The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  She walked back to collect her car and drove the few miles to Flatfield to look at the chairs. She found the barn easily, which was situated off the road leading to the little village, as a large board was placed by the side of the road: ‘Antiques, secondhand furniture and more! By appointment.’ She bumped down the un-surfaced driveway and peered up at the old wooden barn, with its beautiful peg tile roof. Only one little door, carved into the much bigger double doors which once let the animals in, gave any indication that this was anything but a large cowshed.

  I don’t have an appointment, maybe I should get one, Liberty thought, as it looked a little intimidating. She phoned the number on the board and told the gruff voice on the other end she was looking for several tables and lots of chairs, and could she make an appointment for that morning?

  ‘I suppose. What time?’ came the rude reply.

  ‘I’m outside. So now?’

  A long sigh, and then, ‘I’ll meet you at the door.’ Down went the receiver.

  ‘Oh well, it’s worth a look.’ Liberty parked a little nervously. The large woman who opened the door looked at her as though they had never spoken. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Liberty James. We just chatted on the phone.’ Although ‘chatting’ was hardly the word to describe their brief exchange, Liberty was determined to be friendly. ‘Can I come in and have a look round?’

  ‘Come in, then. It’s really my husband’s place, but he’s not here,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t know prices and what else he has apart from what’s out here, but have a look.’ And with that she locked the door behind Liberty and walked as fast as her fat legs could carry her back to what Liberty assumed was the private accommodation. Grateful to be left alone, if a little alarmed at being shut in, Liberty gazed around the vast room, which was thankfully well lit, as there were no windows. Crammed to the corners with furniture, it was a fabulous display of different styles, ages and woods. There were hundreds of chairs, numerous benches and decorative pews, and many tables varying in size – highly polished or waxed and obviously lovingly maintained and restored. There were some heavy oak carver chairs which Liberty instantly wanted, but for her own home, and a massive oak table, made seemingly from one huge piece of wood in an arts and crafts style she would love as a kitchen table; it reminded her of a small version of the one at Denhelm. She wandered about, squeezing between tables, making notes and taking measurements. If the prices were right, she would have no problem finding everything she wanted right here, but only if Mrs Gruff and Grumpy’s husband returned. And how was she going to get out?

  Having had a really good look around, she tentatively called out, ‘I’ll be off, then,’ and tried to open the door. No key, and definitely locked. Great, she thought, what have I got myself into now? Just when I thought I had found a complete poppet with Malcolm, he sends me down the road to slave traders about to box me up with furniture and ship me off to Africa to end my days serving as mistress to some war lord. OK, calm down, imagination. I shall sit and wait a while.

  Just then a key was placed in the lock from the outside, and a very jolly looking man entered. No one would have put them together as husband and wife. She was large, lumbering and downright rude; he, tall, willowy with smile lines firmly engraved down his face, which he was demonstrating well now, beaming at Liberty.

  ‘Hello! What have we here? Come to look at my etchings?’ With that he burst into laughter and winked at her.

  ‘I thought I might have the wrong end of the stick – your wife didn’t . . .’

  Philip Buffington, passionate furniture restorer and collector, stopped her there. ‘Ah, yes, Decca has never shown much of an interest, and poor thing hates intrusions, shall we say? Or could I just be honest and tell you she thinks she wasted her life on a promising young doctor who turned to his hobby to earn little but satisfying money. She can’t understand why I won’t sell to anyone who doesn’t appreciate what they are buying.’ (Hence the vast stock, thought Liberty). ‘Anyway, enough about me; you must be Miss James. Malcolm rang and said you may be popping in, but unfortunately I was already at a house sale. Complete waste of time, I might add, so had to leave you to look around and remain in Decca’s capable hands.’

  They were both laughing now, Liberty feeling very much at ease. She explained to him that she was in the process of taking on the tenancy of the old butcher’s in Littlehurst, and also hoping to buy Duck End, the beautiful house next door. Both of which would need furnishing.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Righty-ho, but first things first – I’m freezing!’

  Soon after they were wandering around the barn with steaming cups of terrible but toe-warming coffee, while Philip pointed out pieces here and there. Liberty was getting very excited; she needed small but sturdy chairs and tables for the café but most importantly, the tables must not wobble and the chairs must be comfortable, or could be made so with cushions.

  She had already put stickers on a Windsor chair for her kitchen and a high-backed settle for her hall. Philip promised he would look at some smaller things at auctions he was going to over the next few weeks. If he found anything, he would call her and she could decide whether he should bid.

  He reminded her of Lovejoy, getting through life by the skin of his teeth, charming his way out of corners and no doubt debts too. She gave him a page of her diary with her mobile phone number scribbled down. ‘Let me know, but I will call you anyway when I have signed the contracts. Duck End will be lots of fun to furnish, but I have promised myself not to be too disappointed if I don’t get it.’

  He replied with a wink that was obviously second nature. ‘Don’t you worry, my lovely, those stickers will stay until your call. I think those pieces will be happy with your bottom on them!’ With that, her faith in human nature firmly restored, she bid him goodbye and returned to her car.

  21

  The next few weeks were a whirl of tenancy documents, sawdust, and flying around the county looking at furniture, china and linens. Liberty was thrilled with Malcolm’s work. He had tongued and grooved the walls, to be painted in soft colours. The café looked rustic and the woodwork went well with the beams, which were now sandblasted back to the bare wood, making the room lighter.

  Deirdre was planning a party to welcome Liberty officially to the village. She knew from having a check-up at Dr Brown’s that Miss Scally’s tongue and imagination had been at work. Gossip was whirling that Liberty had returned after abandoning her poor husband and varying amounts of children after some scandal at Radley Bank. This all started after a small piece in the back of the business section of The Sunday Telegraph. (Miss Scally obviously had little more to do on a Sunday than read the papers backwards, even the bits that most people put straight in the recycling.) The piece claimed that established private Radley Bank had decided to close its Berlin office now that Percy Cholmondly-Radley had taken over as managing director and had decided the bank was over-extended. Nothing more, nothing less, but Miss Scally and Paul at the tea room were convinced between them it must mean he had to cut his working hours after being deserted by his wife. Had they only looked within the society pages of the same Sunday paper, they might have thought it was really because Percy was spending more time in the casinos of Vegas and Monte Carlo with one girl after another, and had decided work could take a back seat. At the same time as he was awarded his managing directorship, Percy was having something of a mid-life crisis.

  Liberty had received divorce papers. There was nothing nice about Percy now. He had requested a divorce on the grounds of her unreasonable behaviour, demanding that all property previously belonging to the Cholmondly-Radley family be returned. The only item she had of theirs was her engagement ring, but these papers would be in the public domain, and any nosy journalist prompted by Percy could gain the impression that Liberty had legged it with the family heirlooms.

  Liberty just wanted it over so she could get on with her life. However, she didn’t sign the papers; as much as she still blamed hersel
f for bumbling into the unsuitable marriage, and felt guilty towards Percy for messing him and his family around, she didn’t feel that she could end it now, for some reason. She tucked the papers under her bed, for want of a better place, to contemplate later. Her mother, curious at this response, imagined it was a head in the sand reaction, and that Liberty would work out what she wanted in her own time. Although some of Deirdre’s concerns had been swept aside by Percy’s lawyer’s statement that, as Liberty was not claiming financial support from his client, his client would not seek likewise, she was terrified her daughter might decide to go back to her old life, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

  Liberty had sent Mrs Stickybunns a birthday card and received the very sad news by way of a return note that Cecil was seriously ill with cancer and he and Isabelle had retreated to Anstley Hall in an attempt to cope with the horrors of chemotherapy through lots of fresh air. The dutiful son had not been seen, and Isabelle had been nursing Cecil on her own, refusing outside help as she knew her husband was too proud for that. Mrs Stickybunns wrote she was sure Mrs CR was doing too much, but for the time being they were coping and she would keep Liberty informed. She reassured Liberty that Isabelle still thought very fondly of her daughter-in-law, and they would love to see her if she was ever passing.

  Liberty had been putting off Deirdre’s plans of a party, not feeling in a celebratory mood. She felt awful about Cecil, and not having heard about Duck End, the only positive note was that the tenancy agreement had been signed by her and Jonathan. The old butcher’s was officially hers.

  When Neville and Sabrina Smythe, the owners of Duck End, had suddenly returned to the village, Liberty thought it was to help the sale along, but they had simply come to supervise the removal of all their ghastly furniture. Zebra skins and gold urns were seen being loaded into the van, followed by the shiny new suits of armour and a full-sized stuffed bear which Liberty couldn’t believe she had missed. At least there must be good storage, she giggled with Deirdre, as it had been hiding!

  Sarah had in the meantime moved into The Nuttery. Deirdre had insisted on this when one evening Sarah had gone home only to find the house locked. She ran to the pub to see Tom her husband and Dilys the barmaid openly snogging. If Sarah hadn’t minded this, Deirdre wouldn’t have interfered, but she was distraught, as were the children, whose school friends were now singing songs about the lovers:

  Tom and Dilys, in the hay

  One kiss, two kisses; they’ll be married by May.

  It wasn’t fair on the young children. So Sarah, Jack and Amber moved into spare rooms. Deirdre enjoyed the extra help and Liberty enjoyed the company of a young person. Sarah had great ideas for the café and was encouraging Liberty to forget about thoughts of European pastries and concentrate on old local recipes and tarts brought up to date.

  ‘It’ll keep the locals happy, and don’t forget the children. If you welcome families, your café will be full of grateful parents and their kids, eager not to battle over meal times at home.’

  Liberty had almost resigned herself to not getting Duck End, and living above the shop, when she noticed the pretty cottage in the property section of Country Life. Over a cup of coffee with Jonathan he explained that, despite his own encouragement and the estate agent’s insistence that hers was a very good offer, the Smythes were being greedy, probably because they had spent such a huge amount of money on the property. They had employed a London firm of interior designers with exceptional talent who charged a fortune for recreating a perfect country home, replacing all the wattle and daub fronting the walls. This, by the time they had kitted out the kitchen, bathrooms and gym, had cost as much as the original house. Liberty was therefore holding out no hope, especially after Jonathan had used his star card and mentioned to Neville about his misdemeanour, only for Neville simply to roar with laughter.

  ‘My wife was also in the stable! You dirty bugger, didn’t know you were into watching!’ he said. And with that he laughed all the way back to London.

  However, by the end of November the Smythes had obviously realised the housing market was as active as Ann Widdecombe on Strictly, and they reluctantly decided to accept Liberty’s offer.

  When the agent phoned with the good news, Liberty and Sarah danced round the kitchen. The dogs picked up the happiness vibes and trailed behind, expecting treats to follow. Dijon waddled, but he was dancing inside. Despite it being only ten o’clock in the morning, Deirdre opened a very special bottle of vintage champagne.

  ‘Mother! This is from your wedding! Thank you so much!’ said Liberty as she gulped and enjoyed the fine bubbles and instant headiness the golden liquid gave her, something to do with the time of day and the adrenalin. ‘Wowee, my new home!’

  Deirdre was thrilled to open the bottle she had originally been saving for her and Alain’s fiftieth anniversary celebrations. Her own daughter in the village! She was happier than a dog with a bone.

  Liberty surprised herself at how thrilled she was with the prospect of moving into the cottage. She promptly emailed J-T and told him to drop everything and come and stay. She needed his eye and encouragement. ‘If I want to open the café early next year, I need to get the house sorted so I can concentrate fully on the business. J-T will help everything go smoothly and know where I can find the things I need.’

  Her mother, who had simply gathered and inherited bits and bobs throughout her life, and if any space was left, filled it with flowers and dogs, couldn’t quite understand why anyone might need help furnishing a home.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ said Liberty, ‘I’m starting with nothing. I really have to put all my efforts into the café. I don’t need to be driving all over the country looking at duvets, fabrics and flooring.’

  Sarah, who had been born in a two-up two-down which she shared not only with her parents but also, by the time she left to marry at seventeen, five brothers and sisters, thought it unimaginably grand to be able to summon help to decorate, and until Liberty explained about J-T, was wildly excited about a man coming to stay.

  ‘Well, at least it means I am over Tom!’ she laughed. ‘I will miss you so much when you leave, Liberty.’

  ‘It’s been great fun being back here for a while, and being so well looked after, but I will be only just across the green. And I hate to burst your bubble, but J-T is gayer than pink meringues.’

  ‘I will miss you too, of course,’ added Deirdre, ‘and now you must let me get on with planning the party.’

  Deirdre was an excellent party planner. In the days of helping Alain with publicity she had thrown some infamous dos, usually enlisting the help of her great pal Paloma, who knew everyone who was anyone. This was to be no exception. Despite Liberty’s protestations that it was only to include the locals – ‘I need to know all the faces, friendly and unfriendly’ – Deirdre also wanted it to be a celebration of Liberty’s homecoming and new business and a huge excuse for opening up the house she had lived in alone for too many years, and which had for a few short weeks been filled again with laughter, noise and family. She also knew that Liberty was going to need some national press interest to get newcomers coming to the café until it established its own reputation. Remembering how much Paloma had helped Liberty during the summer, and knowing her restaurant could be left in the capable hands of the manager Vevetine, she phoned her friend and got, instead, Claude. After a brief catch-up, she told him of her plan and Claude said Paloma would be thrilled to help. Could they come and stay the week before? It would be so good to see how Liberty was settling in, and to look round the café. He also had good news. His girlfriend Evangeline was pregnant and despite his almost hippy upbringing they would be getting married in the new year, so more reason for celebration! It was settled that the three of them would come to the party – the more Gallic glamour the better.

  Meanwhile, Deirdre phoned Jonathan. She knew he was organising a hunt ball shortly before Christmas, and wondered whether her party should be held before or after that.

&
nbsp; ‘Why not as a New Year’s bash?’ he enquired. ‘Everyone wants something different. I only hope it isn’t too late to organise marquees and so forth.’

  ‘And of course,’ continued Deirdre, writing notes as she spoke, ‘you WILL persuade your three youngies to come along, won’t you? Liberty would be so thrilled.’

  ‘It looks as though the entire tribe will be here for Christmas for the first time in years, so I will attempt to imprison them until after New Year’s Eve. Anything else I can do?’

  And so the party arrangements began.

  22

  J-T arrived to be greeted by a flurry of organising. Liberty had taken over her mother’s morning room; recipes vied for space with lists of equipment ordered or needed, pictures of chairs, tables coming from auction rooms, piles of linen, samples for napkins and tablecloths.

  Custard was using the latter as a makeshift bed and was delighted when J-T crouched down next to her to have a cuddle.

  ‘How adorable! And I thought Frenchies were the only dogs for me nowadays!’ he spluttered, as Custard licked his face, ever hopeful for crumbs. ‘How’s it all going?’

  ‘All organised,’ said Liberty. ‘Café kitchen’s being fitted as we speak, and my star of a carpenter has made a super job of the café itself. We will go and have a look with Mother after coffee. Come and see her, she will be so excited to have you here again.’

  Deirdre was surrounded by even more pieces of paper. She was having a whale of a time in her office. ‘How I love parties!’ she exclaimed to J-T.

  ‘And how simply divine to see you, Mother Deirdre. You are as glamorous as ever,’ exclaimed J-T, giving lots of air kisses and a huge hug to his surrogate mother. (His parents had been less than thrilled at his coming out, so his university summers had been spent with Bob at The Nuttery, welcomed by Deirdre, who treated their boyish enthusiasm as she would a pair of Labrador puppies who would have made about as much mess, their sexual preference being of little importance to her.)