by Katie Fforde
Issi came in with empty canapé plates and glasses stacked on a tray. ‘I can’t believe the washing up has started before the meal is on the table! Where shall I put this?’ Every surface appeared to be covered with plates of beetroot salad, including Amy’s ironing board.
‘We need another tray or five really,’ said Fran, mentally cursing herself for forgetting something so basic.
‘Tell you what, I’ll empty this lot into this cardboard box and then fill up the tray. Tig’s here. He’ll serve salad if you ask him.’
‘Thanks, Issi,’ said Fran. ‘It’s great having you here. You’re always so calm.’
Issi made a dismissive noise and started putting plates on the tray. ‘We take it in turns. I’m calm for you, and you’re calm for me when I need it.’
The hardest part was getting the food to the tables, trays notwithstanding. There was hardly any space to walk between the chairs and there had to be a lot of reaching over and passing. But people didn’t seem to mind, Tig and Seb helped with corkscrews, and only a few people had forgotten to ‘bring their own’ with regard to wine.
When at last the cheese boards (made by Tig with an old oak bough and his lathe) were on the tables, and everyone was tucking in, Issi came back into the kitchen.
‘You’ve got to go out there now,’ she said to Fran. ‘Everyone wants to congratulate you.’
‘OK.’ Although she knew this was part of the deal and she wasn’t usually shy, now she just wanted to stay in the kitchen and wash up.
She was very pleased with the meal. She’d tasted a crust of pastry and knew it was delicious, as was the rich pie filling which was tasty and not too gamey. The vegetables were mostly perfect, though a few carrots may have been a little too al dente for some.
The chocolate tart had been pretty good, although too late she worried about serving pastry for two courses, and the mousse might have separated on a few of them. But she’d been more than happy with the cheese. A couple were home-made but there was a very fine local blue cheese and a spectacular Cheddar-type she decided was the standard she was aiming for, if ever she made hard cheese herself.
She ducked into the scullery and peeked at herself at the small, spotty mirror that hung there. Her hair was frizzy and she had no make-up left on, but it was too late to redo herself. She’d have to brave it out.
She went through to the sitting room, wishing she’d had time to have a glass of wine or something during the evening, to soften her sudden anxiety.
The moment she appeared, Antony was there, putting his arm round her waist.
‘Here she is, our marvellous chef for the evening. I know you all want to show your appreciation.’
Much to Fran’s embarrassment, everyone broke into enthusiastic applause. She looked round the tables at the smiling, congratulatory faces. Some she recognised from the dinner party Antony had taken her to: there was Caroline and her husband Julian, Erica, a couple of men she’d seen before and then – standing out among the crowd because she wasn’t even remotely smiling – Megan, and she was looking daggers at her.
Antony went on. ‘I think you will all agree we have enjoyed restaurant-standard food in a truly original and delightful setting. Fran will kill me for saying this, but can I suggest you are generous in your contributions for the food tonight? Then she might be persuaded to do it all again.’
There was another huge round of applause and then people started the awkward process of getting up from their chairs.
Fran went back to the kitchen. Issi was helping people find their coats and Seb and Tig were on hand to receive the envelopes that had been left on the table for the contributions. Antony had gone to talk to Megan; Fran had seen him make his way through the crowd towards her.
She had hardly had time to start on the washing up when people started visiting her. The first was Erica, the older woman she’d met at Caroline and Julian’s.
‘That was amazing,’ she said without preamble. ‘The cheese particularly.’
‘I didn’t make all the cheese,’ said Fran quickly, sorry that she hadn’t. ‘Only the soft ones.’
‘Oh, I know you didn’t make the hard cheese, or the blue – I know those makers. But I have a stall in the farmers’ market and I’d love it if you’d let me sell your cheese. You’d have to make sure it was being made in properly hygienic conditions, all that annoying but important stuff.’ She smiled. ‘But you’d want to do that anyway?’
‘Of course,’ said Fran. ‘I’d love to talk to you about it all sometime.’
‘Me too. I was going to see if you could come and have coffee or something. Not everyone wants to talk about cheese.’ Erica smiled again.
‘I know. And I’d love to find out everything you know about it.’
They didn’t chat for too much longer because seemingly everyone wanted to congratulate her personally. Fran began to relax. It really had been a success.
Fran thought everyone must have gone and Issi was organising the washing up with Mrs Brown when Megan appeared.
‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘I was just chatting to Antony about Mrs Flowers. I wanted to know how you were related. He thought she was some sort of cousin?’
‘Why would you want to know that?’ asked Issi, coming through from the kitchen to collect some glasses, possibly aware she was speaking for Fran, too.
‘I am fascinated by genealogy,’ said Megan swiftly, as if she had been expecting this question. ‘Everyone is, these days.’
‘Oh,’ said Fran, ‘well, I don’t know exactly. My father was a cousin of Amy’s but a fairly distant one. Although I’m sure genealogy is fascinating, I haven’t had much time for it.’
‘Not even when you found out about this farm?’
It did seem a bit odd now, Fran could see. ‘Well, I was prepared to take Amy’s calculations as to how we were related and my mother agreed with her. It wasn’t a complete bolt from the blue.’
Megan shrugged as if not understanding Fran’s laissez-faire attitude and changed the subject. ‘It was quite a nice meal. Did you mean to serve pastry for two courses or was that a mistake?’
‘It was a mistake,’ said Fran. ‘But no one but you has mentioned it.’
‘They probably didn’t like to,’ said Megan. ‘Although the pastry was quite nice.’
‘Quite nice?’ raged Fran when Megan had gone. ‘Quite nice! That pastry – both pastries were fabulous!’
‘They were,’ said Antony. ‘Now come and sit by the fire and have a big drink. We’re going to clear up.’
In spite of her protests, Antony led her to the fireside, where someone, presumably him, had cleared away the nearest table and found an armchair. The fire now blazed away.
Seb was there. ‘Now, what would you like?’ he asked. ‘Brandy?’
‘We haven’t got any.’
‘Seb never travels without a flask,’ said Antony, laughing.
‘That’s you, actually, mate,’ said Seb, ‘but I do happen to have a little drop of cognac that doesn’t taste half bad.’
Having been poured a large amount, Fran took a sip and then closed her eyes. It had been quite an evening.
Chapter Eleven
It was March and Fran gazed around happily. The room next to the old dairy had been made into a cheese room and the room next to it an equally hygienic store. It had been an amazing transformation made by a couple of builders well known to Antony and the rooms were both gleaming and sterile.
Now, all the walls were lined with wipeable surfaces. Wash-hand basins and sinks were installed in the dairy. Both floors had been resurfaced and there was a selection of new white wellies and Crocs that had to be worn if anyone entered. Inside was all other equipment a cheesemaker could desire. There were buckets, a cheese mill, cutters, moulds, a pile of vivid blue cloths for wrapping hard cheeses. It all looked amazing.
It had also been passed fit for purpose by the health and hygiene officer. Fran had been half delighted and half appalled to realise he had been at the
supper club. As a trained chef with the right certificates she knew about hygiene and how important it was, but it was a bit embarrassing to think she’d been feeding this man unawares. Supposing a stray hair had crept in somewhere and ended up on his plate?
But he was youngish, kind and very interested in cheese, and had declared the cheese room perfect. All Fran needed to do now was work out how to sell the cheese and start paying Antony back – it must have cost him a fortune. And also, she realised less cheerfully, start wearing away at the farm’s overdraft, which she had discovered was substantial.
But she was feeling very upbeat and positive about life when she set off on her regular afternoon walk. She told herself the same as she’d told Issi, that she was eager to see if the primroses, replanted after the supper club, had taken. Really she was looking for the quarry. She knew it was on the land, but no one would give her directions to it, or give her a hint where she should look. Maybe only Amy knew? And she wasn’t telling. Perhaps it was a test, something she had to find before Amy would really trust her with her beloved farm.
She was on her way back, having failed yet again, but feeling better for the exercise anyway. She had decided to invite Antony for dinner, to thank him for his kindness, with Issi and Tig for support, when she turned the corner and saw a man peering into the sitting-room windows.
Fran bit back a scream of shock, suddenly yearning for a dog who would alert Issi and Tig that there was a stranger about. Who on earth was he and what the hell was he doing?
‘Excuse me!’ she said loudly, sounding braver than she felt. ‘Can I help you?’
The man turned as she arrived by the front door. He was tall and suntanned with a narrow face that just missed being good-looking. ‘Are you Fran Duke?’
‘Sorry, who are you?’ asked Fran.
‘I’m Roy Jones. If you’re Fran, I’m your long-lost cousin from Australia.’
It took Fran a moment or two to take this in, but then she realised he must be the other distant relation that Amy had tried to contact and who hadn’t replied to her letter. It took her aback.
‘Oh! Why are you here?’
He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Why do you think? I’ve come to have a look at the place. I’m going to inherit it, after all.’
Fran didn’t know what to say. She never assumed she would inherit although other people seemed to, but for this man to take it all away from her was an outrage. She coughed.
‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ said Roy.
Fran managed a smile. ‘We’ll go round the back. No one uses the front door in the country.’ As they walked round the house to the back door, which she had left unlocked and now felt terrible about, she asked, ‘Where’s your car? I assume you must have hired one?’
‘I left it at the bottom. I didn’t know what the track was like. Didn’t want to get stuck.’
As the track now looked and was in perfectly good order, Fran didn’t quite buy this. He’d left his car at the bottom because he wanted to sneak up and look at the farm without anyone knowing. If she hadn’t arrived back when she did, he’d have found the back door unlocked and walked straight in. She shuddered.
She opened the door and ushered him into the kitchen. She put the kettle on the range. ‘How long are you planning on staying in the area?’
‘Well, that rather depends,’ he said, looking at her oddly.
‘On what?’ Fran felt cornered. Was she expected to offer him a bed for the night?
‘On how long the old lady takes to die.’
This came like a blow. Surely Roy didn’t mean that? It was outrageous! ‘You mean, you want to get to know her before she dies?’
‘Oh no. I’m just going to make sure she gets the measure of me before she dies. Nice for her to know the man who’s going to take up burden of the old farm.’
‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ Fran muttered, finding coffee and spooning it into the cafetière.
‘We go in for plain speaking where I come from,’ he said. ‘We don’t pussyfoot around.’
‘So where will you stay? Will you rent a cottage or something?’
‘Oh, I’m staying here. You’re here; I should be here too.’
Fran suddenly needed to sit down, but as she had a boiling kettle in her hand she couldn’t. ‘But I’m looking after the farm—’
‘I probably know more about farming than you do.’
Fran poured water on to the coffee and then found milk, put some into a jug and put it in the microwave. She wasn’t going to panic; she was going to take her time, breathe, and give the impression she was in control.
‘So why the sudden interest in the farm?’ she asked. ‘Amy told me you didn’t reply to her letter.’
‘I didn’t know what a nice little property it was. At least the site is good. When I inherit it, I’ll knock down this place and put up a few houses in its place.’
‘I’m not sure you’d get planning permission to do that, and it would break Amy’s heart.’
‘She’ll be dead by then, sweetheart.’
‘She may not leave the property to you.’
‘Oh, I think she will. I’m a farmer, and my connection to her is closer than yours is. That’ll be important to her.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a man, you see. And to women of her generation, that counts. And I’m a much better farmer than you will ever be.’
‘But Amy ran this farm pretty successfully for years. On her own. And she’s a woman.’ Fran felt breathless with indignation.
‘Did she, though?’
Fran poured coffee and got the milk out which she put it in her own mug before offering it to him. She didn’t respond to this question. Instead she asked what she really wanted to know. ‘How did you find out it was a “nice little property”, as you put it?’
He shrugged and gave a smile which was almost a sneer. ‘Let’s just say, a little bird told me.’
‘Who?’
It was definitely a sneer this time. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
Fran sensed he wanted to go on teasing her with this so she changed the subject.
‘Well, I’m afraid you can’t stay here. I have a friend living with me. There isn’t the space.’
‘A man friend, or a woman friend?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
He shrugged. ‘It makes a difference. If it’s a man friend presumably you share a bedroom. If it’s a woman, you’ll have to tell her to leave. I’m going to live here and I’ve as much right to as you have.’
Fran thought rapidly. There were actually a couple of unused bedrooms. But did she really have to have this man in the house?’
‘I’m not sure Amy would approve of you living here with me. She’s quite old-fashioned.’
‘I don’t know why you think that. After all, she’d prefer me being here than you running around with the enemy.’
‘What do you mean?’ Although Fran thought she knew. She was also fairly sure who’d tracked him down and suggested to him it was worth his while to come over.
‘The neighbour.’
‘Which neighbour?’ She wasn’t going to help him out here.
‘Antony Arlingham.’
Fran took a sip of coffee. It was cold and bitter and perfectly summed up how she felt. Megan had done a very good job with her interest in genealogy.
‘You see, I know all your dirty little secrets, Francesca.’
‘I don’t have any secrets, Roy, dirty or otherwise. I suggest we go and visit Amy together and see what she feels about you moving into Hill Top. She’s given me a year to make a go of this farm. If I succeed, she’s also said she’ll leave it to me. I think you’ve missed your chance.’
He shook his head slowly. ‘No. She’ll leave it to me, without me having to do a thing. I’m the closest male descendant of her late husband, and this farm is mine. She only offered it to you because I didn’t get back to her. Once she sees me, she’ll leave it to me.’
Fran looked
at her watch. ‘She’ll be having her lunch about now and she has a nap afterwards. I suggest you go away and sort yourself out somewhere to stay and then we’ll go and see Amy together at about two.’
‘That’s not going to happen. I’ll go and get my car and bring it up, while you get my room ready.’
The moment he was gone, Fran sent Issi a text, hoping she was somewhere where she could receive it. Then she went upstairs slowly, wondering how her life could have gone so wrong in such a short time. This morning she’d been full of hope and optimism, excited about her shiny new cheese room, and now it seemed as if it could all be taken away from her by some man from Australia, who didn’t care about the house, who hadn’t so far shown any interest in the farm and who was basically going to hang around ‘until the old lady dies’ so he could inherit, and destroy everything Amy had spent a lifetime building up. She couldn’t let it happen!
She realised Issi probably wouldn’t get her text until she and Roy were on their way to town, but she might be back in the house before she and Roy returned. That would be comforting. Issi might even bring Tig. Frantically she tried to remember if Tig would be milking and decided that he probably would.
She heard Roy’s car and ran downstairs. She would have whisked him into her car and off down the drive to visit Amy but realised she had to give him time to use the bathroom and put his bag in his room.
‘Your room is up the stairs, second on the right, at the end of the corridor.’ He followed her and she went on with the tour. ‘The bathroom’s there round the corner. There’s a hand-held shower and the hot water is better in the evening.’
‘I’d be more comfortable in a double bedroom—’ Roy began.
Fran was prepared for this. ‘I’m sure you would be, but possession is nine-tenths of the law and I was here first.’
‘Fair dinkum.’
‘I can’t believe you said that!’
‘No worries. I only said it to annoy you.’
Fran glared at him. ‘While we’re annoying each other, can I have proof that you are who you say you are?’
His eyes narrowed, never leaving hers as he reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. The envelope was identical to the one she had received from Amy and she could recognise her writing from where she stood. He handed it to her. ‘That good enough for you?’