The Sweetness of Liberty James (53 page)

‘Why did we have to leave?' demanded Alain. ‘That was damn good whisky he was pouring!'

Deirdre pouted. ‘I cannot believe that Jonathan went off without so much as a by-your-leave. I couldn't tell him our news, or wish him well.'

Alain put his arm through hers and chuckled. ‘Any lesser man would be jealous. Are you upset he left or upset he left you?'

Deirdre's cheeks flushed a becoming pink. ‘I just think he could have said goodbye. And leaving poor Edmund like that! I shall tell Ed that Liberty needs him to help test some recipes
tomorrow, get him out of the house. I wonder why they seemed so uncomfortable with each other today, they could barely look at each other! And there was me telling you that they were in love!'

‘I don't think you are wrong there, my darling,' said Alain as they continued their walk home, ‘but something went askew last night. When I phoned Gary to find out what I owed, he told me that after a good meal, Liberty suddenly left the dining room and disappeared to her room – alone!'

Edmund was delighted to be invited to Liberty's home – any chance to get away from the feeling of wearing a coat two sizes too large. But later that day, on his return to Denhelm, he felt somewhat uncomfortable from eating too many delicate anchovy straws and tiny choux buns filled with a smoked haddock brandade topped with tapenade, and a vast selection of other titbits. He had not known that canapés could be so delicious, and an entire meal (when you ate fifty of them).

He smiled to himself as he remembered the apprehension on Liberty's face each time he popped one of the delicacies into his mouth, as though expecting him suddenly to find something wrong with the light-as-air buttery pastry or drop down dead from some form of instant food poisoning.

The habitual scowl soon returned to his face as he stood in the Grand Hall, looking up and around at his inheritance in a new light. ‘All his – all mine,' he muttered to himself.
Curse and buggery
, he thought. He wandered into his father's office. ‘No, my office,' he said sternly. ‘No, definitely Pa's office,' he confirmed as he looked around at the faded chintzy chairs held together with dog hair and the odd stains he hadn't noticed before. The large library desk, covered in papers, photographs and invoices, screamed ‘Jonathan sits here', as did the old uncomfortable wooden chair that he had always used, despite its unforgivingly hard seat, as Helena had given it to him when she moved in.

‘My only possession,' she had said as she took over the running of the house with considerable skill, despite growing up in other
people's rented manors as her father moved frequently to escape the taxman.

Having lived since childhood in the knowledge that ‘one day, my boy, all this will be yours', Edmund expected some epiphany to envelop him, to shout instructions and deliver a job description. He had, for heaven's sake, watched and followed his father for so many years; listening to instructions being given to employees, the annual buildings check being detailed and the crop rotation being listed. The estate seemed to run like clockwork, so why did he have no idea where to start now? He thought fondly of his little office off Pimlico Road; his fussy secretary and her disapproving voice as he left yet another cup of coffee half drunk (she had never worked out how to use his smart espresso machine, and insisted on giving him two spoons of instant as a replacement, in a very small amount of boiling water, which he hated so left untouched).

He knew how to advise large companies how to cut factory emissions, how to reduce their carbon footprint while scooping government grants and how to save pounds on future energy expenditure, but running this house with no occupants except himself and a housekeeper, three tenant farms, a stud, a farm shop, a bottling factory, not to mention the Christmas tree plantation and about 150 tenants in the village left him cold; too many people needing him. The one person he wanted to need him only desired his taste buds. He slumped into a chair, head in hands, and realised he had been secretly hoping his father would find their spring water contained the elixir of youth so he could stay on indefinitely.
Where the hell are you, Pa? How dare you bugger off to enjoy yourself while the girl I love is only interested in how many seeds of cardamom to grind into a Chelsea bun dough. Meanwhile, you find true love with an ancient hippy!

‘Bugger!' he said, and started to decipher some of the mess on and around the desk.

45

The coming village fete to celebrate the opening of LIBERTEAS was creating a wave of excitement and enthusiasm, surging its way through Liberty's family and supporters.

The idea of holding street parties had been joyfully taken up by villagers all over the country, eager to help the royal family celebrate weddings and jubilees. They had come at a time when the British public as a whole were feeling wretched. Money was tight, wars were being fought by brave soldiers, missed sorely by their families back in the UK, news of more deaths were almost an everyday occurrence, and the possibility of a happier and better world seemed further and further away. Streets had been closed off and neighbours had met each other for the first time while planning food, placing bunting and finding trestle tables. Their children had played in the car-free lanes and a happy sense of community had swept the land. Now there was another chance to hold such a celebration. Sarah had already run off to tell her children excitedly, so no doubt the whole village would be aware of the coming event by tea time. However, most of those street parties had been organised a year in advance. Liberty had just four weeks to accomplish the grand opening that was unfurling before her.

She made pots of coffee and poured champagne while her parents added to the list of ideas. Alain thought of baskets filled with pretty loaves of bread to adorn the trestle tables instead of flowers. He knew Paloma would have cheap sources of rustic basketware and could ship some over from France.

‘You need to make it look like a television ideal of an English
fair. So often they are a let-down. You must think what a tourist would like to see – something from another era, like
Miss Marple
crossed with
The Darling Buds of May
,' he elaborated. ‘China pots of tea, linens, scones, cakes, ladies in pretty pinnies – Paloma can send those too, as they still wear them in the south of France. Lots of bunting, striped deck-chairs alongside a few hay bales, lights in trees. You could carry it through to the evening. Talk to the pub – Dilys, is it? See if she would sell beer in plastic cups so people could mill in and out. What about a band? Talk to that Pig chap – you could serve his sausages. Get the cheese people involved, and anyone else who is a local producer, especially those you will want to use for the café. Get them behind the idea so they support you. You will do most of the work, but they will gain from the exposure.

‘Don't go the hog roast way, as that is not the food you will be serving. Think more of an English picnic,' he continued, happy to share his skills and ideas with his family. ‘Do you remember the scene in
Sense and Sensibility
? The one that Emma Thompson did with that chap, where they organise a brilliant picnic, parasols and hampers in the English countryside? You have the perfect setting right here!'

‘Wasn't Edmund clever coming up with the idea?' Liberty exclaimed.

‘Yes,' said Deirdre, ‘I've noticed how much you love Edmund's ideas!'

Liberty let this comment go, saying, ‘It's just so easy as it's his land, so we don't have to ask permission from the council.' Then she asked her mother if she could help with the baking.

‘Oh, we will both help,' said Alain. ‘In fact, if we get the publicity right we may need more than your kitchen can churn out. It all needs to be spot on, which with patisserie means as fresh as possible. I will arrange for a portable kitchen to come with two extra baking ovens. You don't want fan ovens. Do you have sufficient baking trays? Bread tins and so on?'

‘Yes, I've bought loads, and they are all washed and stacked.'

‘You have your own tea blend, but you will need filtered water, so we will have to get a large capacity filter. And your milk has to be of exceptional quality. Where are you sourcing it for LIBERTEAS?'

‘Daddy! Stop! Remember, you taught me everything I know. I have already been to visit local dairies, sampled them all. I've got raw goat's milk coming from Mrs Bevan at Gateshead Farm for those who like it. Otherwise, non-homogenised organic milk from Burnt House Farm. They have Guernseys; perfect milk for tea and baking. They are also supplying butter, proper buttermilk and cream. I have to use skimmed milk for the coffee machine as it froths better, and some people will ask for it anyway. Burnt House is supplying that too. I'm going to spend my afternoons phoning the local paper. Hopefully they will send a journo for the day, tempted by free food and drink, and I shall put half-page advertisements in from now until D-day asking people to support the fair.'

Edmund had called to say that Eric was keen to show off his hen harrier's talent at rabbit-catching.
Not so sure about that
, thought Liberty.
It could maybe just chase a hare or a cardamom cream bun
. And a couple of Shetland ponies were to be borrowed from the estate where they were used as companions for the more flighty thoroughbreds, to give children rides around the village green.

Edmund also suggested a local family who could give jousting demonstrations, but they eventually agreed that was perhaps a step too far.

Liberty went home and set about writing an advertisement.

LIBERTEAS
YOUR LOCAL PATISSERIE AND PLACE FOR
BREAKFAST AND LUNCH
INVITES YOU TO HELP CELEBRATE
THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING AND THEIR
GRAND OPENING
10 A.M. – LATE
COME AND ENJOY A TASTE OF YOUR LOCAL
PRODUCE
COOKED IN A PASSIONATE KITCHEN
FLAVOURS OF YOUR FAVOURITE FOOD
COOKED IN A PROFESSIONAL WAY
USING ONLY THE BEST INGREDIENTS
WE GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE QUEUING FOR OUR
OPENING
SATURDAY 20TH MARCH
DOG SHOW: BRING YOUR OWN
ARCHERY • WELLY THROWING • FALCONRY
DEMONSTRATION • MOST INTERESTING TALENT •
PONY RIDES • FANCY DRESS • TOMBOLA

The next day, Liberty strolled over the green, feeling enlivened and excited. She let herself in to her mother's house, and was quickly reminded that it was now her parents' home when she found Alain, feet on the table, munching warm soda bread spread with butter and honey.

‘Join me, darling?' he enquired.

‘No, thanks.'

‘You must eat.'

Liberty shrugged off the feeling of annoyance at being told what to do by her newly returned father, and instead asked, ‘Is Mummy around?'

‘Just walking the dogs. Dijon has had a bad turn, and we've had to call the vet out. She is worried, hence me making soda bread, which she feels too sad to eat, and that makes me sad so I'm eating it to feel better,' finished Alain as he lowered his feet to the floor and looked serious for a moment.

‘She got that dog when I left her. I know how much he means to her, and I get the feeling it was my return that has given the poor old thing less reason to stick around.' Alain's stricken face gave away his true feelings, despite his lightness of phrase.

‘Oh, Daddy!' Liberty put her arms around him, unused to seeing her charismatic, strong father looking so miserable. ‘We don't even know if this is the end. If he's able to go for a walk, he may be fine.'

‘I think you will find them in the walled garden. I don't want to impose myself.' And with that Alain put his feet back on the table and tore another piece of soda bread from the loaf.

Liberty spotted her mother sitting on the stone bench where years ago she had sat her daughter down and told her Alain was leaving. Three years later, when the divorce was going through, Deirdre's old dog Grigson had died. To help her get over that and the final rejection, she had gone down to chat with Jonathan, whose bitch had just had a litter. Through her tears she had spied one of the golden bundles jump out of the whelping box and bounce over to her.

Deirdre had thought she could never love again, but her heart immediately melted, and Jonathan let her take the pup home. He never told her that as pick of the litter, Dijon had been promised to the Duke of Speyside, to whom Jonathan supplied his top-quality gun dogs. A crate of vintage port and a promise of lunch at his club had calmed his old friend, and when Jonathan explained it was for Deirdre, and why, the duke had happily agreed that as many puppies from the next litter as he wanted would be his, provided there were no other charming ladies to cheer up at the time. He had met Deirdre already and had been bowled over by her beauty and quiet elegance, and did not bear grudges.

Dijon was lying on his side panting heavily. His eyes looked round as Liberty approached, but his tail gave no customary wag and he seemed unable to lift his head. Deirdre was leaning over her old friend and stroking him gently while whispering loveliness into his almost deaf ears.

Liberty sat next to her mother, a lump in her throat. Unable to think of anything to say, she put her arm around her for a moment, then spread a blanket over her lap. A few moments
later Alain brought the vet into the garden. Mr Night was well beloved; he never caused unnecessary worry, and never interfered with an animal unless absolutely necessary. His motto was, ‘A dog is strong, sensible and capable of deciding if he is ill. No need for fuss.' But one look at Dijon and he placed his hand on Deirdre's shoulder, which heaved, and she let out a groan.

‘He has enjoyed his time with you,' said the vet. ‘Now you need to let him go, in peace. It is right and fair. I'll get my things ready while you say your goodbyes.'

Liberty went over to where Mr Night was preparing a syringe. ‘Does it have to look so horrid?' she asked.

‘We give them an overdose to make it quick. I won't even need to sedate him. Looks as though he has had a brain aneurysm. It's for the best and, hard as it seems, let's not allow him to suffer any longer.'