‘She was on her way out to watch the sunset when she called.’
‘America,’ said Viv disparagingly. ‘When you could live here.’
She nodded through the glass windows of the café I’d driven us to at a National Trust property. The scenery was lush and green and the rolling fields and long silver ribbon of the lake below us were breathtaking. But there was no way we could sit outside today; the temperature had plummeted and the rain had barely stopped all day.
‘Yeah, sun, sea and sand,’ I rolled my eyes mischievously, ‘I don’t know how she stands it.’
Viv sniffed.
‘I thought Poppy might come with us today?’ she said.
‘I did invite her but Dan was taking Bart to his first auction with twenty lambs,’ I said, handing her the milk jug. ‘She wanted to be the one to show him the ropes.’
Viv chuckled. ‘Chip off the old block.’
‘There’s no doubting she’s a Greengrass.’
‘How’s Anna’s lad doing on the farm, enjoying it?’
I paused before answering. ‘He’s strong, which goes down well with Dan, and he’s keen.’
Privately I thought that he was more keen on Poppy than on shepherding, but as I’d got my head bitten off by Anna when I’d mentioned that, I kept it to myself.
‘I’ll never forget the first time Dan brought you home and made you help him fix a puncture on his car in the yard.’ She helped herself to jam and piled it on to her scone.
‘Neither will I,’ I said indignantly. ‘I got oil on my new jeans.’
‘Mike watched you pick up that heavy tyre and dunk it in a tin bath of water to check for leaks and he looked at me and said, “She’ll do.”’
I blinked at her, my heart twisting. ‘He approved of me?’
She patted my hand. ‘We both did. We knew you’d make a great farmer’s wife. Eventually,’ she added in a lower voice.
I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to Dan and me not getting married straight away or whether I took a long time to fill her shoes; either way, Viv didn’t hand out compliments very often, so I’d take it.
‘Thanks. I don’t think Dan really wants me to take on something that will take me away from the farm. I think he thinks baking pies is frivolous.’
‘Raising those daft Soays is frivolous,’ she said huffily. ‘And anyway, what he means is that he likes having you as free labour. I never did, you know.’
‘You never worked on the farm?’
I cast my mind back to life on the farm when Viv and Mike had been running it together. Memories of Mike pootling about on his little tractor, sometimes with little Oscar and Otis squished beside him, but always with his favourite dog, Bess, running alongside. We still had that tractor in the shed, it was a vintage machine now and Dan always said that one day he’d do it up and take it to shows. Mike had loved being on the farm, never wanted to leave it, not even for a holiday, and Viv was never far away either: shelling peas on the picnic table outside, or red-faced and perspiring as she decanted hot sticky blackcurrant jam into jars, or, come autumn, wrapping apples in paper to keep them for winter.
‘Not shepherding, no. It was part of the deal. I helped out with lambing, of course. Then it was all hands to the pump. But not the rest of the time. When the kiddies were small, I worked as a dinner lady. I was an Avon lady for a while. That was like flogging a dead horse round here; all the women I knew only wore make-up on their birthdays and at Christmas. But I had this sudden yearning for a dose of glamour. It was fun while it lasted. Then Naomi’s twins came along and I helped with them. And then, of course, you turned up, scared of sheep and needing training.’
‘You make me sound like one of the dogs!’
‘Kids, dogs, husbands, they all need taking in hand at one time or another.’
‘So I should go ahead with my pie idea, you reckon, and try to win Dan over?’
‘My son has had his own way for long enough; it’ll be no bad thing for him to realize you’ve got aspirations too.’
My heart swelled with anticipation. Naomi was right, it didn’t matter whether I won the Cumbria’s Finest competition or not, just taking part had inspired me to give baking a go. I’d come to Sunnybank Farm and been absorbed into Dan’s life. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my own identity. Hetty’s Farmhouse Bakery would redress the balance. And for the first time in ages I felt excited for the future.
‘So what do you think of this pastry?’ I asked, looking at Viv’s scraped bowl.
‘What do you think?’ she replied with a chuckle, knowing exactly what I was going to say.
I leaned forward to whisper discreetly. ‘Soggy bottom.’
‘Yours is far nicer. Even than mine,’ said my mother-in-law, patting my hand. ‘You get my vote, love.’
And with Viv behind me, I thought as I floated home, how could I fail?
The following Tuesday Dan and I spent the afternoon moving the ewes and the twin lambs up on to the lower slopes after all the rain over the weekend. Cameron wasn’t working because he was sitting an exam at college and Poppy was due back from school any moment. The meadow, where they’d been, was too boggy now and hundreds of little feet had churned the ground to sludgy mud. Despite their thick fleeces, the sheep didn’t like the rain and had spent much of the last two days huddled in close to the wall and under the clump of hawthorn trees in the top corner. Now, though, the stiff wind was drying the grass out nicely and the swirling air made the lambs spring and kick and run around in gangs with excitement.
Their antics made Dan smile, I was glad to see. He was quiet today. It would have been his dad’s birthday and although he didn’t like talking about it, I knew he’d been up to the grave early this morning to pay his respects.
I was quiet too; my stomach was as churned up as the meadow. The results of the Cumbria’s Finest competition had been collated yesterday and Naomi and I had read through the details over a glass of wine in her cottage last night. There were fifteen entrants in my category. The winners would be contacted first and standard letters would be sent to the rest. My spring lamb, barley and thyme pie had been entered into the category of savoury Cumbrian pie and the farm shop was competing with nine others for best Cumbrian farm shop. We’d told ourselves we didn’t mind not winning, we were just happy to be involved in anything that helped promote food from the region, and then burst out laughing at our blatant lies.
There was another thing keeping me awake: the money I’d need to spend on the kitchen if I was going to make pies professionally. I’d done a bit of research and reckoned on a thousand pounds. The thought made me feel a bit sick; it was an awful lot of money to fritter away on what was little more than a whim. It was roughly how much we’d get at auction for a hundred lambs. And that was before we took our costs out of it.
‘One or two lame ones,’ shouted Dan, pointing at a cluster of energetic youngsters who were zigzagging across the long grass, enjoying themselves.
That was the thing with lambs: a poorly leg didn’t stop then joining in the fun, thus compounding the problem.
Dan whistled and Jake herded them in our direction. Dan caught hold of one of the limping lambs and checked its feet while I grabbed a gimmer and rolled her over, running my hands over her legs and feeling for injuries. She was smaller than some of the others and there was a sore on her back and two nasty-looking scabs on her knees.
‘I’ll give her a shot of antibiotics, if you’ve got one?’
Dan handed me a syringe from a leather pouch in his pocket, then jogged away to catch another lamb.
Suddenly Jake bolted off, sprang up on to the wall and began barking and wagging his tail. And there in the distance was Poppy, her school bag bumping on her hip as she ran. Close behind her was Naomi. Not wasting time using the gate, Poppy hopped over the wall and came careering towards me and the lamb.
‘Hello, darling!’ I looked up briefly. The lamb sensed I was distracted and bucked against me. ‘Whoa, whoa, calm down.’
>
‘Hey, Mum,’ she panted, her entire body bristling with energy. ‘Auntie Naomi drove me up the lane. Hurry up!’ she yelled at Naomi, who had taken the more civilized route through the gate.
‘Hetty, you’ve done it!’ cried Naomi, crashing the gate shut in her haste. She was waving something in her hand.
The noise of metal against metal made the flock turn and stare before scampering as far away as they could.
My heart pounded.
‘Right. I’ll be with you in two shakes of this lamb’s tail.’
Poppy huffed and started fidgeting in front of me.
I had thirty kilos of wriggly lamb between my knees and a loaded syringe. I took a deep breath to stop my heart racing as I plunged the needle into her thigh, trying to concentrate. I released the lamb, replaced the cap on the syringe and finally straightened up.
‘Hetty?’ Naomi’s breath was coming in short spurts, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘Did you hear me? You’ve won!’
She thrust the piece of paper at me. It had been battered by the wind but the Cumbria’s Finest logo in shades of green and brown was at the top and unmistakeably, in big bold letters, were the words:
GOLD-STAR WINNER OF CUMBRIA’S FINEST
Hetty’s Farmhouse Bakery Cumbrian Spring Lamb Pie
‘I’ve won.’ My voice emerged as a strangled croak, barely audible over the whoosh of my pulse in my ears. ‘My pie won.’
My head and my heart were a blur of emotions. I had achieved something. I’d done something well. I was a winner!
‘Yay for Mum!’ Poppy dropped her school bag and launched herself at me, squeezing me tight. ‘Is there a cash prize?’
I looked at Naomi who shook her head.
‘But you can use the winner’s logo on your packaging,’ she said.
‘Like a badge of honour,’ I said, returning Poppy’s hug.
‘What’s going on?’ Dan came to join us. I handed him the sheet of paper, my eyes bright with tears.
‘Congratulations, Hetty,’ said Naomi warmly. ‘I knew you could do it. The farm shop didn’t come anywhere so I’m glad there’s at least one winner in the family.’
I opened my mouth to commiserate but she flapped a hand.
‘This is your moment,’ she said and lowered her voice. ‘Also there’s a second page to the email with all the details on, you can read that yourself later.’
‘Good stuff, love,’ said Dan, passing back the email. ‘I’m chuffed for you. What does that mean now?’
‘Told you you’re good at pies. I’m so proud of you, Mum,’ Poppy squealed.
Mission accomplished.
‘It means …’ I looked from my daughter to my husband and swallowed. ‘It means everything.’
Chapter 11
Later that evening when we ate dinner, I picked up the email and read it through properly.
‘Listen to this!’ I exclaimed. ‘Regional category winners from around the UK are invited to submit an entry to the Britain’s Best Bites final to be held in London at the Hyde Gate Hotel in Bloomsbury.’ I lowered the page and stared at my family. ‘I had no idea about this!’
I hadn’t been to London for years. I felt a whoosh of elation and a tremor of nerves at the same time. ‘I can’t believe it; I’m going to London.’
Poppy leaned across me to read it too.
‘I’d love to go to London!’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘Can I come?’
I scanned the page for the date. ‘It’s the day after your birthday, the twenty-ninth of June, returning the next day. No, sorry, you’ll be at school, love.’
‘So unfair.’ Poppy’s shoulders slumped. Dan scraped his chair back from the table and went to consult the calendar on the wall.
‘You can’t go either, Hetty. The twenty-ninth is a Friday; we’ll be getting lambs ready for market. I might even take the ewes that day too. I can’t manage without you, I’m afraid.’ He shot me an apologetic look.
‘I’m sure you could,’ I teased. ‘It’s not like I’m that good with the lambs.’
‘Sorry, love.’ He picked up his plate and stacked it in the dishwasher. ‘Anyway, better to finish this pie lark on a high; you’re the best in Cumbria. Be content with that.’
Pie lark – I bristled a bit at that, wishing he’d take my endeavours more seriously.
‘Finish?’ I said indignantly. ‘I’ve only just started.’
‘I could stay off school and help, Dad?’ Poppy piped up, ever the chancer. ‘So that Mum can go.’
I scanned the rest of the email: Britain’s Best Bites awards to be handed out by a celebrity TV presenter … ‘And Harrison Finch is going to be there!’ I gasped. ‘He could potentially eat one of my pies and if I won, I’d get to meet him!’
‘Oh Dad,’ Poppy laughed, ‘you’ve got to let her go now. She’s always had the hots for him.’
‘I wonder if they’ll film the awards for an episode of Countryside Matters,’ I said dreamily.
‘It doesn’t matter if they do.’ Dan, tight-lipped, began to head back outside. ‘As I said, I need you here so you can’t go.’
The kitchen door slammed, leaving Poppy and me speechless.
Things were a bit frosty between me and Dan for the rest of the evening until about nine o’clock when he called to me from upstairs.
‘Hetty, can you come up please? I need you.’
He was standing at the bathroom door when I got there, looking very contrite.
‘Is everything okay?’ I scoured his face and hands for wounds, which was the normal reason he needed my assistance.
‘I hope so,’ he said, taking my hands in his. ‘I’m not very good at this sort of stuff,’ he said. ‘I don’t tell you enough how much I love you and what a wonderful woman you are. And how sorry I am that I’m such a grumpy old git. But all of that’s true. So enjoy …’
He opened the bathroom door and a cloud of fragrant steam billowed out.
‘Oh Dan, this looks gorgeous!’ I gasped.
The bath was brimming with bubbles. There was a tiny bottle of champagne and a single glass perched in between the taps. The edge of the bath was dotted with scented candles and on top of a pile of towels sat this month’s Foodie magazine. On top of that there was a little handwritten note.
Congratulations on winning the Cumbria’s Finest competition, and for the record, you’ve always been a winner in my eyes.
Love always, Dan xxx
I turned back to the door to tell him that I loved him too, but he’d already gone and closed the door behind him. It was only when I lowered myself into the bubbles that I realized that he might have apologized, but he still hadn’t changed his mind.
By Friday I’d forgiven Dan for his less-than-enthusiastic reaction to my invitation to London, but we hadn’t talked about it again since. My plan was to get all my ducks in a row first and then wow him with my ideas.
Over the previous couple of days, I’d done a lot of reading – not my usual recipes or food blogs, but stories about entrepreneurs. Success stories, tales of derring-do and risk-taking, about people with such a strong passion for their businesses that they stuck at them through thick and thin to get them off the ground. Foodies who’d tasted something so wonderful that they felt duty-bound to share it with the world, organic crusaders who believed in a better, healthier way of feeding people and, most exciting of all, farmers and farmers’ wives who’d set up field-to-plate enterprises to boost their farm takings. From sausages to soups, juices to jams, vinegars to vodkas, preserves, puddings and pies … Britain was full of amazing small producers and the more I looked, the more awestruck I was at the sheer ingenuity and doggedness of others. And the more determined I became to join them.
Dan had given Cameron a list of jobs to do this morning and then set off with Jake to meet a farmer looking for a mate for his red-and-white-coated Border collie bitch. I had felt a huge pang of loss for Rusty when Dan showed me a picture of her: she looked just like his mum had done. This wasn’t the first time Ja
ke had been drafted in for stud duty. He was a very special dog: his herding instincts were spot on and he’d shown promise from the day he’d arrived on the farm at only a few weeks of age, bravely barking at two old tups and not flinching when they lowered their curly horns to him. Up until Jake, Dan had trained all our dogs himself, but Jake had got VIP treatment with a top sheepdog handler. Pricey but worth it because now Jake’s stud fee made a handsome contribution to the farm’s coffers.
And with Dan gone, I had a few hours to myself and I decided to call the council to ask if they could help me with complying with hygiene laws. To my surprise, the man I spoke to was incredibly helpful and offered to visit the farm and give me some free advice.
‘You can come a week today?’ I sat bolt upright in surprise at the kitchen table and regretted it instantly. I’d been out with Anna last night; I obviously couldn’t handle my drink these days. I cradled my poorly head in my hand. ‘That’s great, Mr Lucas!’
‘I’ll be there at two.’
‘And do I need to do anything special?’ I asked.
‘No, Mrs Greengrass.’ There was a pause followed by a laugh. ‘Although a cup of tea always goes down well.’
I assured him that that would be no problem and ended the call, striking a line through the first thing on my to-do list. Just then, the sound of a piano rang out from my mobile phone. It was the bluesy riff which I’d chosen for text messages from my VIP contacts: Dan, Poppy, Naomi, Viv and Anna. I picked up my phone to read it; it was from Anna.
Who runs the world?
Girls!
I smiled as I typed my reply, quoting lyrics from the Beyoncé track we’d sung last night, walking down the middle of Carsdale high street at nearly midnight. The last time we’d sung that song it had been my hen night. Some things never grow old.
Anna typed straight back:
You’re damn right we do. Especially the world of pies. Mind you, I’ve got a terrible hangover. Must be getting old.
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