to herself, buzzing on a sugar high.
‘That’s an easy way to get fat,’ Aggie said, getting a spoon and taking a seat to join her.
Emma looked up, laughed. ‘Then I’ll get fat.’
Aggie grinned. ‘It’s worth it for this,’ she agreed.
‘Did you know this was an accident?’ Emma asked, pointing at the jar.
‘Nutella?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. It was in Italy during the war – they crushed hazelnuts to make the chocolate go further.’
Aggie shook her head at the genius of the Italians. ‘Meanwhile Britain had things like mock chocolate.’
‘Some things just aren’t fair,’ Emma agreed.
With Christmas Day steadily approaching, Evie and her aunts were busier than ever, and Emma was happy to at least help keep them fed, though she hadn’t quite crossed over to helping them with a recipe. She watched as they made the final layer of the Good Cheer Christmas Cake, where it would rest until at last it would be distributed in small boxes to each and every one of the hundred plus villagers who lived in Whistling.
* * *
Emma couldn’t seem to stop baking. It was like a dam had burst; she was waking up in the middle of the night with new ideas. Perhaps it was because it was Christmas – it always put her in the mood to bake, to create new things, or at least it used to. She gave in to it again now, making lemony cinnamon buns with white chocolate shavings. Gingerbread biscuits. Caramel roulade with caramelised apple slices. Pumpkin spice muffins. She filled the house with what she made, sent them off into the world, happy to see a face light up when they tried one.