by Jenny Colgan
She paused for two seconds.
‘BETTER NOW?’
Flora found herself half smiling and rubbed her face fiercely.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am.’ She blinked.
‘I YIKE JAM,’ announced Agot cheerfully. And Flora thought about it, and looked up at the field of wild raspberry, and thought, well, there was no point in leaving it, after all, and removed a jar, wiping the dust off the top lightly with her finger.
The scones in Agot’s paws were rather lumpy. Flora, on the other hand, had forgotten the simple pleasure of shaping things and the feel of the dough in her hands, and she cut them out with the little shaped cutter and lined them up neatly on the buttered tray.
‘SCONES!’ shouted Agot loudly as Innes came in from the fields for lunch.
‘Oh great!’ he said instinctively, then recoiled slightly as she insisted that he try one of her slightly charred offerings. Flora’s, in contrast, were absolutely perfect, and she felt ridiculously proud of herself. Innes even looked at her with a bit of respect in his eye.
‘Can I have one of each?’ he asked tactfully.
The scones were still warm, and the butter melted on them beautifully, and then came the glistening jam.
It was, Flora knew, just jam. But with its deep sweetness, the slightly tart edge of the raspberries, came memories of her mother, standing right there, stirring frantically, her face pink with the heat, warning them off if they got too close to the boiling sugar. Jam day was always an exciting rush; a prolonged wait for them to be allowed to try the very first batch, spread on freshly baked bread, with melting butter from the dairy. A jeely piece, her father had called it, and Flora had eaten it every day, coming home from school up the dark track, the evenings getting shorter and shorter until it felt like they were living in the night all the time; but always, when she came in, there it was: that fresh bread smell and the sweetly spreading jam.
Without speaking, Flora watched Innes go through exactly the same process. He lifted the scone to his lips, but before he took a bite, he breathed in the scent of it and, briefly, closed his eyes. Flora flicked her gaze away, embarrassed that she’d caught him in a moment so personal, one that he clearly hadn’t expected to be witnessed. There was a pause. Then he bit into the scone.
‘Oi, sis,’ he said. ‘I think you could probably sell some of these down at the caff.’
‘Shut up,’ said Flora, but she was smiling.
Agot, meanwhile had taken full advantage of their distracted attention to wolf down three of the scones – not, Flora noticed, her own. Then she pulled her father down to her level, with a look of something very important to impart.
‘DADDY!’ she whispered loudly.
‘What is it, small fry?’ he said, crouching down on his hefty haunches.
‘I YIKE FLORA!’
Flora found herself grinning.
‘AND!’ she went on, sticky fingers grabbing at her father’s arm. ‘AND JAM!’
‘Well, yes,’ said Innes. ‘So you should. Your grandma made this jam.’
‘GRANDJAM!’ said Agot, and they both smiled at that.
‘Where’s Fintan?’ said Flora.
Innes shrugged.
‘Dairy, probably. Hides out there all the time these days. Don’t know what he’s doing in there. Nothing good.’
‘Do you think I should take him a scone?’
Innes smiled ruefully.
‘Peace offering?’
‘Is it that obvious?’ said Flora. ‘Why is he so down on me all the time?’
Innes shrugged.
‘It’s not just you. He’s down on all of us, haven’t you noticed?’
He looked at the cooling tray of scones.
‘Better leave nine for Hamish.’
She made up another couple, and some fresh tea, and headed out, leaving Agot chattering into Innes’ patient ear. Bramble, she noticed, got up too, and followed her slowly. She scratched his head and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Innes. This dog was fond of her, and that was that.
She crossed the open courtyard, through which chickens and ducks roamed. Flora wasn’t fond of the chickens, even though everyone loved their eggs. There was something about their beady eyes; the way they ganged up on the ducks and stole their corn, and triumphantly – and, Flora thought, on purpose – pooed on the farmhouse steps. Occasionally she’d come in the house and find one unexpectedly on the sofa, which caused quite a lot of kerfuffle. Bramble, as useless at guard-dogging as at basically everything, kept very quiet when the chickens arrived, otherwise they attempted to peck at him and chivvy him about. They were very bossy chickens.
‘Move,’ she said to them as they eyed her suspiciously. ‘Come on, out the way.’
‘DON’T KICK CHOOKS!’ came a voice behind her.
She turned round. Agot was standing there, looking at her severely.
‘YOU DON’T GET NICE EGGS IF YOU KICK CHOOKS,’ she said, in a voice that indicated that she had personal experience of this.
‘You’re right,’ said Flora. ‘You shouldn’t kick chooks.’
Agot beamed, happy to have been correct in her analysis, and Flora continued on her way.
The dairy was on the right coming out of the house, slightly raised to make it easier to sluice and for the truck to get in and park. Compared to the flat grey elegance of the farmhouse, it was a rather more basic building, with corrugated-iron sides and long lines of machines.
To the side of the dairy was the wet room, where her mother used to spin butter; they had also occasionally hired a dairymaid to supplement their income in the winter months. Flora hadn’t been in it since she’d got back. It had a heavy smell, and chill winds blew in through the gap between the shed and the ground. She hadn’t liked it as a child either; it was so cold and odd, even though she loved the butter as much as anyone else.
She knocked at the door, feeling as she did so how strange that was; it was barely a door at all, just a bit of iron knocked up on hinges.
‘Fintan?’
Her voice echoed around the dairy. It was empty of cows, of course, done for the morning, then a lad from town sorted them out in the evening. Their essence remained, but Flora, after wrinkling her nose constantly for the first day or so, had finally ceased to notice it, or if she did, she found the warm scent oddly comforting.
There was a pause. Then a suspicious ‘Aye?’
Flora rolled her eyes.
‘Fintan, it’s obviously me,’ she said. ‘I brought you something. If you like.’
The wet-room door was pulled open a tiny crack. Fintan was wearing a large old sweater covered in holes. His hair was getting seriously long now; it was a bit ridiculous. And his beard was equally unkempt.
‘What?’
Cold air came out through the gap.
‘It’s freezing in here,’ said Flora. The contrast to the sun-trap courtyard was absolutely noticeable.
‘Yeah, it has to be,’ said Fintan. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a farm thing, you wouldn’t understand.’
He went to shut the door.
‘Fintan. Please,’ said Flora.
He glanced down at the tray she was carrying. She’d put the jam pot next to the plate.
‘Is that…?’
‘I didn’t think she’d mind.’
‘It hasn’t gone off?’
‘No,’ said Flora. ‘She was brilliant at making jam.’
‘She was brilliant at lots of things,’ said Fintan.
There was a pause.
Then he sighed and relented, opening the door.
‘Well then,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘Want to come in?’ He looked at the jam again.
‘I’m amazed you didn’t all guzzle it before,’ said Flora.
‘I know. It… it felt wrong, somehow. To eat the only things we had left of her.’
Flora paused.
‘I think she’d have wanted us to eat it.’
Fintan nodded.
‘Yes. I s
uppose she probably would.’
‘Agot definitely thinks we should eat it.’
‘Well if Agot thinks so…’
He smiled, took a scone and ate a large mouthful. Then he paused.
‘That’s exactly how she used to make them.’
‘Well, I used her recipe.’
He snapped up another scone in one bite. His face contorted for a moment.
‘Amazing. Weird. Amazing.’
Flora handed over the plate and the cup of tea. She glanced around.
‘What are you doing in here anyway?’
There was a pause.
‘Oh, well…’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Flora.
‘No, I want to but… don’t tell Dad and Hamish and Innes.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. They’d laugh at me.’
‘That would make a change from everyone just laughing at me the entire time.’
‘That’s true. So maybe I won’t tell you.’
‘No! Tell me! What is it?’
Fintan beckoned her in, then closed the door behind them as if expecting to be overheard.
‘I was just experimenting,’ he said.
‘What with?’
‘Well, with… Sit down.’
Confused, Flora did as she was told.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’re to try this and tell me what you think.’
The room had a huge deep sink, metal surfaces and a hose; it had to be kept spotlessly clean at all times due to the possibility of bacteria entering the milk. Fintan disappeared into a corner and returned with a huge cloth-covered circle; as Flora focused, she saw that there were several of these sitting on the shelves.
He unwrapped it very carefully, as if undressing a baby. Inside was a huge, soft-looking cheese. Flora looked at him, her eyebrows raised, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her whatsoever. He took a tiny sharp knife and nicked a sliver off the wheel, proffering it to her.
‘Seriously?’ said Flora. ‘You made this?’
‘Just try it.’
‘Just try it? You get cheese wrong, you could kill me.’
‘I’m not going to kill you.’
‘I’m not saying you’d do it on purpose.’
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten loads. I’ve been working on this stuff for years.’
‘Years?’
‘Yes. It’s been… kind of a hobby.’
‘Years?’
‘Just try it, will you?’
Flora took the knife, then, not entirely trusting herself, picked up the cheese with her fingers and popped it into her mouth.
It was one of the most exquisite things she had ever tasted. It had the sharp bite of an aged Cheddar, but a softer creaminess, more like blue cheese, with a huge depth of flavour behind it.
It was astonishing.
She blinked.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. Then she handed back the knife. ‘Give me some more.’
Slowly, a huge grin crossed Fintan’s face.
‘Seriously? You like it.’
‘Seriously! It’s amazing.’
Fintan shot a worried look at the door.
‘Don’t tell them,’ he said. ‘I mean it. Please. Don’t.’
‘Why not?’ She looked around. ‘There’s loads of it. How long exactly have you been doing this?’
He shrugged.
‘Oh, you know. I just… I just needed to get away when… you know.’
Flora did know. When their mother had gone into hospital and, really, never come home again.
‘Well, are you going to do something with it?’
‘I don’t… All Innes cares about is money.’
‘Well, it’s his job to.’
‘And Dad complains that I’m work-shy.’
‘Do they really not know what you’re doing?’
‘They don’t care, do they? It’s just Funny Fintan, doing his thing.’
He sighed. Flora looked at him.
‘Families aren’t easy,’ she said.
‘No,’ said Fintan. ‘They fricking aren’t.’
‘You can swear in front of me,’ said Flora, almost laughing.
‘Oh, is swearing cool in London, then?’
Flora looked longingly at the cheese.
‘Let me have a little more?’
Fintan half smiled.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah! I want Agot to try it. Does it melt?’
‘Should do, it’s a hard cheese that tastes soft.’
Flora picked up a hunk.
‘I’ll say I bought it in London.’
‘Then they’ll never try it.’
Flora turned on the grill and heated the cheese up on top of the bread until its edges had turned a delicious aromatic brown with a slight crust, and the pale yellow middle was bubbling. The bread was fresh and just a little scorched round the edges, and Flora ground some black pepper on the top and passed it to Agot, who wolfed the whole thing as soon as it was cool enough to eat.
‘YUM!’ she said, rubbing her tummy approvingly. ‘THA’S GOOD.’
Flora smiled, pleased. It was fun, feeding other people. Everyone ate their fill, and she exchanged smiles with Fintan at how appreciative they all were, even for something as simple as toasted cheese, and for once, the evening was calm.
Chapter Eighteen
‘This is total and utter BS.’ Joel was grouching around the office and Margo was trying to placate him again, without much success. ‘Why hasn’t he seen her already?’
Margo shrugged. ‘Busy. Or just thinks she’s too junior.’
‘She’s not too junior to be kicking about there on holiday at his expense. This could be a big client for us and she’s listening to local gossip… doing God knows what.’ He grimaced. ‘Oh God. I’m going to have to go. How the hell do I get to this godforsaken place anyway?’
‘You can take the train overnight, then a ferry…’
‘Screw that. Seriously. You can’t fly?’
Which is how, furiously, Joel found himself on the tiny prop plane taking off from Inverness with a handful of birdwatchers and oil men, staring out of the window at a white sky and feeling entirely frustrated at the whole ridiculous business. He disliked the sucking-up-to-clients part of his job, especially for something so trivial. He liked the cut and thrust of the courtroom; he thrived on the tense all-nighters that made his staff miserable; the tough negotiating and, above all, winning.
He looked down. Whoever knew this tiny country could go on so long? They were flying over endless sea. It had been vastly colder than London as he’d walked across the tarmac and boarded the little twelve-seater Loganair plane. He was going to turn this around, do the charming thing, which he didn’t enjoy, set the girl in the right direction then get back to London as soon as he could. She’d sounded absolutely startled to hear from him that morning. Had probably forgotten how to work already.
The sun broke through the clouds as they started to circle down towards Mure, the fishing trawlers plashing out across the wide blue waters; but Joel was deeply engrossed in briefs for other jobs, and saw nothing until they landed in front of the unprepossessing shed that passed for an airport, bumping and jolting along the ground.
After the calm evening, Flora had been unutterably panicked by the phone call. She’d expected to hear from Colton’s office; she’d expected to hear from Margo, snootily asking her why the hell she wasn’t getting more work done. Kai had suggested it might happen, but when she’d seen the unfamiliar number come up on her handset, she hadn’t been thinking much at all.
Stuttering good morning, she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror above the old dressing table in her little room. Surrounding it were the rosettes from her Highland dancing. Her mother had carefully kept them all; them and the cups. She’d shaken her head, half embarrassed, half pleased.
Her hair was sticking out at all angles. It was 8 a.m.; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept th
is late. It was all this fresh air; it was knocking her out. It was only since she’d got back that she’d realised how sleep-deprived she actually was. It felt like she was catching up on years of light London sleep, always half awake, waiting to hear burglars, or returning flatmates, or police helicopters, car chases, neighbourhood parties.
Here, apart from the occasional barking seal and scuttling wildlife, there was nothing, nothing at all; just fresh air and the distant lulling of the waves if you really listened hard, and she had been completely and utterly knocked out every night.
‘Did I wake you?’ said the dry, laconic voice, and Flora had leapt up as if he could see her.
‘Um, hi, Mr Binder.’
‘Joel is fine.’
‘Um, I’m just… I’m waiting. I’ve been making calls but I keep getting put off and I’m not sure whether I should stay here or… I mean, I’ve been keeping on top of my paperwork.’
This was a stone-cold lie, and Flora wondered if he could tell over the phone line that she was blushing. She cursed herself. Bramble woofed encouragingly from next door and she could hear Hamish hollering and looking for his shoes. This place was a madhouse.
‘I’m arriving today.’
At first Flora didn’t understand what he was saying. It was noisy and confused and seemed so very unlikely.
‘You’re what?’
Joel sighed with frustration. ‘I’ll get Margo to send you the details. You haven’t seen him at all? I thought it was small where you are.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Nobody sees him, as far as I can tell.’
‘What else do you know about him? Have you spoken to everyone? Don’t tell them what you’re doing.’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’
There was a pause, and Flora swore to herself for saying something so stupid. He let out a weary sigh.
‘I’ll get Margo to send you the flight details.’