by Janey Lewis
At eight o’clock, Liberty and Deirdre gave up waiting for Alain to return. ‘He is back where he belongs for the time being,’ sighed the love-struck older woman. They shared a light supper, while Deirdre quizzed her daughter about preparations for the fete, reminding her, unnecessarily, that it was just around the corner.
Liberty was conquering her nerves by filling the freezer, checking for the umpteenth time that the little restaurant looked just perfect, cleaning it again and again until the windows shone, the china gleamed and the wooden tables developed an antique patina in days. She had ordered flowers from a local girl, and on J-T’s suggestion put them in old jam jars decorated with different coloured ribbons. She had told him she needed a way of identifying tables for the benefit of the kitchen and this was his idea. So far she had not heard again from the council about her alcohol licence, but Edmund assured her it would be sorted out, and meanwhile she could charge corkage.
Unbeknown to Liberty, Paloma and Jonathan had asked Alain if they could raid his cellar for bubbly. They would cover the cost and supply it without charge to customers on the opening day, to get everyone into the swing of things.
J-T arrived with Bob in tow, hugging a new addition: a cat.
‘Where are the dogs?’ asked Liberty.
‘Oh, we had to leave them in the car. They hate her, but we adore her,’ said Bob, cuddling the tiny furball. ‘A Silver Point Persian. Very rare, horribly expensive, and my anniversary present. But the dogs won’t leave her alone, and then she scratches them. Twice in two weeks both dogs have had to visit the vet after Queenie scratched their eyes.’
‘Queenie? What a sweet name. Let me hold her, and then you can get the dogs out. Bring them round to the garden entrance.’ Liberty giggled as she spied the car with a trailer attached to the back. ‘You didn’t tell me you’ve turned into caravanners!’ she exclaimed, examining the smart BMW SUV with an ancient Airstream lagging behind it.
‘Don’t you laugh,’ said Bob, wagging his finger at her. ‘Believe it or not, it’s filled with all the props for your fair. We seem to have searched the entire south of England,’ he insisted, looking fondly at J-T, so she understood immediately that J-T had been dragging poor Bob around for her fete. She thanked him and he demurred, continuing, ‘J-T and I remembered a holiday we had, invited by some generous clients to their estancia in Uruguay. They lived in Buenos Aires most of the time, and had the most amazing ranch where they kept their polo ponies close to Punta del Este. Lots of smart Argentineans decamp there for the summer. Anyway, while we were there, they invited us for a ride that ended in a picnic. Being Brits, we thought OK, dried sandwiches, and a plastic cup of warm wine if we were lucky . . .’ Bob paused to avert an embarrassing incident between his dogs and a passing King Charles spaniel and its owner. He struggled to get the dogs under control and into the back garden.
‘Anyway, we turn up at this clearing after an hour too long on horseback.’
‘He means the ride took an hour,’ put in J-T, joining them after returning the cat to its box.
‘An exterior room had been created. Hay bales covered with soft woollen blankets were laid out around kilim rugs. In the background were tall candelabras joined by ribbons and wrapped in greenery. A fire bowl was in the centre of the ‘room’, and tables had been set here and there so you had somewhere to put your drink. That is where we had the idea of large woollen blankets held together with old polo knee guards. It keeps them looking neat until you need them, and there’s a pile of them in the trailer. We asked friends at Windsor Great Park who work for some of the polo lot if they had any spare, and they were happy to give us some of their worn-out ones.
‘We figured you would have access to hay bales, but otherwise we’ve bought and borrowed everything. And we have brought reams of antique French linen to cover the trestle tables.’
Over the next few days, crowds of onlookers appeared on the green, excitedly noting the preparations for the fete. Judging by the number of well-groomed dogs being marched around it on leads, the dog show was going to be a big pull.
Dilys had told Liberty her punch was famous for getting everyone going, and as it was spring she was going to add extra cider. ‘I hope a few people will be capable of eating!’ said Liberty. But she was pleased people hadn’t taken against her after the Telegraph article. Fred the blacksmith had offered her his services, with a gleam in his eye, and Liberty had taken him up by asking for a loan of his hanging baskets on stands. These would frame the eating area, and she had planted them with winter pansies and trailing plants, praying for good weather and definitely no frost!
The only edible things in her garden were rosemary and thyme, so she was going to use those in some of the small tarts – seasoned bacon and fennel quiches, and some little cheese and herb choux buns. She was getting there, but would it all come together as she wanted?
51
The day of the fete had arrived at last. It was all hands on deck in Liberty’s kitchen, as a bleary-eyed J-T and Bob passed the poor kitten back and forth to keep it out of the way of their dogs and from Liberty, who was struggling between her loyalty to her friends and an intense dislike of cats near food. Deirdre and Alain kept coffee flowing, and Liberty’s ‘To Do’ board now covered most of her already menu-covered walls, with post-it notes in different colours denoting who was to carry out which task. Deirdre frowned when she saw most were turquoise for Liberty, and caused chaos by changing them for others, which ended up with one job being carried out (on paper) by two people. ‘Well, at least it’s getting done,’ was all Deirdre said in her own defence when, in a fit of nerves and frustration, Liberty turned on her and accused her of muddling a day which needed no more muddling!
The weather forecasters had predicted correctly: the sky was clear and the low sun was beginning to warm the chilly morning air. Everyone was feeling entirely positive about the day. Paloma and Jonathan, who had arrived the previous evening, had already been round and, as agreed, had organised the removal of all cars, not only from around the green, but also from the pavement areas in front of the pretty cottages lining the far side. All visitor cars would be directed to the top field of the estate, which was thankfully dry and firm. In the absence of traffic, the village had assumed a Jane Austen era appearance.
People were being divided into two teams: the decorating team and the feeding team. Leading the way on the decorating team were, naturally, J-T and Bob, who chose Khalid and Jonathan for manpower and Savannah to ensure things did not get too over the top. This provoked a snigger from Khalid, and, ‘You don’t know my wife!’ The children hitched themselves to this group and dragged Teal and Custard along with them on leads, wearing pink tutus, gold necklaces and looking like joint winners of the doggie Oscar prize.
‘We can’t use these! They are incredibly expensive!’ said Jonathan, fingering the rugs being dragged out of the trailer.
‘It’s dry, and they do much worse on photo shoots for magazines. The World of Interiors once photographed a $51,000 rug underwater in the Maldives to show off the pretty colours. Don’t think we ever got the salt out.’ Bob smiled at the memory.
They laid the numerous rugs over the green as a carpet – all slightly different, but all in dark reds and browns. They made the bright spring grass seem even greener.
Three trestle tables were placed nose to nose to create one long serving area. They were then covered with French linens in palest pinks, greys and duck-egg blue that were long enough to touch the ground. Most of them were embroidered with flowers or monogrammed along the edges, and as they fluttered in the breeze the sun bounced off the thread, making it shimmer like fish scales.
Huge hurricane lanterns were filled with lavender and herbs for decoration. Flat wicker baskets were lined with pale green linen napkins to hold the loaves of bread Liberty had been up since three o’clock that morning baking. All these were placed strategically along the tables.
J-T had been resolute in his search for old-fashioned multi-t
iered cake stands, and eventually had struck gold. A supporter of every cake stall in Sussex, who had just discovered her husband’s affair, put her collection of antique cake stands up for sale on eBay to raise some money for a holiday. There were thirty-five of them. J-T had called her directly and made her an offer that enabled her to fly off to Greece for a yoga retreat. ‘Something I’ve dreamed of doing every time I ironed the bastard’s underpants!’ she huffed down the phone. ‘He bought me one for every wedding anniversary, so good riddance.’ J-T knew that Liberty would always be able to use them and felt it was worth cheering up this unappreciated woman.
When these had been placed at intervals along the table, it all started to come together. Savannah had persuaded the children to pick primroses, and the activity had brought people out of their homes to offer more from their gardens. Jonathan and Deirdre shared a smile, remembering how they had met, and encouraged the children to try the driveway up to Denhelm. The vicar was helping Jonathan and Fred to put up the hanging baskets, which were to hang from chunky ironwork posts that stood proudly like ornate lampposts, one at each corner of the rug ‘floor’, while the vicar’s wife sat on a low wall, pretending to read a menu, at the same time surreptitiously admiring the long-limbed Irishman and the way his muscles rippled through his T-shirt. The bunting was connected to each one of the baskets, framing the area to eat and drink.
J-T’s workshop girls had made the most exclusive bunting imaginable from offcuts of clients’ fabrics, trimmed with beads, ribbons and fancy trims. The metals and crystals in the fabrics sparkled in the morning sunlight.
On cue, Edmund drove up on his small tractor with bales of straw to be placed round the grounds, not only to provide seating and relieve the feet of those visiting the outdoor tea ‘room’, but also to separate it from the dog-showing arena.
The local archery team were setting up their display, and Godfrey the brewer and his children were organising a table to hold the local beer, which Dilys had kindly agreed could be served. Alain brought out china plates – all bought at junk shops at a total of £50, and so nobody would suffer if a few were broken. Liberty had hated the idea of using plastic, so 200 china cups, saucers, plates and bowls, all of different patterns and sizes, were to be used. The only unsightly object was the generator, needed to provide power to boil water and enable the fairy lights to glow when evening fell. J-T looked at it, aghast. ‘The eye will be drawn to it immediately, it has to be covered!’ And he set about ignoring all the warnings and laid a priceless wall hanging stolen from Liberty’s sitting room over the mechanical eyesore. Liberty had to admit it looked better, but thought she had better watch out for billowing smoke.
Catherine Bevan arrived from Gateshead Farm together with a display of her cheeses. The village was relatively middle class, but she had been having difficulty selling her produce locally. It seemed that people who appreciated the flavour of goat’s cheese preferred to source it from further afield, so they could pretend it didn’t come from a live, rather smelly animal. Bizarrely, she had secured a contract with a large department store in Paris, and she supplied many local restaurants. When Liberty had tasted it while sourcing her ingredients she couldn’t believe it was not sold in local markets; Catherine explained that she had tried and people just didn’t seem keen. The packaging was clear but simple: little cellophane tubes of fresh milky cheese plugged with whatever herbs Catherine had at the time. They looked like lollipops, ready to be squeezed and splodged straight on to a plate with no further adornment other than a drizzle of honey and maybe a few more herbs. ‘I think you just need a little more exposure,’ Liberty had said to the pretty, clear-skinned young woman. ‘They really are delicious!’
So Catherine was happily placing wooden crates filled with the little tubes, content in the knowledge that once people had tasted it, they would buy! This was not a way to make money, but she had Liberty’s admiration. Alain, who stopped by to sample it, pronounced it fresh, slightly sweet and utterly delicious. ‘Just vinegar and goat’s curd?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ said Catherine proudly. ‘We let the goats graze on our pastures, which we plant with wild herbs and flowers. We allow the natural taste to come through, and then make it fresh daily.’
‘Mmm, heaven, with a glass of Pinot Gris or Graves,’ said Alain intently, helping himself to another spoonful.
Soon enough the green looked like the Chelsea Flower Show crossed with The World of Interiors. Paloma, Deirdre and Liberty, despite little sleep, and Evangeline, who had managed even less, looked elegant and very glamorous for a country stage. The area was beginning to turn into a scenario from a romantic film. The fruit trees around the green were in blossom early because of the good weather the previous week, and the flowers in the hanging baskets gave the impression that summer was nearly here.
The cakes being brought out added a pungent aroma of spices, vanilla and booze, mingling with sweet fruitfulness.
J-T had rushed to a supermarket to find oils of orange, lavender, rosemary and vanilla, which he now liberally sprinkled on the rugs, and as the sun warmed them they encouraged the atmosphere of a spring day in Provence. People started to emerge from their homes and wandered around, lured by the look of the green and, of course, by greed, despite having just had breakfast.
The flood gates opened just after ten. Cars filled up the car park, the weather and the Easter holidays encouraging attendance. Edmund had coerced, and then ordered, his farm workers to help direct traffic into the parking field, and families were now strolling about, gazing at the cottages, at the duck pond and the lovely setting of LIBERTEAS on the green.
‘You’re going to need to bring out more food,’ said Deirdre helpfully, gazing at a shell-suited family piling their plates high.
‘I’ll wait a while,’ replied Liberty firmly, pouring tea. ‘My kitchen is overflowing with food, but I want to spread things out a bit. We have to start with savoury, then move to sweet, just like afternoon tea.’ The Shell Suit family were wandering off to sit and munch.
‘These are not the sort of people who are going to eat in your restaurant anyway,’ decided Deirdre.
‘Perhaps not, but if five per cent of the people who have turned up so far come to the restaurant, then we will do all right.’
Edmund effortlessly carried a large tray of brioches and bacon quiches across the green. His groom had quit in a huff when Edmund didn’t appreciate a new clip he had given the hunters, and having to muck out and keep his horses fit had improved his physique, if not his mood.
‘He should work at the end of a phone, so nobody can see his frowning face,’ said Deirdre in a low voice.
Jonathan and Paloma had settled for a rest on a straw bale, next to Evangeline and baby Yves, who was happily licking crème anglaise from his mother’s fingers. ‘His first solid food!’ said Evangeline excitedly.
‘Far too young,’ said Paloma, ever the protective grandmother, ‘but at least he has good taste.’
Jonathan was thinking not only how lucky he was to have Paloma, but how relieved he was that he hadn’t married Deirdre, because he would have had to lie and tell her Liberty’s baking was not up to her standard. God, this brioche could make grown men weep!
More and more cars were dawdling past the green on their way to the parking field. Liberty was still making tea, in between running back to the kitchen to collect cakes, then cutting them at the tables to make sure they were as fresh as possible, and checking labels went on the food they were meant for, after tiny fingers kept switching them around. The glass cloches over the cakes looked elegant but were almost unnecessary as they kept being taken off when more slices were demanded.
The most popular item was, as she had known it would be, the Victoria sponge, quickly followed by a coffee and walnut cake, but she was also aware that her lemon and poppy seed sponge, filled with crème pâtissière and laced with Grand Marnier and raspberries, was very popular. The tray bakes were flying, especially the cappuccino squares �
� vanilla sponge with white chocolate chunks, topped with a dark chocolate sponge with chocolate-coated coffee beans. The chocolate brownies had almost gone, thanks to the influx of children. She brought out marmalade cream cake, polenta lemon mint cake, Bath buns, walnut and apple cake made with locally milled rye flour and walnut oil, and topped with a delicate maple syrup cream and chestnut frosting.
Some of the tiered cake stands had been used for more delicate petits fours, which included tiny wild strawberry tarts, lemon sablés, miniature opera gateaux and friands that would be served for ladies’ teas. She noticed that several of the ladies who had refused a piece of cake had somehow managed to place quite a few of these on their plates. Exactly as she knew they would. It had always amused her during her London days to observe that friends who proclaimed they were dieting and refused a pudding always managed to eat the biscuit or mass-produced chocolate on the side of their coffee cup. A well made dessert cake could give not only satisfaction but also goodness and nutrition, she thought. She figured if the ladies would eat a few tiny things rather than pounce on a large slice of cake, then she would serve them a good selection. They could have their cake and eat it!
52
Liberty had borrowed an old-fashioned painted gypsy caravan from Edmund, left over from the days when real gypsies lived in the forest. They had given the caravan to Jonathan, partly in thanks for letting them stay, partly because their horse was lame and they had new, motorised, heated vehicles now. Despite the old-world charm, living in an old, leaky wooden box in midwinter was no dream. Jonathan had it restored for the grandchildren to play in, and now, with its door and windows open, it was serving as a safe place to house a deep fat fryer, in which Liberty was cooking light-as-air home-made doughnuts. She had made her enriched brioche dough slightly wetter than normal and flavoured it with nutmeg, cardamom and cinnamon to produce bite-sized delicacies. The one concession to health and safety was a sign pointing out that they would be hot. When J-T laughed and said, ‘Of course they will be hot, they have just come out of boiling fat!’, Liberty smiled and explained that the bureaucrats had wanted her to put similar signs by the teapots, along with warnings about dog mess, and arrows from the archery, while worries of children falling from the Shetland ponies were keeping them up at night! She said she had demurred over the doughnuts, but had promised the officials that there would be enough people to keep an eye out for rocks falling from the sky or people slipping on the pesky wet grass.