The Sweetest Thing (24 page)

‘Oh, hi. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. How’s Lucky?’ she asks. ‘Donald, will you sit down!’ She tugs ineffectually at the leads while the dogs mill around her legs, tangling themselves up. ‘Oh, you silly things.’

‘Would you like me to hold a couple for you while you sort yourself out?’ I offer.

‘Oh, would you? Thank you so much.’ She hands me three leads, and untangles the others. ‘Um, Jennie, you wouldn’t mind hanging on to them for five minutes, would you? I want to buy some more dog biscuits.’

While I’m stammering a polite refusal, she shoves the leads into my hands and leaves me with six dogs. Luckily, they all line up in the same direction, straining to follow Wendy across to the pet food stall and pulling so hard when she returns across the square that I have to let go.

‘Sorry!’ I call, when they’re jumping up at her, wagging their tails as though she’s left them for months not minutes. I can’t help laughing as she puts the bag of biscuits down to gather up all the leads – and the dogs fall on it like a pack of hyenas. ‘It looks like you’ll have to buy some more,’ I say, helping her with the leads and picking up what remains of the bag.

‘I really should take them along to dog training,’ Wendy says, sounding breathless. ‘It’s lovely to see
you, Jennie. Perhaps, once Lucky’s settled in, you’d consider taking on another dog to keep him company?’

‘Lucky’s more than enough for us,’ I say, admiring her determination to rehome as many waifs and strays as possible.

‘It was worth a try,’ she says jovially. ‘I hope to see you and Lucky out and about on his walks sometime. Goodbye, Jennie.’

I return to the tidying up. I put all the rubbish in a cardboard box, fold up my cloth and take down the banner, then I remove my takings from the bum-bag and lock them in the cash box I’ve brought with me. There isn’t much in the way of cash. After all that work I’ve earned a joint of beef for roasting, a jar of honey, Fifi’s voucher, a bag of parsnips, a dozen eggs, three pig’s ears for the dog, a mixed bag of sweets from the newsagent, and a small bunch of spray carnations from the florist. On the plus side, I have two orders for occasion cakes: one for a christening, the other for a Golden Wedding Anniversary celebration.

I’m worried though – it’s all very well this bartering system, but it isn’t going to keep me in the manner to which I became accustomed when I was David’s wife. Not that I’m complaining. Not so long as my family is happy.

The church bell chimes midday, and I catch the sound of Fifi’s voice again. She’s around the other side of the honey stall, talking to BB, a woman of about my vintage, who wears her dark – almost black – hair in a beehive, aptly. She has a small bust and large hips, a loud voice and a cheerful smile.

‘Guy came with her,’ I hear Fifi say. ‘He thought I hadn’t seen him … Well, I reckon she has her claws into him already. I’ve spoken to him about it.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ BB murmurs, ‘but if he’s smitten with her, you won’t change his mind. Guy Barnes’s love life is one of the very few things you have no control over in this community.’

‘That’s as may be, but I’ll have a good try. I don’t want to see him hurt again. I promised his mother …’

Interfering busybody! I think, and for a moment, I wish for the anonymity of city life, where nobody knows anybody else and you can disappear into a crowd.

‘Not only that,’ Fifi goes on, ‘I’ve dreamed for years of a match between Guy and my lovely niece. Ruthie and Guy are so well suited, and unlike this Jennie, she’s still young enough to have a family.’

Ouch, I think. I have no desire to add to my brood, but the reminder that I can’t have many minutes left on my biological clock makes me feel quite sore.

‘Uphill Farm has been in the hands of the Barnes family for years and that’s where it should stay,’ Fifi adds. ‘Guy met up with Ruthie this morning, you know. I saw him in her Land Rover, driving back into town.’

‘Well, I wish you luck,’ BB says.

‘Hi, Jennie.’ I turn at the sound of Guy’s voice. ‘Are you done?’

‘Yes, I’ve been cleaned out.’ I smile when I see him, walking towards me, but I can’t help wondering what he’s been up to.

‘I didn’t take much money though,’ I sigh. ‘Not enough to keep us in wellies.’

Guy chuckles. ‘I’ve realised that baking is very much like farming – you do it for love, not the money. I’ll go and get your car.’ He holds out his hand for the keys.

On the drive back he is quiet, even by his usual standards.

‘Did you get everything done?’ I ask, aware of how close my hand is to his thigh, clad in navy cord, and resisting the urge to touch.

‘I did, thanks,’ he says.

‘Where did you get to earlier?’ I don’t like to pry, but I’m curious after what Fifi was saying, and I’m a little confused because I thought he’d been giving me signals that he fancied me. Now I wonder if I’ve been mistaken.

‘I did a bit of shopping to take up to Mum tomorrow, and then I met up with Ruthie to help her load some feed for the hens. She’s got a bad back. I help her out every couple of weeks or so.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

I’m aware that Guy is smiling.

‘You aren’t jealous, are you?’

‘No, of course not,’ I say, my hands tightening on the steering wheel. Why should I be?

‘How about you and your ex-husband? Do you ever …?’ Guy clears his throat and keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

‘You aren’t still worried about my driving?’ I say lightly.

‘A little,’ he confesses. ‘I wouldn’t give you the keys to my brand new combine harvester, if I had one.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘What question?’

‘Do you and David …?’

It suddenly dawns on me what he’s trying to say.

‘Do I have feelings for my ex-husband?
That
kind of feeling? Oh, good grief, no …’ The gears grate as I change down to second to pass a horsebox that’s coming down the lane in the opposite direction. ‘We
don’t … you know, for old times’ sake. Nothing like that.’ I’m blushing – not at the thought of making love with David after all this time, but at the thought of making love with Guy. Where did that come from?

‘I shouldn’t have said anything – your private life has nothing to do with me. I’m sorry.’ Then I hear his voice change tone. ‘Actually, I don’t know why I’m apologising – you were the one who started it,’ he goes on, teasingly. ‘Are you in a hurry to get back, only we could stop for a late lunch? The Talymill Inn’s good for a quick ploughman’s, or ham, egg and chips.’

‘I probably ought to get back for the dog,’ I say, and then I burst out laughing. ‘What do I sound like? I’ll be buying him dog gravy and a monogrammed jacket next.’

‘I doubt it somehow,’ Guy chuckles. ‘I can’t be out too long either because of the cows.’

We eat at the Talymill Inn, watching the restored wheel turning in the race that diverts away from the river, and, in spite of my recurring worries about Adam, I feel content. The market stall was a success and now my friendship with Guy seems to have moved to another level, deeper and more meaningful.

After my triumph at the Farmers’ Market, I’m on a roll. I book a regular slot – that’s a market every fortnight. The ad in the
Chronicle
brought me two more orders, rather belated ones. I’m not sure where to go next with the business. I don’t need an MBA, just drive and commonsense – and, if I’m honest with myself, a good dose of self-confidence. I know I can talk to people, handle selling on a market stall and give out free samples, but the thought of going into a shop to ask if they’ll stock my cakes still sends me into a cold sweat.

I have to build on my success though. I’m not earning enough to keep the wolves from the door, I muse as the dog whines from outside, asking to be let in. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good time to take on another mouth to feed.

I let Lucky indoors. The girls are playing a game out in the stables. Adam is upstairs – I’d like to say he’s doing his homework, but it’s far more likely that he’s on Facebook, chatting to his London friends. I had a long
talk with David about him when the children went back to school after their weekend away. He said that Adam still had a lot of concerns about leaving his friends and trying to fit in with a new set at school, but couldn’t actually offer any solutions. All he could do was continue to be supportive of our son – which, as he loves to remind me, is particularly difficult when I’ve moved him so far away.

The tea is in the Aga and I have an hour or so to make a start on the next step in creating Penny’s wedding cake.

‘Mummy, Georgia says I can’t be the owner,’ Sophie says, marching into the kitchen. She stops and rests her elbows on the table, stamps her foot and pouts. ‘She says I have to be the pony, but that isn’t fair.’

‘I don’t see why you can’t take it in turns.’

‘Would you come out and be the pony?’ Sophie asks.

‘I’ve got to do this cake,’ I say, smiling at the idea of trotting around the paddock and whinnying like a horse. Guy would think I’d gone mad.

‘The wedding cake?’ says Sophie. ‘I think it’s going to be beautiful, Mummy. Can I help you?’

‘You can fetch and carry for me,’ I say, concerned that the cake won’t be as beautiful as Sophie expects if she gets her hands on it.

‘I want to decorate it,’ she says, crestfallen.

‘You have to practise first. And I’m not decorating it today anyway. I’m getting it ready to be decorated.’

‘I see.’

‘I need jam and marzipan.’

‘I’ll find them.’ She runs to the larder and tugs the door open.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘No, I’ll carry the cake – I don’t want it to meet with an accident.’

‘The bride wouldn’t like that, would she? I think she’d be rather upset.’

‘It wouldn’t be good for business. This cake has to be fantastic because I want everyone to think: When I get married, I’ll order the cake from Jennie.’

I take out the three tiers of cake, unwrap them and line them up on boards. I roll out what Sophie describes as white marzipan worms, and use them to plug the gaps at the bottom of the cakes, smoothing the join all the way round with a palette knife.

‘What next, Mummy?’ Sophie says.

‘We need a little bit of icing sugar for the work surface.’

‘Why?’

‘To stop the marzipan sticking when I roll it out.’ I make three circles of marzipan, large enough to cover the tops and sides of the three cakes, with some overlap, then I paint the sides with jam. ‘That helps the marzipan to stick.’

‘First you don’t want it to stick, then you do,’ Sophie chuckles. ‘You can never make up your mind.’

Is she saying I’m indecisive? I smile to myself. I’m not sure.

I place the first circle of marzipan on to the smallest tier to begin with, sliding it slowly until it’s in the right place and smoothing it gently across the top before attending to the sides. When I’m happy with it, I go on to the next two tiers, then put them back in the larder for the marzipan to dry. Twenty-four hours later, they’ll be ready for the layer of fondant icing, and then it won’t be long until the fun part begins: the decorations.

I’m reminded of my own wedding cake – it was beautiful (I didn’t make it myself) – a square, three-tiered affair with cascades of burgundy and cream
sugar roses set against pristine white icing. I recall thinking, as David held my hand, helping me guide the knife, that it was almost sacrilegious to cut it.

I ask Sophie to call Georgia and Adam in for tea.

When I’ve served up dinner – boiled ham, parsley sauce, roast potatoes and some carrots that I bought at the greengrocer – Adam and the girls turn up to eat. I sit down with them at our farmhouse table, thinking how funny it is that we all sit at one end. Georgia has pointed out before that if we spread out and try to make conversation, we feel as if we’re talking to ourselves.

‘Georgia, have you had any thoughts about what you’d like to do for your birthday? It isn’t very long now.’

‘I don’t want a big party like last year.’

‘We have to do something to celebrate.’

‘Can I have someone round for tea?’ She squirts half a bottle of tomato ketchup over her carrots.

‘Who do you want to invite?’

‘Camilla from school. She’s in my class and she’s got her own pony.’ Georgia pauses. ‘I’ll make her an invitation, shall I?’

‘That sounds like a good plan to me.’

It doesn’t take Adam long to clear his plate.

‘Mum, I could do with some cash,’ he says, shovelling the last of his food into his mouth.

‘What for?’

‘I’m going to buy some more chews for Lucky, and I need to top up my account at the Bistro.’

‘I wish you’d take sandwiches,’ I sigh.

‘I wouldn’t eat them. Your sandwiches are like doorsteps.’

‘Well, you could make them exactly how you want them.’

Adam gives me a winning smile and holds out his hand, palm uppermost.

‘Cash, Mum …’