The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  He smiled to himself as he remembered the apprehension on Liberty’s face each time he popped one of the delicacies into his mouth, as though expecting him suddenly to find something wrong with the light-as-air buttery pastry or drop down dead from some form of instant food poisoning.

  The habitual scowl soon returned to his face as he stood in the Grand Hall, looking up and around at his inheritance in a new light. ‘All his – all mine,’ he muttered to himself. Curse and buggery, he thought. He wandered into his father’s office. ‘No, my office,’ he said sternly. ‘No, definitely Pa’s office,’ he confirmed as he looked around at the faded chintzy chairs held together with dog hair and the odd stains he hadn’t noticed before. The large library desk, covered in papers, photographs and invoices, screamed ‘Jonathan sits here’, as did the old uncomfortable wooden chair that he had always used, despite its unforgivingly hard seat, as Helena had given it to him when she moved in.

  ‘My only possession,’ she had said as she took over the running of the house with considerable skill, despite growing up in other people’s rented manors as her father moved frequently to escape the taxman.

  Having lived since childhood in the knowledge that ‘one day, my boy, all this will be yours’, Edmund expected some epiphany to envelop him, to shout instructions and deliver a job description. He had, for heaven’s sake, watched and followed his father for so many years; listening to instructions being given to employees, the annual buildings check being detailed and the crop rotation being listed. The estate seemed to run like clockwork, so why did he have no idea where to start now? He thought fondly of his little office off Pimlico Road; his fussy secretary and her disapproving voice as he left yet another cup of coffee half drunk (she had never worked out how to use his smart espresso machine, and insisted on giving him two spoons of instant as a replacement, in a very small amount of boiling water, which he hated so left untouched).

  He knew how to advise large companies how to cut factory emissions, how to reduce their carbon footprint while scooping government grants and how to save pounds on future energy expenditure, but running this house with no occupants except himself and a housekeeper, three tenant farms, a stud, a farm shop, a bottling factory, not to mention the Christmas tree plantation and about 150 tenants in the village left him cold; too many people needing him. The one person he wanted to need him only desired his taste buds. He slumped into a chair, head in hands, and realised he had been secretly hoping his father would find their spring water contained the elixir of youth so he could stay on indefinitely. Where the hell are you, Pa? How dare you bugger off to enjoy yourself while the girl I love is only interested in how many seeds of cardamom to grind into a Chelsea bun dough. Meanwhile, you find true love with an ancient hippy!

  ‘Bugger!’ he said, and started to decipher some of the mess on and around the desk.

  45

  The coming village fete to celebrate the opening of LIBERTEAS was creating a wave of excitement and enthusiasm, surging its way through Liberty’s family and supporters.

  The idea of holding street parties had been joyfully taken up by villagers all over the country, eager to help the royal family celebrate weddings and jubilees. They had come at a time when the British public as a whole were feeling wretched. Money was tight, wars were being fought by brave soldiers, missed sorely by their families back in the UK, news of more deaths were almost an everyday occurrence, and the possibility of a happier and better world seemed further and further away. Streets had been closed off and neighbours had met each other for the first time while planning food, placing bunting and finding trestle tables. Their children had played in the car-free lanes and a happy sense of community had swept the land. Now there was another chance to hold such a celebration. Sarah had already run off to tell her children excitedly, so no doubt the whole village would be aware of the coming event by tea time. However, most of those street parties had been organised a year in advance. Liberty had just four weeks to accomplish the grand opening that was unfurling before her.

  She made pots of coffee and poured champagne while her parents added to the list of ideas. Alain thought of baskets filled with pretty loaves of bread to adorn the trestle tables instead of flowers. He knew Paloma would have cheap sources of rustic basketware and could ship some over from France.

  ‘You need to make it look like a television ideal of an English fair. So often they are a let-down. You must think what a tourist would like to see – something from another era, like Miss Marple crossed with The Darling Buds of May,’ he elaborated. ‘China pots of tea, linens, scones, cakes, ladies in pretty pinnies – Paloma can send those too, as they still wear them in the south of France. Lots of bunting, striped deck-chairs alongside a few hay bales, lights in trees. You could carry it through to the evening. Talk to the pub – Dilys, is it? See if she would sell beer in plastic cups so people could mill in and out. What about a band? Talk to that Pig chap – you could serve his sausages. Get the cheese people involved, and anyone else who is a local producer, especially those you will want to use for the café. Get them behind the idea so they support you. You will do most of the work, but they will gain from the exposure.

  ‘Don’t go the hog roast way, as that is not the food you will be serving. Think more of an English picnic,’ he continued, happy to share his skills and ideas with his family. ‘Do you remember the scene in Sense and Sensibility? The one that Emma Thompson did with that chap, where they organise a brilliant picnic, parasols and hampers in the English countryside? You have the perfect setting right here!’

  ‘Wasn’t Edmund clever coming up with the idea?’ Liberty exclaimed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Deirdre, ‘I’ve noticed how much you love Edmund’s ideas!’

  Liberty let this comment go, saying, ‘It’s just so easy as it’s his land, so we don’t have to ask permission from the council.’ Then she asked her mother if she could help with the baking.

  ‘Oh, we will both help,’ said Alain. ‘In fact, if we get the publicity right we may need more than your kitchen can churn out. It all needs to be spot on, which with patisserie means as fresh as possible. I will arrange for a portable kitchen to come with two extra baking ovens. You don’t want fan ovens. Do you have sufficient baking trays? Bread tins and so on?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve bought loads, and they are all washed and stacked.’

  ‘You have your own tea blend, but you will need filtered water, so we will have to get a large capacity filter. And your milk has to be of exceptional quality. Where are you sourcing it for LIBERTEAS?’

  ‘Daddy! Stop! Remember, you taught me everything I know. I have already been to visit local dairies, sampled them all. I’ve got raw goat’s milk coming from Mrs Bevan at Gateshead Farm for those who like it. Otherwise, non-homogenised organic milk from Burnt House Farm. They have Guernseys; perfect milk for tea and baking. They are also supplying butter, proper buttermilk and cream. I have to use skimmed milk for the coffee machine as it froths better, and some people will ask for it anyway. Burnt House is supplying that too. I’m going to spend my afternoons phoning the local paper. Hopefully they will send a journo for the day, tempted by free food and drink, and I shall put half-page advertisements in from now until D-day asking people to support the fair.’

  Edmund had called to say that Eric was keen to show off his hen harrier’s talent at rabbit-catching. Not so sure about that, thought Liberty. It could maybe just chase a hare or a cardamom cream bun. And a couple of Shetland ponies were to be borrowed from the estate where they were used as companions for the more flighty thoroughbreds, to give children rides around the village green.

  Edmund also suggested a local family who could give jousting demonstrations, but they eventually agreed that was perhaps a step too far.

  Liberty went home and set about writing an advertisement.

  LIBERTEAS

  YOUR LOCAL PATISSERIE AND PLACE FOR

  BREAKFAST AND LUNCH

  INVITES YOU TO HELP CELEBRATE
<
br />   THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING AND THEIR

  GRAND OPENING

  10 A.M. – LATE

  COME AND ENJOY A TASTE OF YOUR LOCAL

  PRODUCE

  COOKED IN A PASSIONATE KITCHEN

  FLAVOURS OF YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD

  COOKED IN A PROFESSIONAL WAY

  USING ONLY THE BEST INGREDIENTS

  WE GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE QUEUING FOR OUR

  OPENING

  SATURDAY 20TH MARCH

  DOG SHOW: BRING YOUR OWN

  ARCHERY • WELLY THROWING • FALCONRY

  DEMONSTRATION • MOST INTERESTING TALENT •

  PONY RIDES • FANCY DRESS • TOMBOLA

  The next day, Liberty strolled over the green, feeling enlivened and excited. She let herself in to her mother’s house, and was quickly reminded that it was now her parents’ home when she found Alain, feet on the table, munching warm soda bread spread with butter and honey.

  ‘Join me, darling?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You must eat.’

  Liberty shrugged off the feeling of annoyance at being told what to do by her newly returned father, and instead asked, ‘Is Mummy around?’

  ‘Just walking the dogs. Dijon has had a bad turn, and we’ve had to call the vet out. She is worried, hence me making soda bread, which she feels too sad to eat, and that makes me sad so I’m eating it to feel better,’ finished Alain as he lowered his feet to the floor and looked serious for a moment.

  ‘She got that dog when I left her. I know how much he means to her, and I get the feeling it was my return that has given the poor old thing less reason to stick around.’ Alain’s stricken face gave away his true feelings, despite his lightness of phrase.

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ Liberty put her arms around him, unused to seeing her charismatic, strong father looking so miserable. ‘We don’t even know if this is the end. If he’s able to go for a walk, he may be fine.’

  ‘I think you will find them in the walled garden. I don’t want to impose myself.’ And with that Alain put his feet back on the table and tore another piece of soda bread from the loaf.

  Liberty spotted her mother sitting on the stone bench where years ago she had sat her daughter down and told her Alain was leaving. Three years later, when the divorce was going through, Deirdre’s old dog Grigson had died. To help her get over that and the final rejection, she had gone down to chat with Jonathan, whose bitch had just had a litter. Through her tears she had spied one of the golden bundles jump out of the whelping box and bounce over to her.

  Deirdre had thought she could never love again, but her heart immediately melted, and Jonathan let her take the pup home. He never told her that as pick of the litter, Dijon had been promised to the Duke of Speyside, to whom Jonathan supplied his top-quality gun dogs. A crate of vintage port and a promise of lunch at his club had calmed his old friend, and when Jonathan explained it was for Deirdre, and why, the duke had happily agreed that as many puppies from the next litter as he wanted would be his, provided there were no other charming ladies to cheer up at the time. He had met Deirdre already and had been bowled over by her beauty and quiet elegance, and did not bear grudges.

  Dijon was lying on his side panting heavily. His eyes looked round as Liberty approached, but his tail gave no customary wag and he seemed unable to lift his head. Deirdre was leaning over her old friend and stroking him gently while whispering loveliness into his almost deaf ears.

  Liberty sat next to her mother, a lump in her throat. Unable to think of anything to say, she put her arm around her for a moment, then spread a blanket over her lap. A few moments later Alain brought the vet into the garden. Mr Night was well beloved; he never caused unnecessary worry, and never interfered with an animal unless absolutely necessary. His motto was, ‘A dog is strong, sensible and capable of deciding if he is ill. No need for fuss.’ But one look at Dijon and he placed his hand on Deirdre’s shoulder, which heaved, and she let out a groan.

  ‘He has enjoyed his time with you,’ said the vet. ‘Now you need to let him go, in peace. It is right and fair. I’ll get my things ready while you say your goodbyes.’

  Liberty went over to where Mr Night was preparing a syringe. ‘Does it have to look so horrid?’ she asked.

  ‘We give them an overdose to make it quick. I won’t even need to sedate him. Looks as though he has had a brain aneurysm. It’s for the best and, hard as it seems, let’s not allow him to suffer any longer.’

  ‘Ready, Deirdre?’ She nodded but was unable to speak. She knelt beside the great dog, and held his head. ‘Goodbye, my faithful friend.’ She kissed his furry face. Mr Night was beside her holding the dog’s leg steady, and Deirdre reached out her hand. Liberty was going to take it but instead pushed Alain out of his trance towards her. He grabbed Deirdre’s hand and knelt beside her. She looked surprised for a moment, and then as the syringe pushed the fatal dose into the vein that led to the golden heart, she crumpled on to him and sobbed.

  After a couple of minutes, Alain looked at Mr Night and the vet nodded and said, ‘He’s gone.’ Alain held Deirdre tightly until the tremors stilled, whereupon he said softly that they should pick a special place in the garden. He would lay the dear dog to rest.

  Deirdre gave one last backward glance then allowed Alain to lead her to the house.

  Liberty had the unpleasant task of helping Mr Night cover Dijon in his favourite blanket and then put him into a black cadaver bag. ‘Thank you for being so quick,’ she said, unable to think of anything more pleasant to say, as they laid the bag in the shed. She would check with Deirdre later that she really wanted Dijon buried in the garden and not cremated. Mr Night, used to such occasions, was unperturbed and went on his way.

  Indoors, the kitchen was empty, so she made herself a cup of tea, then realised she had put hot water in a wine glass and leaf tea in the sink, so poured herself a brandy, grateful for the heat and fire it unleashed in her belly. Alain joined her, explaining he had put Deirdre and Custard into bed, the poor little pug being apparently as upset as her owner. ‘Either that, or she is terrified about what might happen to her if she lies still for too long.’ A flicker of humour in a sad afternoon.

  Pacing the floor, full of sorrow and yet still aware that she must get on with organising, Liberty thought she would call the always-cheerful Paloma, find out about the baby and see if Paloma could help with baskets and linen.

  Paloma was delighted to hear from Liberty; from the surrounding noise it appeared she was enjoying a drink somewhere on the Champs-Elysées. ‘Sorry, darling, I am standing in the street, waiting for Jonathan. He’s been doing some investigating into Khalid while he’s here. I’m not sure it will do any good if he interferes, and I can’t say it adds to the romantic break, but I think my heart is his, so here I stand.’

  ‘So you are captured to listen to my needs!’ said Liberty and explained about the fair.

  ‘Count us in, my love. We won’t send the things, we will bring them over ourselves. Jonathan is already missing home, although he won’t admit it, and Claude seems to be running my restaurant for me, desperate to escape from demands for back rubs and black pepper ice cream!’

  ‘No baby yet, then?’

  ‘Twenty days late, but she refuses to be induced. Poor Evangeline looks terribly uncomfortable. She is so tiny, with a big baby, but I’m sure it will be fine. Ah, here comes Jonathan. I’ll fill him in and get on to organising baskets. Leave it to us. Love you.’

  And with those words the exciting sounds of Paris faded away together with the passionate and enthusiastic Paloma. Liberty reflected how curious it was that merely talking to some people made you feel capable, energised and excited. Paloma exuded energy even down the phone. Jonathan was lucky to have her.

  46

  Paloma’s energy obviously extended beyond Liberty. At five in the morning of 6th March, baby Yves was born. A whopping four kilograms. Bonny, smiling and a delight to his exhausted but proud parents.

  W
hen Deirdre took the call, it immediately gave her a boost, and she felt a new life had benefited from the space an old soul had vacated. This thought she failed to share with the new grand-mère Paloma, who, although she liked dogs, could not understand Deirdre’s passion for them.

  The James family arranged to fly out en masse to Nice the following weekend for the baptism. Liberty would only stay for one night as she would need to get back to sort out the fair, but Deirdre and Alain thought they would stay for an extra few days with their old friend, Deirdre taking advantage of Alain’s reluctance to leave her side and go to work. The restaurant would be open until the end of summer, when it would shut for renovations to turn it into a school.

  When Liberty told Edmund of the birth as they met in her kitchen for their now daily coffee and catch-up, he tentatively asked if he could join them, see his Pa and get some sunshine.

  ‘Why, of course, that would be lovely!’ exclaimed Liberty. ‘I’m sure we can all stay at Paloma’s. Bless her, she sounds so excited about Claude’s baby, and then refuses to be called “grand-mère”. Far too ageing! So now everyone is calling her l’Ancienne!’

  The following Thursday Edmund drove them all to Gatwick, each one invigorated by the baby’s birth and the arrival of spring sunshine. Crocuses and daffodils lined the verges after months of greys and browns, and their hearts were lifted.

  Alain, true to his word, had buried Dijon in a flower bed at the end of the garden, covered him with narcissi bulbs and bluebells, and placed an order with Fred for an ironwork gazebo in place of a headstone. ‘Dijon, faithful companion’ would be stamped on a small plaque, and he had ordered a winter jasmine to climb up and over, along with a yellow rose to remember his glossy coat.