The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  Pip swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Bottom line: we’ve pressed pause. The funding board at the university has agreed to a suspension.’

  ‘Thank—’

  ‘Stop!’ Imogen help up a slender palm. ‘Do what you need to do. You are officially on leave from this university.’ She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘You may be able to reapply to finish in twelve months’ time. Don’t make us look like fools, Pip. Don’t quit now, when you are so close.’

  Pip’s face burned remembering their concerned faces as they pushed the suspension forms towards her across the desk, murmuring platitudes about taking some time to regroup, and the worst—breakups are always tough on a PhD.

  The forms were already signed—her suspension had already been approved.

  Pip hung her head as she listened to Dan speak.

  ‘It’s more than that though; you don’t just watch.’ Dan leaned in close so the whole kitchen didn’t hear. ‘Every week you bring me something you’ve grown, or a treat you’ve collected from the roadside. Or your mudflats. You can follow any recipe I give you. Anything. But it’s more than that. You can feel it. You can feel the recipes. The history. You love the herbs. I see you in your corner, sniffing away on a sprig of rosemary when no-one is looking. Collecting your nettles, fennel seeds … It’s instinctive. You have the makings of a great chef. Come on, Pip.’ Dan looked straight into her eyes, still jiggling the jam jar under his nose, before he walked to the other end of the kitchen with a list of loud instructions.

  Of course she had considered a change. She needed a job. She wouldn’t mind a break from number-crunching to do something creative—maybe travel—but she needed to stick to her plan if she wanted to be a marine biologist. Her research was stagnant, things with Jack were finished. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked again. Nothing. Jack wasn’t answering her texts or calls since she’d moved out. Pip leaned against the bench for a minute and closed her eyes, remembering the rich smoky aniseed scent of the fennel. She imagined her cheek on Jack’s chest, the rhythm of his breathing. His deep earthy smell of the soil and the sea.

  It took all her energy just to stand up straight and get on with her work.

  She needed to get away from her broken, tattered life, shake herself out of the holding pattern she’d sunk into. She needed a new strategy. A fresh environment and some funds. And then she would work out how to finish her PhD. Somehow.

  ‘Actually, I’ve been meaning to chat with you, Dan, after service. I, er, I wanted to follow up about somewhere I could work for a bit. I know you worked in Europe. I want to travel for a bit, I think. Get away …’ Her face burned and she took a deep breath. Dan knew about the cancelled wedding.

  The chef patted Pip on the shoulder. ‘Well, my best mate Eduardo runs a restaurant in Spain. Google it—it’s called Azure, in San Sebastián. He has his own lab for experiments; his focus is molecular gastronomy.’ Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘If you’re interested, I’ll shoot him an email. It’s pretty hard to get a gig there these days but if I tell him about your science background, he might make an exception. You never know—you might want to start training to be a chef.’

  She doubted that. Besides, she was done with labs for the moment.

  ‘And Pip?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’re late tomorrow, I’ll bloody throttle you!’

  The lull between the chaos of lunch and dinner service was Pip’s favourite time in the restaurant. All the lamb was diced, the John Dory filleted and the Pacific oysters unpacked ready for shucking. She frowned. Why did Dan still insist on ordering this variety? She’d told him about the imported species colonising and upsetting the balance of the estuary ecosystems. He’d listened, but had said it was too hard to find consistent suppliers for the natives. Really, though, how hard could it be?

  Pip’s herbs were plucked, chopped and bagged, a symphony in green lined up on the long stainless-steel preparation bench.

  From the outside, Zest restaurant looked like every other faded, double-fronted weatherboard Federation house in South Hobart. It sat on a tight corner on the lip of a hill that tumbled all the way down to the chilly River Derwent. Like many Federations in Hobart, it faced the wrong direction—south. The only time the sun snuck in was late February. Even then it only briefly touched the courtyard. Dan had placed a worn metal table with matching chair outside so he could enjoy a cigarette in the sun. But judging from his pallor, the sun only hit Dan for a day or so in February too. Chefs weren’t exactly known for their exposure to vitamin D.

  Inside, Zest was a different matter. The walls were papered with Florence Broadhurst’s Japanese Floral print in red and gold. Large round Blackwood spheres hung from the ceiling and the tables were covered with crisp white damask tablecloths. The effect was an atmosphere of both warmth and glamour; Pip could see why the restaurant was a favourite with locals.

  And then there was the food, of course. In the five years since Dan had taken over the restaurant, he had established a dedicated following, and not only with locals. Visitors from the mainland often made a meal at Zest the centrepiece of their Tasmanian mini-break, along with a wander around the Salamanca markets to browse the handicrafts and a trip on the ferry from Constitution Dock out to the funky Museum of Old and New Art, known far and wide as MONA.

  Now, though, as Dan, Jean and Pip sat around their favourite round table in the corner for their staff lunch, it was Pip’s food that was the focus.

  ‘This soup is magnifique,’ said Jean, who was from Marseilles.

  Dan and Jean slurped the soup, tearing off hunks of Dan’s specialty sourdough to wipe the sides of the bowl.

  ‘This is grand,’ Dan agreed. ‘I’ve heard of nettle soup, but I’ve never tried it. Where did your mum get the recipe?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ said Pip. ‘I think from Dad’s side of the family—maybe my grandmother. Apparently there are some family recipes somewhere, but I’ve never seen them.’

  ‘Where did you find the nettles?’ Dan asked.

  ‘They’re all along the roadsides. I always make sure that I get them from further up the walking tracks behind my place where it hasn’t been sprayed. I used my dishwashing gloves this morning so I didn’t get stung.

  ‘But, interestingly, wherever there are stinging nettles there are also dock leaves growing nearby. If you’re stung by a nettle, you rub a dock leaf on the sting and the pain goes away. Don’t shake your head, Jean—it really works!’

  Pip continued: ‘My mum’s a midwife, and I remember her making batches of stinging nettle soup for a neighbour who was having trouble breastfeeding. Stinging nettles have a substance that helps with lactation.’

  ‘Too much information,’ said Dan, wincing.

  ‘Seriously, Dan, it’s fascinating,’ Pip insisted. ‘They are doing lots of research at the moment into the compounds in the leaf. It’s used as a tea in Nepal and China to detox the kidneys, help with arthritis, strengthen the heart and beat the flu. Imagine if you could find a way of extracting the elements and applying it for treatment?’

  Dan shrugged. ‘If you say so—you’re the scientist.’ He indicated his empty bowl. ‘And not a bad cook, either.’

  Pip blushed with pleasure. ‘And did you notice the yoghurt really smooths it out? The fat takes the bitterness out of it. Makes it delicious and creamy. The one Mum used to make was a bit more like gruel.’

  ‘The fennel seeds were a good idea, too,’ Dan said thoughtfully. ‘They give the soup a bit of depth. I’d even drizzle a bit of truffle oil over it next time. Not too much, mind, just a drop so you get that warm earthy smell when the bowl hits the table.’ He stretched. ‘All right, back to work. There’s a big lot of pots in there that ain’t gonna clean themselves and the floor needs a mop, I noticed. Do a bit of clean-up before you start prep. We’ll talk more about San Sebastián and Eduardo tonight, after service.’

  Pip took a deep breath and gave Dan a grateful nod. She needed to reboo
t and San Sebastián sounded like a delicious place to start. Perhaps a working holiday was a good idea? She could use a different side of her brain, be creative. Where was the harm in that?

  Chapter 11

  Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487

  Artemisia wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve and peeled the tunic from the front of her chest as she stood near the fireplace stirring the porée while Emmeline, Hildegard and Jacobus finished their meal. She’d just topped up the thick green soup with slices of dried chanterelles and was watching the yellowish leathery mushrooms expand and turn slippery before being swallowed by the liquid. She’d pulled some hunks of ham and a handful of garlic cloves, fresh hairy nettles and curly parsley to bulk up the soup for the household servants’ meal before the banquet. When the kitchen servants were finished, she’d call the chamberlain, the stewards and the chambermaids down to receive their supper.

  Next, Emmeline would deliver a tureen and a dozen warm black rolls wrapped in cloth to the monks. They would dine under the monastery eaves in their cloisters shaded by the linden allée. It was a pity she’d added the ham, being a day of penitence and all, but she thought a secret whiff of the hog might bring a smile and a bit of strength to the old withered faces that had tended the garden since she was smaller than the rosemary hedge. Abbot Roald had been pacing the garden walls, leaning over the monks and barking orders, ripping out rows of lettuce should they not be straight, calling them back to finish weaving willow borders by the moon. If hard work and dutiful attention to the sacraments and prayers were the sole path to salvation, then the hunched, uncomplaining monks of Château de Boschaud were well on their way. The monks with the fine use of the quill were no longer used to transcribe the herbal remedies so revered by Abbot Bellamy—Abbot Roald scorned the skills of an apothecary as much as he neglected his duties as almoner. Peasants and servants within the castle keep tended to make for the kitchen door with their apologetic knocks and tentative requests for something healing. Instead, the monks sat under the arches of the cloisters, chronicling the allocated domestic chores of the château, the accounts and sections of the gospel. What was left of the physic garden was left to be tended mostly by the kitchen cooks, and Artemisia was doing her best to keep a transcription of all the remedies and potions mixed by the women for the château’s records. Every moon the abbot requested a copy of the menus served at the château, then he would place Artemisia’s sheets of parchment between two stiff boards. He’d approve the menus using a red wax seal stamped with his ring with ne’er so much as a grateful nod. Artemisia never risked delaying the presentation of her recipes—the records and library at Château de Boschaud were said to be the best in the Limousin, Abbot Roald the most proficient chaplain in the land. Heaven could not help those who slipped into slothful ways and failed to deliver as he asked.

  Today, Abbot Roald would be conducting the marriage rites in the garden, after which he would dine to the left of the couple in the chaplain’s correct placement—before other important château officers like the marshal, the master huntsman and the falconer. Artemisia assumed he had a special dispensation from Heaven itself to partake in the boar and caramel geese and duck that would be served at this evening’s banquet.

  She lifted her ladle from the deep pot and hung it over the thick copper lip as she crossed behind the table to check on Emmeline’s moutarde violette. The girl had made a made a fresh batch this morning, seeding all the black grapes and pounding them to make a thick purple paste before blending it with the black mustard flour. Artemisia dipped her finger into the bowl then licked it. The sharp burning flavours of the mustard seed were softened by the grape juice and the skins gave it grip. It would be the perfect accompaniment to the fowl. She reached over to the brown sack of salt sitting on the benchtop and added two pinches to the mustard before giving it a stir and licking the spoon. Much better—the salt balanced the flavours so there was no longer a tussle between sweet and spicy. Piled beside the bowl were a few of the dried mushrooms she’d dropped, so she swept them into the palm of her hand—along with another pinch of salt and a nip of the dark mustard flour, and dropped them into her soup.

  As the browning specks lay spinning on the glossy surface and the searing heat from the heavy coals threatened to overwhelm her, Artemisia smiled and drifted back to the cool misty spring day she’d harvested these chanterelles.

  Artemisia and Emmeline had walked to the edge of the woods beyond the wall to fill their baskets with the golden wavy caps of the chanterelles. They shimmered like shavings of gold leaf peeking out from brown clumps of decaying leaves covering the shallow roots of the oaks and sweet chestnuts.

  Artemisia had promised to supply the abbot with a fresh mushroom pastie after matins every morning during the chanterelle season. His knuckles and knee joints creaked and ached when the evenings started to dip and cool—along with his temper—and the peppery mushrooms eased the start to the day for all.

  The pasties were easy enough to make. Artemisia would thinly slice the thick caps and blend them with soft cheese, salt and ground ginger, cinnamon and cloves before wrapping them in thick pastry and sitting them between the warm coals to rise. She always made an extra small parcel oozing with cheese for Jacobus to slip into his pocket when he went out to fetch the day’s wood.

  This particular morning was chilly, the sky dark and low, and Emmeline and Artemisia had almost filled their willow baskets to the brim with yellow caps, enjoying the mushroom’s surprising, teasing scent of ripening apricots. Some caps were the size of Artemisia’s palm and she was showing Emmeline how to gently shake the caps so they would pop up from the same spot of damp loamy soil next autumn when she heard the deep thud of hooves on soil and the rattle of a cart drawing near. As she turned towards the worn path that wound between the tall silver beech trees and the sweet chestnuts, she saw a pair of shiny black warmbloods stepping prettily through the forest. Artemisia’s heart did a double beat—it was the new épicier.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ said Andreas as he leaned back and pulled the reins to draw his cart to a stop, before removing his felt hat and dipping his head in a gesture far too grand for kitchen servants.

  ‘Monsieur de Vitriaco.’ Artemisia dipped her head in return, hiding the curl in the corner of her lips. He was every bit as handsome as she’d remembered from that first day in the larder. His skin was like the finest cinnamon.

  ‘I see you have full baskets. Chanterelles too, my favourites.’ He sniffed the cool air. ‘And it smells like we are in for more rain. It will be a good season, I think.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Artemisia. The air was thick with the agreeable scent of fallen leaves, damp soil and—Artemisia realised with shock—a sliver of hope. Her heart had never started to flutter, nor had she been left to fish for words with menfolk before. A gust of wind blew through the trees and the ladies were showered in yellow and brown leaves. They both laughed as they brushed the leaves from their faces and wimples.

  ‘And who might this young lass be?’ Andreas smiled at the blonde, dimpled Emmeline, who ducked her head and blushed. Artemisia felt her stomach churn a little with jealousy at the maid’s silky almond-milk skin and hair. Of course a man would prefer this fair, ripe, plump girl. Still, Artemisia needed to protect the innocent girl from these entitled village merchants who’d have their way then discard her like the seed of a peach. She felt her heart harden just a little.

  ‘This is Emmeline,’ Artemisia said curtly. ‘She works in the kitchen alongside myself and Hildegard.’

  ‘Aggh, the one with no tongue?’ said Andreas. ‘Quite the trio you have in the kitchen up at the château.’ He jumped off the cart and stretched out his hand, keeping hold of the reins with the other. The horses pulled their ears back and swished their tails. ‘Here. Let me take you back to the château. I’m doing your spice delivery now.’

  Artemisia swung her basket around and held up a hand to protest.

  ‘I insist,’ said Andreas as he c
lasped the handle of each basket and lifted them into the back of the tray.

  Artemisia considered the long trudge back through the sodden fallow fields to the château sitting on the rise in the distance and thought, why not? She had a long day ahead and her weary legs could do with the rest.

  Emmeline climbed into the cart first, and as she stepped up Artemisia quickly brushed the twigs and crushed leaves snagged on the hem of the girl’s tunic. The linen was thin, and the soles of her boots were worn through so she could see the fleshy pink of her sole. Artemisia bent down to quickly do the same for hers, and noted with dismay the wet band around the hem of her own dull grey tunic. Andreas held out his hand and she lifted herself into the tray with a stiff, ‘Thank you.’

  Then he swung himself up beside her, and she could see the muscles flex through his pristine white silk shirt and caught the whiff of rosewater as he sat beside her. It was tight to fit the three of them across the wooden seat, and Artemisia could feel the épicier’s strong thigh pressing against hers.

  Andreas whistled and shook the reins, and the horses took off at a brisk walk. The flat tray was filled with different-sized terracotta pots and they clinked and clanged with every step. Andreas asked: ‘So what will you be making with these fine chanterelles?’

  And so Artemisia relaxed just a little and spent the rest of the trip telling him of her recipes, and he chipped in with suggestions of spices. He asked how to make the plain green porée so adored in these rolling valleys more interesting. She told him of how she had come to call the château home, and Andreas told her of his student days studying Latin grammar, astronomy and geometry in Bologna, transcribing endless pieces of parchment. When his father was killed his mother, Alba, had called him home to finish his journey to the guild and take over the de Vitriaco spice business. One day soon he would run the guild and shop at the marketplace as his father had before him, and Artemisia had joked that if the price of saffron and ginger were to increase she would call for his dismissal at the village meeting with the burgher. They’d laughed so easily at this banter—shoulders brushing, eyes meeting—that for a moment Artemisia forgot she was a merely a cook. Both knew she wasn’t permitted to approach the burgher or attend a village meeting without the written consent of her lord. Or the chaplain. It was unthinkable. Until this misty ride in a cart with a smiling man who had travelled to faraway places, Artemisia had always been grateful for her straw and lavender bed in the barn.