The Sweetness of Liberty James (56 page)

‘Fuck,' said Edmund.

‘Bugger,' said Liberty as the cab sped towards the highway. Feeling as lonely as it was possible to be at that moment, she thought why oh why was she so useless? Now she realised she could have made the first move, but oh, the utter humiliation if he refused her! The tiny amount of confidence she had in herself as a woman couldn't take another knock.

Sarah brought Teal round to her house as soon as she returned. ‘I'm sorry, but can I leave Custard with you too? She is missing Dijon, so I don't want to leave her on her own when I go to work.'

‘No problem, it will be a pleasure to look after her,' said Liberty, pleased to have her two furry friends to follow her around, snuffling and jolly as always. Something was odd, though. Nothing stood out, but she felt, almost knew, someone
had been in the house. She checked the windows and French doors. No sign of a break-in, but she knew there had been more milk in the jug, and the coffee machine had been set to ‘cappuccino', something she would only make in the morning. The last coffee she had drunk was during the evening before she left for France. She decided she must have been mistaken, as no one except her mother had keys. Sarah would have told her if she had borrowed them and been in. But something was not right.

Teal spent a while sniffing at the fireplace in the sitting room and then barked at it, which made Liberty smile. ‘It's too warm for a fire. Come into the kitchen and sit by the Aga, you silly thing, if you are cold.'

She checked her emails and sent one to Gray, hoping he was well and telling him about the baptism. She attached photos and asked if he had heard about Savannah and Khalid. She also told him of the fete, and the fact that Savannah and Khalid would be coming, also J-T and Bob. J-T had suggested painting the grass on the green pink – now that would make a statement! They would bring the dogs, which Liberty privately thought would only win the yappiest dog class. However, their support was wonderful and their presence would boost numbers. And at the very least, J-T would make an effort for the canine fancy dress.

Savannah had already emailed, with lovely news. She would arrive with the family on the Thursday before the fete, and would willingly help serve food. Liberty giggled as she knew this would result in helping one person to cake and a lot of gossip, but how sweet of her to offer. Gray's news was somewhat more surprising. He and the major, as he referred to him, would be embarking on a long holiday to get away from the horror of the flooding in Bangladesh, when the worst was over and others were in charge. They hoped to stop off in the UK sometime in the summer. Gray was, however, sending some things for her grand opening, as he called it, although he had written that the name sounded a little pornographic! And he wished her well,
although he warned the post could be erratic and the parcel might only arrive in time for Christmas, even though he had sent it part of the way on a forces flight. How lovely. She felt her friends remembered her and this made her, albeit momentarily, feel a little less nervous about her first solo venture.

48

The days were flying by. Liberty's mind was awash with excitement one minute, terror the next. Menus, photographs and ideas for cakes scrawled on pieces of paper covered the walls of her kitchen, as though Colefax and Fowler's new range of wallpapers had been taken from cookery books.
Mmm, not a bad idea. Maybe J-T will hire me when the café nosedives
, she thought in a bout of nerves. Pictures of cake stands covered with macaroons and fairy cakes (which she personally hated, but knew were popular with children) were piled on the table. She had taken delivery of her cake tins for the ladies' teas: mini loaf tins for tiny blueberry, ginger and lemon drizzle cakes; tiny flan tins for the most delicate tarts and quiches; she planned to do mini tarte Tatins and mini clafoutis when cherry season arrived, and had found small ceramic dishes that were perfect for both; little Bundt tins for delectable espresso cakes filled with a dark chocolate mousse drizzled with a white chocolate ganache . . . the list went on. Why was everything so cute when in miniature, she wondered? She must leave a set out for Sasha to play with when she came to the park. Liberty knew that she had to be prepared. She only had two days between the fair and her opening.

Advertisements had been placed in all the local papers and the county glossies, and that afternoon a journalist from
Weald Life
was coming to interview her for some editorial above an advertisement before the opening. ‘Our next issue comes out on the Tuesday before the opening,' he had said on the phone, ‘so if I come now, I can fit it in.'

Liberty wasn't sure; not having opened yet, she was uncertain what the journalist wanted. But he had approached her, emailing and then phoning, quite insistent that he do a piece, as he had heard of her legendary skills. It was only after she had agreed that she wondered how he had heard, but he sounded friendly enough, and all publicity was good, wasn't it? She planned to show him the premises and then give him a slap-up afternoon tea while he conducted the interview, but she wished Edmund was there for some backup. She hadn't seen much of him since his return from France.

She rid herself of any nerves she might have had by losing herself in clouds of flour and sugar. She knew she was happiest when, apron on, washing up, she could smell the aromas wafting out of the gas oven in which she baked her cakes. She decided it was a memory of childhood; walking into her kitchen after school and delightedly sniffing the air, wondering if it was to be apple strudel or chocolate profiteroles that her mother had lovingly prepared, only for Liberty to steal a stash with barely a word of thanks before whisking them down to Savannah, where they would share them with their gypsy friends in the Christmas tree forest, exchanging them for lard buns and rabbit pasties. A psychologist would have a field day with her, telling her she had reverted to what made her happy, and when had this last been? Liberty didn't care to dwell on the fact that it would have been twenty-three years ago.

Teal brought her master back to the present day by reminding her that she needed to be let out. ‘Oh, good girl!' exclaimed Liberty, thrilled that at last the little dog was getting the hang of going outside to wee. And it must be a good omen – no puddles for the journalist to stand in! A happy morning was spent making her favourites and putting a great deal of care and attention into the details. She knew it was a male interviewer, so stuck to what Edmund had professed to be the best choices: mini Scotch eggs made with quails' eggs, individual brioches topped with horseradish and local smoked trout, local cheese
gougères, and a little Guinness and ginger spice cake soaked in ginger syrup and scented with cardamom and star anise. And her own speciality – the poppy seed walnut sponge filled with damson preserve and whipped cream, which was huge and blowsy and stood beautifully on an Emma Bridgewater cake stand in the centre of the table alongside a basket of fruit, plain and cheese scones, clotted cream and home-made preserves. She had put out pretty yellow checked napkins that were tea towel sized, and her own tea set that she had ordered from Germany – delicate porcelain with a scalloped edge, white with a pea-green trim and gold edging. As her café was not yet open, instead of greeting him in her chosen uniform of long pinny, she dressed in a Chloé shirtwaister and wedges, with a cashmere cardigan, all in palest duck-egg blue. She made sure her hair was shining and Teal wasn't sitting on the table.

Reassuringly, he was on time. A smartly – far too smartly, for a provincial journo – dressed man stood on her doorstep, while a short, rat-faced girl with buck teeth and an angry expression stood next to him holding an ancient camera.

‘Jools Middleton,' he boomed confidently, ‘and this is Lexi, my photographer.
Weald Life.'

‘Hello,' said Liberty, a little taken aback by the photographer. Her brain was telling her not to be so silly; of course they would want pictures! ‘Do please come in. Shall we start with tea or would you like to look at my premises first?'

‘Oh, no need. We took a pic as we came past; I'm sure our readers just want to know what you are planning on serving.'

‘Oh! All right.' Liberty's stomach made a funny jerking action. For some reason, this did not feel right. Her instinct was screaming at her that something was wrong. She again wished that Edmund was there to put her mind at ease; there was no reason for her to be agitated, but every hair on her neck was standing to attention. She took a breath and said as calmly as she could, ‘I'll put the kettle on. Our local water is so good, but it will be filtered in the restaurant to make the perfect cup. What
can I offer you? Assam, lapsang souchong, Darjeeling, jasmine, or you may prefer our English tea? We use an everyday brew similar to the Teapigs mix . . .'

‘Oh, just PG for us. Thanks, love – anything else would be wasted.' Lexi added that she couldn't stand any of that funny stuff.

‘Oh,' said Liberty again, unsure of what else to say. She was trying to promote the extent of her menu, and had been sure the restaurant reviewer would be interested, but maybe he was overworked and underpaid as most journalists were, although that suit told another story. She made a large pot of English breakfast, the closest she had to PG Tips.

‘What's that?' asked Lexi, sneering at the silver tea strainer. ‘A sieve?'

‘It's to keep the tea leaves from migrating into your cup,' explained Liberty, trying to keep the smile off her face, and relaxing a little. ‘Do you write all the restaurant reviews?'

‘Oh, no,' replied Jools, ‘I'm normally financial, but they were short-staffed.' This should have rung alarm bells in both Liberty's ears. The magazine, one of the most respected monthlies in the county, took pride in its restaurant reviews, and they had been keen to write her up, or at least the journalist who had contacted her was. She knew hoteliers and guest houses would leave copies of the magazine around their establishments, so this was important. It was definitely keep calm and carry on time.

Liberty put out all the dishes she had prepared earlier. She had quickly laid another place setting. The table looked beautiful. But before she could offer the savouries, Lexi cut a wide piece from the poppy seed and walnut cake, which was to be served last. It wobbled precariously.

‘What is it?' she asked, prodding the golden-flecked sponge with its ground poppy seeds like tiny black speckles of sand, the thick cream mingling with the deep purple of the damson compote.

‘That is my speciality. No flour, only ground walnuts and
almonds, lots of butter and eggs. It's filled with fresh cream and my home-made damson jam. The sponge is flavoured with orange zest and I drizzle a light Grand Marnier syrup over the top of each layer once it is baked to keep it moist.'

‘Oh, horrid, damsons, aren't they really sour?' Lexi stuck her tongue out and clattered her fork on to the delicate china plate without even trying it. Keeping a fixed smile on her face, Liberty said, ‘Maybe something savoury to start with?' She placed a tiny Scotch egg in front of Jools; he shoved it into his mouth and swallowed it, reminding her of Dijon.

‘What else?' he said. She put a local blue cheese and cobnut straw on his plate.

‘My home-made puff,' she said proudly, adding a miniature Sussex pasty (shortcrust filled with pheasant confit, seasoning and local vegetables). She then deliberated, glanced round the groaning table and pushed a tart filled with oven-dried tomato and prosciutto towards him, together with a tiny twice-baked goat's cheese soufflé topped with a piece of roasted beetroot dressed with cumin-scented honey. All of which he shovelled down his throat without comment. This carried on for a few minutes.

Lexi was by now filing her dirty nails and looking as bored as a schoolgirl on a day trip to the local sewage works. Jools moved on to the sweet items like a cow finding its own roll of silage.
I wonder
, thought Liberty,
if I put Teal's food in front of him, will he eat that too?
But she carried on bravely, placing a delicate spoonful of her marmalade atop clotted cream on one of her single malt fruit scones.

‘Mmmm, you can taste the booze!'

Wow! Jools had made a comment! ‘I soak the fruit in the whisky for three days, before adding it to my traditional scone mix,' said Liberty, but she knew that her words were falling on deaf ears.

The Guinness spice cake made him emit another ‘mmmm', but that was all she going to get. Once he had consumed more
calories than his svelte figure would let her believe, Liberty said, ‘Do you have any questions? I can show you my menus.' She placed them in front of him, to try to encourage him. ‘I'm doing builders' teas, ladies' teas, light lunches, and . . .'

‘What about drinks?' he asked suddenly.

‘Well, as I said, all sorts of teas, coffees, of course, hot chocolate made from the local milk and Valrhona chocolate.'

‘No, what about real drink. You know, booze? People are going to want a glass of wine with their “light lunches”.' As he said this he raised his hands and made air quotes with his fingers. This, of all questions, stumped Liberty.

‘I haven't thought of a licence yet. I want to get the food established first,' she said, brazening it out and wondering if Jools already knew she had been refused a licence. Indeed, he now answered her unspoken question.

‘So, no truth in the rumours you have no licence on account of your criminal record?'

‘I have no criminal record, so that would be false,' answered Liberty, feeling she was being interrogated by the police rather than interviewed by a county magazine. She had envisaged a rather Women's Institute sort of afternoon, not Greedy and Rat-Face, the un-comedic duo.

‘I think that sums up everything we need to know,' said Jools, standing up.

‘But what about opening hours, or my ethos about all local produce, the terroir – the fact that my customers will all taste the food as the air they breathe will have fed it, the soil they walk on will have grown it . . .'