The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  As Liberty got into her car, she realised she was emotionally exhausted. Slumped in the driver’s seat, her only thought was, I need my mother. I need to go home!

  15

  Adrenalin got her through the journey, enabled her to cope with the usual stop-start of the M25 and down the A21. As she pulled up outside the stunning house situated on one side of a pretty village green, surrounded by a muddle of charming cottages, Victorian houses, a pub and a shop, she felt absolute relief. Her home! She was safe, and about to burst into tears. Liberty didn’t even bother to get out her cases; she just grabbed her handbag, slammed the door without locking it, and raced up the path which led through pretty gardens from the lane encircling the village green to the oak front door of the house. As she looked up at the windows she thought, Is my mother even there? The house was a typical Queen Anne manor, built for a wealthy sheep merchant, the originally bright orange brick walls now charmingly pale peach and warmed by the fading sun. The large windows gave good light to this aspect of the house, and as a child, Liberty had thought the facade looked like a face, and that the building was keeping an eye on the comings and goings of the village. In summer the entire frontage was smothered by an ancient wisteria, which at the moment was just displaying its silver-grey skeleton, as though it was in some way cuddling the house, holding it against the chill of the autumnal afternoon.

  The door was thrown open. Deirdre said nothing, but drew her daughter into her arms, allowing her at last to let go and sob openly. Her mother held her for a few minutes before calmly saying, ‘Come on, my darling, let’s get you inside, you are home now.’ Paloma had phoned three days before and told Deirdre to expect her; therefore, she had slept little, eaten nothing and worried incessantly, as only a mother can, until she heard the car draw up in the lane. Deirdre, like her daughter, was more than used to putting a brave face on things; her relief at having her daughter home was both intense and unsettling. She was good at looking after wounded puppies, so she knew what to do.

  ‘Come in, come in. You are letting the cold air in,’ she said. She was covered in a very pretty Cath Kidston apron and a lot of flour. As they walked together along the flagstone floor towards the back of the house, she explained why. ‘It’s my Kids Bake Day. Come into the kitchen by all means, but I warn you . . .!’ Sensing Liberty’s reluctance, but unwilling to allow her out of her sight even to freshen up, she led her blotchy-faced daughter forcibly along the hall.

  As they approached the kitchen, the sounds of shouting grew louder.

  ‘That’s MY cookie cutter! Hands off, you little fucker!’

  Liberty glanced at her mother before they entered the room.

  ‘A lot of them come from the workers’ cottages by the river,’ whispered Deirdre by way of an explanation. ‘I am not sure whether this is for the parents to take time out, or for the benefit of the children, but they seem to improve and calm down as the term progresses.’

  Bam-poof! Perfect timing; as Liberty opened the door, a flour bomb hit her square on the chest, throwing flour all over her black cashmere jacket and dress. Silence. Absolute stillness. The children seemed to realise they were in the presence of a lady worthy of better behaviour, a lady who looked like a supermodel to them, and definitely not an appropriate target for a flour bomb. As Deirdre sometimes surprised them with a celebrity chef friend, they wondered if they had really goofed this time and would be sent home. Even though they were prone to playing up, they all loved the feeling of success when their cakes and biscuits rose and baked close to perfection. Sometimes this really did happen, and then they were allowed to take their produce home and give it to their families. It gave the children a sense of worth. They were now terrified this privilege could be taken away.

  Thankfully, after what seemed like an eternity, Liberty started shaking with laughter. She then took off her jacket, donned an apron she saw hanging behind the kitchen door, and said, ‘Right, who can I help, and what are we making today?’

  One hour later the two women were stacking and washing dishes, cleaning work surfaces and wiping floors. Liberty’s emotional arrival long forgotten, she felt tired, but happy. They were helped by Sarah, a young woman from the village who assisted Deirdre as a cleaner, and kept things as tidy as possible during the classes. Now she was washing the walls.

  ‘Sarah, it’s time for you to leave!’ stated Deirdre eventually. ‘Liberty, you go and bring in your bags and have a bath. Your room is all ready. I’ll bring you up a drink.’

  As instructed, and in the way that children, no matter what age, follow their parents’ instructions when under their roofs, Liberty grabbed her things and took them up the stone staircase to ‘her room’. It was actually her mother’s main guest room, with an en suite, and whoever happened to be staying at the time had the room named after them. Thankfully, it was no shrine to Liberty’s teenage years. She sometimes looked with horror into guest rooms in friends’ houses – kept in a sort of 1990s time warp. It was as though the parents thought the children hadn’t really left. Posters of pop stars remained Blu-tacked to the walls, candy pink curtains frilled at the hems hung at the windows, teddy bears sat perkily at bedheads. Perhaps it was just an excuse not to spend money on new curtains. It could be somewhat disconcerting for guests, though.

  Liberty’s room was in a beautiful double-aspect corner and looked out on to the village green. She had a prime view of the shop, pub and tea room, to which Deirdre supplied patisserie. The room itself was a calm sea of pale green toile de Jouy and yellow stripe, which her mother had somehow made work. Deirdre had an exceptional eye for decoration, and in the early days of Alain’s restaurants had enjoyed making them into centres of relaxation, which added to the dining experience. She went by the psychology that you didn’t want to notice your furnishings, only that you felt extremely comfortable and serene. She knew that the correct furniture for the setting, especially dining chairs, played a big part in this, and always said one should feel one knew a room the moment one walked into it. She couldn’t bear modern decor but she understood the need for it.

  When Liberty came downstairs after a hot bath and a hair wash, feeling fully herself once more, she sat down by the open fire to let her hair dry. She was joined by Custard, the fawn pug, beautiful to those who knew her and therefore loved pugs, and glared at by Dijon, the elderly golden Labrador, who always took the prime place by the fireside. Liberty gave in to his wishes, and shuffled along so the sweet dog could curl up and warm his bones after being left in the garden while the children were enjoying their class. As Deirdre said, ‘Otherwise, he spends his entire time being fed by them. He can’t resist food and they can’t resist feeding him, and he would end up like a balloon.’

  She entered the sitting room and handed her daughter a drink. Liberty took a gulp and nearly choked.

  ‘My God, this is neat vodka. What are you doing to me?’

  ‘No, my darling. This is an absolutely fabulous dry Martini. I thought you should try one now, as I have heard from Paloma – why I had to hear from her is another thing – that your sense of taste and smell have returned. You know how I have prayed for this moment – I’m not going to go on at you, but really.’ Deirdre looked flustered.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away,’ said Liberty, feeling guilty, but Deirdre was not going to dwell on the whys and what-have-yous and waved her hands at Liberty to shut up. ‘But you should only sip, not gulp. It is the very best medicine in the world, although for some reason my doctor disagrees with me.’

  ‘Why, are you ill?’ asked Liberty, looking worried.

  ‘No, no, darling, it’s just that I see quite a lot of Dr Brown around the village.’

  Liberty raised an eyebrow inwardly and smirked to herself but made no comment.

  They sipped their drinks and Liberty filled her mother in with her news. She left no detail out, and recounted a full report of Alain’s help in France. Deirdre took this surprisingly well.

  ‘He would certai
nly be the best person to teach you about baking, and I quite agree with his theory that if you had to work in restaurants to get the experience you need it would take years. Do you now consider you have really learned enough to open somewhere of your own, or are you going to have to go to college?’

  ‘College?’ Liberty laughed. ‘All the people I know who went to catering college can manage to do is deep frying and short-order cooking, and that’s it. I really want my place to be about baking, pastry and patisserie, either savoury or sweet. And then seasonal salads, cheeses – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Will you be licensed?’

  ‘I don’t think I will start with that, as I want to get established quite quickly, but we will see. People can always bring their own.’

  Of all the people Liberty had told of her plans, she was most desperate for her mother’s approval. Deirdre worked in the real world, and lived in the area of the country where Liberty wanted to open her restaurant, so she would know if there was any need for another eatery. She simply said, once she had listened carefully to her daughter’s plans, ‘This area is crying out for a decent place to go to for a cup of fine tea or coffee, and good cooking. The problem with touristy villages in Britain is that you just get the crappy stuff, because people put up with it. Foreigners expect British food to be terrible and the English want cheap food, so the foreigners stop at the first place they find, and the English go somewhere they can find a huge piece of cake, or worse, a burger served with frozen chips, because they think their children want that. Children only want it because they are not used to better food. What was your favourite meal when you were a child?’

  ‘Freshly baked bread with unsalted butter and Valrhona chocolate grated on top, or a buckwheat galette with cheese and ham and béchamel,’ replied Liberty without hesitation, even though she had not thought of these childhood pleasures for years. ‘Oh, and your home-made strawberry jam spread on sour cream cake.’

  ‘Goodness, I haven’t made that for years. I remember it as a cheesecake, with no base. It was flavoured with ground almonds, nutmeg and cinnamon, if I am not mistaken?’

  ‘Yes, it was always a bit different – you changed the spices, sometimes cardamom, but always yummy.’

  ‘The children could make that next week,’ mused Deirdre. ‘They all have a sweet tooth. Just need to make the candied peel to decorate it, but the oranges are coming into season now, and they are delicious. You can help me tomorrow, maybe. We could do some clementines and lemons as well. How about it?’

  ‘Oh, sure! I was planning to visit estate agents, but we can do that in the afternoon.’ Liberty’s fatigue had disappeared the moment her mother had been so enthused by and encouraging about her plan. ‘The agents I have contacted are being typically useless. Why is it they all say they have exactly what I am looking for, and then send me terraced houses in towns fifty miles away from here, with no business licence? They either don’t listen, or they just want to sell me what they have left on their books. Maybe I should become an estate agent!’

  ‘God, no!’ answered Deirdre. ‘Please, not – but you could pay one of those property finders to do it for you. Although, hold your horses. I need to phone Jonathan tomorrow. When I saw him last week he mentioned that the lease of one his estate shops was coming up for renewal soon. Let’s find out which one. Location for this type of venture is everything.’

  Jonathan de Weatherby was the ‘Tzar’ of the Denhelm Estate that encircled Littlehurst. He and his family lived in the vast, freezing yet beautiful Tudor house with later add-ons that sat in the valley at one end of the village. Its driveway led from one side of the green through wrought-iron gateposts, added in Victorian times when it was important for wealthy landowners to advertise their status and intimidate the poor and lowly who worked for them and kept the estate going. At one time his ancestors owned the entire village and most of its occupants. Not much had changed since, as Jonathan’s ancestors had managed to move with the times and looked after their tenants and workers well. As a child, Liberty’s best friend was Savannah, his youngest daughter, reckless from birth, who enjoyed getting Liberty into trouble by encouraging her to ride off on her father’s thoroughbreds and hide them in the local gypsy camp. There they played with the children, who in turn taught them to ride bareback at high speed. Savannah had always dreamt of becoming a gypsy princess, as portrayed in Hollywood, transforming into Ava Gardner and living in a painted fairytale caravan, but of course one with all creature comforts and no pooing behind the bushes!

  Liberty and Savannah, together with Leo and Titan (two of the children from the gypsy camp), spent endless summer days swimming in the lakes on the Denhelm Estate, or climbing trees and riding. Jonathan, whose wife Helena had died giving birth to Savannah, had managed to remain friends with Deirdre as she had been close to them both, and there were no complications – all the other women in his life, either single or married, seemed to want to become the next Mrs de Weatherby with all that went with it, but he said his heart would always belong to his beloved wife Helena.

  Jonathan’s two older children, Edmund and Grahame, had known and therefore missed their mother terribly. Edmund, the elder, was twelve when his mother died. He was always serious and never climbed trees. Liberty had not been close to him when they were children. Grahame, on the other hand, was a beauty like his sister, and he had been Liberty’s first love. She and almost all the girls at the local primary school, which the children attended before being sent off to boarding schools, adored him. Their father was intent on their having local friends, as he had been sent away to school at the age of seven, but even he became exasperated with Grahame and Savannah living like gypsies most of the time, and he was relieved when he could hand them over to the firmer hands of housemasters and mistresses, who had none of the guilt a parent feels and were therefore able to instil a little more discipline. Or, that was the theory.

  Savannah and Liberty had been sent to different schools. The parents had got together and deliberately decided on that. The children were devastated; Liberty, because her parents were in the process of separating and she felt lonely enough; Savannah, because, deprived of both her family and her best friend, she felt horribly restricted by school, and imprisoned without a huge estate to run about in. School in the centre of town, even one as smart as Cheltenham, was no substitute for freedom and friends. She rebelled and was expelled pretty quickly. Liberty had heard little of her since she was sent to Switzerland after eight English schools had done what they could. She had read in Tatler of the forthcoming third marriage of Savannah, who had become a society beauty, to a Middle-Eastern sheik, but had no idea whether this had taken place.

  Edmund had gone into the City. His desire to solve the energy problems of the world, along with inner city poverty, took him successfully into venture capitalism. Grahame went into politics, where his good looks and charm made him incredibly successful with both his constituents and fellow MPs. He said what he thought, and didn’t care about upsetting the apple cart. A people’s politician.

  ‘Come back to the kitchen while I say goodbye to Sarah,’ said Deirdre to her daughter. ‘Anyway, we have to make something to eat.’

  They took their empty glasses through.

  ‘How is Jonathan?’ asked Liberty.

  ‘Oh, just the same as ever – out hunting at every opportunity, keeps himself busy with the estate. I’ll call him before his morning ride. When I heard him mention the other day that one of his tenants was thinking of leaving, I’m sure it was the tea rooms!’

  ‘That would be too strange a coincidence – almost fate! It couldn’t be true that I could start my café right here, could it?’ Liberty paused for a moment before saying, ‘Why haven’t you mentioned Percy yet?’

  ‘Haven’t I? We need to eat, but before that, more drinks. Come through to the kitchen. Oh, Sarah, are you still here?’

  ‘I just thought I would wash the floor before I left.’

  ‘Go on, you, get off home. I
’ll pop in and see you tomorrow.’

  As Sarah closed the outer door, Deirdre said, ‘Marriage problems,’ to Liberty by way of explanation. ‘Her husband is sleeping with Dilys, the publican. All the village seems to know about it, and Sarah was the last to find out, so now she hates going home, knowing he is at the pub flirting in front of everyone and making a fool of her while she minds the children.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she leave him?’

  ‘Can’t afford it. And anyway, they have two little ones,’ said Deirdre as she threw two duck breasts, which had been marinating in salt, thyme and juniper, into a cold pan to render the fat slowly. ‘Make a salad with the leaves you’ll find in the fridge.’

  Liberty looked in the fridge and found a bowl of squash roasted with garlic and rosemary, some toasted walnuts and some winter leaves with spinach. That will do, she thought. She put everything on the table and mixed a vinaigrette with walnut oil and red wine vinegar. Deirdre, more anxious than she wanted to appear, poured them glasses of claret and lit a cigarette. Then she leaned against the Aga and looked Liberty in the eye.

  ‘While the duck rests you can have my thoughts, but as a mother it’s as simple as this. If you are happier without him, then I am happy for you. If you think you have rushed out of the marriage, then maybe think before you go to a solicitor.’

  ‘That’s it?’ asked Liberty.

  ‘What else do you want me to say? I love you and only wish you to be happy.’

  ‘I expected you to say you hate him and he never deserved me, like Daddy did.’

  ‘But darling, that would only make you feel stupid. After all, you did marry him, and you were choosing at that time to spend the rest of your life with him, and to have babies with a man too pompous to be true, a big bully with red cheeks and too much aftershave, who was rude to your poor mother the first time he walked through my front door and after a few drinks rude to just about everyone.’