A Country Escape

by Katie Fforde

  A million thoughts went through Fran’s head as she stood, holding the door, looking at the man on her doorstep. The most important one being, was she safe? Having worked in London, in pubs, and in private homes as a chef, and on food-market stalls she felt she had a lot of experience of people. This, and, again, her instinct, told her she was. But it didn’t stop her being indignant.

  ‘How on earth did you know where I lived?’

  ‘Partly guesswork, I admit. But a strange car, turning in my driveway is unlikely to be local. Everyone knows that Mrs Flowers had a young relation moving into her house.’ He paused and Fran noticed that the rain was much harder now. ‘And I knew it was you when you opened the door because you’re wearing pyjamas quite early in the day so it means you must have had a shower for some reason. I hope it was hot this time,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘It was a bath. My – er – cousin hasn’t got a shower.’

  ‘Oh.’ He hesitated. Fran got the impression he was used to saying what he meant and being listened to and that the current situation put him out of his comfort zone. Which made two of them.

  ‘Your track is in a bad way,’ he said.

  Fran sighed. She could hardly have overlooked it. ‘I know.’

  ‘Look – could I come in so we can have a proper talk? I’ve got things I could tell you that might be really useful.’ Another pause. ‘I brought a bottle of wine.’

  ‘I was just about to eat—’

  ‘I could watch you and you could have wine with it.’

  Reluctantly, Fran opened the door wider. ‘OK.’ As he passed her she said, ‘Go on through. I’m sure you know your way. I’ll find some glasses.’

  Fran decided not to waste time hunting in cupboards and but to settle for the tumblers she and Issi had used. While she was looking for a corkscrew and failing to find one she spotted the pasta pan. She had a chef’s tendency to over cater – there was easily another portion in it. She couldn’t possibly eat with him watching her without offering him a chance to eat too.

  She went into the sitting room. ‘I hope the wine is in a screw-top bottle. I can’t find a corkscrew. And have you eaten yet?’

  ‘I made up the fire. I hope you don’t mind. And I’ve got a corkscrew on my knife.’

  ‘And would you like some pasta? I can make mine do for two easily.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t eaten actually. And it smells delicious, so it would be a shame to turn down your kind offer.’

  Fran wished she hadn’t been quite so kind now but, like a smile given to someone you thought was someone else, it couldn’t be taken back. ‘You deal with the wine then. I’ll be back shortly.’

  She retrieved her full plate and went back into the kitchen cursing herself for not just taking the wine and sending him away. But she was proud of her cooking skills and she wanted him to stop thinking of her as the girl who was living in Mrs Flowers’ house, the girl whom he’d drenched by driving past her too fast, the girl who would probably roll over and do exactly what he said when it came to the farm. No, she wanted him to realise she was a force to be reckoned with. Having tipped her uneaten meal back in the pan, she added another drop or two of chilli oil. ‘Take that if you think you’re hard enough,’ she muttered.

  Fifteen minutes later she and Antony Arlingham were sitting at the little round table in Amy’s sitting room, hastily cleared of framed photographs, mostly of ancient cattle, eating pasta with chilli oil. Fran was pleased with the result. It had been worth bringing a few special ingredients with her. There was a lot about the farmhouse that was less than perfect, but being able to produce a good meal made it all a lot better.

  ‘Well,’ said Antony, raising his tumbler. ‘Here’s to you being very happy here.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Fran, clinking her tumbler against his. ‘Now, do tuck in. I hope it’s not too spicy for you.’

  When she had finished her first mouthful, she said quickly, before he could start questioning her, ‘You’re my neighbour, obviously. Tell me a bit about yourself. Is there a Mrs Antony Arlingham?’

  He shook his head. ‘There was but our ways parted. It was for the best. We didn’t have children so it could have been worse.’ He looked at her and she noticed he had interesting eyes. They were hazel with a flash of gold in them and were unusual with his very dark hair. ‘What about you? Have you a husband and children?’

  Fran raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure local gossip would have told you that I haven’t.’

  ‘I admit we do all know that you’re very young and single and come from London. No one expects you to last more than a month at the most.’

  ‘Oh really? We London girls are made of sugar, are we? We melt in the rain?’

  ‘In the rain and cold and snow, yes, you do melt.’ He looked at her and once again she noticed his unusual eyes. ‘But before that, your track is going to be impassable without a four-wheel drive very soon.’

  She wished she could say that she had one but she knew he knew exactly what sort of vehicle she drove. ‘I will need to change my car, I think.’ She took up another forkful of pasta to stop him saying anything else for just a minute.

  ‘This is really good,’ he said, sounding surprised.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m a chef, it should be good.’ Inside she was pleased. ‘The wine is really nice, too.’

  ‘Among other things, I’m a wine importer, it should be good.’ He quirked his eyebrow back at her.

  Fran took a breath. ‘Amy – Mrs Flowers – warned me about you. She said I shouldn’t have anything to do with you and that you were bad, through and through.’ Amy may not have gone quite this far but Fran felt she needed emphasis.

  ‘Mrs Flowers has got quite the wrong end of the stick about me and my intentions,’ Antony said, obviously glad to have moved on from small talk too.

  ‘Has she?’ Fran said this as if she doubted it. Amy was a frail old woman now but she hadn’t run a farm on her own for years without learning a thing or two, and if Amy suspected Antony’s motives she, Fran, would suspect them too.

  ‘Yes. She has very romantic notions about farming.’

  ‘Really? Yet she did it successfully for years and years.’

  ‘Did she? How successfully?’

  Fran paused. She’d assumed Amy had been successful once, though she’d let things go recently.

  Antony put down his fork. ‘I think you’ll find, when you’ve had a chance to look into things, that this farm has been losing money for years and years. I suspect it’s held together by a huge overdraft and the bank won’t stand for it for too much longer.’ He paused so Fran could take this in. ‘I offered to buy the farm from Amy, to clear the debt, so she could go on living here as long as she wanted. She rejected the offer. As things have turned out she’s had to go into a home. But I’ll make you the same offer.’

  ‘This farm is not mine to sell.’

  ‘You’re due to inherit it. You could live here, have a go at farming a bit, until Amy dies, and then come away with a handsome sum of money you could do something with.’

  Briefly Fran thought about the dream she’d had of running her own restaurant and then put it aside. The farm would never be worth enough to fund a little London culinary gold mine. But even if it was, she’d started this project now, she wasn’t ready to give up until she’d given it her absolute best shot. ‘I’m not due to inherit. Only if I make a go of it.’

  ‘I could help you make a go of it.’

  Fran realised she was beginning to like this man. He was attractive, polite and probably quite kind, but she was not ready to throw in the towel before she’d even started.

  ‘I’m sure you could and I’m sure you mean well, but I’ve been brought from London to this farm by a woman who went to a lot of trouble to find me. I can’t let her down without giving it a proper go. Of course it will be difficult. I know nothing about farming but I can’t just cave in before I’ve been here a week.’

  Antony didn’t speak for what seemed a
long time. ‘I respect that. I think it will be heartbreakingly hard for you, trying to make a go of a business you know nothing about – one that bankrupts men who’ve been in the business for generations – when you’re not even starting from a level playing field. That said, I do think you’re very brave.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m still willing to help you.’

  In spite of the smile, which was effective, she wasn’t won over. ‘Why? Why would you help me?’

  ‘Because I don’t think this farm is viable as it is. Even with my help it’s not going to work. But if you have a better time trying because of what I can do, I’ll be happy.’

  ‘Well, that’s very gracious of you,’ Fran said huffily, ‘not to say patronising, but I think I’ll manage just fine without your help, thank you very much.’ She didn’t believe it and she knew he didn’t either.

  He laughed. ‘Well done you!’

  They found a surprising amount of things to talk about while they finished the pasta and drank half of the wine. But he declined her offer of coffee.

  ‘No thank you, I really must go.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Would you come to a dinner party on Friday? I’ve been invited and I know if I asked, my hostess would be absolutely delighted to have you too.’

  ‘Why?’ said Fran, prickly with suspicion.

  ‘Because this is the country – everyone is desperately interested in anyone new! And Amy Flowers’ niece – or whatever you are to her – would be the most fascinating of all.’

  ‘So I’d be there as an object of curiosity?’

  ‘Yup.’

  She tossed her head, trying not to show her amusement. ‘Sounds delightful.’

  ‘But you’ll come? It’ll give you a chance to meet some local people.’ When she still didn’t reply he went on, ‘I can’t believe a woman who’s prepared to take on a farm could be frightened of a few locals wanting to get a look at her.’

  It was a challenge Fran had to accept. ‘OK, I’ll come. What’s the dress code?’

  ‘Warm. A bit smart, but warm mostly. It’s not the best heated house I’ve ever visited.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven on Friday then.’

  ‘Super,’ said Fran, thinking that was the right Cotswold response.

  ‘Oh, one last thing. How is Amy’s internet connection? Get a good signal up here?’

  Fran sighed. ‘You know perfectly well that Amy isn’t, wasn’t, and never has been on the internet.’

  ‘Have you got a laptop?’

  ‘Yes. Much good it’s doing me.’

  ‘If you give it to me I can see if you’re near enough to piggyback on my internet. I have a booster so it reaches all my outbuildings.’

  It would have been lovely to say ‘no thank you’ but the internet would make her life so much easier and happier so Fran fetched her laptop.

  Antony opened it up and after a little tapping around said, ‘There. We are near enough to each other. I’ll just write down my password for you.’

  ‘That is incredibly kind,’ she said, swallowing her pride as he wrote on the back of a business card.

  ‘It’s going to be even harder for you if you don’t let me help because of your loyalty to Amy and because you suspect my motives. If I can help you get online I’d feel better about you being stuck up here on a barely functioning farm.’

  Fran didn’t reply. She wanted to tell him that the farm was perfectly functioning, thank you, but she didn’t know if it was or wasn’t. She didn’t feel ‘stuck up here’ because it was a beautiful spot. On the other hand it was a bit bleak on a winter’s evening and she did feel a bit cut off and lonely. Although being able to email people, and possibly Skype, would be a huge help.

  Fortunately he didn’t seem to expect a reply. He handed her the card and put away his pen. ‘Of course it’s got all my contact details on it. Do get in touch, anytime.’

  ‘I’ll give you the landline number. I’d give you my mobile too, but I don’t think there’s any signal here.’

  He smiled. ‘Give it to me anyway.’ He got out his pen again and found another card.

  When she’d written her numbers on the back he slipped it into his top pocket. ‘I’m going now. See you Friday.’

  Even before Fran had gathered up the plates and glasses she went online and emailed Issi. Having the internet again made everything seem much more possible. She did a little googling about second-hand four-wheel-drive cars, and how much it might cost to repair the track. She concluded it would probably be cheaper to buy a tractor that could go up the track than to have it repaired. Just for a few seconds she considered it and then realised the farm probably had a tractor already and she’d never park one in Sainsbury’s car park. She needed a better car but she hoped she could get one without having to ask for a loan from the Bank of Mum and Dad. That would be a last resort.

  Thinking about her parents made her feel a bit homesick, so she emailed her mother, saying she would phone soon. Then she made herself a hot-water bottle, for company as much as warmth, and went slowly up to bed.

  Chapter Four

  Fran awoke the next morning to the sound of dripping, which was never a good way to start the day. She got up, stuffed her feet in her (ridiculously optimistic) fluffy slippers, pulled on her dressing gown and went to search for the source. To her relief she discovered it was from a gutter outside her bedroom. She mentally added ‘clear gutters’ to her To Do list and went into the kitchen.

  She watched the rain pour down outside as she ate her toast. Still, at least she had the internet, and plenty to get on with, really. She shivered and realised it had hardly stopped raining since she’d got here. If she could get through the day without going outside it would be a plus. She needed to find out more about the farm finances anyway. This would be a good day to do it.

  However, by the time she’d found Amy’s latest account books, which, unlike the years and years’ worth of earlier ones, were not neat and accurate, she decided a walk in the pouring rain without proper protective clothing would have been cheerier. At least cold and wetness was fairly temporary. As Antony had warned her, financially, things on Hill Top Farm were not in a good way.

  There was a spike with paid bills on it and, in a hardbacked exercise book, similar to the many neatly filed in a ring binder, there were a few entries for milk cheques. The milk cheques didn’t nearly cover the feed bills and Fran really hoped there were many cheques not entered, or how was the feed merchant paid? It didn’t make sense. There were several scrappy bits of paper with scribbled calculations and one with Bank, 2.30 written on it, implying Amy had made an appointment with the bank, possibly to ask for a loan. It looked as if bloody Antony Arlingham had been right. The whole place was a financial muddle.

  She couldn’t find any recent bank statement so she didn’t know if there was an overdraft or a huge loan outstanding or not. But how had Amy financed her care for six months without a loan? And sorted out Tig’s, and the relief milkers’ wages? There were too many mysteries. She made a list of things to ask Amy and resolved to ask them immediately, and not risk Amy falling asleep before she’d said anything important.

  She was still going through the list when the telephone rang. It took Fran a couple of seconds to recognise the sound. She hadn’t had a landline herself for years. She picked up the old-fashioned receiver, which seemed remarkably heavy.

  Ten minutes later she put it down again. It had not been a cheerful conversation. The man from the milk co-operative had told Fran that the milk tanker would not be coming, because the rain made the track impassable. He went on to say that unless the track up to the farm was repaired very soon, the tanker wouldn’t even try to get up it any more. And while Mrs Flowers had been a member of the co-op for years and they liked and respected her, her contribution was more trouble than it was worth.

  After a bit of pleading, Fran had convinced him to give the farm a reprieve if she dealt with the track. The tanker would try and come up the moment the weat
her let up. Just at the end of the conversation she had asked, ‘So, what should I do with the milk? If the tanker can’t collect it?’

  ‘Do what the old lady did, pour it away,’ was the reply.

  Horrified, Fran piled on the waterproof clothing Amy had left behind. When she was fully encased in trousers, coat, hat and her own boots (sadly, Amy’s boots were too small) Fran went out into the yard to talk to Tig.

  She found him sterilising the milking equipment. She was so concerned, she didn’t waste time with small talk about the appalling rain. ‘Tig! Is it true that Amy used to throw away the milk if the tanker couldn’t collect it?’

  He gave a slight nod, indicating he was pleased to see her. ‘Yup.’

  ‘It can’t come today, by the way.’

  He nodded as if she had been stating the obvious. ‘So do you want me to drain the tank? Are they coming tomorrow?’ He looked concerned but not surprised. He had a kind face, Fran decided.

  ‘I’m not sure when they’re coming, to be honest, it depends on the weather. But basically, they said I had to get the track fixed properly.’

  ‘Expensive, that’ll be.’

  ‘I know. And I can’t bear to keep wasting the milk. Have we got buckets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are some of them remotely hygienic? I mean, could I sterilise some? I want to see if I can make cheese or something.’

  ‘There’s cheesemaking equipment in one of the outbuildings by the yard.’

  Fran realised what she and Issi had thought was a cider press was actually for cheese. She nodded.

  ‘But hard cheese takes a while to make and then you have to let it mature,’ Tig went on. ‘My mother knows all about it if you want to find out.’

  ‘I think I knew it took ages to mature and I’d love to talk to your mother sometime about making a hard cheese. But for now, there are other sorts of cheese I can make in the kitchen, more quickly.’

  She was fairly sure this was true. Cheffing in London, she’d once had to deal with pints and pints of sour milk when the fridge broke down, and she was sure cream cheese wasn’t the only one you could make at home. ‘So how many buckets might you be able to find me? I probably won’t be able to use all the milk so we’ll have to waste some, but this farm can’t afford to throw away milk. It’s the only thing it produces, currently.’