The Sweetness of Liberty James

by Janey Lewis

  As she fired up the fryer, she pondered her servings. The plan was that each person would receive five in a waxed bag. She scooped them out of the oil and drained them briefly, then they were placed in the bags already containing a mix of sugar and orange zest. When they were handed out she gave two little pots for dunking; in one was a damson compote, in the other a sweetened Jersey cream flavoured with vanilla seeds.

  They were flying off the stand, and realising a hot, sweaty face was not the best look for the photographers who would be turning up shortly for the real local paper, Liberty was desperate for a break. She saw her chance as Savannah sauntered over, her figure giving nothing of her pregnancy away. She was glowing and turned heads as usual.

  ‘Darling, these look amazing!’ she said, queue-barging. ‘But the paps will be here soon. You have had enough bad experience with them recently, and to be frank, you look a sweaty mess. You may be making everyone happy, but you are going to have to sell your body as well,’ continued the ever-observant society beauty. ‘Let me take over, and you go and mop some of the sweat from your brow!’

  Liberty could have wept with gratitude, despite the comment about being a sweaty mess. What it was to have her friend back. ‘But you have never even made a sandwich, let alone handled boiling fat!’

  ‘If I can handle two children, I can manage a pot of boiling oil for a while. Give me a demo and I’ll be a pro in two shakes. Anyway, with my appetite at the moment, if I make mistakes, I can eat them!’

  Feeling incredibly grateful, Liberty gave Savannah a quick lesson. Thankfully, she was a fast learner, so Liberty gave her a hug and told her not to burn herself. Savannah looked at her with a ‘do I look that stupid?’ expression, then grinned and told her to go and sort herself out. Liberty leapt down from the caravan and started for her house. She stopped suddenly as she spotted three faces in the crowd she wasn’t prepared to see.

  Edmund was watching her, as always, and saw her expression turn from sweaty and rosy to pale and drawn in a second. Following the line of her gaze, he saw a familiar, predatory face. Oh, Christ, the bloody man has a nerve, he thought. He recognised the loathsome journo from when he had swept past him in his car after the horrible visit to Liberty’s home. He immediately stalked to where Jools Middleton stood chatting to Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley, whom he didn’t recognise.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are you doing here?’ he fumed. Liberty ran up behind him.

  ‘Please, Edmund, don’t make a fuss. Have you met Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley? Percy’s parents,’ she hissed.

  Edmund’s expression changed to one of professional welcome. ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ was all he could think of saying, knowing that Liberty had only respect and high regard for the two in-laws, but at the same time wondering how much they knew of the sabotage incident.

  ‘Please, please, calm down,’ said Jools. ‘Liberty, I wanted to come and apologise. I had no idea it was a personal vendetta against you. Percy had told me you had stolen money from him to set up your café, and I was only being a chum. I thought he was having a hard time of it – you hear all these stories of ghastly ex-wives, stripping their husbands of all their hard-earned money. Christ, my ex took the bloody dogs, despite hating them! I cannot apologise enough, and I want to say that to you in person.’ He was indeed looking very sheepish and small under Edmund’s glowering expression. ‘I really am sorry. If it’s any consolation, your baking is quite extraordinary. I take my mother to Sketch for their Michelin-starred afternoon tea, and your food is as good as, if not better.’ Liberty flushed even more than her sweaty face would allow, but she was still furious.

  ‘You could do one better, and honour me with a rewrite,’ she stuttered. ‘It was pure malice. You could have sent me down before I ever opened. I’m surprised you didn’t say we had vermin running round the kitchen.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. Percy asked me to write something similar. But after meeting you, I wasn’t sure I had the whole story, so left it out.’

  Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley were looking from one face to the other, trying to keep up with whatever was going on. They knew Jools, as he had been a school friend of Percy, but hadn’t realised he had met Liberty.

  ‘We just wanted to come and wish you luck with your restaurant,’ said Mr CR. ‘We’ve had a few problems with Percy recently, and hoped you might have a word with us later.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I am really, really busy right now.’

  Aware that the photographers and journalists should be here by now, Liberty was trying to stay calm. She felt Edmund’s gaze on her, and he gave her comfort, despite knowing that for the umpteenth time he was seeing her look her worst. She could see Savannah coping very well, keeping everyone entertained while she fried another batch of tiny doughnuts. Alain and her mother were doing teas, and Dilys had started serving her spring punch, as it was now past midday. The goats and Shetland ponies were so well-behaved, despite a lot of tail pulling and prodding; in fact, everyone seemed to be behaving themselves, even J-T, who had taken it upon himself to judge the dog show, along with the vicar’s wife. She could see them having a good gossip over what looked suspiciously like a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. She desperately wanted to wash her face and at least pull a brush through her hair.

  This, however, was not to be. At that very moment, not only did the local Weald Life man turn up, but a minibus full of writers from national newspapers drew to a halt in the lane.

  Entranced by the sight before them – the green bedecked and bejewelled by sparkly bunting, fancy dressed dogs and children, piles of food and tubs of flowers – the photographers began snapping furiously. Seeing Liberty and Jools talking, they raced over.

  ‘Talking to the enemy, hey, Miss James! What have you got to say now, Jools? Why are you back? Your piece was so bad you couldn’t keep away, or are you just keeping the stunning Miss J to yourself?’ The reporter who was loudly shouting this out earned a steely glare from Edmund.

  ‘Allow me?’ asked Jools. Shrugging her shoulders in resignation, Liberty let him speak.

  ‘It was entirely wrong of me to denounce Miss James’s venture in such a manner,’ he began. ‘I have rarely experienced such fine baking in this country, which, with all the artisan bakers getting themselves on television and on every street corner in Notting Hill, is saying something. And despite my ability to hide it,’ he continued, patting his round tummy, ‘I enjoy sampling good food.’ A titter of amusement went round the reporters. Most of them knew him, and were aware he had invited them to the fete from the depth of his guilt at what he had done. They also knew the size of his tummy was down to a pathological inability to pay for his own meals.

  He continued, ‘Miss James has managed to recreate what most of us Brits only dream about – a proper old-fashioned fete, with the best local entertainment and produce. I’m sure you will all agree, if every village did this at least once a month, it would do the country good and bring our communities together at the same time. Come on, chaps, have a glass of punch or five, and try some of these cakes. Let a ferret run up your leg and try a spot of archery, but maybe do that before the punch, as it knocks your socks to the sky! The minibus will come for you at five o’clock, so you don’t have to worry about driving back, and I hope you not only enjoy yourselves, but give Liberty the very best coverage in your rags.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liberty, once the photographers had turned away, now realising he had invited the journalists to the fete. ‘Have you seen Percy?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘No, and when I told him I was pissed off with him for deceiving me, he slammed the phone down. I only found out when your friend Edmund phoned to ask what the hell I was doing writing such a terrible piece on the most gentle, kind, gifted woman to grace the earth.’

  Liberty stared at him, not sure if he was joking. As if reading her mind, Jools said, ‘No kidding. I mean, the guy is obviously nuts over you, but when I told him that you had done the dirty on a friend of mine, h
e filled me in on some facts and I felt a complete arse. I don’t know what’s got into Percy these days. I think his ego has taken a huge knock. After asking around old friends, they all say that they told him the best thing about him was his wife, and they haven’t seen much of him since. On that note, I feel I had better warn you that Mr and Mrs CR are going to try to persuade you to have him back, get him on track again. Good to see the old chap on the road to fighting fit once more. Anyway, I am going to grab some of those doughnuts, and then I’m off. Don’t want to take all the limelight! Good luck, Miss J, and once again, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Edmund, coming to Liberty’s side.

  ‘Fine, I think, but if I don’t go and freshen up, I’m going to scare the punters away. Do you think everything is under control? Do I need to bring some more food out?’ The question was answered before the words were out of her mouth. Alain arrived at her side, apologising, but the tables were bare and it was time for the second round of savouries. Liberty ran to the kitchen, all thoughts of looking good dissolving into checking on the platters and wooden boards, which she now piled high with delicate tarts made with walnut pastry and filled with spinach and local bacon. Thin, crisp metre-long pizzas, to be cut at the table, were simply adorned with local sheep’s cheese, herbs and some of the batch of tomato passata Deirdre had made at the end of summer. Savoury polenta cakes also appeared, flavoured with local mushrooms dried last autumn and topped with a tarragon crème fraiche. Baked risotto balls were filled with butternut squash puree, spiced with amaretti biscuits and mixed with herbs, alongside eggs with a crispy breadcrumb exterior. There were anchovy and cheese straws, and lots of her breads to be cut into wedges and sampled with some of the Burnt House butter and cheese. As Liberty handed platter after huge platter to willing helpers, she realised she was sweaty and un-made-up, run off her feet, but happy. She smiled a million-watt smile and walked back out onto the green ready to feed the hordes. From her hoards.

  53

  Liberty’s one concern was that those who arrived early would eat their fill and then leave. However, the dog show, pony rides and play areas kept the children entertained, while the food stalls and glasses of punch, together with great weather, were enough to stop the adults getting itchy feet. The promise of more free food was always alluring, and amazingly, the same faces seen first thing munching happily on breakfast pastries seemed to be managing lunch, cake and whatever else they could lay their now sticky hands on. Unbelievably, more people were turning up all the time, being directed off the main road via the farm shop. Even the unflappable Dilys had been yelling to her Saturday girl Susie, called in to help, to ‘bloody hurry up with more punch’, as the reporters were drinking her dry.

  Everyone was pitching in. The glamorous Paloma, more used to wafting around in Gucci and a cloud of scent, was cutting bread and encouraging children to try goat’s cheese. ‘Good for your skin, young lady,’ she announced to one very spotty teenager who was turning up her nose and calling it smelly. ‘You never see French girls objecting to goat’s cheese, and look how beautiful they are.’ Paloma knew full well that even in Timbuktu teenage girls got spots, but she held the girl’s gaze and indeed, a piece of fresh soft cheese was eventually pushed into her unwilling mouth.

  ‘Oh, when you get past the smell, it’s a bit like Philadelphia,’ said the girl, her pretty eyes widening in amazement.

  ‘Well, there you go – and so good for you.’

  Liberty was now worried she hadn’t enough scones ready for the oven. They had counted on more people arriving in the afternoon, but not the crowds now spilling over the green. Deirdre reassured her there would be more than enough – didn’t she always over-cater? And anyway, to supplement the afternoon tea scones would be more tiny sandwiches, Victoria, coffee and cobnut sponges, profiteroles, fruit tarts and cider apple cake. ‘I can’t even remember the other things, so stop worrying,’ said her mother, in slight exasperation that Liberty couldn’t see what an amazing success it all was. ‘If we run out, so be it. I’ve never seen such appetites, and look at all these happy faces. Darling, you should be so proud of yourself. Look what you have created!’

  Liberty took a moment to look up from the list in her left hand, while continuing to cut a cake into neat wedges with her right. She looked over the chattering crowds, mostly standing in groups, clutching plates, cups or glasses; the hay bales covered in cosy groups; children clambering up on to laps to steal another mouthful; dogs ambling round, looking for an unattended offering. Older children had all packed together, playing happily or helping to groom the ponies that were now having a well-earned rest, while the teenagers hung round the punch table. The rosy faces, due either to sun or alcohol, gave an impression of cheeriness and general well-being, and the fluttering bunting, hanging baskets and morris dancers – where the hell had they come from? – were all doing their bit to create the picture-perfect scene.

  For the first time that day, Liberty let go of her desperation to make things go perfectly, and she breathed out. Her shoulders relaxed, and she even forgot she still hadn’t had time to freshen up. ‘Wow!’ she squeaked. ‘It’s going rather well – people are having fun!’

  Deirdre smiled and put her arm round her charmingly surprised and very talented daughter. ‘Yes, my darling, it’s what you might call an absolute roaring success. But if you like, we can simply say it’s going rather well, in your delightfully understated way. Your father and I are so proud of you. I think you may get bored with hearing us say that!’

  ‘Never!’ announced Liberty, and knowing how much hard work everyone had put into the day, she remarked, ‘But the idea was all Edmund’s, and I couldn’t have done any of it without your help, so thank you.’

  Deirdre huffed, poured more tea into proffered cups and said, ‘One day, you will have to realise your own talent, that it’s something to be proud of, and not give all the dues to others. People help you because they want to be part of what you are creating.’ With that she mentioned that the CRs were still hanging around, and asked if they had found an opportunity for a chat.

  Liberty, having been so busy, had almost forgotten their presence, but now looked up and into the crowd. There were Cecil and Isabelle, talking to Jonathan and making a fuss over an extravagantly dressed whippet that had been left in his Pierrot costume as he rather liked it, hat and all, and was proudly showing his first position rosette to a smitten Isabelle.

  Liberty was thrilled they were enjoying themselves, but after Jools’s earlier comment about them being rather keen for her to get back together with Percy she suddenly felt vulnerable and scuttled back to the safety of her kitchen. Her tummy was in knots. Was everyone really enjoying themselves? Was the food good enough? She made the mistake of looking in the kitchen mirror: hair in a bird’s nest design and cream down one side of her nose. Very glamorous. There were footsteps coming up the path.

  ‘We know you are busy, and this is probably not a good time, but we need to talk to you. Your cards and letter have been so kind, and you have always been in our hearts.’ Mr and Mrs CR stood at the entrance of the kitchen looking nervous, as though they might not be welcome. Cecil, despite the familiar jolly smile, looked a shadow of the stately patrician of his former self. Illness and the upset of his only son’s bad behaviour had taken its toll. Isabelle was commenting on what a charming home Liberty had created, and hoped that they were not overstepping the mark. Unusual nerves for such a socially confident lady. Liberty’s heart went out to them both. They had always treated her fairly and generously.

  ‘Of course I have time for you, but could it possibly wait until this evening?’ She slipped another tray of scones into the oven, and deftly slid the cooling ones on to a rack. ‘It is a little hectic.’ She hoped they would see she was busy. Her welcoming remarks had made them relax after days of fretting over bothering the dear girl with their problems. They were not used to asking others for help. Now the avalanche had set off downhill, they had to get things off t
heir heaving chests.

  Isabelle cleared her throat, another sign of her nerves, and began to speak. ‘We have heard that our son, Percy–’ Liberty smiled. Which other son would she be talking about? ‘–has not been, how shall I put it, well, has not been behaving in a respectable way. I once tried to persuade you to return to him, to give the marriage a chance. Now I believe I no longer even want to have him as a son.’

  At this, Liberty’s head flew up, and instead of gently turning the food mixer on, she pushed the power to full, allowing a cloud of icing sugar to poof out of the bowl and cover her. Entirely. Now resembling a sugar-coated Yeti, she spluttered and asked, ‘What on earth would make you say that about your only child? He adores you, and you him. You cannot mean a word of that!’