Appleby Farm (41 page)

‘I was thinking of holding a demo day,’ she said. ‘You know, invite some of the delis in Bowness and Windermere over. They can see how the ice cream is made, have a taste and then I’ll see if I can tempt any of them into stocking it for next spring. We could invite someone from Radio Lakeland, too – someone nicer than my sister, obviously.’

‘You,’ I said, jabbing her in the ribs, ‘are a genius. Fact.’

Lizzie had already suggested that we add a mezzanine level to the tea rooms, accessible via the spinning gallery, which would give us tons more space and allow us to do private parties without closing the tea rooms to the public. The barn had been crying out for the extra room and I’d already set Goat on to it; I just wished I’d thought of it myself.

I began to assemble the ingredients for today’s batch of damson (home-grown, of course) and dark chocolate ice cream, and Lizzie started cracking fresh eggs into a stainless-steel bowl.

‘Ooh, I nearly forgot. Tilly called last night. Aidan wants to know if we’ll manage to cook all that roast beef for the wedding breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen or do we want to use one of his TV catering companies. They’ve got a mobile kitchen, apparently. But there are only thirty people; we could manage. What do you think?’

‘Definitely use caterers,’ said Lizzie. ‘Not only will it give the farmyard a touch of glamour, you’ll have enough to do on the day without sticking your head in and out of the oven – no offence, Freya, but your face does go a bit scarlet when you’re stressed.’

‘Cheers,’ I said wryly, ‘I agree. I’ll book them, then. Mum said she’ll help on the day, too, and is Ross still OK to be the wine waiter?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Lizzie, tapping her nose. ‘All part of the master plan. I want him to start thinking about our wedding, pick up a few ideas. I shall be dropping some tiny subtle hints – so tiny he’ll think he thought of it himself.’

I stared at her. ‘Your wedding? You two have only been together for five minutes.’

‘Six months, actually,’ she said haughtily. She flipped up the lid of the bin with her foot and deposited a pile of egg shells into it. ‘He’ll graduate next summer and we can begin our lives together properly. He’s The One. And when you know, you know. Why wait?’

I wouldn’t know
, I thought sombrely, but I did remember Tilly saying something very similar about Aidan months ago and look at them now, so I guessed it must be true. I put down the bowl of damson purée and pulled her in for a hug. ‘I’m really happy for you,’ I said, unable to keep the slight note of sadness out of my voice.

‘Right.’ Lizzie thrust her hands on her hips. ‘Operation Date My Boss begins. I can’t have you single any longer. It’s too depressing and it’s not good for business.’

I sighed and handed her a jug of cream to add to the pasteurizing machine. ‘The problem is that I can’t get Harry out of my head.’

‘Mmm.’ Lizzie frowned, handing me back the empty jug. ‘I must admit, I did think you two would have got it together by now.’

‘I don’t understand what I did wrong. It was fine until I kissed him.’

‘Wait –
you
kissed
him
?’ she said incredulously. ‘How bold!’

The worst thing about this white hair net, I now realized, was that there was nowhere to hide a blushing face. I bent down over the jug and stared into it for absolutely no reason.

‘I thought he was keen and our faces were close anyway, so I sort of met him halfway. But he changed his mind. I regret it now. All those days spent climbing trees and building dens and catapults … I don’t think he can see past that. He still sees me as a tomboy.’

Lizzie patted my arm. ‘Oh, babe – I mean, boss – don’t regret it. It sounds to me like you had masses of fun as kids. Anyway, you know what farmers are like. Not exactly in touch with their emotions, are they? Perhaps he needs some encouragement? Tell you what, Ross is home tonight, I’ll get him to invite Harry to the pub for a pint, you get all dolled up – nice outfit, a bit of lippy – and turn up so the next time he sees you there’ll be no mistaking that you’re all woman.’

I sighed. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Trust me,’ she said, tapping me on the end of my nose with the damson spoon. ‘Whoops.’

‘Lizzie! Have I got a purple nose?’ I gasped and giggled at the same time.

She scrunched up her face and gurgled with laughter. ‘A bit.’

‘Right. You asked for it.’ I scooped up a spoonful of cocoa powder and began to take aim.

At that moment there was a sharp knock from behind me on the glass panel of the dairy door. Lizzie ducked and I flipped the spoon up into the air, sending a cloud of brown powder into my own face.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. ‘Help, I’ve got chocolate blindness,’ I squealed.

‘Lizzie, hi,’ said a voice, sounding too similar to Harry’s not to be Harry.

Lizzie tried to reply but all I heard was a snort.

‘I was looking for Freya. Is that …?’ Yep. Definitely Harry and presumably now pointing at me.

‘Cloth please, Lizzie,’ I said curtly, holding out my hand.

A few seconds later my blindness had gone, although I suspected that the chocolate powder would look like badly applied bronzer.

‘Your uncle sent me over,’ said Harry. His voice came out all strangled and muffled, and he’d covered his face with his hand. I could still see his eyes, though – twinkling with mirth. ‘I’m taking him over to Willow Farm to show him my plans for the biofuels project. I thought – he thought – you might like to come, too.’

I blinked up at him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lizzie, gripping her sides, her face contorted in silent laughter. I shook my head and a shower of cocoa powder flew off my hair net.

‘No, thanks, I’m busy.’

‘I can see that.’ Harry started to cough – at least, I think he was coughing – and slapping himself on the chest.

‘Just give her five minutes, Harry,’ said Lizzie, gulping for air. ‘She’ll be there.’

‘Great,’ said Harry breathlessly. ‘See you in the yard.’

‘Well, that was perfect,’ I muttered as we watched Harry stride back across the yard.

‘All woman. In a chocolatey, damsony way,’ she whispered.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ I muttered through gritted teeth.

Willow Farm seemed to be a hive of industry compared to Appleby Farm in farming terms. Harry had three men there today: one bedding down the cattle with a huge machine called a straw blower; one ploughing the fields ready for winter barley to be planted, and the third operating a computerized feed mixer.

Harry, generously, hadn’t mentioned my altercation with the cocoa powder to Uncle Arthur, so thankfully, apart from the odd smirk, the incident wasn’t referred to when I joined them with clean clothes and a chocolate-free face.

‘The farm’s come a long way since your dad’s day, lad,’ said Uncle Arthur, looking impressed as we stopped off to check on Dexter in his new home. ‘There’s more machinery here than I’ve ever seen in my life.’

‘I’m going for a quality product, Arthur. We don’t breed cattle here yet, we just finish beef. But now I’ve got a pedigree bull, I’ll be hiring him out for breeding straight away. And we raise Berkshire pigs, of course. I’m looking for a good profit margin in everything we do.’ Harry smiled. His voice was neutral, but his face was unmistakably brimming with pride.

I was proud of him, too, and it was all I could do not to tell him as much. I looped my arm through my uncle’s instead.

‘Can we say hello to your horse?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t see him last time.’

‘Sure. Come and meet Storm.’ Harry gestured towards the stables. ‘He’s the exception. There’s no profit in owning a horse.’

‘Good fun, though.’ I smiled.

Harry’s eyes met mine. He grinned and shook his head slightly.
You and your fun
, he seemed to be saying.

There was accommodation for five horses and Storm, a chestnut stallion with a white stripe down his nose, was in the end stall; the others were empty. He was gorgeous.

I reached up and patted his neck and Harry fetched a carrot out of his pocket, pausing to smirk at me before feeding it to the horse. This time I didn’t ask if he’d got anything in there for me.

‘That’s it, I’m afraid,’ he said. I had no idea whether he was talking to me or Storm but I studied the toe of my wellington boot just in case.

‘Your sister was a great horse woman, I remember,’ said Uncle Arthur.

‘She was,’ Harry agreed. ‘These stables were always full when I was growing up. Do you remember, Freya? All four of us had a horse.’

I nodded. ‘How is Jenny these days?’

‘She’s well, as far as I know. Don’t see much of her, she lives in Scotland.’ He sighed. ‘If you remember she couldn’t wait to get off the farm when she was growing up. Ironically, she married a salmon farmer. They’ve got two lovely girls.’

My heart ached at the forlorn expression on his face. It must be hard for him without any of his family nearby: parents on the south coast and his sister far away in the north.

Uncle Arthur shook his head. ‘You Graythwaites seem to have all migrated and us Moorcrofts are all coming home to roost.’

Jenny was older by six years and she had had the most beautiful pony ever, snowy white and—

‘Harry,’ I said suddenly, ‘didn’t you used to have a carriage?’

He raised an interested eyebrow. ‘Yes. Still got it in one of the sheds. Why?’

‘Watch it, Harry, you’ll be roped in to her wedding business before you know it,’ Uncle Arthur chuckled, turning away from the stables. ‘Now, come on, what about this land you’re after?’

Computerized or not, Harry’s office was far messier than Uncle Arthur’s had been before I took charge of it. (‘Needs a woman’s touch,’ Auntie Sue declared later when I told her about it.)

The smell was a bit ripe, too, but I forgave him that because the source of it, taking up a third of the floor space, was a wire pen containing a wriggling, yapping, tail-chasing litter of plump puppies, presided over by a red setter with a big smile on her face. I hadn’t realized dogs could smile, but Harry’s evidently could. One of the puppies bounded over to the edge of the pen towards me and in a flash I was in love.

I scooped up the puppy, held the squirming, yeasty-smelling body to my face and yelped as it started to chew a strand of my hair, which was the exact same colour as the puppy’s fur.

‘Look, it’s me in dog form,’ I laughed, holding the puppy up to my cheek.

‘Really?’ said Harry, scratching his nose. ‘I hadn’t noticed. The mum is called Belle, I haven’t named the puppies.’

‘Odd choice for a farm dog,’ sniffed Uncle Arthur, drawn to Belle nonetheless. He stooped to ruffle her silky ears.

‘I know,’ admitted Harry, looking sheepish. ‘I’d planned on getting something sensible, but when I arrived at the dog sanctuary I saw Belle and fell for her immediately. Apparently, she was too bonkers for the family who’d bought her and she needed re-homing. No one would take her on because she was pregnant at the time.’

Oh. How lovely was he? I realized my expression had gone all gooey and buried my head in the puppy’s fur.

Uncle Arthur and Harry began poring over plans of their respective land and brochures about short rotation coppicing for biofuels, which I know I should have been interested in but, come on, what’s more interesting than puppies? I tuned out and climbed into the dog pen. Belle stood up, stretched luxuriously and leaped out of the pen, leaving me in charge.

Twenty minutes later, I had been nipped, licked, climbed over and even weed on, and two puppies had fallen asleep in the crook of my arm. Meanwhile the two men – the new and the old face of farming – had come to a satisfactory agreement about Uncle Arthur’s spare acres and were making moves to wrap up their meeting.

I reluctantly laid the puppies down in a much-chewed wicker basket, climbed out, hoping nobody noticed the wet patch on my jeans, and joined them at the door.

‘This has been my biggest concern,’ Uncle Arthur was saying, pumping Harry’s hand up and down enthusiastically. ‘Sorting out who would take care of my land after I’m gone. And you two have solved that for me. I can’t thank you enough.’

My uncle rested one hand on my waist and the other on Harry’s shoulder. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, and his old eyes filled with tears. Harry’s gaze met mine, he smiled softly and just as I had that snowy night all those years ago when the lambs had been born, I felt a connection between us, like we were part of something very special.

One morning in November I was in Clover Field, the small one at the back of the orchard, checking on the progress of the new shower block. There was a sharp wind whistling down through the valley towards Lake Windermere and although I was bundled up in layers, the cold was nipping at my extremities and I was looking forward to getting back into the tea rooms and thawing out over the steam of the coffee machine.

Clover Field was the chosen site for our shepherd’s huts; it was hidden from the house by the orchard but was close enough for Goat to extend the farm’s plumbing system so that guests wouldn’t have to use the house.

‘This one, I think,’ I said, tapping a 1940s-inspired bathroom range in Goat’s catalogue.

‘My old gran had something like that,’ said Goat, his tone implying that that wasn’t necessarily an endorsement. He was standing on his long leg with the short one propped up on his toolbox. ‘And she had one of those doll thingummy-jigs with a knitted skirt to hide her loo paper.’ He shuddered. ‘Don’t you think customers will want something a bit more modern in here?’

‘Look at that, Goat.’ I pointed over to where Eddy was fixing a stainless-steel chimney into the first shepherd’s hut. ‘If they want modern, they’ve come to wrong place. We’re vintage all the way, even down to our loo-roll holders. Good tip there, thanks.’

He rolled his eyes as I handed back the brochure and headed across the wet grass, off to visit Eddy.

I was greeted by the sight of Eddy on all fours inside the hut, dressed in a dirty khaki boiler suit with his bottom in the air. His little dog, Buddy, scampered towards me and stood on his hind legs for some fuss.