Pip nodded, as she put one foot in front of the other. Had Dom guessed she was seeking new places because her life was as soggy and decomposed as the leaf matter they trod on?
Dom’s voice was kind. ‘You live knee-deep in those murky riverbanks, with festering fish, rotting bones. Yet from the rot we get the beautiful new fish and the molluscs. The sea is filtered and we get new life.’ He spotted what he was looking for. ‘Ah, here they are: the morel. They too are born from decay. A perfect morsel from death. Different every year. Don’t be afraid of new locations, bella.’
He placed the mushrooms gently, gills down, in the basket. ‘The spores, the spores. The gift.’
‘What are you banging on about with my daughter?’ David loved to spar with Dom. ‘Encouraging her to throw away all those years of study. What a waste.’
‘Dad!’
‘I agree, my friend, an education is important. The war stole that from me. But the trip to this land—a new land—brought new opportunities. A life we would never have lived in the village at home. Your Philippa is a clever girl. You always tell me so yourself: “That Pip is a clever girl.” Beating your chest, tearing your hair out because she does not go point to point like Margot. She is not like her sister. Pip is wild and she needs to forage for a bit. She will have her nose in strange places, to be sure. But we do not get the magic without the hunt, no?’
She grinned. Perhaps she would find the hint of magic she was missing in Spain. Pip could see her father give a dismissive shrug—he regarded academia and research as sacred. There was no use arguing. Her mum, for a change, was the more sympathetic of the two.
They continued up the hill in the cool morning light, raiding clumps of mushrooms as they went. The silence was sometimes interrupted by the thump of an unseen kangaroo pushing off down the slope.
Pip breathed in the damp soil, sodden leaves and pine needles as she listened to her father’s heavy steps behind her. David loved his annual mushroom harvest with Dom, and usually he was thrilled whenever she could join them. Perhaps not this year though. Behind her, his disappointment felt as thick and heavy as the fog. Her father had seen many of his PhD students crumble under pressure when they were almost done. He just didn’t expect it from his daughters. Perseverance. Take nothing for granted. His words from her childhood echoed in her mind, haunting her.
Pip ducked to miss a branch and heard her dad’s breath shortening. Mount Macedon seemed to be getting steeper by the year. They were nearing McGregor’s Garden now—really just a clearing in the forest. Pip could see the slim frame of her mother firing up the park barbecue. Like Megs, Mary didn’t much go in for a morning of foraging, but she always met them at the top of the mountain for a harvest breakfast. Pip watched as she returned to the car, struggling to pull the old orange cast-iron frypan from the back seat. No wonder she never used the big old copper pots; they were impossible for her to lift. On top she had balanced a block of butter, a bottle of balsamic vinegar and handfuls of parsley, sage and thyme from her garden.
This was Pip’s favourite part, when they gathered to fry up the mushrooms. As they sizzled in the pan, the smell filled her nostrils, fragrant with the sharpness of thyme.
Dom held up a bottle of his homebrew red.
‘No thanks, mate. It’s a bit early. Your reds rip my head off.’ David laughed as he sat down.
‘Come on, Dad,’ said Pip in protest. ‘Don’t be a party pooper. Mum’s having one.’
Mary raised her enamel cup. ‘Cheers.’
‘Well, your mother can have whatever she likes. But just remember: that red you’re drinking has had his bloody feet in it, hasn’t it? Don’t want his hairy buggers in my wine. No thanks! More than happy to pay my twenty dollars for the privilege of not drinking his foot odour. Top dollar, in fact.’
Dom retaliated. ‘Ugh, these tannins in the Australian wines you love. Always sweet, too sweet. Too much heat in the grapes. And sometimes I can taste the eucalyptus, the bitter tannins. It’s strange you love them so much.’
‘All right, boys, quit your bickering,’ said Mary. ‘Who wants some of these mushrooms? I’ve got the sourdough ready—rubbed it with garlic before I came.’
Pip sat at the picnic table and let the banter wash over her. She watched her mother dishing up the mushrooms onto enamel camping plates and admired her girlish charm and the freckles stamped across her nose. She swished the fringe from her face and laughed at some story Dom was telling.
David coughed to clear his throat of breadcrumbs. ‘Pip, your mother and I were wondering how Megs is? She just seems so busy lately we haven’t had much of a chance to chat. Plus that bloody Skype keeps dropping out.’
Mary shot him a sharp look. Pip knew that one all too well—be careful!
‘Megs? She’s fine,’ Pip said. She shifted position on her fixed seat. Why wouldn’t she be? she thought resentfully. Her sister had it all sorted: husband, child, an amazing job and all the help in the world.
But then Pip remembered the dark rings under her sister’s eyes, how Megs had almost cried with gratitude when Pip had offered to babysit Chloé the week before because it was Eva’s day off. ‘I think she’s pretty tired, though,’ Pip conceded. ‘She’s been working long hours.’
And despite the pressure she was under, it had been Megs who helped Pip to move the last of her things from Ashfield Cottage, carefully wrapping the copper pots in newspaper and placing them in oversized boxes before bundling Pip onto the plane to Melbourne for some TLC.
Pip returned her attention to her mushrooms. The scent of smoke and earth enveloped her and she closed her eyes, enjoying the sweet tang of the balsamic vinegar and the creaminess of the pine mushrooms filling her mouth.
Mary came and put her arms around her as though Pip was still their baby, and they all sat for a minute breathing in the scent of mingling eucalyptus and acacias and listening to the sharp screech of the sulphur-crested cockatoos.
Eventually, Pip spoke. ‘I know you both have a lot on at work—and Megs and Will do too—but I know they would love a visit.’
Mary inhaled. ‘Are you sure?’ She paused. ‘I mean, last time I spoke to Megs she snapped at me when I suggested she swaddle Chloé a bit tighter. And she almost bit my head off when I suggested that some people find a dummy handy when they’re trying to coax their babies to sleep right through. It stops them wanting to suckle all the time.’
‘Mum! Hello! You are a midwife. How many stories have you told us over the years about mothers going nuts over silly things? How they don’t want advice when they’re having a hard time?’
‘Exactly! Which is why I think it’s better if I stay away and she finds her own way.’
‘Mum, she’s just being a perfectionist, beating herself up when things don’t run according to plan. But since when was Megs any different? You guys should go.’
‘Good idea, Pip,’ said David. ‘We’ll book once we get you on that plane.’
Mary shot him another dark look. Did they think Pip was incapable of that, too? She’d had enough of being managed. Of fitting into other people’s schedules. It was time she made her own.
‘Great,’ she said with a forced smile. She took another sip of Dom’s rough red for warmth. She was more certain than ever that she had to get away—to put some distance between herself and Jack, and her stalled thesis. Between family and failure.
Chapter 15
Château de Boschaud, Midsummer 1487
Artemisia moved purposefully across the kitchen to talk to Pierre the hâteur about the order of the roast meat on the grill. Now that everyone was back in the kitchen, she had to make sure they stuck to their tasks otherwise they’d trip and end up with the coals. The ruddy fellow had come in from the village specially to turn rows of animals mounted on spits. There were ten long rods with the roasts on the fire and each needed to be turned at a different rate. The kid would be served with a golden sauce, the lamb needed to be basted with parsley, verjuice and salt. The suckling pig was t
o be stuffed with powdered ginger, soft white cheese, saffron, salted ham, chestnuts and eggs. Over in the far corner, Hildegard had already started making the stuffing in a large pot on the granite bench. Her dark twig-like arms were elbow-deep in the crock, turning the mixture over. Hildegard paused for a moment and pulled one arm out, making a needle with a sewing gesture at Artemisia. Hildegard needed a needle and gut to sew the stuffing mixture into the pig’s belly. Underneath the rotisserie were wide metal trays with beet, turnips and carrots that were being glazed by the dripping fat.
Artemisia counted her blessings that she had ordered an extra dozen roasted geese from the oyer for the main course. The kitchen was simply not big enough to cook it all at once, and she wanted this banquet to be perfect.
‘Why doesn’t the old lady talk?’ asked Pierre above the din of the pots, nodding towards Hildegard’s back. Pierre was new to the village and loved a chat, but Artemisia didn’t have time today.
Artemisia took a step towards him and lowered her voice: ‘Abbot Roald chopped her tongue out two years ago, when the lord was away on a hunt. Said he didn’t want another bitter word coming out of her mouth. Hildegard had suggested he was a glutton and he had taken too much of the roast meats over winter. She thought his humours needed balancing and she suggested a few weeks of bread and nettle porée.’
Artemisia paused and looked at the fire as she recalled Abbot Roald’s exact words. Your tongue plots destruction, like a sharp razor, you worker of deceit. She would never forget the fierce look on his face. If Abbot Roald did the bidding of God, then Artemisia was pretty sure she never wanted to meet her Creator.
‘He asked her to poke it out right here in the kitchen and he sliced it clean off with his dagger.’
Emmeline paused in her pounding and grinding of spices and seeds in the giant granite mortar and Artemisia turned to watch her. She squatted with her knees apart, low on her haunches with the mortar bowl wedged between her thighs and her tunic hitched a little to reveal her dirty knees. Artemisia relaxed as the rhythmic thumping of the pestle resumed. Yes, Emmeline was more than ready to take over the running of the kitchen. Hildegard would help, of course, along with the lad Jacobus, but Artemisia felt guilt throbbing and churning like bile in her gut—she would miss them all.
She turned back to the hâteur. ‘Get on with your work,’ she scolded. ‘Stop this prying and be getting on with your work now, otherwise Abbot Roald might do the same to you.’
Pierre, looking chastened, returned his gaze to the fires.
Artemisia glanced back at the hot kitchen filled with boiling pots, rotisseries and sweating bodies before stepping into the cool dark larder. The tiny cell was lit only by the dim candle she carried in from the kitchen and placed on the shelf. She bent over and lifted the apron to wipe the sweat from her brow and leaned against a wooden shelf stacked with clay pots to draw breath. Her back ached. The smell of charring meat crept under the closed door and overtook the tiny space. Her face started tingling hot and cold as she reached into her pocket and retrieved the parcel. Artemisia propped it on the shelf to hold it steady as she unwrapped the string, ripping the wormwood from the centre of the knot and tearing back the linen. Underneath, her present was covered with confetti. Sugared coriander seeds rained on the floor and rolled like tiny marbles into every corner as she brushed them aside in her excitement. She’d sweep them up after she had looked at her betrothal gift.
Chapter 16
San Sebastián, September 2014
Pip kicked hard to propel herself through the water as she swam fifty metres offshore. She was midway through her daily laps and it felt joyous. She’d attempted surfing. Many times. Jack had tried for years to teach her. But nothing compared to the feeling of water against your bare skin.
Pip loved the way her lungs filled with oxygen and started to burn as she took as many strokes as she could with each breath. She could feel the steady flutter of her kick. Three kicks to every stroke. She’d always found comfort in the regular rhythm of swimming. The tension and hurt laced through her body since the southern summer seemed to have subsided—one stroke at a time.
This temperamental nook of the Bay of Biscay had become Pip’s stomping ground between shifts at Azure. As most residents of San Sebastián laid low and enjoyed the afternoon siesta, she took the opportunity to hit the waves when there were fewer boards to contend with. Today, it was blowing a strong southerly so Pip kept her elbows high and her stroke short to avoid being clipped by the chop in the waves. Some days the chop got so bad it felt like she was swimming in a washing machine. Still, she had not missed a swim since her arrival two months earlier.
Nearing the eastern point of Zurriola, Pip kicked hard to catch the next wave—only ducking at the last minute to avoid a guy who had inadvertently aimed his surfboard at her head. Pip plunged deep into the darkness and felt the water drop five degrees. She shivered in her navy Speedos, cursing herself for not spending some money on a decent wetsuit. It just seemed like a waste of money when she was only going to be in San Sebastián for a few months.
Pip turned to face the shore, floating on her back with her feet forward, arms circling. She considered the city that had been her home for the past two months. It was still a shock to see ornate five- and eight-storey sandstone buildings—the tall, elegant townhouses known as ‘Donostia’s ladies’—standing shoulder to shoulder along the waterfront promenade. It didn’t look like anywhere else she’d been in Spain, and the locals would probably say that was because San Sebastián was more Basque than Spanish; Donostia was the Basque name for the city.
Looking back at the beach, she eyed the breakwater with massive black concrete blocks the size of cars piled high to break the natural sweep of the bay. She’d been surprised to learn from kitchenhands that the sand was all trucked in, was held in place by the breakwater, and that the popular surfing beach was not a beach at all.
The sun was behind her in the bay and her feelings softened along with the light. The sandstone buildings with their slate roofs and curved wrought-iron balconies had a femininity to them—a softness. The ironwork was almost botanical. She felt fortunate to have washed up in such a beautiful part of the world. A beautiful baroque part of the world, she amended wryly, recalling her early days in the city.
‘Baroque,’ Eduardo had barked at her on her second day on the petit four station at Azure. ‘Donostia is baroque. We need this to represent Donostia.’
Pip had looked down at the elaborate black piping she was meant to fashion on a chocolate biscuit the size and depth of her thumbnail and wondered what the hell she was doing trying to pipe a wrought-iron balcony onto a biscuit. She had to make one hundred of them, each exactly the same. She was up for the challenge, but she had no idea what the chef was talking about.
‘What is Donostia?’ she’d whispered to Pedro, the handsome section chef.
‘It’s the Basque name for San Sebastián,’ he’d replied. ‘We don’t call our city San Sebastián in this kitchen. That name is only for tourists.’ He’d said it with an edge, but had winked at her before turning to check on the manchego macaron being soldered together by the equally new and hopeless kitchenhand beside her. Pip couldn’t help noticing the length of Pedro’s dark eyelashes and the smile that reached his dark brown eyes. Best to concentrate on the weird biscuit balconies.
Eduardo may have barked baroque at her for days but she’d never paid much attention to history at school and didn’t really understand what he meant. The only time she’d heard the word baroque bandied about was in her year eight music class. Something about harpsichords and bassoons? Or was it oboes?
Enough of the daydreaming. The tide was coming in, right-hander waves were picking up with the southerly and she could feel it whipping across her shoulders. Pip dropped further into the water to keep warm. She shivered, but suspected it had more to do with adrenaline than the cool water. She started swimming again. It was time to get to shore.
She was feeling excited bec
ause she’d been invited to present a dish she’d invented to Eduardo and the entire creative team at Azure tonight, during the staff meal before service. If it was any good, they’d consider incorporating it into the menu. It was the highest honour someone could bestow on a kitchenhand. Pip thought it unlikely she’d succeed, but she’d set out to blow them away with something original. In fact, it was inspired by her daily swim at this very beach. She’d asked Pedro last week for the Basque translation of ‘the mighty ocean’. She knew better than to use a Spanish phrase in these parts. So Abiega Ozeano it was. She just hoped Pedro wasn’t taking the piss—it was nerve-racking enough trying to get the technical elements right.
Pedro had moved her on from the petit four station after one week. ‘Too easy for you,’ he’d said with a nonchalant shrug and assigned her to the dessert station, where things got interesting. There she’d mastered making jamon and egg ice cream using dry ice, diffused a mushroom and balsamic caramel emulsion to drizzle on a plate and dehydrated thousands of paper-thin slices of apples, pears and radishes to scatter across the tops of the ice cream. She’d extracted the compounds from the juice of apples, frozen the liquid to separate the water and then reconstructed the pure juice with gelatine, lichen and yoghurt to make glossy bright green ‘apple spheres’. She had also spread long sheets of the local elderflower honey, dehydrated the sheets until they went brittle and turned them into a toffee crunch to act as the ‘soil’ under the ice cream and apple spheres.
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