Cathy hadn’t held back her anger on Anna’s behalf.
‘But it’s like Geoff always says, isn’t it?’ Anna had told her friend. ‘There is no “I” in team.’
‘Oh, come off it!’ Cathy had told her. ‘In my experience, people who fall back on that phrase do so specifically so they can ignore the equally important adage “credit where credit’s due”.’
When it came time for her to make a dessert to go with lunch, Anna turned to Bren’s book again. This time she was fascinated by a recipe and a note accompanying it that had been added in 1938, when Anna realized that Bren would have been just seventeen. It was for ‘broonie’, a version of a gingerbread made with oats and using buttermilk and molasses as well as ground ginger.
Mrs Towrie at Stromness brought us this for pieces while we were at the herring, said the note that accompanied the neatly written recipe. Asked her if she would tell me the makings and she did. Best left a night afore cutting. Keeps well for a week a’more. July 1938.
Reading this made Anna feel as if she were only understanding half of the words. She reached for her iPad to search for information about herring in Orkney and soon found herself looking at old black-and-white photographs. In them she could see lines of women in heavy wool dresses and shawls leaning over long wooden troughs set on busy docks, the sharp knives in their hands catching the strong northern sunlight as they gutted thousands of herring. The women were known as herring lassies or ‘quines’, Anna learned, and in season hundreds of them would travel around the coasts of Scotland, Ireland and England, gutting and salting the huge numbers of herring that were landed by the fishing fleets every day.
Anna pored over the photographs, wondering whether one of them was Bren. Maybe even on the day that Mrs Towrie brought the gutting teams her gingerbread as a ‘piece’ to eat. Some of the money the young Bren earned there had helped to buy the shed that had become the Fishergirl’s Luck.
Half an hour later, Bren’s broonie was in the oven. Anna wouldn’t have time to leave it overnight before cutting, but after reading the note and looking at those photographs, Anna had been determined to make the cake. To serve she would whip soft double cream and drizzle with heather honey.
Once the cake was in, Anna washed her hands, took off her apron, and went outside to examine the bench. By now the sun was fully up and a light breeze, though not too strong, was filtering through the village. The North Sea seemed to be behaving itself, merely teasing the sea wall with its waves, as if it were playing a game of knock-down-ginger with the village’s edge. Anna checked the tide times and predictions and decided that it was worth the risk. The sky was too blue and the sun too warm not to take advantage of Liam’s gift, even if she and her two guests would be sitting on a blank oblong of grey concrete. She wished for tubs of flowers, the flashing scarlet of bright, hardy begonias, but she had no time to search any out, and so the table itself would have to do.
Anna filled a bucket with hot soapy water. An hour later she had scrubbed the worst of the grime from the bench’s sturdy wood and decided it was still strong enough to take the weight of her and her guests. It looked, in fact, as if it could go another fifty years without sagging under the strain. It dried quickly in the sea air, and she laid it with a white tablecloth weighted with silver cutlery that she buffed as she set down, Rhona’s plates, water glasses and wine glasses turned upside down to avoid wind-blown sand and inquisitive bugs.
‘My goodness, how beautiful,’ Pat exclaimed, when she and Frank arrived. ‘I feel as if I’ve come to the most exclusive restaurant in the world.’
‘You don’t do things by halves, do you, lass?’ Frank laughed, as she seated them at the table and poured them all a crisp white New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Where did you find the bench? What a wonderful idea.’
The story of her encounter with the Kiwi came out as they ate their starters – a salad of smoked salmon and cucumber lightly pickled with dill – and by the end of it both Pat and Frank were laughing.
‘The cheek of him!’ Pat said. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Not sure yet,’ Anna told them. ‘But I think he’d probably be good company for an evening. And I made myself a promise when I got here. I’ve spent too many years with no opportunity to experience new things. So while I’m here, I’m going to say yes to as many things as I can.’
‘Ooh, dangerous words,’ Frank chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t let him know that. Or any other bloke in these parts, for that matter.’
‘Frank,’ Pat scolded.
‘Ach, you should have some fun, Anna,’ he went on, ‘he’s been here since last summer. Took off over winter to see a bit of Europe, then came back again. He’ll be gone for good in another few months. Once the season’s over he’s off home again. Talk is that he’s got to take over his parents’ farm as his old dad is ailing. This trip of his was a last chance at a few months of freedom before he settles in to that.’
‘I’m sure,’ Anna said with a faint smile, ‘that Liam Harper has plenty of fun.’
They moved on to the bisque, which was met with rapturous approval. It was very good, Anna had to admit. Even at the great Four Seasons, despite its Michelin stars, the langoustines would have been a few hours older than the ones Liam had hoicked out of the sea and brought to her doorstep.
As they ate and talked, a couple passed them, nodding and smiling. They were clearly tourists out for a stroll, and Anna wondered if they had known that Crovie was here or whether they had followed the signpost on impulse and discovered it by accident.
‘Oh, you’ll find a lot of tourists find their way down here in the summer months,’ Pat said quietly, as Anna remarked on the couple. ‘Most don’t stay long, but they walk down the road and do a circuit of the village all the same.’
The three of them were still eating as the pair walked back the other way. Anna saw them pass and then pause, before the man turned back and leaned over the fence.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to bother you – but is there anywhere to eat nearby? Is there a café or restaurant in this village, perhaps? This looks so idyllic, and the food smells so delicious. It’s making us hungry, and we didn’t really plan our day out too well.’
‘I’m sorry, there isn’t anywhere in Crovie,’ Anna said.
‘The Garden Arms at Gamrie would be closest,’ Frank said, smiling at the visitors. ‘Otherwise it’ll be the Pennan Inn, back the other way, or at Portsoy, towards Macduff.’
The man smiled. ‘Thank you, and apologies for interrupting your lunch. It really does smell exquisite.’
‘Well,’ Anna said hesitantly, looking at Pat and Frank. ‘If you two don’t mind – I do have more. You could join us, if you like.’
‘Oh no,’ said the man, as the woman with him – his wife, judging by their rings – moved closer. ‘We don’t want to impose.’
‘It’s no bother for us,’ Frank said, as Pat nodded her agreement. ‘It’s Anna’s table, Anna’s food.’
‘Please,’ Anna said, standing up. ‘Come and join us. I don’t want it to go to waste.’
The couple looked at each other, and the wife smiled.
‘Then we’d love to, if you’re sure,’ she said. ‘How extremely generous of you.’
So it was that Liam’s bench – which Anna kept calling it in her head, despite telling herself not to – gathered another two visitors into Anna’s garden. She served two more bowls of bisque, brought out another still-warm baguette and poured more wine. Over the next hour they learned that her additional guests were Anthony and Rose Linden, who were staying in Portsoy for the week but lived in York.
‘This really is delicious,’ Rose said again, as she finished her bisque. ‘And your bread is divine.’
‘And what a perfect setting,’ Anthony added. ‘Honestly, Anna, you could fill a dozen tables every lunchtime if you lined them up along this wall. Even if you only served this you’d be rushed off your feet.’
‘One of our friends thinks she shou
ld reopen the Crovie Inn,’ Frank said. ‘I think it’s a top idea.’
‘I’ve only just got here,’ Anna protested. ‘Besides, I don’t have the capital for that.’
‘Start small then,’ Anthony suggested. ‘There must be plenty of people like us who visit the village, especially in summer. Give them a reason to stay a bit longer. Even if it’s only at this table.’
‘It’s a nice thought,’ said Anna, ‘but I’m not sure how sustainable that is, and I’m not planning to stay here permanently.’
‘Well,’ said Anthony, ‘take it from me. We’ll be telling everyone we possibly can about this magical experience we had at a superb chef’s table in the village of Crovie.’
‘We will,’ Rose agreed. ‘I’ll be dreaming about that bisque for weeks. I’d ask you for the recipe, but I already know I’d never make it the way you do.’
They sat at Liam’s bench until long past four o’clock. Finally, wine finished, Bren’s broonie devoured and coffee drained, the party slowly broke up. Pat and Frank helped Anna carry the detritus into the kitchen, and when they came out again Anthony discreetly slipped her a fold of notes.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he said. ‘It really has been wonderful – and, I think, a real privilege – both to meet you and to eat at your table, Anna.’
‘I can’t take this!’ Anna said, pushing the money back towards him without looking at it. ‘You were my guests, and you were very welcome.’
‘No, take it,’ he insisted, as Rose came up behind him, smiling warmly. ‘That was the best meal we’ve had all week. I know what effort went into it, and how much it should have cost.’
‘Please,’ Rose added. ‘We’ve had an experience here that we couldn’t have got anywhere else.’
Defeated, Anna accepted the cash. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s been wonderful to meet you both. Maybe you’ll come back and visit us again sometime?’
They shook hands, and Rose pulled her into a brief hug.
‘Trust me, Anna,’ Anthony said. ‘The minute we hear that you’ve opened the Crovie Inn as a going concern, we’ll be booking one of these holiday cottages and a table in your restaurant every night.’
Eleven
The weather changed over the next few days – the wind got up and squalls of rain marauded along the coastline beneath an increasingly leaden grey sky. Anna watched Pat’s bed and breakfast guests from behind the muslin of her bedroom window as they walked first one way and then the other along the sea wall, dodging the waves big enough to breach its height. She wondered what had brought them here: whether they had found what they had been looking for.
Having hidden away indoors for a week, working on her cookbook, on Sunday Anna braved the wind and rain for another cliff walk with Glynn, David and Bill. Once back in Crovie she invited them into the Fishergirl’s Luck for a warming lunch of soup and fresh bread, which they ate on their laps while Bill spread out in front of the hearth. Outside, Liam’s bench stood firm, already hardened against the worst that Scottish weather could bring as it waited patiently for another day bright enough for guests.
Anthony Linden’s words stayed with her. Give them a reason to stay a bit longer, even if it’s only at this table.
Could she do it? Should she? There was more warm weather coming, so the forecast said, and there wasn’t really any rush for her to leave. She could stay through to the end of summer, couldn’t she?
By that evening the wind was howling around the Fishergirl’s Luck, rain throwing itself against the walls of the cottage in a blind fury. It might have been past winter further south, but Anna was glad of the stock of wood and kindling she had bought.
‘I actually kind of like it,’ she told Cathy, as she lay curled up on the old sofa beneath a blanket, phone in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. ‘It feels as if the whole world could be crumbling outside and this place would still be standing.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Cathy. ‘I can hear that wind from here. It sounds as if all the hounds of hell are circling your front door.’
‘Maybe they are, but they can’t get in. An incomer’s home is her castle. I’ve locked the gates and barricaded the door.’
‘Nutter,’ Cathy said affectionately. ‘Well, at least you sound more sure of yourself.’
‘I think it’s the cooking,’ said Anna. ‘I’ve made something every day since Pat and Frank came over for lunch. I’ve always been most at home in a kitchen and it feels good to be in command of my own. I’ve never actually had that before.’
‘Your lunch party did sound idyllic,’ Cathy said, with a wistful sigh. ‘Fresh food – your food – good wine, the ocean – what could be more perfect? I wish I’d been there. I can easily imagine how lucky those people felt to stumble across you.’
‘It’s given me an idea, actually,’ Anna admitted.
‘You’re thinking of taking over the Crovie Inn after all?’
‘No. But do you remember that “supper club” thing that went on in London a few years back? Pop-up dining rooms in people’s houses? I knew a few chefs who did it because they couldn’t afford their own premises and they wanted to start building a reputation around their food.’
‘Yeah, Steve and I went to a couple, they were great. You want to do that at the Fishergirl’s Luck?’
‘I wouldn’t do evenings, and it would be weather dependent, but I thought it might work for lunches a couple of days a week. I can only fit eight people around the bench, and I’d probably limit it to six so there’s plenty of room and I’m not stretching myself. But I think it could work.’
‘Do you think you’d get enough custom?’
‘Pat says Crovie gets a lot busier in season. I think it’s worth a try. If it doesn’t work, at least it wouldn’t use up too much of my savings. And it’ll give me a way to develop more of my own recipes.’
‘How many courses?’
‘Three, I think. A simple starter, a main and a dessert. I’d try to source local produce as much as possible, keep things seasonal, that kind of thing. It’d be great to see what comes in on the boat each morning.’
‘That’d make the most of your tame fisherman, too, eh?’
Anna laughed. ‘I suppose it would.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Cathy went on, ‘tell me again how he turned up with the perfect gift on what was only your second meeting and then asked for a date?’
‘Stop it,’ Anna scolded. ‘I told you, he’s the local flirt. Besides, he’s far too young for me, even if he were genuinely interested, which he absolutely isn’t. And even if he were, I wouldn’t be. All right?
‘All right,’ said Cathy. ‘We’ll revisit this at another time.’
‘No, we won’t.’
‘I guarantee we will,’ Cathy said, merrily. ‘As for the other thing, it sounds like a fine idea to me. Have at it. Want me to do you a poster?’
‘It’s a bit early for that,’ said Anna. ‘Although I won’t lie and say that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind…’
Cathy laughed. ‘Of course I’ll do one. Drop me an email with whatever you want on it – when you know – and I’ll get to work. I can already see it, actually. It’ll have to be hand lettering all the way for “Lunch at the Fishergirl’s Luck”.’
‘I knew being mates with the best graphic designer south of the Watford Gap would come in useful one day.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere. So what’s on the agenda for the rest of the evening?’
Anna listened to the weather outside and pulled the blanket more firmly around her. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’m going anywhere apart from to the kitchen for more tea. And maybe a chocolate biscuit. I’m sitting here going through recipe books I haven’t looked at in years. Making notes, jotting down ideas. That sort of thing. I’ve been going through some of my mum’s old recipes, and I’d like to try to work in some of Bren’s recipes, too. I like the idea of making sure she’s part of it somehow.’
‘It really does sound
as if you’re inspired,’ Cathy said. ‘I’m glad. Right, I’d better go. Love you. Email me.’
Anna had just put the phone down and was contemplating swapping her next mug of tea for a glass of white wine and wondering what to make herself for supper when there was a hard knock at the door. She struggled out from beneath the blanket and went to open it, expecting to find Pat or Frank coming to check on her in the storm. Instead she was faced with a drenched Liam Harper.
‘Liam!’ she exclaimed, pulling him in over the threshold, where he promptly started dripping onto the floor. ‘What on earth are you doing out in this? What are you doing here?’
He held up both wet fists. In one was a bottle of wine, in the other was a carton of eggs. ‘The boat’s stuck in dock,’ he said, as rivulets of water ran down his face. ‘So I thought I’d come and see about that omelette.’
Anna stared at him. ‘How did you get here? You didn’t bring the skiff?’
Liam shook his head, showering the walls – and her – with spray. ‘Not likely. I walked. It was quite… bracing.’
‘Kiwi, you’re an idiot.’
‘You know, it’s not the first time someone’s suggested that.’
‘You surprise me. And it wasn’t a suggestion. You’d better come in. Take your coat off first or you’ll flood the place. I’ll stoke up the fire.’
She gave him a towel and a glass of the wine and then went into the kitchen to make them both dinner as Liam dried himself off in front of the wood burner. His hardy fisherman’s coat had kept his core dry, but his legs were soaked. His cargo pants were the sort that turned into long shorts and so he zipped off the legs and laid them on the hearth. Anna watched out of the corner of her eye as he scrubbed the towel over his dark hair and tried not to notice quite how tanned and muscular his bare calves were. She told herself she should probably be annoyed that he’d put her in a position that meant she couldn’t in all conscience turn him away.
The House Beneath the Cliffs Page 8