The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  ‘Drink first, or are you being dragged over to Duck End by my impatient daughter?’ Deirdre said laughingly. ‘She is like a child in a sweet shop – new home, new business.’

  ‘I would kill for a Bloody Mary. Those trains have plastic sandwiches and tins of beer; not sufficient substance for a growing boy,’ he said with a grin.

  Over a jug of well-chilled Bloody Marys and cheese straws they caught up with news. Bob was working hard, and Liberty picked up that all was not a bed of roses for J-T at the moment. Maybe that was why he had been so willing to drop everything and come for a prolonged stay. His always cheery, rosy face was a little thinner than normal. ‘Too much partying, my dear,’ he explained, dismissing her fears. ‘Bobbie is so busy and I get fed up staying in on my own. He loves what he does, but we need time together, too. The dogs even barked when he came home the other night. They had forgotten he lives with me.’

  ‘Why don’t you get him down here for a while? I insist he has a break, and anyway he only needs to come over Christmas.’

  ‘My goodness,’ chortled J-T, ‘that would be fabulous, wouldn’t it? Can we really? Can the dogs come too?’

  ‘Of course, darling,’ responded Deirdre enthusiastically, ‘the more the merrier. Paloma and Claude will be here, and as Sarah and her terrors will be at her parents for the holidays there will be plenty of room.’

  ‘Right,’ said Liberty in her best organising voice. ‘Before we get stuck into another jug, can I drag you along to show you the old butcher’s place?’

  ‘If you must,’ grumbled J-T, ‘but then I want to hear all the gossip and the update on Piggy Percy.’

  They arrived at the now almost completed café, and Liberty proudly ushered him inside. J-T stood quietly for a few moments and then gave his considered view.

  ‘It’s hardly The Ivy, darling . . . but it’s fabulous. Very you.’

  Liberty hugged him. ‘Thank you. I really needed your approval.’

  The large room had been transformed. The huge flagstones were gleaming after being steam-cleaned by Sarah; the cream painted walls were almost covered by oil and water colour paintings framed in different gilt and woods. Landscapes, portraits and animals gave a cosy atmosphere.

  ‘The wiring is in place for most of the lighting,’ explained Liberty, ‘but we need to get the right balance of being able to see well enough to serve customers without blinding them, and at the same time creating a cosy atmosphere.’

  J-T nodded, adding, ‘Getting the lighting right can make or break a place,’ then, with a smile and a sideways glance at his now anxious friend, ‘but I can help with that, darling!’

  The shelves were covered with masses of vintage teapots, cups, saucers and jugs, to be used both for decoration and storage. Pretty ornamental glass jars, ready to hold biscotti, shortbreads and different coloured home-made marshmallows gleamed on the top shelf. The large counter made from walnut and glass would display cakes and pastries and was rather high, separating the kitchen door from the restaurant, so nobody would have to sit being constantly passed by staff coming and going. Liberty had found a settle at Philip’s warehouse where customers could sit quietly and read a newspaper without being disturbed.

  The beamed ceiling was painted white and the large windows ensured a light look. They were dressed with a simple but pretty embroidered fabric in grey and red to add a splash of colour. Any problems with too much light in the summer would be taken care of by wooden shutters, neatly tucked back when not in use.

  The friends continued into the kitchen, which, although small, now contained every piece of equipment that Liberty would need. As she was planning on doing all the cooking herself, space would be no problem.

  ‘I’m waiting to bring the rest of the furniture in until after the health inspector has visited,’ she explained.

  ‘It’s going to be absolutely fab,’ said J-T, clearly impressed.

  ‘The only other thing we are waiting for is the coffee machine, which will sit here, to the left of the cake counter. I’m still tasting different beans. Mother and I haven’t slept for two weeks as we are sampling so many. We think Milano, but we have to try each one, and we’ll need different ones in the morning and evening. Our own house blend of tea is being compiled by Fortnum and Mason. We went there to mix them to our taste, and I had the best time. I also managed to find the china for my house at the same time . . .’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ said J-T, ‘take a breath. I do realise you are living and breathing furnishings and fittings at the mo, but your passion needs to last.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s so exciting. While we were fitting out the kitchen we were going to insert a horribly expensive water filter but the water board sent someone to check out the well at the back, and the water is the same as Jonathan’s, so couldn’t be improved on.’ Jonathan, in the 1980s, had plugged into the bottled water business and sold the spring water that spouted up from below his land. ‘We also found a local miller who stone grinds the wheat and spelt; it makes such a difference and it’s so fresh.’

  ‘Darling, you are telling all this to the wrong person. As long as a cocktail and a canapé match my outfit I don’t really care what it tastes like!’

  ‘Oh, come on, you eat at top restaurants all the time.’

  ‘Only to be seen there. We gays live on vodka and fresh air. It’s surprising that the supermodels don’t copy us, really. Talking of vodka, show me your cottage and then I want to check out that quaint pub, it looks too English to be true. I’m sure it’s either ghastly and modern inside or a Tardis to the fifties.’

  Liberty had been avoiding the pub as she didn’t want to upset Sarah by chatting to Dilys the barmaid. But she agreed to have a drink – just a quick one – and then to check back in at her mother’s house to see how the party planning was getting on.

  23

  J-T was charmed by Duck End, which looked so much better now it was emptied of tasteless treasures, although the Smythes had left all of the dreadful curtains, so blowsy they swamped the pretty windows and took most of the light. Liberty made J-T shout with laughter when she told him about the suits of armour and the stuffed bear.

  With the honesty of a true friend, J-T said that his usual modern-with-a-twist style would suit the house, but she was better off choosing comfortable, homely things, more like her mother would have. ‘You sort of need to fill it with things that look as though you have always had them, lots of pretty prints and ornaments, and I think the walls lend themselves to fabric and trims.’

  ‘You can help me there. I need everything and then some. I forgot I even need tea towels, duvets and silverware, let alone furniture.’

  ‘Lamps, lots of lamps,’ counselled J-T, ‘to give a soft light in the evenings. Apart from the kitchen and bathrooms, you don’t want overhead lighting. Let’s make it as pretty as you! It’s a dream, and although you say the Smythes had no taste, I have to love their en suite with antique mirrored glass panels on the walls – not that your beauty needs enhancing, my dear, but they would make an elephant’s arse look good with the soft glow they create. Not sure about the gold taps, though; they may have to go!’

  He pushed open the plush pink taffeta drapes in the master bedroom. They were trimmed with purple satin bows, which gave an air of Marie Antoinette crossed with Lady Gaga. ‘I bet they had Pomeranian dogs, too,’ he said with a giggle, and then gasped as he saw the beautiful garden down below. The Smythes had employed a gardening firm to design the layout, simply because the firm had won a gold medal at Chelsea the year they moved in.

  The garden was a perfect rectangle, set out into different zones. Formal box hedging bordered beds filled in summer with a riot of violet, white and green. At the moment they contained only rosemary and winter pansies, which gave some colour, but the clever paving and design made the winter garden look neat. The Smythes had needed low maintenance, as they had no idea about gardening and were too mean to employ a gardener when they were not in residence. This suited Liberty as she
needed to devote all her time to the café. From the first-floor window it was easy to see how the different sections of the garden could look in summer, planted out with grasses to wave in the summer wind, and Michaelmas daisies intermixed with echinacea for autumn colour. It waited to burst into life with careful planting and some inspiration. Fruit trees lined the south-facing back wall, bark glowed from the Tibetan cherry tree, and there was a clump of moonbeam birches gleaming even in the dull winter sunlight. As yet unseen, thousands of bulbs had been planted to give colour from January onwards – snowdrops, iris, tulips and others – ready to burst through and provide a bright contrast to the stone of the paths and the walls.

  ‘Wow!’ said J-T excitedly. ‘That will be a wonderful place for parties in summer. Count us in!’ He had been making notes on his iPad as they walked around the house, and now said they had better go to the pub as Liberty would need a stiff drink when she heard the recommended budget.

  He was pleasantly surprised by The Acorn. Very old-fashioned, dark-beamed and low-ceilinged, with a long bar curving through what once must have been two rooms, now divided only by a roaring fire. There was a mix of furniture; tiny tables almost impossible to eat at and a large trestle table along one wall where people had to sit together if they wanted a meal, but lots of comfortable old wooden chairs on the ancient flags.

  There were a few locals standing at the bar. No sign of Tom, but the ever-smiling Dilys burst out of the back kitchen, ready to help. ‘What can I get you, my darlin’s?’ she asked in her broad country accent.

  Dilys was impossible to dislike. Her bright chestnut eyes twinkled out of a round rosy face, surrounded by dark curls. Her plump, curvy figure was always displayed at its best; plunging necklines and short skirts were finished off with punishing heels, never flats, probably to enable her to see over the bar, as at five feet nothing she was tiny. She made up for her size by always smiling, and was famous for being cheerful in the dreadful floods of a few years ago, when she served sandwiches and pints of warm beer to the emergency services when the power was off for three days. They had eventually resorted to cooking over the open fire and encouraged everyone to help with the village clean-up, followed by a party in the pub.

  Officially, Dilys had the licence and Harold ran the place, but it was so popular because of Dilys’s personality. They served simple food in a basket, sandwiches and home-made pies supplied by Deirdre, and there was also a good ploughman’s to be found at lunchtimes. Takeaway fish and chips could be bought at weekends, and everything was supplemented by local bitter, cider and red and white wine, depending on which bottle had most recently been opened. They would never make their fortune, but they knew their market, and by sticking to their guns they attracted a wide customer base from local villages, where people were upset that their own pubs, in difficulty because of the smoking ban and drink-drive laws, were trying the gastro thing to boost takings. Some villages now had a weekend taxi fund or a designated driver, so between them they could get happily tanked while being served by a friendly barmaid after a hard week on the farm or in the office.

  Liberty ordered two halves of local bitter, but J-T asked Dilys for a shot of vodka to accompany it, which of course delighted the barmaid.

  ‘What brings you to these parts?’ she asked, recognising London clothes and envying Liberty’s cashmere clothing and effortless chic.

  ‘I’m Liberty, Deirdre’s daughter.’

  Dilys didn’t even blink. ‘Oh! That’s you opening the café, hey? Do we get a discount as locals? Be good to have a decent place to go to on my day off. So pleased you took Sarah in, she and Tom have been so miserable for ages. I’m doing my best to cheer him up.’

  Liberty found she could hold no grudge against the tiny woman, who smiled and twinkled as much as Mrs Tiggy-Winkle. How could she judge another married couple’s relationship? She decided she already liked the morally loose Dilys. She was tempted to ask what Harold made of things, but was preempted by Dilys saying that what with Harold away in Thailand the whole time, her bed needed a spot of warming, and with a gurgling laugh and a wipe of the bar she tottered back into the kitchen to heat the deep fryer.

  J-T and Liberty, aware of the locals observing them, found a table in the corner. ‘Good God, it’s not half bad!’ exclaimed J-T, and christened his drink the J-T cocktail. ‘She seems a bit of a sport.’

  ‘Yes, but I do feel for Sarah. She’s one of the world’s workers. Probably had too little time for fun before she had children. Tom, her husband, always did have a bit of a roving eye, but he used to focus it out of the village. I think it all came to a head when the kids at school started teasing hers.’

  ‘Nothing worse than mean children,’ said an all-too-knowing J-T, who had been happy to be labelled gay at a young age, much to the annoyance of his peers at school, who had done their best to tease and beat it out of him.

  Their meal was accompanied by happy discussion of the interior decoration plans for Duck End. As they left, Dilys called out, ‘We’ve heard a rumour about your party at New Year’s! Harold will be back by then. Your mother always makes our mince pies for Christmas; we serve them before the midnight church service.’ Liberty had a feeling she would be making them herself this year, as her mother was not as forgiving as she was.

  ‘What a cheek that woman has,’ said Deirdre as they reported what Dilys had said. ‘She assumes she will get an invitation. If I do ask them, we will have to ask Tom and Sarah too, and then what will happen?’

  Everyone jumped at the same moment. They had not realised Sarah had just entered the room. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, bending down to scratch Dijon behind his ears. ‘I had best go to see him anyway. Can’t go on living here forever, can I?’

  That evening they experimented with party cocktails. J-T mixed a variety in the blender. ‘What we need is a get-up-and-go cocktail. Not enough to annihilate the locals, which only ends up with swimming in lakes and paramedics, but something to jolly up the proceedings after Christmas has exhausted everyone.’

  ‘I’m not sure that two parts vodka and one part tequila is where to start, then!’ objected Liberty as she watched J-T pour generous measures. ‘Maybe a take on mulled wine?’

  ‘Yuck,’ said J-T and Deirdre simultaneously. ‘No, think about it,’ continued Deirdre, ‘one measure of a spirit and then maybe some spice such as ginger ale and then top it up with some orange or grapefruit.’

  ‘I see where you are going,’ said J-T, ‘but do try this one, it’ll blow your knickers off.’

  Half an hour later Jonathan walked into a kitchen fuggy with Deirdre and J-T’s cigarette smoke and a giggling Liberty dressed in a maid’s outfit that might have looked perfectly decent on a woman of average height, but on her, with her hair piled up, endless legs and a bursting cleavage, it looked rather more erotic than would be good for most of her customers’ hearts. J-T was commenting on how unfair to the human race it was that after months of baking and sampling cakes, she only seemed to put weight on her bust. Deirdre screamed with laughter.

  ‘Do people really use that word bust nowadays?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jonathan, swiftly entering into the party spirit, ‘my grandmother definitely had a bust, we used to put our drinks on it when she took her nap after lunch. But I haven’t seen one since.’

  He gulped out of a glass he found on the worktop, not realising it was neat vodka, ready for the next mixing. ‘Jeez,’ he whispered between choking, ‘what’s been going on?’

  ‘Not much party planning, I’m afraid,’ explained Deirdre. ‘We only managed to decide: no peacocks.’

  ‘Apart from me,’ spluttered J-T. ‘And then we turned to what Liberty should wear in her café, and, God knows why, Deirdre remembered she had a maid’s outfit.’

  Jonathan then made a mock bow to each in turn while handing out invitations to his party. ‘Savannah and Khalid are definitely coming,’ he informed them.

  ‘Hooray!’ shouted Liberty, now swathed in a l
arge cashmere dressing gown. ‘Will they be able to stay on until the mew year?’

  ‘That’s the plan, especially if you mean NEW year!’ Liberty had the grace to blush, realising she must be a little intoxicated. Jonathan went on, ‘She is so excited to see you again, and can’t wait to introduce you to the children. Mrs Goodman is cleaning out the attic of all the old toys, and opening up the nursery.’

  ‘Do they have a nanny?’

  ‘I believe they have everything. A nanny for each child, a cook, maids, a chauffeur. Savannah isn’t allowed to drive. Nothing about the law there; it’s Khalid’s wish that she doesn’t.’

  ‘What a blessing to other road users,’ said Deirdre, remembering the screech of brakes that used to be Savannah’s calling card.

  Liberty collected loaves of bread, cheeses and charcuterie from the pantry in the hope of warding off hangovers while she and J-T agreed that parties in the country were always so much more exciting than those in town. ‘Probably because the ones we go to are in such beautiful houses,’ commented J-T.

  ‘Not mine,’ said Jonathan. ‘It will be filled with moth-eaten hunting jackets and ancient frocks. Don’t forget to put your thermals on underneath. It’s bloody cold in that house, whatever we do to warm it through.’

  ‘But people love to wear their best,’ said Liberty, ‘and we are so looking forward to it.’

  24

  A dark cloud of hangover somewhat oppressed the mood of the party organisers the following day. Liberty served frequent coffees to her mother and J-T, who were busy trying to address envelopes. They had chosen pale green ones to match the printed invitations from Smithson’s. J-T discovered he had buttoned his shirt askew, and Deirdre realised that her top and tailing was somewhat squint.