The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  Miss Scally had not realised that this particular rumour, which she had started after drinking one too many sherries in the pub, had reached his ears.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she muttered. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Jonathan turned on his heel and left the now silent waiting room. He was in fact immensely proud of all his children. Savannah was doing the right thing and standing by her man. Edmund was learning the ropes fast at home and his darling Gray was so much more relaxed and happy now his secret was out. Jonathan wished once again that his beautiful wife were here to tell him what to say. He had never been good at voicing his emotions – boarding school and English heritage to blame for all that – but he did wish he could tell Gray that he still loved him just as much, if not more. Perhaps he would write him a letter.

  His thoughts were also with Paloma, the beautiful, exotic Paloma. Could he really be in love again? Should he really fall in love again? He needed to talk to Deirdre, but was that a good idea? After all, a few evenings ago he had proposed to her. At least she had been sensible and realised theirs was friendship and not love, but he still felt guilty about asking her advice on a relationship with someone else, particularly as that someone else was her best friend. Why did life seem to get more complicated the older one got?

  He took Deirdre out to lunch in a little restaurant in Bodiam, good enough for Deirdre to appreciate the food, private enough for them to enjoy lunch without any more gossip. They ordered, on recommendation, cheese soufflé and steak and kidney puddings to go with a bottle of claret. She knew what he wanted to talk about, but he chatted about everything but Paloma. Deirdre eventually had to broach the subject herself over coffee and an excellent damson crumble.

  ‘So, my dear, when are you planning to go to France? Paloma obviously adores you, and I think you feel the same. At our time of life you can’t let these opportunities slip through your fingers.’

  Jonathan, relieved, gasped, flushed and then smirked like a schoolboy. Deirdre realised he was truly smitten, and told him so.

  ‘I’m pleased. I couldn’t bear her to be hurt, though. She has dedicated her heart to her son and now he is starting his own family it would be nice for her to have a little of her own happiness.’

  ‘Could I live in France, though? I’m probably more English than a cream tea being devoured by one of your Labradors. I need strong tea from a teapot three times daily. I become unstable if I don’t eat roast beef once a week and I wear tweed, for God’s sake.’

  ‘You may surprise yourself. They hunt in France, you know. And come on, the food there is incredible. Anyway, Mrs Goodman and I will be here, only a few hours away, to provide tea and scones when required. You may need a wardrobe change for the south of France, though. Tweed shorts are out of the question, but we don’t want you turning into Silvio Berlusconi, with a hair weave and a thong on the beach!’

  Deirdre screamed with laughter at her own joke, as Jonathan tried to maintain a straight face. He had a good head of hair, thank you very much, and was sure a few linen suits could be rustled up by his tailor. ‘Though I’m not sure what thong I would thing,’ he lisped, giggling like an idiot, ‘maybe “Je t’aime”.’ When they had recovered from laughing, and Deirdre had stopped snorting unbecomingly, she said, ‘I will miss you dreadfully, but I know you will be back to check on Edmund and I’m planning to come out myself once the baby is born. Liberty too, as she will be marraine. So go for it – just try to give up the bad jokes!’

  37

  That night, Deirdre felt a loneliness descend on her for the first time since her divorce. She had always been so busy with cooking, writing or her classes, and had relished the few moments on her own. Now, having given up most of the aforementioned, and without Liberty’s presence, she felt a little downhearted after all the excitement of Christmas and the party. Don’t be silly, she reprimanded herself, as she sidled up to Dijon and Custard by the Aga, eyeing the glass of red in her hand, whilst idly wondering if she should be drinking alone, then reminding herself it was all right as the dogs were there. ‘What I need is a project,’ she said. ‘It’s all Liberty’s fault. I got used to her laughing, happy face around the house, and now she’s gone. I can’t interfere with her plans; she must be allowed to do her café on her own. She won’t want me bothering her and I mustn’t be an interfering parent. But golly, I wish she needed me.’

  The dogs appeared to be listening to her every word. They gazed up at her sad face and Custard even bothered to get up and puggle around, trying to lift the moment. Deirdre had never before felt so unneeded. The next minute a gust of cold air blew through the French doors, together with a bouncing puppy, a lot of leaves and a windswept Liberty.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, I am so scared. Am I going to be all right? Will the café work out? Am I doing the right thing? Can I talk you through the menus and ideas? Can you tell me if this tastes right? I’ve made so many and I want it to be perfect.’ And a towering cherry confection was thrust onto the table, complete with a leaf and twig that had landed on it on the way over.

  ‘Do you hate it that I won’t leave?’ said Liberty, hugging her mother. Deirdre’s heart gave a great thump and the lump in her throat stopped her from saying anything. So she merely put her arms tightly around her beautiful daughter, and both felt everything was going to be all right.

  After devouring most of the delicious kirsch-soaked cherry chocolate gateau and a pot of coffee, Deirdre said Liberty had nothing to worry about. ‘Your competence, imagination and willingness to work hard will do you proud. You deserve to succeed, and with a lot of energy and a bit of luck you will be fine. Did I mention how proud I am of you?’

  Relieved, and feeling much more confident, Liberty answered, ‘Not today, but it means so much to me that you believe in my abilities, so thank you. Anything about the menus?’

  ‘You don’t need to thank me so much, you know it’s my pleasure.’ But inside Deirdre was glowing with happiness that her daughter still needed her. ‘Perhaps think of children’s tastes a little. They prefer a little more milk chocolate and a little less booze! Do you have a date in mind yet for the opening?’

  ‘Yes, Easter weekend – open with a bang, or the crack of an egg. And I’m going to get moulds and make chocolate eggs, choux bunnies I can fill with crème pâtissière, and simnel cakes and so on.’

  ‘Great,’ replied Deirdre. ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Well, if I print out a couple of sample menus for the opening and lists of the cakes and breads I’m going to sell, you can let me know what you think – whether it’s balanced enough, and so on, and if you think I’m missing something. I also still have the problem of finding an assistant. I can’t do all the cooking and serving. That will just result in slow service and grumpy customers. Have you any ideas? I don’t want just anybody and I’m not sure I would be very good at interviewing.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Deirdre, laughing. ‘You would fall for a lame duck sob story and end up employing some homeless layabout and doing twice as much work. However, Sarah is going to be heavily pregnant, and although I know she needs the money, I would wait until she knows what’s happening at home. You don’t need your staff running off after a few weeks. I’ll put my mind to it, darling. Oh, sweetheart, I am so proud of you. You have to be a little scared so that you work hard and make it a success, but a success it will be. The only thing I can think of is your lack of advertising.’

  ‘I was hoping word of mouth would be enough.’

  ‘After a few months it will be, I’m sure, but you need to get people in from day one, build a peak of interest. You need local press interest, and to make vouchers for the papers – offer a free drink with a cake, that sort of thing, or even a free piece of cake if you buy a lunch. That way, you will encourage people to try your baking, which is where you excel. You need the journalists to recommend you, so invite the local rag and Sussex Magazine to sample your wares. They can only say no, but I can’t imagine any journalist I have met turning their nose up at a fr
ee meal.’

  Hesitant to sleep with the enemy after Gray’s dreadful experience, Liberty balked at this idea.

  ‘My darling girl,’ Deirdre assured her, ‘journalists exist for a reason. A good write-up can fill your place for months.’

  ‘And a bad one?’ asked Liberty.

  ‘That’s why you invite them. Know when they are coming – try to have them to your place before you open to the public, and make damn sure everything is perfect. Ask Edmund if you can raid his hothouse for flowers; they always make a place look so homely but cost a fortune if you have to buy them. Buy lots of little jugs and vases in second-hand shops cheaply, and then you won’t mind so much when they all go missing. Did I ever tell you about the time a customer tried to steal the tablecloth at your father’s restaurant?’

  Liberty had heard this story, and many others, over and over, from the time her mother worked alongside her father when they were setting up, but she let her ramble on, happy with her memory. Liberty had, despite being wrapped up in her own panic, noticed her mother’s forlorn expression upon her arrival. She was mindful that Jonathan was possibly going away, and she had just left home, even though it was only to a house across the green. So she thought her mother needed cheering up.

  Liberty was in fact loving the freedom and the excitement of living alone for the first time in her life. Waking up in her own bed, linens untouched by anyone except herself, and of course Teal, who sometimes forgot herself and jumped on the bed. She enjoyed being able to sleep with the curtains open, seeing the winter sky from her bed with the light of the silver moon reflected in her cheval mirror as it made its nightly journey past her window. Percy had always insisted on a dark bedroom, but if ever he had been away Liberty loved to be woken by the sun in summer, and the winter didn’t seem so terrible if she could see thousands of stars. She could make coffee in her smart espresso machine, and choose to eat cake for breakfast if that was what she wanted, which was lucky as she was doing a lot of experimenting. The house was coming alive around her, gradually filling with knickknacks she found on her trips to markets and antique shops, trips when she was meant to be finding things for the café. She couldn’t help spotting things that would be perfect on a bare shelf or in a cubby hole in Duck End.

  Philip Buffington had been perfect and found pretty tables, sturdy but elegant, that would withstand hot teapots and children’s playful fork-bashing. As he pointed out, a bit of wear on a table made it look loved, and Liberty had decided that after three o’clock, when she would serve afternoon teas, all tables would have linen tablecloths anyway.

  Between Philip’s hunting and Liberty’s measuring, there were now ten tables in the little restaurant, eight seating four, one six and one two. The chairs were a pleasant mismatch, either painted or bare wood but all the same height (with some help from Philip). A beautiful soft leather sofa with chunky arms had been placed in the bay window on one side of the door. Liberty had decided that the hard settle would be more at home in Duck End, and customers’ bottoms would stay longer if they were cushioned. An ottoman was conveniently placed for feet or magazines, daily papers and children’s books. The long dresser built to fit by Malcolm Nesbitt was filled with flowery teapots and cups of fine china for the ladies’ teas. When she opened there would be a selection of finger sandwiches and tartlets, bite-sized sandwiches, tiny scones and petits fours. There would also be plain cream teapots and mugs for the builders’ teas, large filled sandwiches, fruit, plain or cheese scones, and cakes.

  Liberty had found some tiered cake stands to present the ladies’ food on, and her carpenter had created side tables to look like old-fashioned brick carriers to hold the builders’ food at the side of their tables. One of her greatest annoyances had always been lack of space on a table. By the time a teapot, milk jug, cups and so on had been placed, there was no room for elbows!

  She had placed large decorative jugs and huge glass bonbon jars on the top shelves. She was perfecting her marshmallow technique, so she could fill the jars and present each child with one as they left. Most commercial varieties were all air and no texture; she had flavoured hers with raspberry, blackcurrant and pistachio, and coloured them slightly. One bite made it give just a little before dissolving in a light, chewy way on the tongue, delivering a burst of fresh flavour.

  The counter on which her patisserie and cakes would be presented had three shelves. The bottom shelf was for large cakes to be served by the slice, the middle one was for the chocolate and fruit tarts, large and individual, and the top was for eclairs, biscuits and bonbons.

  The quiches, sandwiches and tarts for lunches would be prepared in the well-equipped kitchen, along with a soup of the day. Large baskets behind the patisserie counter would hold the artisan loaves. Liberty felt as though she would never sleep again. Baking would have to start around three o’clock in the morning, but she had frozen considerable quantities of pastry and she would keep her freezers stocked as necessary.

  She was aware she had got precisely nowhere with her own kitchen garden, but surrounding the courtyard behind the café were now raised beds and large pots to hold herbs and lavender to be used in the kitchen and scent the air. The old walnut tree had lent a branch for an old-fashioned swing chair, painted cream. J-T had made cushions for it in bright patterns and stripes to disguise sticky finger marks and spillages as much as possible, and the seat would surely be used constantly in the warm months.

  The little courtyard had an array of stone-topped tables that could be left out all winter, and the cobbles, although wobbly, took sturdy chairs well enough. Health and Safety had not been too keen, but the inspector admitted it was pretty, so as long as she put up a small sign warning of uneven surfaces, the sue ’em brigade would be deterred.

  The cloakroom was beautifully fitted with teal tiles, a large basin set in a Victorian washstand, and a soap dispenser fixed to the wall so it could not be taken by the light-fingered mob.

  Lighting had been one of the biggest considerations; the restaurant grew dark in winter at three-thirty. Liberty knew that even the most beautiful food benefited from flattering lighting to enhance the glazes, and each table had a low-wattage lamp above to give diners a chance to see what they were eating and to prevent side glare showing up dust or un-wiped surfaces.

  Old-fashioned carriage lanterns made from bronze and glass were to hang on either side of the jauntily coloured emerald gloss door, and her colours of lilac and emerald had been stitched into linen napkins, tea towels and printed on patisserie boxes and bags, depicting the LIBERTEAS logo dreamed up by Fred. J-T had pointed out that one airline had reduced passenger sickness by 80 per cent after it changed the green seat covers for beige ones, but Liberty pointed out her building wouldn’t be moving and green looked so smart and fresh.

  ‘Look at Fortnum’s, Harrods and Wimbledon – their colours never look shabby. No one refuses strawberries and cream on finals day, while Harrods food hall is a crush on the quietest morning,’ she insisted. So he had relented and found a beautiful deep emerald which he linked to a lilac to match the wisteria that would soon be hanging its tresses over the door.

  Liberty was thrilled, but now, with only the menus left to perfect, she was becoming increasingly apprehensive. Everyone was full of advice, but she knew she must stick to her guns and not stay with safe food. Dilys at the pub had told her hot dogs and burgers were all the locals wanted, but Liberty had decided that was because it was all they were offered, and that she would do better.

  She wanted to do some traditional English dishes, but with a twist. Her toasted teacakes were going to be made with an enriched dough, like a fruit brioche. Her scones would be made with fresh unpasteurised buttermilk from the goat farm down the valley, who were also happy to supply her with cheese and soft curd. The buttermilk added a sharp sweetness to the scones and enhanced their deep, moist, satisfying flavour.

  One afternoon she invited her mother over for another tasting session. Deirdre marvelled over the walnut and p
oppy seed cake filled with kirsch-flavoured cream and black cherry jam. She asked Liberty about a licence.

  ‘You know, darling, a drinks licence. I know you want to concentrate on your cakes and pastries but you will also want to attract people with your savoury tarts – for example, this bacon and thyme and clotted cream tart would taste perfect with a light red wine, and your idea for a daily salad for ladies who lunch is excellent. A walnut-crusted warm goat’s cheese salad needs a glass of Gewürztraminer.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Liberty, ‘ I must apply, it had completely slipped my mind.’

  ‘Look into it. I believe it can take time these days. They look into your criminal past and everything,’ her mother told her, laughing.

  It took Liberty an entire evening to fill in the paperwork, but when she posted the application she was pleased. One more thing done!

  38

  The dark days of January dragged on. Layers of snow moulded the Weald into beautiful new shapes, and brought everything to a standstill. Despite the council claiming they were ready for all eventualities, the council spokesperson announced on the local news after an extra centimetre of snow had fallen that there was insufficient grit to go round. Edmund sent the estate workers to clear the roads and pavements around the green, so the elderly could get to the shop. He also offered his Land Rover as a taxi for those who needed the doctor or had other important appointments. He had taken to popping into Duck End almost daily, happy to taste Liberty’s cakes and declare them all perfect. He found it calming talking to her about the stresses of his new responsibility, because his father had been extremely popular. He wasn’t exactly changing the world, but he had discovered some areas were wasteful and had let go a few staff from the spring water plant after finding three people watching bottles fill.