by Daisy Tate
Her mother was never coming back.
The blunt truth of it had hit her like a lead weight when they’d pulled into the farmyard four days ago and seen none of the usual Christmas decorations. Rocco had tried his best with the tree, and her dad, well … he was struggling to hit the keynotes of his daily routine, let alone remember that they always had cock-a-leekie soup on Christmas Eve and smoked salmon with their breakfast eggs.
She should’ve known it was up to her now to do all of the things her mother had done, but … the whole prospect of being responsible for more things when her business woes were eating her brain alive had, she supposed, made her rather miserable to be with.
Now that she knew Monty was safely at his brother’s, Freya was quickly coming round to his proposal that they should spend some time apart to think about things. He was right. She needed the headspace to try and figure out what exactly it was she wanted from herself and husband. That idealistic dreamer she’d fallen so very much in love with that first day Izzy had brought him home.
How had it come to pass that the precise attributes that had drawn her to him were now the repellents? Could she fall in love with them again? Or had she become the one who’d become impossible to love? Her brain began to short-circuit with the flood of questions that followed. There was an awful lot to think about.
‘Who’s up for a bit of Scottish raspberry jam on their scones?’ Charlotte asked.
Rocco was clumping the snow off his huge feet in the boot room. The man had been in and out of the kitchen like a yo-yo. He squinted when his eyes lit on Freya. ‘All right, sis?’
Once again she ached to tell him everything. How she was making a right hash of her life. How she didn’t even begin to know where to start fixing things. The business? Her husband? Her dad? Charlotte appeared in the doorway. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yup! Absolutely. Come!’ She hooked her arm into her brother’s, knowing the physical contact would be enough to see her through for a bit. ‘Sit, you restless beast!’
The name Rocco meant rest. The last thing on earth her brother did was rest. Never idle. Always something on the go. And always so happy.
None of which they were achieving right now because of the financial sinkhole that Monty had led them into, but … people fucked up. She certainly had. No one had forced her to make clothes that made her miserable. Charlotte had tried to say as much when she’d come up to London a month ago. Freya had moaned endlessly about pulling her eyes out if she had to draw one more unicorn. After a thoughtful pause, Charlotte had pointed out that it was always possible to trial-run one or two items that didn’t savage her artistic integrity quite so violently. There were, after all, about fifty other stalls selling unicorn T-shirts. Or, she’d quietly suggested, how about Freya consider getting a day job. Teach maybe. Or work at a Sainsbury’s and enjoy the staff discount. Anything to take the pressure off art having to cover her financially as well as fulfil her emotionally.
The truth was she was terrified. Terrified of financial ruin, of having nothing practical (like a law degree) to fall back on. Of her family falling apart. But at the centre of it all was a young, dreamy-eyed teenaged Freya desperate not to let her parents down. She’d promised them that if they were happy for her not to help out on the farm, she would never, ever ask them for help. Unicorns meant money. Her own art? At this rate, she might never know.
Freya took the jar of jam that Charlotte had set on the counter and was about to crack it open when she realized it was from the last batch her mother had made. She debated a moment before opening it. This was exactly the sort of moment her mother would’ve opened it for. A normal moment.
What’s the point of keeping it for special? she would have asked. Life is special!
Freya dolloped spoonfuls of the glossy red jam into a pair of bowls, wondering if she’d be able to taste her mother’s touch in it. She always added a bit of something extra ‘just to liven things up’. Lemon zest. Vanilla. Whatever was to hand, really.
‘Shall I be mum?’ Charlotte heaved up the huge teapot and carried it over to the table.
Charlotte’s son, Jack, made a gahh noise. ‘What else would you be? That’s what you are.’
Rocco shot him a look. ‘And you should count yourself lucky to have one of the finest.’
Jack looked shocked. As if no one ever dared to correct him. He quickly regrouped with a charmless laugh. ‘Thanks Mum, for being so perfect that Dad had to go find a new version.’
Freya did an actual double take. Emily choked on her coffee. Izzy forgot to stop pouring water into her glass until Luna pointed out it was overflowing.
Charlotte looked as though she’d been punched in the stomach.
‘Right, laddie,’ Rocco’s chair scraped against the stone flooring. ‘That’s you and me away to have a word in the cowshed.’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘No, it’s all right. He’s just—’
‘He’s being bloody rude to his mother is what he’s being. Forgive my French.’ Rocco’s eyes narrowed at Jack who, extraordinarily, was looking about the group, apparently waiting for some positive response. He’d be waiting a ruddy long time if he wanted it from Rocco. ‘C’mon, laddie. Get your gear on. We’ve got some calves that’ll need destoning.’
Freya pressed her fingers to her mouth to stem an inappropriate cackle. Jack wouldn’t have a clue what destoning a calf meant. She wondered if Rocco would do the age-old trick of offering him the bullock’s testicles for his tea.
‘But … Mum’s just made the scones.’ Jack suddenly looked like a little boy. A spoilt little boy. But a little boy just the same.
Rocco gave him a polite but firm smile and pointed towards the boot room. ‘Not for you she didn’t. Not until you learn how to respect the work that went into making those scones.’
‘I … Mum?’
Funny how a fifteen year old full of bravura could turn into a mummy’s boy at the drop of a hat.
Charlotte very deliberately settled a tea cosy the shape of a hedgehog onto the teapot then, after a quick glance at Rocco, turned to her son and said, ‘We’re guests here, Jack. I think you should do as you’re told and help our host.’ Before he could respond, Charlotte busied herself gathering together a bunch of mugs onto a tray. Poppy made a move to start clapping but quickly stopped when she saw the sober faces around her.
‘Are you talking about those bull calves I forgot to ring, son?’ Lachlan asked.
‘Aye. That’s right, Dad.’ Rocco shot a quick look at Freya to see if she’d react. She decided not to. Too much going on. ‘All right then, Jack. You heard your mother. Let’s get off to the shed, then.’
They all sat silently while Jack miserably pulled on his immaculate sky-blue Arc’teryx jacket and even more miserably agreed to wear the oversized, dun-coloured wellies Rocco told him he should put on so he didn’t ruin his ‘posh kicks’.
A swell of pride warmed Freya’s chest. It was never nice to see a child punished. And it was extremely rare to see someone sort out another person’s child, but somehow … this seemed right. Charlotte was the one who had made the call in the end.
Once Jack and Rocco had left, everyone extra politely asked for jam and could they please have some of the homemade thick cream? They all told Charlotte how lovely the scones were and ate them silently, the sound of her father masticating the living daylights out of Charlotte’s lighter-than-air scones their only soundtrack. As they finished and Charlotte began tidying everything away, the uncomfortable atmosphere became too much for Freya.
Lounging around didn’t feel right. Her mother would’ve fed them the scones then fully expected everyone to get back to work, not slope off to the television. Freya put down her mug of tea and licked a bit of errant raspberry jam off her little finger then said, ‘Right, you lot. We need a project.’
Chapter Twenty
Izzy triple-blinked at Freya then eyed the ‘wee project’ again.
No one looked particularly keen apart from
Freya, so Izzy started pulling melodramatic ‘Oh, I see!’ faces. She put her hands up like a film director would frame a final, crucial scene. ‘So, the plan is to turn the tower ruins into an outdoor picnic-slash-bonfire-slash cocktail area?’
‘For Hogmanay. Yes.’ Freya’s determined expression spoke volumes. She’d do it on her own if she had to.
Izzy quietly dropped her plan to vote for an indoor adventure, clapped her hands together and whooped. ‘Let’s do it.’
Freya looked so grateful it almost brought tears to her eyes. Izzy got it. Freya was going through one of the worst of the firsts without her mum. A season laden with ritual. Izzy’s own mother had adored ritual and made loads of them up. Called them her and Izzy’s ‘little secrets’. Three smiles at a stranger per day (Bringing joy never hurts). Eggs before and after but never at Easter (Why kill a beginning when you are mourning an end?). Pudding before starters when eating outside (You never know what the weather is going to throw up, or, as her cancer progressed, if she was going to throw up). Up until the day she’d died, Izzy had thought her mother insisted on the rituals because they’d never had anywhere permanent to live. Ritual, she used to say, is what makes a soul flourish. Ingrains it in your body. Izzy felt the opposite was true. Losing the person she did her rituals with had drained her of the very essence of who she thought she’d been.
Emily pulled her gloved hand out from her armpit long enough to flick it towards the low stone building next to the tower. ‘And you want the hovel to be a shop showcasing the milk?’
Freya’s eyes lit up just as they had in uni when she described making something like a bodice out of buttercups. ‘No. Better. I think it should be a milk bar. Not like a tuck shop. More …’ She drummed her mittened fingers along her lower lip then abruptly pointed her index finger in the air. ‘A place where milk and booze and Hogmanay all come together for one perfect night.’
Izzy pressed her own mittened hands to her chest and smiled. She wasn’t up for much hard labour because of her silly cough, but she loved watching crazy ideas gain traction.
Freya was totally into it now. Nodding, walking round the site with one of those intensely earnest expressions worn by the cash-strapped builders on Grand Designs who were going to give it their absolute best even if it meant crying on national television.
Emily muttered something about it being too cold to breathe properly. Charlotte wondered aloud about alcohol licences while Izzy tried to remember if she’d packed thermal underwear.
Freya opened her hands in appeal, her accent thickening with every word. ‘The poor wee barn’s stood empty for nearly five years so Mum could have her shop in it. A shop she never got to have because we were too busy doing other things that were “more pressing”.’ She stomped her foot on the thick layer of snow that had settled overnight. ‘There’s permission from the council. We can sort the other bits and bobs. C’mon, guys. How long are we going to let this shop cry itself to sleep at night wondering if my mum’s hopes and dreams for it will ever come true?’
Luna made a sad face. She liked hopes and dreams to come true. So did Izzy. Oh, hell. They all did. Except perhaps Emily, who would’ve been perfectly happy watching B-grade movies and drinking hot toddies for the rest of the day.
Surely Emms could see that this was a daughter trying to make her mother’s dream come true. Izzy answered for everyone. ‘I guess we’d better get to it.’
Freya did a happy dance. Her hair was sticking out at all sorts of crazy angles from the tweed and lambswool headband she was wearing. This atop a surprisingly trendy ensemble of boiler suit, hot-pink Dickies gilet and thick leather workboots. With her cheeks all pinked up from the cold and eyes alight with excitement, she looked exactly like she had whenever Monty used to appear, unbidden, at their front door back in the day at uni. A girl who believed dreams really did come true.
Izzy hoped they worked it out. Monty and Freya were one of those couples who’d been made for each other. Shared causes, hopes and dreams. Raising children with social consciences. Freya making her artistic mark on the world. Monty doing … whatever it was Monty had pictured himself doing, which obviously wasn’t practising law. He would’ve actually been super-handy for a job like this. The man was like a carpentry savant. One of the fruits of being the son of a builder, she supposed. As she watched Freya take stock of what they’d need, Izzy smiled at the memory of Monty’s ‘Jesus phase’, as he’d been fond of calling it. When they’d first moved into their house he’d not only looked after the toddler twins, but had constructed tonnes of built-in bookcases, side tables, and a rather awesome kitchen peninsula.
‘C’mon everyone.’ Freya beckoned for them to join her outside the stone barn, its slightly wonky slate shingled roof glinting in the watery winter sun. ‘We can do this. It doesn’t need to be perfect, just in line with the vision. Dad and Rocco will muck in. I’m pretty sure Dad put a load of shelving in before Mum …’
Izzy’s heart squeezed tight. She’d found it completely impossible to say ‘when my mum died’ for years after the event.
‘We obviously can’t get it entirely fancied up to be a proper shop, but what if we prettied it up with some fairy lights and … ermm … there’re some frames up in the attic I can pop something into. Then we can sell the milk and cream.’
‘That’d be a real crowd-pleaser,’ Emily deadpanned. She popped on her best Mary Poppins accent, ‘Glass of milk to see in the New Year please, guv’nor!’
‘Eggnog?’ Charlotte suggested more helpfully.
‘Does anyone actually drink eggnog?’ Emily obviously had yet to harness any dairy-based enthusiasm.
‘Americans love eggnog,’ Izzy said pointedly, ignoring Emily’s stink eye. American eggnog was usually non-alcoholic, so she used to spike it with rum. Perhaps … no. Scotland was all about whisky – Izzy held out her hands. ‘I’ve got it! What about “malted milk”? You know. Whisky shots in warm milk with honey?’
Freya made ‘ding ding ding you’ve won the prize’ sounds. ‘Totally works with the milk-bar theme. And, as we know, there ain’t no party—’
‘—like a theme party!’ the rest of the girls joined in. They’d been rather good at theme parties back in the day. The ‘Come As Your Favourite Canadian’ had required quite of lot of research, but they’d done pretty well channelling Avril Lavigne, Celine Dion and Pamela Anderson. The maple syrup crisps might’ve been a step too far, but …
‘What kind of nibbles go with malted milk?’ Izzy asked.
‘Cake,’ they all said, then looked at Charlotte.
‘Do you want a break from cake baking?’ Freya asked in a voice that made it super-clear she hoped Charlotte wanted the polar opposite. Charlotte said she was more than happy to make lots of cake.
Freya chewed on her lip for a second, then, ‘What if we get the other farms between here and St Andrews to come along and set up stalls? There’s a beef farmer on the other side of us with Belted Galloways who’s always doing farmers’ markets. Maybe they’d do some burgers. There’s a sheep guy further along the road. He could make—’
‘Posh kebabs?’ Emily mimed eating a tiny kebab, finally making an effort.
‘Posh kebabs!’ Freya shouted joyously. ‘And there’s a tattie and turnip farm nearby. Maybe they’d do jacket potatoes and some sort of neeps thing? Neep curly fries? Is that a thing?’
They all agreed it could definitely be a thing.
Izzy hopped from one foot to the other. She was absolutely bloody freezing. Once she got properly moving she’d be fine, but wow did the Scottish cold go straight through to her bones.
Freya’s face went a funny combination of hopeful and anxious. ‘If we could make some money for Dad and Rocco out of it, it’d be brilliant. I’ve been trying to get them to do something niche for ages, but they say it’s easier to supply The Man.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing? Supplying The Man?’ Izzy asked.
Freya looked horrified. ‘Not when The Man doesn’t pay you what
your product’s worth. Do you know how many small dairy farms go out of business each year?’
Emily stepped between Izzy and the inevitable Freya speech. ‘No one’s going to show The Man anything if we stand around talking about it. Can we get moving please? Izzy’s turning blue.’
‘All right, ladies? What’s brought you all out here into the elements?’ Rocco appeared behind them with Jack in tow.
‘Rocs,’ Freya put her hands on her brother’s shoulders and stared at him in the way a coach might before giving an inspirational speech about commitment and risks and laying everything on the line for just one victory. ‘Whaddya think about letting us use the milk from today?’
‘What for?’ He flashed them a sly grin. ‘Are you lot planning on bathing in it for some Wiccan ritual?’
No one missed the wink he threw a furiously blushing Charlotte.
Everyone started talking over everyone about The Big Plan.
Rocco put his fingers in his mouth and made an ear-piercing whistle. ‘Right. Can we go back to the part about you lot needing my milk? Charlotte?’ He made a courtly half-bow to open the floor for her.
Bless her. You’d have thought he’d just laid his coat over a puddle for her to daintily tread across from the beam of gratitude she braved in his direction. How often had Oli asked her opinion, Izzy wondered. Probably never.
‘Freya had the lovely idea of opening up the shop on Hogmanay to remember your mum by. A sort of milk bar.’
Rocco pulled off his knitted cap and gave his head a scratch. ‘That’s a lovely idea, sis. But you cannae sell raw milk in Scotland.’
Freya looked absolutely stricken. No one said anything until Rocco got that same glint in his eye Freya did when an idea struck. ‘You know … we do have an old pasteurizer gathering dust somewhere in one of the sheds. It’d do maybe … a hundred litres? We got it from Dougie Stewart when he sold up. What if I dust that off and you do some eggnog, eh?’ He rubbed his tummy. ‘I love a proper eggnog.’