Sarah abandoned her plate and hurried towards the ladies’ toilets, praying that her painful personal problem wasn’t visible.
She barged through the door feeling like she had two live hand grenades stuffed down her bra, but the only cubicle was taken and just as she contemplated expressing over the basin, an elderly lady entered. Sarah dashed from the toilets feeling all panicky. The front of her blouse was definitely wet and the desire to relieve the pressure unbearable. With burning cheeks, Sarah ran from the hall and into the car park. Heavy clouds dulled the sky and the wind took her breath away. She shivered but there was no time to go back for her coat; if she didn’t do something about this in about five seconds, she was going to explode.
She dived round the corner of the building, out of sight, to a narrow sheltered pathway bordered with shrubs. She yanked her blouse up, ripping off a button in the process and then in a practised manoeuvre, unhooked the bra cups and squeezed both breasts.
‘Ahhh!’ Thank God! She let her head fall back, closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Relief as two jets of warm milk squirted over the pyracantha.
It took Sarah a few seconds to detect the smell of cigarette smoke. A prickle of mortification crept across her scalp and down her back. She opened her eyes and looked over her right shoulder. Two women were staring at her open-mouthed.
Sarah swallowed a groan. This had to be a new personal best of total loss of dignity. They didn’t tell you about this in the baby manuals. The look on their faces! She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she certainly couldn’t stop yet.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Abi’s blonde friend, taking a long pull on her cigarette.
‘Should I call an ambulance?’ said the other, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘No, I’m fine, nearly there.’
That short burst had eased the pressure. It would do until she got home. Sarah swiftly tucked herself back in and turned to face her audience.
Jo stretched out an arm and flicked ash into the shrubbery. She should probably look away but she was transfixed. She had never really given much thought to the practicalities of motherhood. Does everyone have to do that . . . that squuezing thing? A moment’s peace to get herself together with a crafty ciggie, that was all she had needed and she had already been joined by the plump woman with a handful of chicken drumsticks who Jo recognized from the refreshments table. And now this – the tiny human milking machine. She wondered where the baby was. Her thoughts flashed briefly to Abi having to bring little Tom up alone. Poor love. For the second time, Jo’s commitment-free philosophy looked quite appealing.
The woman tugged the lapels of her green velvet jacket across her chest, folded her arms and stared. She reminded Jo of a curly-haired Kylie Minogue, only with bigger boobs. For someone who had just performed a full frontal flash at strangers at a wake, she seemed terribly calm.
‘Any other party tricks?’ said Jo with a grin, blowing smoke sharply out of the side of her mouth.
The woman shrugged. ‘There’s this thing I do with ping pong balls, but not usually at funerals.’
Jo snorted with laughter at the unexpected humour. She dropped her cigarette to the floor, ground it out with the pointy toe of her shoe and picked up the butt. She scouted round for a bin.
‘Here.’ The chicken muncher stepped forward and held out her napkin. Jo dropped the butt on top of a pile of greasy bones.
‘Thanks. I’m Jo, by the way.’
‘Carrie. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Sarah Hudson. Look I’m really sorry about that; I thought I was on my own.’
‘We all did,’ said Carrie.
Even in this light Jo could see how embarrassed Carrie was. She wouldn’t even meet their eyes.
‘Sarah, you’re shivering,’ added Carrie, ‘let’s go in and have a hot drink.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Good plan.’
‘No milk for me,’ said Jo.
There were a few funny looks, Jo noticed, as the three women re-entered the hall together. Probably surprised at the sound of their laughter. The other two didn’t seem aware of the attention: Sarah was occupied with preventing her cleavage from making another appearance and Carrie was busy foisting tea and cake on anyone who moved. According to Carrie, Jo needed fattening up a bit, and as Sarah was breast-feeding, she had to keep her strength up. Carrie wasn’t the greatest advertisement for more cake, thought Jo, shaking her head to decline the offer of a slice of Battenberg.
Was Abi OK? Jo’s gaze did a quick once over of the room and spotted her friend deep in conversation with a group of women. She seemed fine, considering. Jo accepted a cup of tea from Carrie and smirked at her blushing face as the rather delicious vicar joined their group.
‘Are you friends of the family?’ the vicar asked, smiling round at them.
Jo watched with amusement as Carrie took his empty cup and, with a shaky hand, poured a fresh one. Jo had heard about this new vicar from Abi. He held most of the village in thrall. He could only be in his thirties, he drove a Lotus and had brought a whole new congregation into church – predominantly female. He also had the most amazing eyelashes. What was the dating protocol with vicars, she wondered.
‘Yeah, we’re bosom buddies,’ said Jo.
Sarah giggled softly and momentarily released the front of her blouse to cover her mouth. Jo noticed the vicar clap an eyeful of bra before looking Sarah in the eye. ‘I’ve seen you in the village, but we haven’t been introduced,’ he said.
‘Vicar, you naughty boy, she’s married,’ said Jo huskily.
Carrie’s eyes widened. Jo wasn’t bothered. A good looking man was a good looking man, reverend or not.
The vicar choked on his tea and Carrie handed him a napkin.
‘I’m Sarah Hudson,’ replied Sarah, struggling to keep a straight face.
‘You’ve got a baby haven’t you, planning on having him or her christened?’
‘Um, we haven’t really discussed it yet.’
‘My favourite thing, christenings – more fun than weddings even. Are you, er, married?’ he asked Jo.
‘Good God, no!’ Jo leaned in towards him with a wink. ‘I prefer dirty weekends to dirty socks. Much more fun.’
The vicar opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Carrie made a faint high-pitched squeak and tried to refill his cup a second time. ‘More tea?’
He shook his head and with darting eyes managed to make eye contact with someone across the room. ‘I should, er . . . circulate. By the way, Mrs Radley, nice food.’
He smiled again bravely and moved away. The women watched him and shared a look of appreciation.
‘Nice bum,’ muttered Jo, whistling under her breath.
Sarah cleared her throat. ‘Did you do all this, then?’ she said, pointing at the buffet table.
Carrie nodded. ‘It was the least I could do. Poor Abi.’
‘Are you a caterer?’ asked Jo, dragging her eyes away from the vicar’s rear.
Carrie blushed. ‘Goodness, no! I’m just – just a housewife. And it’s only a few sandwiches.’
Wow! If Jo had been in charge of the food, it would have been a job lot from Marks and Spencer. This amount of homemade stuff must have taken hours! Jo opened her mouth to object, but Carrie jumped back in.
‘What do you both do?’ she asked.
‘Apart from being wife to Dave and mummy to Zac, I’m an accountant,’ said Sarah, ‘I work in the city centre, corporate mostly. Don’t say it, I know – boring.’
Jo raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘After that floor show outside? I don’t think so.’
‘Not full-time though, surely?’ said Carrie.
‘Yes.’ Sarah thrust her chest out. ‘Some of us don’t have any choice. Do you have children?’
Carrie’s face flushed. ‘No, I–’
‘And I run a small family business,’ said Jo, changing the subject rapidly as Carrie shrank under the force of Sarah’s stare. ‘Badly, most of the time. And I’m m
arried to it, ‘’til death do us part.’ Oops, poor taste.’ She clenched her jaw, cross with herself. ‘How do you both know Abi and Fréd?’ she asked.
‘We live in Woodby, I didn’t know Fréd that well, but I thought I should come,’ said Sarah.
‘My husband is the General Manager at Cavendish Hall, where Frédéric worked as head chef,’ said Carrie.
‘And you obviously have some French connection,’ said Sarah. ‘That reading you did was amazing.’
Jo shrugged and swallowed her tea. ‘I did French as part of my degree. I spent a year out there, got to know Fréd. Abi came out to stay with me for a holiday and met him. Un coup de foudre as they say.’
Carrie shook her head slowly, her eyes looking moist. ‘Such a lovely couple. So unfair. To have your life cut short like that. And that beautiful little boy.’
Jo’s heart grew heavy again and she felt guilty for enjoying the last half hour. ‘I don’t know how Abi’s going to cope once the funeral’s over. I think she’s been focussing on that to get her through so far. I’ll come over when I can, but I’m based in Northampton.’
‘I know it’s a cliché,’ said Sarah, with a sigh, ‘but you’ve got to make each day count. Cherish every moment.’
‘Carpe diem,’ said Carrie, quietly.
Jo looked round at the hall; some of the mourners had gone now. Someone had brought Abi’s son Tom along and he was sitting on his granddad’s knee bouncing up and down giggling. With his dark wavy hair, he was the image of his father. Jo wondered what was going through Henri’s mind. Probably looking at Tom and remembering Frédéric as a boy. It must be heart-breaking to lose a child, at any age, even if he was a grown man. Another good reason not to have kids. If she told herself this often enough, she might even start to believe it. She shuddered and tuned back into the conversation.
‘A bucket list. You know, like in that film with Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman? The Bucket List.’ Carrie was saying to Sarah.
‘I’ve seen that one,’ said Jo. ‘They’re both terminally ill and decide to do a load of mad things before they die.’
‘Exactly. Perhaps everyone should have a bucket list? So when you die, you’ll at least have done some of the things you always wanted to do,’ said Carrie glumly.
Jo tried to read Carrie’s expression; there was something behind that shy smile, as if she had a whole list of regrets. Mind you, that probably applied to everyone.
She picked a piece of fluff off her black wool jacket. ‘Fréd’s dream was to open his own restaurant. He was waiting for the right moment. And now . . .’ She swallowed a lump in her throat.
‘We could . . . Why don’t we . . .? Oh, nothing,’ said Carrie, stirring her tea again for no apparent reason.
‘Go on,’ said Jo.
Carrie swallowed and gave her a shaky smile. ‘I thought we could perhaps start doing the things we want to. Make a list together. We can all add stuff to the list and tick them off when we’ve done them!’
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve got a new baby, I can’t start sky diving or jetting off to Timbuktu,’ she tutted.
‘It’s probably a stupid idea.’ Carrie blushed and Jo felt sorry for her.
‘I might think this is crazy by tomorrow,’ said Jo. ‘But I am a workaholic. I’ve got to take something from losing Fréd so young. This could be the push I need to live a little.’ She thought about it for a second. What the heck. She winked at Carrie. ‘I’m in.’
Carrie beamed but Sarah frowned. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit morbid? Thinking about your own death?’
‘What about a wish list then?’ Carrie suggested. ‘If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you wish for? I don’t mean an endless pot of gold, or anything like that. Real things, attainable goals.’
‘Oh God, that’s easy,’ laughed Sarah, ‘eight hours’ continuous sleep, the ironing pile to have magically disappeared . . .’ She tugged at her skirt. ‘And my clothes to fit me again.’
‘Perhaps instead of a genie,’ said Jo, wondering what she was getting herself into, ‘we have to make our wishes come true by ourselves.’
‘With help from each other,’ added Carrie.
Sarah chuckled and shook her head, making her curls bounce. ‘I think you’re both barmy, but go on then.’ She caught sight of the village hall clock and gasped. ‘Blimey, it’s Zac’s tea time. I need to get home.’
‘Oh,’ said Carrie, her face falling, ‘we haven’t chosen our wishes yet.’
‘I need to get back too,’ said Jo, checking her watch. ‘Let’s exchange email addresses and we can arrange to meet up again soon.’
Carrie blushed. ‘I haven’t got email.’
Sarah and Jo stared at her.
‘How do you shop?’
‘Or communicate with anyone?’
‘Or do anything?’
Carrie shrugged and gave a small smile. ‘Something for my wish list, I guess.’
Jo opened her slim black clutch bag. Nestled between her keys, iPhone and lipstick was a silver business card holder.
‘Here’s my card with my email and mobile number on it. Let’s organize a date over the phone.’
Sarah tipped out the contents of her Mary Poppins style handbag to reveal baby wipes, nappy sacks, two large cotton wool circles and a packet of baby breadsticks. She finally handed over a couple of rather dog-eared cards. ‘Sorry, I’m normally really organized.’
Jo took in the gaping blouse, crusty white stain on her jacket and the patch of matted hair at the back of Sarah’s head and said nothing.
‘I don’t have a card or even a pen,’ said Carrie, ‘so I’ll phone you both. And thank you.’ She lowered her voice, ‘I hate social occasions like this, and meeting you two has made it infinitely more bearable.’
An awkward moment followed as Sarah tried to shake hands and Carrie leant forward to hug her.
‘Sorry,’ stammered Carrie, pumping Sarah’s hand.
Jo strode over to say her goodbyes to Abi wondering just what she had let herself in for.
Irresistible recipes inspired by The Plumberry School of Comfort Food
Salmon en croute
Linda’s Pan of Scouse
Lucy’s Saucy Lemon Pudding
Mozzarella In Carozza
Easy Chicken and Chorizo Paella
Gin and Tonic Cake
Kale and Stilton Gnocchi
Rhubarbs’ Fruit and Ale Cake
Cheese Cod Casserole
Fish Finger Sandwich
Macaroni Cheese
Easy Smoked Salmon Pâté
Salmon en croute
My friend Alison is one of those people, who despite having an extremely busy job can manage to whip up a buffet for twenty without turning a hair. This salmon en croute recipe is one of her stalwarts . . .
You will need . . .
One packet of ready-made puff pastry (defrosted and ready to roll)
One piece of salmon fillet, boneless and skinless about 600-700g
A packet of watercress
A small tub of crème fraiche
Beaten egg (optional)
Pre-heat the oven to 180°C (fan 160°C), gas mark 4 and lightly grease a baking sheet.
Roll out the pastry on a floured surface into a rectangle twice the length of the salmon.
Lay the salmon towards one end of the pastry, leaving a margin of an inch and cover with the crème fraiche and finally the watercress.
Brush the pastry edges with water and fold the pastry over the salmon, pressing the edges together firmly. Brush with beaten egg if desired.
Cook for 40 minutes until golden brown.
Linda’s Pan of Scouse
My friend, Linda told me years ago that when she was growing up, there was always a pan of scouse on the go. If anyone was ill, or needed a bit of a helping hand, Linda’s mum would always pop round with a pan of scouse. So when Mags appeared in this story, I just knew that it was a recipe that she would love, so it became her signature dish. L
inda has very kindly let me reproduce her mum’s scouse recipe to share with you.
You will need . . .
500g good quality stewing steak, chopped
2 tbsp flour
4 medium sized potatoes (I use king Edwards as they mush down better)
1 large onion
2/3 carrots
3 sticks of celery
Some chopped swede or turnip
2 pints of beef stock
Salt and pepper
A few mixed herbs
Oil for frying
To serve: pickled red cabbage, pickled beetroot and crusty bread
Toss the chopped meat in flour and seal in a large saucepan.
Add all the chopped and sliced vegetables, (potatoes in cubes of approximately 2cm).
Add the stock, salt, pepper and herbs.
Bring to the boil. Give it a good stir then simmer gently for about ninety minutes until all is cooked and the potatoes are falling apart.
Taste to check seasoning, if you like it with a beefier flavour then add an Oxo, works every time!
Some people like it served with red cabbage or beetroot, I like it just with crusty bread.
Lucy’s Saucy Lemon Pudding
Now this is probably the most important recipe in the book because my friend, Lucy owns a cookery school and she is the inspiration behind the story! She also runs a restaurant in Ambleside, Lucy’s On A Plate, which does the most amazing puddings. So of course I had to ask her for a summery dessert! Lucy says: ‘Saucy Lemon Pudding is almost like a “soufflé” but baked to create a denser, squidgy dessert where the “pond” of citrus sauce lurks beneath. Use a mix of lemon and lime if you prefer.
You will need . . .
60g unsalted butter, softened
250g caster sugar
The Plumberry School of Comfort Food Page 41