A Country Escape

by Katie Fforde

  ‘So you plan to make the cheese regularly?’ said Antony.

  ‘It’s a good idea to add value to the milk,’ said Fran. This sounded businesslike and sensible and better than having to admit that otherwise she’d have to throw the milk away.

  ‘Nothing to do with the tanker not being able to get up Amy’s track, is it?’ said Antony, who’d obviously guessed the real reason for all the cheesemaking.

  ‘Oh God! I remember Amy’s track,’ said Megan. ‘I had to deliver something to her once. Bloody nightmare.’ She paused. ‘It was after Amy moved into the care home. I had a little look round while I was there. Fantastic position! Must be worth a fortune, that place,’ she added. ‘And all that land.’

  ‘Sorting out the track’ll be expensive,’ said a man in a pale pink cashmere jumper.

  ‘What sort of expensive?’ Fran asked.

  ‘Hard to tell. Could be twenty grand, could be five. I could send a man along to do an estimate if you like.’

  ‘It might be cheaper to get a car that can cope with the track,’ said Fran.

  ‘I can help you out there,’ said another man. Unlike the man in the pink jumper, he accompanied his offer with a leer. Fran couldn’t remember – if she’d ever known – which woman was his wife. She felt sorry for her.

  ‘How will you get your cheese up to London if you haven’t got a decent car?’ asked Megan. ‘Though I dare say Antony could lend you one if he trusted you to drive it.’

  ‘My car is fine really,’ said Fran quickly. ‘I can always park it at the bottom and walk up the track.’

  ‘I must say,’ said Antony as he helped himself to cream, ‘this does look as if it’s worth the heart attack.’

  ‘I could help you out with a decent van,’ said the man with the leer again. ‘Four-wheel drive, maybe refrigerated.’ He reached into his pocket and handed Fran a card. ‘Get in touch. I’ll do you a good deal.’

  Fran took the card, glad that she was wearing jeans and so had a pocket. ‘I don’t think I’ll need a refrigerated van, not yet.’

  The man sucked his teeth. ‘Expensive to get the wrong thing and have to change it.’

  ‘I’ll have a think,’ said Fran and was grateful when someone changed the subject.

  At last, people started to mutter about babysitters and begin to leave.

  When she and Antony were going, the man who wanted to sell Fran a car kissed her rather too affectionately and reminded her to get in touch. ‘I’ll see you right,’ he assured her.

  But once outside the house, Antony said, ‘Don’t buy a car from that man.’

  ‘Oh? Is he untrustworthy then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t buy anything from him myself. I’m not saying he’s a rogue but he charges over the odds and would try to get you to take out finance for it which is never a good idea if you can avoid it.’

  ‘I may not have much choice. I hate the thought of it but I must be practical.’

  ‘I must say I was very impressed by the cheese. Would you really take it up to London to sell?’

  ‘It’s where I know people who’d buy it.’

  ‘It shows initiative that you did something with milk that would have been wasted.’

  ‘Glad you approve,’ she said, hoping he couldn’t tell how grumpy his approval made her. If she’d made the cheese because she thought it was a good idea it would have been fine. But she’d made it because the track was too bad for the milk to be collected. And although the rain had eased off and the tanker had made it up the previous day, it could all go wrong again at any time.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re interested, but I go up to London about twice a week. If you wanted a lift I’d be happy to take you,’ Antony said.

  Amy would turn her shoulder and decline politely, Fran knew, but she was tired and a bit frazzled. ‘That might be very useful. Although I do still need a four-wheel-drive car.’

  ‘You do, but don’t rush into it. And as for the track – if you like I could lend you the money to fix it.’

  This amazingly generous offer took her aback. And she knew Amy would refuse it, under any circumstances. She should too. She took a breath. ‘That’s very kind but if I’m making cheese with the milk I won’t need to fix the track.’

  ‘You will, you know.’

  She did know. There was no point in trying to make the farm profitable – if such a thing was possible – if people couldn’t get to it.

  ‘So, how about the lift to London?’ Antony went on.

  This was an offer of help she felt she could accept. ‘Which day are you going?’

  ‘I’m going up three days next week. Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’

  ‘Shall we say Friday?’ Fran said. This should give her time to see Amy, make more cheese, get herself a bit better organised.

  ‘Friday’s fine. I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the bottom of the lane if you like,’ said Fran.

  ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘Besides, if you’re going try and sell your products you’ll have samples. But I will just tell you that I always work on the drive to London. I have a driver.’

  ‘That’s all right!’ she said, part relieved and part offended. ‘It means we don’t have to make polite conversation all the way to London.’

  ‘Or indeed any sort of conversation.’

  Fran suspected he was laughing at her. ‘Did that sound rude?’ she asked. ‘I hope it didn’t.’

  ‘It sounded honest, which is always nice and unusual.’

  ‘Unusual? Do people usually tell you a whole load of lies, then?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not lies exactly.’

  ‘But what comes out of the back end of cows?’

  He laughed audibly this time. ‘Exactly.’

  Fran sat in silence for a minute or two. ‘So are you a multi-millionaire then? Having a chauffeur and all?’

  ‘Certainly not. You could say I was comfortably off, but that doesn’t make me the spawn of the devil, you know.’

  ‘Hmm, in Amy’s eyes you’d be the spawn of the devil if you didn’t have a brass farthing, as I’m sure she’d say.’

  ‘True. Amy thinks I’m the spawn of the devil for all sorts of other reasons.’

  Fran suddenly found this rather depressing. Amy’s dislike of Antony was always going to be a problem for her.

  ‘I’ll tell her how kind you’ve been to me,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t. She wouldn’t want me to be kind to you. She’d suspect my motives.’

  ‘Would she be right to suspect your motives?’ Fran was suddenly suspecting them herself.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m just offering you a lift. It’s no big deal.’ He sounded a bit cross.

  Fran couldn’t help wondering why.

  Chapter Six

  Fran didn’t take any samples to Amy in the care home. She knew that old people shouldn’t have products made from unpasteurised milk and she didn’t want to be accused of trying to bump off her elderly relative in order to get her hands on the farm sooner than she might do. She did tell her about it though, at her next visit, a few days later.

  ‘Amy? I made some cheese with the milk.’

  Amy was being particularly deaf today so Fran didn’t bother with details.

  ‘Cheese?’ said Amy. ‘Did you find the presses and things in one of the outhouses?’

  ‘No. At least, I think I did, but I’m making soft cheese to begin with.’

  ‘Our milk makes lovely Cheddar,’ said Amy. ‘It’s the grass the cows live on. Full of flavour.’

  ‘Oh, I know! The soft cheeses all taste amazing!’

  ‘You want to age the cheese in the little quarry,’ said Amy, ignoring Fran. ‘Six months – even a year – in there and you’ll have the tangiest, tastiest Cheddar you’ll ever eat.’

  ‘Oh? Where is the quarry?’ said Fran. This was really useful information.

  ‘It’s on the farm!’ said Amy, as if Fran was being stupid. ‘And now if you don’t mind, Frances
ca, dear, it’s time for my nap.’

  As Amy frequently fell asleep without it being time for her nap, Fran felt flattered to be warned.

  ‘Just before you nod off, could you just tell me where the quarry is? On the farm?’

  But it was too late, Amy’s eyes were closed and her chest was gently rising and falling. Fran decided to ask Tig sometime about the quarry. She also resolved to go and see Tig’s mother, Mrs Brown, and find out about how to make hard cheese. As she drove home she pondered the quarry. She knew cheese was aged in caves and mineshafts but a quarry? It would have to have some sort of roof, surely? In her mind quarries were open to the skies.

  Thanks to Tig finding a number of old milk churns, which he presented to her, sterilised and clean, Fran managed to use all the milk on the days when it wasn’t collected. It was hard work, having to make the cheese in such small batches, but she kept on because she knew the milk co-op would like to stop collecting from her altogether. If she had a proper market for her products before that happened, she could get some help and maybe buy some equipment. Currently she was storing it all in the domestic fridge, which was not ideal. She needed a dedicated fridge. Although to be fair, it took a lot of milk to make quite a small amount of cheese.

  She would also need a dedicated cheesemaking room that would pass all the health and hygiene requirements, proper sterilising facilities and possibly a refrigerated van. How she’d ever pay for all those things made her head hurt. Perhaps she should start buying lottery tickets.

  Fran enjoyed travelling up to London with Antony the following Friday. The fact that he was working meant she could sit in the front with the driver, Seb, who, though pleasant, didn’t chat so Fran could look at the scenery. She could also plan what she was going to say to the various people she had arranged to meet. (One of them was Issi, for drinks, which she was greatly looking forward to.) In the boot of the car was a selection of very smart cool boxes, lent by Antony, containing her samples.

  As they approached Mayfair, where Antony’s offices were, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I won’t be needing Seb during the day, if you’d like him to take you from place to place.’

  Fran was taken aback. She had been worrying about getting around with her samples but had decided she’d have to cab it. ‘Really? But would Seb want to do that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Seb.

  Fran looked at him properly for the first time. He was the same age as Antony and was casually dressed. He and Antony had also been informal with each other when he’d dropped Antony off. He was more than just a chauffeur, Fran decided.

  ‘I’ve a few places to visit round here and in Knightsbridge,’ she said now, ‘but eventually I want to go to Fitzrovia. If you could take me, it would be absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘You could keep the cool boxes with your samples in the car and fetch them as you need them.’

  ‘That would be amazing!’ said Fran. ‘Like being in The Apprentice!’

  Antony laughed.

  It was, she realised as Seb drove her and her cool boxes to Fitzrovia, exactly like being on The Apprentice. You thought you had a brilliant product that everyone would love and yet, although everyone did love it, not a single pub, deli or restaurant wanted to buy any. And worse, her old boss Roger was out of the country and so didn’t even get to taste it.

  By the time Seb was slowing down outside the most important cheese shop, in Fitzrovia, she was ready to ask him to keep the cheese in the car and hope Issi could meet her for drinks early. What was she thinking of – visiting one of the major cheese retailers with her little cheeses made in her kitchen? She must be mad!

  In fact, she opened her mouth to do just that but Seb, who was obviously a mind reader, forestalled her. ‘Come on, Fran,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re thinking; no one has wanted the cheese so far, so why would this place? You think you should never have come and should just go home. But think about it! You’ve come all this way and you’re lucky to get a meeting with these people. Don’t waste the opportunity. Get in there and sell cheese!’

  ‘If ever you get fed up with being Antony’s driver, you should set up as an inspirational speaker,’ she said, trying to sound ironic and cool but realising she just sounded frightened.

  ‘The cheese is great; you know it is. Now get in there!’

  She had produced a spreadsheet with costings and prices on it. (Antony had kindly printed it out for her) to take in with her and she had her cheese. Mascarpone, ricotta, cream cheese and mozzarella. She also had some cream, as she’d had spare pots and couldn’t think of another cheese that she could make.

  She had an appointment with the owner of the cheese shop: John Radcliffe, who turned out to be surprisingly young, with a very intense expression and a serious-looking beard. He interrupted her opening spiel. ‘Let’s start with the nice bit, shall we? Let’s taste the cheese.’

  ‘OK, well this is—’

  ‘No, don’t tell me. I’ll know. Just put a bit of each on a plate.’

  It was nerve-racking, waiting in silence while the man scooped off bits of cheese with a knife, not even bothering with a cracker. (She had water biscuits ready in her bag.)

  ‘Mm, yes, well, it’s nice cheese and we could be interested. But as I expect you know, provenance is very important to us. When we sell a cheese we want to know everything about it from the pasture, the breed of cows—’

  ‘The “terroir”?’ It was probably too soon to make jokes but Fran felt too agitated to be completely sensible.

  ‘Yup. We’d make a site visit, make sure you’re producing this in hygienic conditions.’

  ‘OK.’ Would she be able to turn the dairy into a cheese room in time? Unlikely.

  ‘But really, we’d like a hard cheese. Unpasteurised. The flavour of these soft ones indicate a properly matured Cheddar-type cheese would be delicious.’

  ‘How long would it take for it to be properly mature, do you reckon?’

  ‘A year really, possibly two. We could taste at six months.’

  Fran exhaled. Even if she could make really good Cheddar she’d need to be selling it sooner than a year’s time. She could be kicked off the farm way before then if things didn’t turn round.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said John Radcliffe, ‘I can see that’s depressed you a bit. Making cheese isn’t a way to make a quick buck, you know.’

  ‘I do know. The thing is, the farm I’m … managing is in a bad way financially. I need it to earn some money, fast.’

  ‘Why don’t you try to sell it locally to you? While it’s good to come to the top, you’d find it easier if you kept things smaller, and closer to where you’re producing the cheese.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone locally. I used to work in London, in pubs; I thought I might sell them my soft cheese.’ She realised her voice had a tremor in it and really hoped she wasn’t going to cry.

  ‘They’ll want hard cheese too. Think of the shelf life.’

  ‘I know. I should have thought. I suppose I wanted them to make amazing pizza with my home-made mozzarella.’

  ‘Why don’t you make pizza? It might well be an easier sell than cheese.’

  ‘Because I want to make cheese! I know the pasture on the farm is special. It’s never been ploughed – even during the war – and the wild flowers are amazing. Not that I’ve seen them, I haven’t been there long enough, but know the cheese would be really special. Anyone could make pizza.’

  ‘You have passion. That’s good.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ Fran said, getting up, gathering her bits and pieces, ‘I have passion, but not very much knowledge and no money at all. I think I’ll need all of those things.’ She was near tears now. She had to get out before they appeared.

  John Radcliffe put out a hand. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a coffee or some tea.’ He got up and went to the door. ‘If anyone could send a couple of teas in here I’d be grateful.’

  The tea came with some chocolate brownies and very soon Fran fo
und herself telling John Radcliffe everything. She told him how she’d come to be on the farm, and about the milk. ‘The trouble is, if I can’t sell it as liquid, and I don’t think I will be able to, long term or for much money – I’m sure you know how low milk prices can drop to – I have to make something. And there are gallons of it.’ She paused for a sip of tea. ‘Although I am getting much better at making the cheese, which does use up masses of milk.’

  ‘And is there someone who could teach you to make hard cheese?’

  She nodded. ‘There’s the herdsman’s mother.’

  ‘Go to her. Get her to tell you everything. She’ll tell you things you’d never find out from a modern cheesemaker, things that will make your cheese unique. Which is what we’re looking for. Cheesemaking isn’t entirely scientific, there’s a bit of magic involved too. Producers make cheese every day, but sometimes the cheese wins prizes. No one ever knows what they did differently that day to make it prize-winning.’

  ‘Apparently there’s a quarry somewhere on the farm that I haven’t had time to look for yet that’s a good place to age the cheese.’

  ‘It sounds absolutely ideal,’ said John Radcliffe, putting the last piece of brownie into his mouth. ‘I’m going to come and visit you in the summer. I have a feeling about you; I think you could produce something really special.’

  Later, in a cocktail bar with Issi, near to Antony’s offices, she related all this.

  ‘So it’s good news really,’ said Issi, watching her friend take a gulp of her Cosmopolitan.

  ‘Yes, but only in the long term.’ Fran put down her glass and realised it was now empty. ‘I need money now!’

  ‘Well,’ said Issi. ‘I could take a few days off from my studies. Why don’t I come down and we could do a supper club together? You could give samples of the cheese and perhaps sell it from the back door, so to speak.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Well, you’d have to make sure it was all hygienically produced and things, wouldn’t you? The same as if you sold it at a farmers’ market.’

  ‘I’m going to have to convert a building or resurrect the dairy. I need somewhere I can make cheese in hygienic conditions,’ said Fran. ‘But where there’s a problem there’s a solution.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got time for another cocktail. Have you?’