The Sweetness of Liberty James (22 page)

‘No, of course not, but I may as well. It's really strange; the more cookery shows there are on television, the less people seem to want to cook. Nigella makes everyone want to look like her and have a one hundred thousand pound kitchen to work in. Jamie encourages enthusiasm for eating his type of food, but it's directed at an age group who will be working their butts off and want to go for a drink after work, not get home and make a “pukka suppa” for their friends.' Liberty smiled at her mother's use of slang, the words so unwilling to drop off her tongue she made them sound like unpleasant smells.

‘I think I enjoy teaching the children more. As I don't really need the income from the bored housewife brigade, I may give up advertising these afternoon classes.'

‘Who is coming today?'

‘A small group of six women, down from London. They are staying at the Hotel du Vin in Tunbridge Wells, and as far as I can gather their husbands are shooting somewhere and they want something to do. Spa day yesterday; today, learn to bake a new cake, that sort of thing.'

‘I think I'll give it a miss, if you don't mind. I want to check out some of the competition. I also need to contact my solicitor just in case I can buy Duck End, and contracts have to be drawn up for the old butcher's shop. It's all so exciting! It must be fate. I thought I would be trawling the country for months looking for the right location, and it's here under your nose. You won't mind my being so close, will you?'

Liberty looked worried; she hadn't thought of her mother's toes, and now she seemed to be treading on them.

‘Don't be silly!' Deirdre turned and smiled warmly at her daughter. ‘It's a dream come true for any parent; in fact, I'm
almost sad you have to move out. It's been lovely having you home these few days.'

They hugged, and then before either of them started weeping mascara on the other's shoulder, they parted.

‘Lots to do! I'll be back for drinks before we go to Jonathan's,' called Liberty as she raced to her car, unwilling to show her mother how ridiculously emotional she had become. She had never been fond of dramatic emotional outbursts, and now she could barely drink a cup of tea without thinking how pretty the colour was and tears welling up as she embraced the beauty of the world.
I'm pathetic
, she told herself, but it made her smile.

She spent a useful afternoon visiting busy tea rooms, some in towns and villages, some located at the many houses and gardens open to the public. There were quite a few National Trust properties, and these especially seemed to have made an effort to improve the quality of their produce. They varied considerably, most selling fairly good scones and cakes, and fairly good tea and coffee. Liberty felt she had a niche for her type of food, which would include excellent tea and coffee, a good selection of savouries for breakfast and lunch and afternoon teas, along with breads and pastries. She understood that most tourists were happy to be passed off with fairly good, something that was just a tummy filler before the next ramble or stately home. But she wanted to attract the real foodie. If tourists thought paying for good quality was unnecessary, then they could go elsewhere; she would be happy feeding people who appreciated good food. She was aware, however, that it would take a while to bring these customers in and to build up a reputation. She must work out a budget for advertising, and check out the local newspapers and magazines.

Liberty then spent a quarter of an hour on the phone with her solicitor in London. She sat in Deirdre's office, Dijon and Custard at her feet, feeling like a stranger. She no longer knew the woman she had been only a few months ago. When Rebecca Knowles-Giles, her solicitor, said she would forward all
her papers and her will to the new solicitor she had chosen in Tunbridge Wells for convenience, and wished her good luck for the future, she felt another string being cut from her previous life. No going back now. She then phoned the estate agent Jonathan had mentioned and asked whether he had heard from the Smythes, the people who were selling Duck End.

‘Yes,' said Tim Beakes, the agent. ‘I think it might be a mistake to show an interest in the property before it actually goes on the market. They want a million and three quarters, quite a lot for that house. I phoned a chum of mine at Savills, and he agreed one and a quarter is more realistic.'

‘Right, thank you. Once you have spoken to them and they put it on the market, offer one and a quarter as soon as you can. I can exchange in a week. No offers. See what they say.'

As much as Liberty desperately wanted Duck End, she wasn't going to be taken for a fool. She knew, thanks to Jonathan, the Smythes had already bought in Marbella, and they must know the market was iffy. She hoped they would be pleased to be rid of it, and crossed her fingers and all her toes then said a little prayer.

Her watch and her need for a glass of wine told her it was six o'clock. With the thought that Deirdre must finish her class soon, she ran upstairs to freshen up in readiness for supper at Jonathan's. Knowing it would be a simple kitchen meal, Liberty showered and slipped on a warm pair of velvet jeans, over-the-knee boots and a pale grey cashmere sweater that made her green eyes sparkle and glow. She also grabbed a pashmina, remembering that if you were further than a metre away from either the Aga or fireplace, Denhelm was freezing. Her hot shower and blow-dry would keep her going.

As she descended the staircase, mulling over the events of her extraordinary day – Percy, house buying, tea room planning – she tingled with excitement and nerves, not sure which was more prevalent. Trying not to think of Percy, she concentrated on Duck End, which at the moment was more on her mind than the
tea room. She had concentrated for so long on food, menus and worrying whether she would be able to succeed in business, that now she felt like nesting. She had never had her own home; in fact, thinking about it, she had never lived alone, apart from her time in halls at uni. Now she felt able to bask in the excitement of her first home. She couldn't wait to get J-T down to have a look, and she must start thinking of furnishings. It excited her to think of making a comfortable, hopefully beautiful and cosy home that she could retreat to when all got too much in the café or to wallow in the bath on her days off, which she was realising would be few and far between.

If she got the cottage sorted, then she could concentrate on the café; she was already organised enough to know how she wanted that to look, and what equipment she would need, thanks to her father's many lists. Through previous research and Alain's excellent help she knew where she was going for the industrial cooker, fridges and other equipment, and with no need of any loan from a bank she had created a business plan that would remain for her eyes only: what she hoped to turn over in the first five years, and where she saw herself going. She didn't want to begin to think of failure, but at least this way only she would know if she hadn't reached her targets. She also knew that she wanted to use some of Deirdre's walled kitchen garden produce, and she hoped to discuss the possibility of using some of Denhelm's acreage for a small allotment, maybe even extending this to keeping a few chickens for eggs. Anyway, she was more excited in the expectation of hearing all about Savannah, Grahame and Edmund. Stuffed shirt that he was at the age of twelve, she wondered what he had turned into.

As she entered the kitchen she snorted with laughter. What on earth? There were six women and her mother standing round the big scrubbed table. Not a jot of food to be seen and none of the normal aromas of baking could be detected. Instead, they were all holding cocktail shakers and standing beside Martini
glasses. From the glazed, giggling state of them they had already tasted a few.

‘Darling! Do come in,' said Deirdre, ‘we are now trying out an espresso Martini.'

‘Yes, we are,' chimed a very attractive brunette, about Liberty's age. ‘We have drunk one with a twist, one chocolate and something else which I forget.'

‘A dirty one,' screeched another well-dressed woman, and they all burst into fits of laughter.

‘I believe you,' replied Liberty, gazing at the bottles, olives and cut lemons lying on several chopping boards. ‘And exactly what have you got on your faces?' They all looked rather like sticky ghosts.

‘Well, Denise here went to a spa yesterday, and her beautician said that honey and egg white were as good and effective as any face mask, so we used the whites for that and the yolks for a much-needed prairie oyster,' said Deirdre with a laugh. ‘Come on, do try one. The girls weren't at all interested in cooking. Their husbands had booked them in for a session to get them out of their hair, so I thought we may as well just have fun. Go on, try the chocolate Martini,' she insisted, thrusting a glass of dark brown goo into Liberty's hand.

‘Oh. Well . . . maybe, but can I have a lemon one?'
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em
, she thought.

An hour later she was feeling relieved that she would not be spending her days like Denise and her friends. Obviously all married to successful, work crazy City types like Percy, they seemed only to be able to chat about the latest fashion collections, who was the best doctor to go to for Botox, eye or bottom lifts and fillers, then Pilates and how they would simply die if they had the children at home while they were so busy fundraising and socialising with their husbands. There was simply not enough time in the day, and summer holidays were only made bearable with pony club to keep the little darlings away, and how much they were dreading the annual ski trip
with or without the children, because although wearing real fur was de rigeur in Gstaad, what if they had red paint thrown over them at the airport? One luscious, raven-haired, size eight beauty was even saying she was sending on the jet in advance with her luggage.

As Deirdre and Liberty shovelled them into a taxi with only ten minutes to spare before they were expected for supper, Liberty asked her mother how on earth anyone could end up so very spoiled and so miserable at the same time?

‘It's the path you were on, my dear,' replied Deirdre. ‘But I think I managed to cheer them up a little!'

‘Well, thank God I got out in time,' was all Liberty could say, with deep sincerity.

As Deirdre shot around, feeding the dogs, combing her hair quickly before the kitchen mirror and sweeping lipstick over her mouth, Liberty was amazed at how her mother stayed so effortlessly elegant. With a quick dusting of Laura Mercier powder and a squirt of No. 5, she was ready. Well, almost. Liberty brushed the excess powder off her shoulders and reminded her to take her apron off before Deirdre added a thick knitted jacket to her neat black trousers and crisp white shirt that amazingly hadn't suffered under the chocolate Martinis.

‘Right,' she commanded, ‘you drive, it's only fifty metres before we turn up the drive.'

As they hurtled up the driveway, thankfully unpotholed – Liberty hated to be late – she gazed up at the unlit house. It was a beautiful building, part medieval hall, part Edwardian grandeur, that all seemed somehow to blend effortlessly. The house had been loved by its occupants down the ages, and it showed. But there were no lamps blazing their way up the drive, no lights in the window. Rather horrid, considering they had been invited.

19

Liberty could picture the house only because she had spent so much time there as a child.

‘What a shame,' she said to Deirdre, slowing the car to a crawl. ‘Are they in dire financial straits?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘No lights. Makes the house look cold and unfriendly. It should be blazing with light. As it is, we can hardly see it in the dusk.'

‘Oh, Jonathan is a born again eco-warrior under Edmund's influence. Ed runs some venture capital company that pioneers energy, incinerators and wind turbines. I don't remember exactly, they become so dull when they start banging on about the subject that I usually switch my brain off. The roof of this place now looks like an experiment from NASA, it's full of glass panels and twirling sticks. You are lucky not to be here during daylight. Jonathan would have had you up there on the roof, explaining how much energy he saves and how much the electricity grid pays him for the stuff he produces. I highly recommend you don't mention it. It's boring. Talking of Edmund, though – I noticed this morning you asked after the other two, Gray and Savannah, but you didn't ask after Edmund. He may be a bit uptight, but that was rude.'

Feeling suitably chastised, Liberty apologised, and realised she didn't know why she hadn't mentioned his name. But Deirdre's Martini-addled brain had moved on.

‘Do you think I should give up my cookery classes? It was fun
this afternoon, but now you are here, with all your grand plans, I think maybe I should do something else.'

‘Well,' responded Liberty, ‘you haven't written a book since Dad left.'

‘Great idea.'

‘Maybe they will have you back on TV.' Deirdre had provided competition to Delia Smith on the airwaves during the early 1980s.

‘I don't think they would want an old wrinkly on TV; not good for viewing figures.'

Hum
, thought her daughter, having just witnessed Deirdre pull herself together physically and mentally after drinking quite a quantity of vodka. Now she was a vision of old world elegance. Liberty thought she would compete rather well with the Hairy Bikers and a sucking, licking Nigella.

They parked at the back by the kitchen door – well, the door that led to a network of corridors and eventually reached the family rooms. There was only one feeble energy-saving bulb to light their way through the gloom of the cold November night.

Mrs Goodman opened the door to their knocking, and they stepped inside. Liberty was not surprised to find it chilly.

‘How lovely to see you again, my child,' said Mrs Goodman. Never one to embrace inappropriately, she simply rubbed her hands together in pleasure and led them along the corridor to a toasty warm kitchen. A huge Aga, probably one of the originals, stood against one wall as Liberty remembered it, but she then realised that the dogs, cats and Jonathan were not hugging it and saw they had opened up the chimney on the other side of the kitchen and a roaring log fire was crackling away. Three cocker spaniels and a fat tabby were lying contentedly as close to the fender as they dared on an old warm rug. In the typical style of Lutyens, who had been chief architect in the remodelling of 1920, there was a single long table in the kitchen to hold most utensils and condiments, as well as enough room to seat ten in comfort. Piles of papers, recipes and photographs adorned
shelves, as did large copper pans kept in perfect, gleaming condition by Mrs Goodman.