Paradise Fields
Authors: Katie Fforde
Contents
It's not as if Nel hadn't enough on her plate already: organising a farmers' market in the picturesque Paradise Fields and keeping track of her unnervingly beautiful teenage daughter plus sorting out a houseful of animals â are quite enough to keep her busy. The last thing she needs is another complication in her life, but when her old friend Sir Gerald dies and his son, Pierce â accompanied by his glamorous American wife â takes possession of The Big House, it seems that preserving the Fields is not on his list of priorities.
Nel takes up arms, determined to fight for the meadow and the market she loves. But whom can she trust? She's pretty sure her friends Sacha and Vivian are on her side, but her sensible boyfriend Simon, an estate agent, is less encouraging. And then there's Jake, the infuriating yet attractive stranger who kissed her under the mistletoe. Maybe she's been a celibate widow for far too longâ¦
Katie Fforde lives in Gloucestershire with her husband and some of her three children. Recently her old hobbies of ironing and housework have given way to singing, Flamenco dancing and husky racing. She claims this keeps her fit.
Living Dangerously
The Rose Revived
Wild Designs
Stately Pursuits
Life Skills
Thyme Out
Artistic Licence
Highland Fling
Restoring Grace
Flora's Lot
Practically Perfect
Going Dutch
Wedding Season
Love Letters
A Perfect Proposal
Summer of Love
Katie Fforde
To Kate Parkin, Editor and Friend
As always, many people helped me with the research for this book. And in spite of their best efforts, there will be mistakes and errors which will inevitably have slipped through the many nets set to catch them. To them all, my deep and fondest thanks.
To Clare Gerbrands, who not only created Stroud Farmers' Market, but told me all about it. To all stallholders at the market, who not only sold me wonderful produce, but let me take up their time as well.
Ian Hamilton, Emma Gaudern, Anne Styles and Arabella McIntyre-Brown, who in many and varied ways helped me with legal matters.
To the Cotswold Care Hospice â please forgive me for getting it all wrong!
To Vanessa Kemp for making such inspiring beauty products.
To the Williams family: Tom for bees, Miranda for Forest Green Rovers and Lesley for council matters.
To my editorial team at Random House, my beloved Kate Parkin, to Kate Elton, Tiffany Stansfield, Justine Taylor, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, all of whom worked harder and longer than they should on my behalf.
And not forgetting Richenda Todd, my first ever editor and the best, most conscientious, most sensitive copy editor in the world.
NEL'S ARM WAS
beginning to ache. The mistletoe, heaped about her feet, was selling well. She'd already run out of the bunches she had tied together with red ribbon and was now selling the larger Stately-Home-size boughs, which had been too thick to separate into smaller sprigs. It was one of these, held above her head in an encouraging way, that was proving a strain.
She was just about to replace it for a smaller sample of her wares when a man came towards her. She'd been faintly aware of him standing at the next stall, considering mulled wine syrup and the little bunches of dried flowers and herbs known to their creator as tussie-mussies. She had time to take in that he was tall, wore a navy blue overcoat and looked Cityish, when he put his hand on the mistletoe she was holding and kissed her.
She couldn't quite believe it was happening. People don't kiss strangers on the lips in full view of half the world; or, at least, they didn't kiss Nel. It was over in a moment, and yet the feel of his cool, firm lips on hers sent a strange feeling shooting down from the under-wiring of her bra to her knees. It made her catch her breath and she felt as if she had flu â all swimmy in the head.
It was amazing how many people spotted that kiss.
Nel didn't usually sell things at the market â she didn't have time, she was always rushing around organising it. But this time, she was pinned down by her wares and at that moment it seemed every stallholder and every shopper had their eyes turned in her direction. She tried to pretend she wasn't blushing, took the coins he offered, handed him the bunch, and watched him walk away, relieved he didn't engage her in conversation or anything.
Her daughter skittered over, eyes sparkling. âOo-er,' she said in a way that Nel felt made everyone stare at her even more. âMum! Who was he? A bit tasty!'
Nel brushed a hand over her face, apparently getting the hair out of her eyes, but actually giving herself a moment to pull herself together. âHe was just buying mistletoe, Fleur. Now, how are you doing? Are you ready to take over for me here yet? I've been here since seven this morning and I have to speak to loads of people.' Was she still bright red, she wondered?
Fortunately Fleur had stopped looking at her mother and was searching her tight trousers and pale blue fleece for her mobile. âI know, I know. In a min. I've just got to text Anna about something. We're supposed to be going out tonight.'
Fleur, eighteen, blonde and lovely, eventually unearthed a phone hardly bigger than a credit card and tapped away. Why someone who found writing the shortest essay such a Herculean task should prefer texting to phoning, Nel didn't understand. That was probably (her daughter had told her) because Nel thought you had to spell everything out: she didn't know the shorthand and hadn't heard of predictive text. Fleur's kindly if unintelligible explanation had been
delivered to Nel when she was attempting to remonstrate with Fleur about the size of her mobile phone bill. As often happened with Nel and her children, the roles got reversed and they ended up telling her things they felt she should know, and no parental remonstrance had gone on at all.
Lavender, who appropriately sold wheat bags and lavender-filled products, âout of self-defence, because of my name', didn't leave her stall, but she waved and winked approvingly.
Sacha, who produced beauty creams and potions in a very small way and sold them in blue glass jars, gave her a thumbs-up sign.
The trouble with knowing everybody, Nel thought, was that it made you vulnerable to people keeping an eye on you. When she had first moved here, as a young and distraught widow, she had been glad of the concern and care of the small town, but it did have its down side. She could see Reg on his fruit and veg stall giving her a saucy look, too. Living in a small community was indeed a bit like living in a goldfish bowl, and Nel occasionally felt she was the only goldfish.
She stopped trying to sell mistletoe and cast her eye over the stalls that were ranged in a horseshoe shape on the fields in front of Hunstanton Manor. It looked lovely, the stalls full of Christmas fare. There was one selling poultry and game: huge bronze turkeys in all their glossy black plumage hung next to bunches of brightly feathered pheasants, ducks and geese. Further along, strings of sausages looped up between fat bouquets of fresh herbs decorated a stall selling organic pork. Then there were what Nel thought of as the âdippy-hippy' stalls selling brightly marbled wrapping
paper, home-made candles, and nativity scenes modelled (she'd discovered after enquiry) out of wine bottles and plaster-soaked muslin, and then painted. The results were quite realistic, if somewhat sinister biblical figures.
Everyone was there, and for once, everyone had been happy with their appointed places. They all knew that this was the last market until after Christmas and were determined to appreciate it. Some of the stallholders, the ones who produced food, went to other markets as well, but few venues allowed non-food products and so for the crafts people, the Paradise Fields market here at Hunstanton was a valued outlet. And the variety of people and products made it very popular with visitors.
Simon, the man Nel's children referred to as her boyfriend, had also seen Nel selling the extra-large sprig of mistletoe. Simon and Nel had been going out in a gentle way for about six months, and even Nel had to admit he was not particularly exciting, but at least he did little jobs for her, the sort that Nel found awkward and time-consuming, like cleaning out the gutters. Now, she spotted him negotiating the crowds, and could tell he was annoyed.
âWho was he then?' he demanded.
âHello, Simon. How are you? I didn't know you were going to be here today.' Seeing that he wanted an answer, she added, âHe was just a man buying mistletoe. The kiss was only Christmas spirit. Look!' She shook her apron, the pocket of which was full of money. âI've sold loads.'
âAnd you're going to give all the takings to Sam, I suppose?'
âWell, he did risk his life cutting it down off the tree. It's only fair that he should have the money.' Nel always stuck up for her eldest son, who had been addicted to tree-climbing since childhood and now climbed mountains as well.
âMm. If stealing apples is scrumping, what's the word for stealing mistletoe?'
Ignoring the question, she twinkled up at him, âBe a love and buy me a burger. They're organic beef and the smell of them cooking has been driving me mad. I want mayonnaise and a gherkin, and just a smear of ketchup. Please! I'm starving. I didn't have time for breakfast and it's nearly two.'
Simon returned her look gravely. âI checked your tyres and they're all right now.'
âYou're an angel. Or a Father Christmas, one of those.' She pulled down his head and kissed him, fleetingly aware that she felt nothing except his smooth cheek under her lips. âNow, the burger?'
He frowned. âI'm not sure they're hygienic. They're cooked in the open, they're probably loaded with salmonella.' His distaste was evident in the involuntary curl of his lip and the anxious glint in his eye.
Nel's feeling of warmth towards him dimmed. âThat farm sells meat at all the farmers' markets. They can't do that unless they have food-handling certificates. So, are you going to let me die of hunger?'
He shrugged and walked away.
Vivian had obviously dressed up specially. She was a physiotherapist and carried herself beautifully. As she came over, she looked magnificent with her flame-coloured hair and dramatic velvet cloak. Although a bit younger than Nel, she was her closest friend, and the
reason Nel and the children had moved to the Cotswolds when her husband died.
Now, Vivian tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. âI've sold the last of my honey, and almost all my beeswax and turpentine polish. People buy loads of it at Christmas. Does that mean it's the only time they clean their houses?'
âPersonally speaking, yes,' said Nel, who had several jars of Vivian's home-made polish, mostly unopened, at home. âIt smells heavenly, though.'