The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  After lots of coffee, a big breakfast and eventually a strong Bloody Mary as nothing else worked, J-T and Deirdre perked up.

  ‘Let’s go and shop,’ suggested J-T. ‘It’s what I do best, and I’m certainly not doing justice to these envelopes – my handwriting looks as though it’s written by a drunk.’

  Liberty smiled and said, ‘I cannot fathom why.’ Sticking his tongue out at his unfeeling friend he said he would run over to the cottage to take some measurements. ‘And let’s go suss out the antique shops in Tunbridge Wells, then we can have lunch.’

  ‘I think hangover shopping sounds great,’ replied Liberty. ‘But we don’t want twelve tallboys just because you think the name amusing,’ she said, giggling. She was beginning to feel normal again.

  Liberty drove, as she hadn’t had a drink since the evening before.

  On the way, J-T was busy on his iPad, and found out there was an open sale at a renowned auction house that afternoon. ‘We didn’t miss a preview as it sounds like a one-off; worth a look, though.’ They had decided to lunch at Thackeray’s restaurant on Deirdre’s recommendation – an excellent one, as it turned out. They ordered from the set menu and enjoyed eating in the old building that was once home to William Thackeray, and had for many years been Alain’s closest geographical competitor.

  J-T studied the auction catalogue on his iPad throughout the meal, and as Liberty pointed out over her glass of Pellegrino, he seemed remarkably competent despite the two bottles of Pouilly-Fumé he and Deirdre had indulged in. He made a mark against something, and said, ignoring Liberty’s remark, ‘These sales are funny. The dealers come along in the hope of finding a missed treasure, some of them for a possible profit, and there are people like us who know what we like but rely on the auction house’s honesty, and there are the sweet old ladies who have fallen for something they could never afford but want to see it and stay in the hope it will go for a fiver and look fabulous in their cottage.’

  ‘What about the wealthy ones?’

  ‘They rely mostly on decorators and designers like me. But the really, really wealthy, of course, are after investment pieces, and only go to specialist sales, or more likely have someone to bid for them. Apparently, there are vast warehouses in China stuffed to the roofs with Chippendale furniture and Bordeaux wines that will never see the light of day, but sit and make money by merely existing. Decades ago the Yanks were buying the stuff, now it’s the Chinese. And by the way, darling,’ J-T added, smirking at Liberty, ‘if I couldn’t work competently with a good skinful inside me, I wouldn’t be able to cope with most of my clients. I hope you aren’t going to turn all virtuous on me now!’

  Deirdre smiled into her coffee but Liberty was somewhat cautious about letting J-T loose with their bidding card.

  They were outbid on the bookcase Liberty had wanted. Obviously, someone somewhere knew something about it, as it was a phone bid that won the piece at twelve times the reserve price, after a long battle with a Kirstie Allsopp lookalike standing at the back. But Liberty came away with a charming leggy mahogany dining table, shining like a conker with a patina you could see your face in. It had been loved and used, and could seat eight with ease.

  She hated the ‘matching’ chairs that someone had placed with it, so refrained from bidding for them, but she fell instantly in love with a grandfather clock, so she ignored J-T’s pleas to wait for a specialist to advise her before buying such a piece. When the sharply dressed Allsopp lookalike, who was eying her sideways, told her the workings were not the originals and offered to take it off her hands, Liberty suspected there was something special about it, and replied, ‘Thank you, but no, I just fell in love at first sight.’

  J-T nudged her in the ribs and said, ‘You must have got something there. I told you that you didn’t need me!’ But his pride was salvaged when she bought a fabulous tallboy for the bedroom and a few side tables under his guidance.

  ‘Right, job well done – now back home,’ said Liberty when she had paid and given the delivery men directions and told them she would meet them at the cottage door first thing the following morning.

  ‘What fun!’ said Deirdre, feeling envious at the purchases. ‘Maybe I should redo my house.’

  ‘No!’ shouted J-T and Liberty simultaneously. ‘It’s perfect, and it’s absolutely you,’ said Liberty, ‘and you are not allowed to improve on it, because you can’t.’

  ‘Although,’ put in J-T, unable to resist, ‘I could show you some fabric samples you might like to jazz up your morning room, and the dining room is a little dated.’

  Liberty scowled at him, but drove them home, happily excited to think of her very own grandfather clock ticking in the hall. It would bring the cottage to life. Then she fell to musing, as the other two slept, that there was really no point in filling a home with fabulous things if she was working all hours, and there was nobody else to see them. But she followed this with a mental kick in the shins and reminded herself that at last she had her own home, somewhere she loved, in a village she adored. She knew her home would welcome her back at the end of a hard day’s work with a hot bath and cocoa if that’s what she felt like. No point worrying now, she had made her bed; now she would buy one . . .

  Deirdre was only pretending to sleep, realising she knew exactly what to get Liberty for Christmas, now only two weeks away.

  J-T snored away, but in his dreams he measured, brought in decorators, placed furniture in Duck End as it arrived and made a lovely home for his friend.

  Over the next few days, Liberty sketched catering kitchen designs which J-T softened and domesticated, and the result was a mix of steel, walnut and soft green paintwork. The old gym in the basement was to be a huge pantry and storeroom, with a laundry section at the back. There would also be a wine fridge in a corner. ‘Very important,’ agreed J-T and Deirdre. J-T got on with work; he completed the ground floor designs, which combined greens and gold and cleverly took the eye from the window to the garden and back into the house. Soft raspberry accents added warmth along with dark furniture and a mix of old and new paintings collected from various junk shops and art dealers. Liberty loved to mix styles.

  She was thrilled with all the ideas, and the bits and pieces they found on shopping expeditions up to London and down through West Sussex; and although eager to move in to Duck End, was quite pleased her bed would only be delivered in mid January along with all J-T’s soft furnishings, giving her the excuse to remain in her mother’s house and avoid the insecurity of stepping into the unknown. She feared loneliness but knew that once she opened the café she wouldn’t have time to notice she was alone, and something in her relished that.

  The café itself was almost finished. She was pleased with her pretty, mismatched floral crockery combined with Provençal patterning for a happy balance of femininity and modern luxury. She certainly didn’t want to frighten away male customers, who tended to order more food than women, by offering only flowery china teacups. She was hoping to use different styles for different people. She read in Restaurant magazine that a Scandinavian café had hit on the idea of giving their customers their favourite cutlery and cup. The owners found that many people still used a special cup or knife at home, and by making them feel exclusive, repeat business had gone up tenfold.

  J-T was still badgering her to think of a new name. ‘You really cannot keep calling it the old butcher’s!’ But Liberty couldn’t think of anything, until one morning Deirdre called to her, and J-T suddenly screamed out, ‘that’s it! You are brilliant!’ Kissing a bemused Deirdre on the nose he ran into Liberty’s bedroom, ignoring the fact she was half naked, and announced, ‘Now you have to introduce me to the gorgeous blacksmith, and you have your new name: LIBERTEAS.’

  ‘That’s my name, you idiot,’ Liberty countered as she dressed hastily, but smiling she asked what he meant. ‘Well, Liberty sounds a bit like tea at the end, and it’s your name. Use that one word, it will be memorable – think about it!’ And with that he bounded out of
the room as though he had just solved world poverty.

  25

  Just before Jonathan’s party, on a frosty morning when Liberty was frantically shopping online for Christmas food, she realised that she wanted not only to buy a new party frock for herself, but also some sort of gift for Savannah’s children, as she had missed their christenings, or whatever ceremony they had in their Muslim country. She didn’t want to search for either online, so she set off for the London train. As she stood stamping her booted feet on the platform, a deep Irish voice warmed her soul by saying softly, ‘So you couldn’t find me, then?’

  She turned and once again found herself looking into the twinkling eyes of Fred the blacksmith. After stammering a few excuses she mentally shook herself and pulled herself together. He really was utterly gorgeous. What on earth was he doing hiding in a forge in the middle of deepest Sussex? She emerged from her thoughts and realised he was asking her where she was off to. ‘Not running back to town, surely?’ But he spoke with laughter in both his eyes and his voice.

  ‘That’s it, can’t stand the country a day longer!’

  They sat together in the train and for the first time in her life Liberty didn’t mind her private travelling space being invaded. They chatted happily into the suburbs of the city, he telling her about coming over from Tipperary to work for a famous racehorse trainer, when aged eighteen he fell on a gallop and broke his back. All dreams of being a national hunt jockey were washed away in minutes of writhing agony. During his prolonged recovery, to strengthen his upper body he became apprenticed to the blacksmith who served the yard. He still desperately wanted to be close to his beloved horses and to prove himself worthy, so he worked hard for his mentor and saviour Dick Bumble. ‘Yes,’ he said, laughing, ‘that really was his name.’

  When Mr Bumble retired a few years ago he had left his forge and all the equipment to Fred, much to his son’s annoyance, especially as the business was called Bumble and Sons. Fred laughed as he recounted to Liberty with a wide smile that he had always tried to persuade Dick to drum up more business by changing the name, and putting in a bit of advertising. Fred had returned from a holiday in Mexico with T-shirts from a bar called Dick’s Halfway Inn. This made everyone in the village roar with laughter, but sadly Dick Bumble was a traditionalist who didn’t care tuppence for making chandeliers for the rich and providing luxury goods.

  Dick retired, happy in the knowledge that Fred would work hard and enjoy modernising the forge with his hanging baskets and whatever else was in fashion. For his part, Fred had no wish at all to leave and head back to Ireland. He felt blessed to be given such an opportunity from such an amazing man.

  ‘And what of his son?’ enquired Liberty, genuinely impressed by Fred’s story.

  ‘Oh, a good smack on the chin sorted him out,’ he replied, and for the first time Liberty saw no smile as he spoke. He asked little about her, and she surmised that he had heard enough from village gossip so didn’t need to question her. She did find it strangely attractive that this man should be happy to talk, but ask no nosy questions about what she had done in the past. She had been blinded by a pair of twinkling turquoise eyes and a hot body so was unaware of Fred’s blatant flirting and teasing. At Paddington, he said, ‘Will you be here all day?’

  ‘I was planning to get the four-thirty back.’

  ‘You don’t fancy having some dinner together and staying in town, then?’

  Liberty blushed and then realised she might be assuming far too much.

  ‘You don’t mean . . .?’

  ‘Well, yes, I do mean. You are a very attractive young lady, and I would be silly to miss an opportunity like this.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ She stumbled with her words.

  ‘There you go again, Miss James. Nobody would think you were a high-flying career woman. I’ll leave you to your shopping, then. Meet me before Christmas and I’ll have some ideas drawn up for your sign, and I think J-T’s idea for the name is a good one. Once your customers meet you, they won’t forget your name in a hurry.’ And with that he ambled away, inadequately dressed for the weather in T-shirt and jeans that managed to show off his long legs and lean but muscular body well.

  Bother, I am obviously really out of practice at this, thought Liberty, almost feeling steam coming out of her ears.

  Liberty enjoyed a very busy day’s shopping on Sloane Street, where she somehow ended up at La Perla for sexy underwear – now what had made her do that? She fell exhausted into her first-class seat on the return train, laden down with bags from Hermès, D&G, Harvey Nicks, Roland Mouret (a dress for the New Year’s Eve bash) and Ralph Lauren (for the hunt ball). She had also ordered from Dragons of Walton Street a vast toy chest for Savannah’s children, to be embossed with their names and delivered full of toys for Christmas.

  Pleased with her success, Liberty enjoyed the scenery as the train sped south. She giggled as she remembered her conversation with Fred, and blushed like a schoolgirl as she thought of his body. She was looking forward to their next meeting.

  She thought briefly of taking J-T along to the forge as chaperone, but knew that in the face of such beauty he would be no help at all, and would no doubt flirt uncontrollably himself.

  ‘Well, hello there, stranger!’

  Liberty’s eyes flew open, knowing immediately who was standing in front of her, and then, dammit, she blushed again, imagining he knew she had been thinking of him. Determined not to stammer and stutter, Liberty said shortly, ‘I thought you were staying in London?’

  ‘Only if you were, my dear girl.’ Bizarrely, Fred was now wearing a shirt and tie and was holding a box labelled Thomas Pink. When she asked him to sit down, he replied that he didn’t have a first-class ticket, but he sat anyway.

  ‘Why didn’t you explain that you should have been in first class this morning?’ he asked.

  Liberty was admiring the way the pale green and blue checks of his shirt brought out the turquoise of his eyes. His hair had been slicked back, taming the dark waves, and he smelled of expensive aftershave.

  ‘Why did you wear a T-shirt and jeans to town, and yet you are all dressed up now?’ she asked. ‘Most people would do it the other way round.’

  ‘Well, you never know who you might bump into and have to impress on a journey,’ he said and laughed, then ordered two gin and tonics from the trolley lady, together with two bags of crisps.

  Liberty gladly slurped the warm drink but haughtily exclaimed, ‘How can you eat such muck?’ as he tore open a bag of prawn cocktail flavoured crisps.

  ‘Loved them since I was a kid at school. Actually, it was the only thing I did love about school, and after years of working to be a jockey I still have a soft spot for them,’ he replied, demolishing the last crumb and starting on the second bag.

  He’s even beautiful when he smells of those disgusting crisps, thought Liberty after a second gin.

  ‘So, will you come round this evening and take a look at some of my ideas? My dentist was very late so I had lots of time for sketching.’

  ‘Why see a dentist in town?’ she asked.

  ‘Another legacy from riding. Most of my real teeth were knocked out in the fall, so I have to see a top man, otherwise I’d end up with dentures dropping out and a mouth like a horse’s.’ As he whipped back his head and roared with laughter he displayed what looked like a perfect set of straight white teeth. Liberty didn’t even pick up on his arrogance and vanity. She just basked in his beauty.

  ‘Why can’t I see your sketches now?’

  ‘I’ve only drawn them in my small book. Give me an hour and I’ll have them in ink on a large pad. Anyway, what’s wrong with you coming back to my place? We’ve plenty more to talk about.’ And he gave her a deep stare.

  When Liberty arrived home, all in a fluster, Deirdre asked her whatever the matter was.

  ‘I’m going to see some sketches of my café sign, and I have nothing to wear,’ she replied.

  As Deirdre watched her daughte
r bending further into her wardrobe, bottom sticking out, flinging clothes at Dijon who lay on the floor nearby, she said, ‘Mm, the divine Fred, I assume. Enjoy.’ She crept downstairs to confide in J-T, and although neither wanted Liberty to be hurt, they agreed it would be good for her to have some fun. J-T choked on his vodka while being shown a photo in the village newsletter advertising The Blacksmith, one of Fred himself, stripped to the waist, hammer in hand, sweat dripping down his – was that oiled? – torso.

  ‘I am definitely going with her,’ said J-T excitedly. ‘I have just got to see that in the flesh!’

  ‘No, you are not!’ said Liberty, coming into the kitchen wearing tight black trousers, long black boots, black cashmere polo neck, her hair scraped back.

  ‘Are you going to burgle him or seduce him?’ shouted J-T as she walked to the door.

  ‘Piss off, I just don’t want to look obvious,’ was her reply.

  ‘How ambiguous can obvious be?’ said Deirdre, but she and J-T were both delighted that Liberty was up to flirting again.

  She was surprised, as she walked round the green to The Blacksmith, that she could see no lights shining from Fred’s windows, but suddenly the door of the pub flew open and out came the man himself carrying four bottles of wine under his arms.

  ‘Sorry,’ he called to her, ‘had to stop and have a drink. Realised I didn’t have anything to offer you at the cottage.’ He was struggling to open the door, so Liberty took the bottles from under his right arm, not sure whether she was pleased he had bothered or appalled that she might have to drink all four before having the courage to kiss a new man – or was that presumptuous?

  Fred put on some lights. The Rayburn warmed the small, messy kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again, ‘but Sarah doesn’t do until Monday.’ He seemed uncomfortable, completely different from the overconfident young man she had met previously; he was repeatedly pushing his strong hands through his thick hair, and shifting from one foot to the other, as though nervous in his own home.