by Katie Fforde
‘Fran, Amy had years of experience. You have none. Of course it’s going to be harder for you.’
‘I know all that but I’m not sure Amy does. She thinks the younger generation have things far too easy. Spoilt, I think was the word she used.’
Issi laughed. ‘I do hope you’re going to take me to see Amy. She sounds a real character.’
Fran snorted rudely and turned into the farm. The gate was already open and there was a generator thumping away. There was also a huge pile of small stones that was obviously due to form the final surface.
‘Oh, you’re getting the track repaired!’ said Issi. ‘How are you paying for that?’
‘Antony,’ said Fran, sounding appalled. ‘And what Amy would say if she knew that, I really hate to think. It would probably be enough to send her dicky heart into spasms.’
‘Well, don’t tell her then,’ said Issi, ever practical.
‘I won’t but someone will, I’m willing to bet.’
‘Oh come on, let’s get home,’ said Issi. ‘I’m dying to move in.’
Chapter Nine
‘Have you thought about the menu for the supper club?’ asked Issi one bright morning a few days later, after the sitting room had finally, after a lot of work, been declared almost dust-free. A couple of days earlier Tig, Seb and the relief milkers had got rid of the fireplace, happy to do it for cash in hand, home-made brownies and beer. Now Fran and Issi were moving all the furniture out so they could see how it could work for the supper club.
‘Well, it’ll have a large cheese element to it—’
‘Obviously.’
‘But the main course will be game pies. Antony has a couple of freezerfuls of frozen birds. I’ve said I’ll get rid of them for him. To repay him for doing the drive … I know!’
Issi looked at her friend a bit oddly but didn’t pursue it. ‘Will you buy the pastry, or make your own? Rough puff or proper puff?’
‘I was wondering if I should make the butter for the pastry!’ said Fran. ‘And proper puff, of course. I love making it. It’s soothing.’
‘OK, that sounds good. What else?’
‘Well, I thought a winter salad with goat’s cheese but as that would involve buying cheese …’
Issi waited. ‘And hell would freeze over before you did that?’
Fran nodded. ‘So I thought I’d try making halloumi.’
‘Is that even possible?’ Issi obviously felt this was taking ‘home-made’ a step too far.
‘Yup. It’s a longer process but perfectly possible. It’s all on the internet. The advantage I have is gallons of unpasteurised milk with a good butter-fat content.’
Issi smiled. ‘And for pudding? Cheesecake? Followed by a cheese board? Any cheese as long as you can make it in your kitchen?’
Fran accepted this gentle teasing. ‘Nearly right. But I am a bit bothered by the food hygiene side. I think for a supper club it may be all right to make cheese in less than perfect conditions but it’s not ideal. I’ll be feeding the public, and they will be paying.’
‘I know this is going to sound like blasphemy,’ said Issi, ‘but could you do your first supper club without all the cheese? It would give you a bit of time to get a cheesemaking room sorted out.’
Fran sighed deeply. ‘I know that would be sensible but it would break my heart. One of the reasons I want to do the supper club so much is to showcase my cheese.’
‘Well,’ said Issi briskly. ‘Go and see Antony in the morning and agree to him lending you the money to make a cheese room.’
Fran made a calculation. ‘I think he’ll be working from home tomorrow.’ She frowned. ‘I really don’t want to though. I hate asking for favours.’
‘Hmm. Hadn’t noticed that! You never seem to mind asking me for favours.’
‘You’re my best friend. It’s completely different.’
They had decided they’d probably need to borrow some tables and chairs for the supper club but that it would be nice to use as many of Amy’s as possible.
They were seeing how far into the corner a table could go while still letting people actually sit at it when Issi asked, ‘So, individual pies, then?’
Fran shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to do family-sized ones. Part of the point of food – particularly at a supper club – is the eating together. I’ll put big pies, bowls of vegetables, extra gravy, things like that, in between groups of four or six. People will have to serve each other, talk to each other even if they’re strangers, and it’ll be like joining a large family.’
‘Oh!’ Issi was impressed.
‘Apart from anything else, doing all those individual pies would be hellishly fiddly,’ Fran added.
‘But do you have enough pie dishes? Should I add it to the list of things we need to buy on eBay?’
‘Amy has a very nice line in Pyrex, so we may be OK, but before we go to eBay, which I know is the sensible thing, we could see if there are any sales coming up at the local auction house. I love auctions!’
They concluded they could get twenty people into the sitting room if they divided them up into one table of eight, one of six and three of two.
‘What sort of veg are we having?’ asked Issi, disentangling the chairs they were using to check all the tables were usable.
‘Carrots, probably, and whatever else is in season.’
‘What sort of potatoes? Nothing too complicated, I hope.’
‘Mash! Obviously! Pie and mash with gravy. People love it. I think we’ll have to move that little table further away from the fire or the people sitting there will singe, and we can’t have that.’
‘If it passes its flue test, will you light the fire?’ asked Issi. ‘It might get awfully hot in here, with all those people.’
‘I’ll get Tig to light a fire that looks pretty but doesn’t actually push out any heat,’ said Fran. ‘I bet he can do that.’
‘And if it fails its test, we could just fill the fireplace with candles, set well back so they can’t set light to anything.’
‘Oh, good idea, Is. Now let’s have something to eat. I’m starving.’
Later that evening Issi asked Fran three times if she’d emailed Antony to see if he could see her the following day, and so eventually, Fran did it. A reply pinged back saying yes, she could come at ten o’clock.
The next morning, having walked down the now nearly completed track, Fran set off in her car to see Antony. She planned to visit Amy later, and would ring Issi to see if she wanted collecting so they could go into town together. Issi had got up surprisingly early, saying she wanted to see Tig milking the cows.
Fran could not avoid comparing the sleek, well-kept feeling of Antony’s property with Hill Top Farm as she drove up the perfectly smooth driveway. She really did prefer Amy’s place: more hilly, definitely more scruffy, but also more welcoming and, she was sure Issi would confirm, more environmentally friendly. But there was probably a middle way between ramshackle and show home. She really wished she could be visiting Antony for a different reason, if he’d invited her for supper or something. As it was she was practically begging, and she was someone who found it so much easier to give than to receive. She really didn’t like asking for favours – except from Issi – and she was going to be asking Antony for what amounted to the loan of several thousand pounds. The fact he could afford it didn’t make it one bit easier. Still, it had to be done. There was more at stake here than her pride.
‘Why are you laughing?’ Antony asked as he handed Fran a cup of coffee made in a machine the size and value of a reasonably priced family car. They were sitting at the breakfast bar in his enormous kitchen.
She tried to stop giggling. ‘It’s just so funny – I mean the contrast! You’ve been up at Hill Top in all it’s scruffiness, and you come from all this …’ She gestured to the gleaming kitchen, which seemed never to have been sullied by anything as mundane as a chopped onion. ‘To – well – a care home for items that will one day be referred to as “kitchenal
ia”.’
‘Rustic,’ he said firmly. ‘Hill Top is rustic.’
‘It’s sweet of you to give it an appealing name but not only is it rustic, it’s probably unhygienic.’
He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually.
‘You’re not supposed to agree with me! You’re supposed to say, “You’ve got to eat a peck of dirt before you die.”’
‘Most people agree that it’s best not to eat it all at once.’
Fran sighed. Antony was drinking a double espresso, while she had gone for a latte. His taste in coffee made him seem severe, somehow, and hers made her a lightweight.
She put her head in her hands for a minute, resting her elbows on the stainless steel work surface, then straightened up. ‘I’ve come here to say yes please to the cheese room. I need it if I’m going to serve cheese at my supper club and I want to. It’s mostly to advertise the cheese that I’m doing it.’
She didn’t mention that she’d wanted to do a supper club before she’d dreamt of making cheese, or that she hoped to make a bit of money out of it that she badly needed if she was going to have a chance of paying him back.
‘Fran, just how long do you think it would take to get one of the outbuildings at your farm up to scratch as a place to make cheese?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not exactly sure what would be involved. And I accept that the supper club will have to be postponed while we do this but I thought if we got things going it would be done quicker.’
‘If you don’t want to sell the cheese per se just at the moment …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, if you just want to make cheese to serve at the supper club without giving people salmonella poisoning, you could make it here – and keep it here too, if your fridges are a bit full. I don’t suppose this kitchen would pass regulations for making cheese on any kind of scale, but this kitchen has been passed relatively recently as fit to provide food at some big dinners.’
‘Really?’
He made a gesture. ‘If you look over in that corner you’ll see a wash-hand basin, which, as you know, is essential in a commercial kitchen. I know the environmental health officer. I could get this kitchen passed again fairly quickly. Would that help?’
Fran almost couldn’t speak. ‘That would be amazing! I could bring the milk over here and make all the cheese I needed to for the supper club. Then no one could get funny about it having been made …’ She thought of the kitchen back home. ‘Well, you know …’
‘You could do any other cooking here that you wanted, too. I’m not here most of the time and the kitchen is rarely used for much, except to make coffee.’ He smiled, somewhat wistfully, Fran thought.
‘That would be really helpful,’ said Fran. ‘I’m planning to make puff pastry for the game pies and I could do it over here in peace with plenty of space.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘You will come to the supper club, though, won’t you, Antony? As our guest? We wouldn’t want you to pay.’
‘If I come I’ll pay. What do you do about wine?’ he added.
‘BYO – bring your own. Not a problem for you, of course. Not sure what to do about people who forget. Even if we have wine just in case, we can’t sell it without a licence.’
‘There is a licence you can get. It lets you have about five events a year. I could supply you good wine and you could make a bit of profit on it.’
‘That sounds a good offer but I don’t want people to feel they can’t bring their own.’ She took another sip of her latte. ‘But I’ll look into it.’
Neither of them spoke for a few moments, and then Antony said, ‘I know you don’t really like accepting help – it goes against your desire to be independent, but you shouldn’t, you know. I like being philanthropic. Seb would say it massages my ego, being nice.’
‘I’ve accepted a lot of help from you already—’ Fran began.
‘But you haven’t wanted to. It’s nearly killed you, coming here, asking about the cheese room, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was very small.
‘Well, you’ve done it and I think you should feel proud of yourself.’ Antony smiled in a way that suddenly made him a thousand times more attractive. And he’d been quite attractive before.
‘One day I’d really like to do something for you. Something you’d really appreciate,’ she said on a flood of gratitude. Then she remembered – his generosity might not be entirely unselfish. ‘Except sell you the farm, if I inherit it,’ she finished quickly.
He laughed properly now and she couldn’t help noticing how his throat rippled and how good his teeth were. Gratitude is making me susceptible, she decided. ‘I’d better go. I’m visiting Amy now.’
‘I’d say “give her my love”,’ Antony said, ‘but I don’t think she’d appreciate it.’
‘I’m sure she’ll feel differently when I tell her how helpful you’re being.’
‘Don’t tell her.’ He was very definite. ‘It will worry her, make her suspicious about my motives.’
‘I could explain—’
‘No. She’s disliked my family for three generations or so. Nothing you could tell her about me is going to make her feel differently.’
Fran regarded him, good-looking, powerful and, to her, extremely kind, and felt a sudden stab of discomfort. Was it wrong of her to take advantage of his kindness when Amy felt like that about him? It probably was. But what alternative did she have?
He sensed her conflict and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it, Fran. Just don’t tell Amy. I’m not as wicked as she thinks. Really.’
‘But are you wicked at all?’ said Fran, aware of his hand which he hadn’t taken away.
He laughed. ‘Well, no one’s perfect!’ Now he did remove his hand. ‘Go and see your Auntie Amy. I hope she’s well.’
Amy was in excellent form. Given where she had just come from and what her head was full of, Fran would have preferred it to have been one of her more sleepy days. She decided to give her progress report on the fireplace and broach the subject of the supper club.
‘We’re waiting for the sweep to give the chimney the all-clear,’ she said, after the weather, the state of the food in the care home and whether the local agricultural show would go ahead this year had all been discussed.
‘Sweep? Tig’s got brushes, he’ll sweep the chimney for you.’
‘Yes, he has, but I want to make sure the chimney’s safe before we use it. We need a man with a camera he can put up there, and check for cracks.’
Amy tutted. ‘People make such a fuss these days.’ By people she meant Fran.
‘It would be a shame if the house burnt down because there was a chimney fire,’ said Fran, rattled.
‘I’ve no idea why you felt you had to take the fireplace out in the first place. I paid good money for that fireplace, years ago,’ Amy grumbled. ‘Very economical on coal.’
‘Anyway, moving on from fireplaces, I’ve decided to have a supper club in the farm.’ Amy’s look gave Fran permission to continue. ‘It’s a fairly new idea. People come and eat dinner at your house – or rather supper – and they pay what they think it’s worth.’
‘Why?’ demanded Amy.
‘Why would they pay? Because they’ve had a good meal, I hope.’
‘But why would you want to invite people for a meal and then expect them to pay? We never charged people in the old days.’
‘No, well, it is a very new concept’ – Fran felt that in Amy’s eyes anything that happened after the Second World War was new – ‘but I want to meet more local people and let them know about the cheese. And then I can sell it. I have a small stock of the various kinds in the fridge.’
‘Have you met many local people already?’
Fran could have sworn that Amy was a mind reader and knew what subjects Fran wanted to avoid. ‘Not that many. There’s Tig of course, and I’ve met his mother. I’ve got Issi, my frie
nd staying at the moment.’ She was hoping Amy would express a desire to meet Issi, who was in town, scouring the charity shops for vintage pie dishes while Fran was visiting Amy.
‘Have you been obliged to have anything to do with the scoundrel next door?’
Fran wished she could lie but couldn’t because (a) she wasn’t good at it and (b) Amy would be able to tell instantly that she was lying.
‘Actually, Antony has been very helpful—’
‘Antony, is it? Christian-name terms! Don’t forget that any help he offers while he’s pretending to be neighbourly is only to make the property better for him when he fools you into selling it to him!’
‘Really, Amy—’
‘Mark my words! He’s up to something if he’s being helpful.’
As Fran hadn’t had a chance to tell Amy about the track or his generous offer to make a cheese room, she suspected Amy knew about the track at least. ‘He has been brilliant sending good people to repair the track,’ she said defiantly. ‘The milk tanker couldn’t always get up it, you know.’
‘It managed perfectly well in my day!’ said Amy.
Fran realised that Amy had probably forgotten her last months on the farm and how difficult they had been. ‘It’s nice to have a good track,’ said Fran.
‘Are you selling the milk to the co-op?’
Fran wondered who the mole was. Who knew she was making cheese with the milk and not selling it? She sighed. It could be lots of people. ‘No, I’m making cheese. I thought I’d told you.’ She knew she hadn’t told Amy that the co-op had practically sacked her and that she was living off her savings, more or less.
‘Then you don’t need a fancy new track!’
‘About the cheese,’ said Fran, feeling it was better to just ignore this remark, given that Amy seemed to have had chilli powder or some anger-producing additive with her breakfast. ‘I would like to make a Cheddar-type cheese. Will you tell me where the quarry is? Where you used to mature the cheese when you made it?’
‘No,’ said Amy. ‘If you’re so keen on cheese you can find it yourself. I didn’t leave you my farm so you could consort with the enemy and let him pay for you to have a new track.’