The Sweetness of Liberty James (62 page)

‘We know you are busy, and this is probably not a good time, but we need to talk to you. Your cards and letter have been so kind, and you have always been in our hearts.' Mr and Mrs CR stood at the entrance of the kitchen looking nervous, as though they might not be welcome. Cecil, despite the familiar jolly smile, looked a shadow of the stately patrician of his former self. Illness and the upset of his only son's bad behaviour had taken its toll.
Isabelle was commenting on what a charming home Liberty had created, and hoped that they were not overstepping the mark. Unusual nerves for such a socially confident lady. Liberty's heart went out to them both. They had always treated her fairly and generously.

‘Of course I have time for you, but could it possibly wait until this evening?' She slipped another tray of scones into the oven, and deftly slid the cooling ones on to a rack. ‘It
is
a little hectic.' She hoped they would see she was busy. Her welcoming remarks had made them relax after days of fretting over bothering the dear girl with their problems. They were not used to asking others for help. Now the avalanche had set off downhill, they had to get things off their heaving chests.

Isabelle cleared her throat, another sign of her nerves, and began to speak. ‘We have heard that our son, Percy–' Liberty smiled. Which other son would she be talking about? ‘–has not been, how shall I put it, well, has not been behaving in a respectable way. I once tried to persuade you to return to him, to give the marriage a chance. Now I believe I no longer even want to have him as a son.'

At this, Liberty's head flew up, and instead of gently turning the food mixer on, she pushed the power to full, allowing a cloud of icing sugar to poof out of the bowl and cover her. Entirely. Now resembling a sugar-coated Yeti, she spluttered and asked, ‘What on earth would make you say that about your only child? He adores you, and you him. You cannot mean a word of that!'

Cecil looked at her, taking in the snowman now calmly icing the lemon, walnut and cardamom cakes. This capable beauty had been stalked for the last eight months and was still defending her husband. He was confused, and told her so. ‘Not only did you move away from him so quickly that we can only guess something terrible happened, but you still fail to ask for a divorce.'

Liberty couldn't tell him that it was because if she did, in her mind it would mean she had failed at her marriage, and
also that it always seemed to go hand in hand with asking for money, something she would never do, partly because she knew it was all his family's money, so she clamped her mouth shut. Cecil continued, ‘He has now deserted his son. Even a positive paternity test failed to raise his interest.'

‘Our grandchild!' wailed Isabelle. ‘We cannot ask to see the child, as we are far too embarrassed by Percy's behaviour, and thank goodness the woman's husband took her back. and as far as we can tell, Percy is spending all his money gambling, and on other pleasantries.'

Isabelle was obviously selecting her words with care. ‘His friends are very concerned about his drinking, and he hasn't been to the office in the last month. He now tells us it's entirely our fault, as we put too much pressure on him to be the perfect child when his sister died. He says he wants to have the fun he was denied as a child, and do what he damn well wants. Those are his words, not mine.'

Liberty could tell how hurt Isabelle was by her unheard of use of a swear word. But what could she do? What did they want of her? She started to panic, when suddenly help arrived in the heavenly form of her mother. Deirdre ran in and took a plate of scones from the work surface.

‘Only forty here – come on, we need more than that.' As she turned to leave, she realised who was standing over the glazed – in expression, and, thanks to the sugar, in the icing sense – Liberty. She screeched to a halt, thankfully not spilling her plateful of scones, and asked if everything was all right.

‘Yes, fine, I think – at least, I am about to find out.' Liberty turned to the CRs. ‘What do you want from me? I get the impression you are not just here to voice your concerns over Percy to his almost ex-wife.'

‘We want it to stop,' said Cecil very firmly. ‘And you are the only person with the power to help.'

Deirdre and Liberty's eyebrows shot up in unison, making them look like a comedy duo with perfect timing.

‘How?' they asked, again at exactly the same time, which made them smile to one another.

‘The only thing Percy ever really cared about was his art,' said Cecil. ‘We hoped his passion would spill over to the house and its contents and control of his trust fund, which includes the family property, signed over to him on his twenty-first birthday.'

I didn't know that!
thought Liberty.

‘We thought about death duties. We were advised by our solicitors, and part of the agreement was that we could expect to continue living in either the London house or the Hall as long as we wished. However, when recently we have criticised his behaviour, he has threatened to turn us out of our own homes.'

‘Surely not! Would he do that? Could he?' asked Liberty.

‘We aren't so certain any longer,' said Isabelle sadly.

The kitchen was filling up with platters of cakes and scones as Liberty continued to bake, turn out and decorate, and then filled up more as Alain stomped in, missing a wife and shouting, ‘Where are those bloody scones?'

Deirdre handed him the plate and another from the table where Liberty was still on autopilot. Alain turned to go, then did a Deirdre and stopped to ask what was going on.

‘Anyway,' continued an exasperated Cecil, speaking slowly, as though it was most inconvenient the hosts were trying to serve 350 people food while they wanted a quiet chat, ‘the only thing he has ever cared about, as I already said, is his art.'

‘Agreed,' said Liberty, surprised that they should easily dismiss their marriage from a list of things Percy might have cared about, but as she knew this to be true she let him continue.

‘Well, you are still married to him. You can claim his collection through the divorce courts. His behaviour towards you has been disgraceful. The
Telegraph
journalist agreed to sign an affidavit today to explain how Percy coerced him into writing that dreadful article, and his authority can be cited. You could claim, with our backing, either his art collection or half the properties, money and other belongings. He would never
be able to give away the family estate, so he would have to give the art collection, at which point you could say if he just calmed down and went back to work, took care of his baby and made the Cholmondly-Radley name one to be proud of again, you wouldn't take it. The publicity is getting so bad, we are losing long-established clients from the bank; they are worried that any scandal at a bank these days is likely to end up with a banker in gaol and a heap of debts.'

Deirdre, Alain and Liberty looked at one another in amazement. Then burst out laughing.

‘Sorry,' said Alain after a few moments. Icing sugar now seemed to fill the air. ‘A James family tradition. Laugh in times of stress.' As they tried to calm down, Edmund appeared, took in the situation, the full-to-bursting kitchen piled high with emotions and cakes desperately needed outside, and delegated.

‘Alain, Deirdre, get those scones out, now. I'll take the trays of jams and cream.' He then addressed Mr and Mrs Cholmondly-Radley. ‘I am under the impression that you would appreciate a moment of Liberty's time. However, this may not be the best opportunity for you to gain her full attention. I would like to invite you to make yourselves comfortable in my home, where my housekeeper will take care of your needs until the evening, when Liberty can join you.'

At the mention of a housekeeper, the CRs rallied. Here was familiar territory. They could cope with that.

‘I promise I will be over to see you when all this is cleared, but it may be quite late,' said Liberty.

‘That is quite all right, my dear,' said Mrs CR. ‘We will be just fine.'

‘Mrs Goodman will arrange rooms for you, and a light supper for us all,' said Edmund in a very firm voice. ‘I will phone her on our way – my car is just a short walk from here.' Edmund guided the pair out of the kitchen like a gentle sheepdog would corral lost sheep out of a dangerous gully. He turned and winked at Liberty and mouthed, ‘See you later.'

Thank God for a masterful man
, thought Liberty. She could have kissed him, but because she was aware of her sugared almond exterior, she refrained from chasing after him and got on with the baking, vowing to have a shower before long, by hook or by crook.

Savannah had sold out of her doughnuts, and was now smugly telling Khalid that her first experience of catering had been ‘really quite easy. I don't know why people say cooking is hard. And look how happy they all are.' Khalid didn't have the heart to tell his beautiful wife that she looked as though she had been deep fried – all hot and shiny – and was desperately trying to get her to sit and rest instead of leaping about with the overstimulated children. But as he looked around he could see the happy groups and marvelled that no matter which culture you came from, food could bring everyone together. He also loved watching his beloved wife laughing freely and giggling, chasing Sasha or Hussein as they frolicked around pretending they were ponies, jumping over the bales of hay that hadn't been eaten by the Shetland ponies who were now on the loose as their handler was in the pub.

Dilys was thrilled. Her pub hadn't done so well since the Jubilee weekend. Her punch had been getting stronger and stronger during the day, as Susie had been pouring more booze in, unaware Dilys had already strengthened it. She hadn't been too strict about checking IDs, so several youngsters were looking a little green around the gills. Miss Scally was trying unsuccessfully to force some cake into them to sober them up; not out of the goodness of her own heart, but in an attempt to show the good doctor how caring she could be. This all ended abruptly when a particularly obnoxious redhead from the housing estate was sick over her patent leather shoes.

‘Oh, you little bitch!' shouted the receptionist, throwing down the plate of cakes and stamping off as fast as she could with her sensible patent courts sticky and full of vomit. Sadly, unbeknown to her, this was the only part of Miss Scally's do-
gooding that the doctor witnessed, and he allowed himself a quiet chuckle.

The morris dancers, having eaten and drunk their fill – they were in fact meant to be half a mile away entertaining the WI, but had decided to stay, much more fun – thought they would now do their bit and began waving bells on sticks and large spotty handkerchiefs. This made everyone who had eaten too much, meaning everyone, feel somewhat energetic. Soon most people were up and dancing, grabbing napkins and tugging flowers from the hanging baskets to wave.

‘Goodness,' said Paloma, laughing, ‘it looks like a pagan ritual. Are we going to pray to the sun and fire arrows at sunset?'

Jonathan smiled indulgently. He had been pleased to see such a strong crowd, composed both of local people, to whom he diligently chatted, and tourists. So often visitors felt pushed out at such events and tended to stay away. But from what people were saying, out of a combination of loving Deirdre and wanting to support her daughter, and a proud sense that this was their village, the local people were being particularly friendly and welcoming. Besides, so many local producers were being featured and promoted.

Tall candles were lit as the afternoon sun grew weaker and people spilled in and out of the pub, mixing vodka and tonics with delicate cheese straws and olive bread served with platters of cheeses and hams from the local farms. If a village could have feelings, Littlehurst would be bursting with pride.

54

Gwen and Paul from the tea room were the only people from the village who did not show their faces at the fete. This was quite surprising, really, considering the amount of bare flesh on display, with the young girls delighting in the first sunshine of the year. But Paul had realised that instead of being pleased not to be running the tea shop any longer he had become jealous of Liberty's growing popularity and of her aloof beauty at the New Year's Eve party; she had barely been able to talk to him as she hated the derogatory way he treated his wife. He couldn't bear to hear ‘Gosh, isn't it going to be lovely to have somewhere decent to eat in the village!' or ‘Isn't she lovely?' any longer. Even Miss Scally, who had once been his cohort, was professing to be amazed that such a talented young woman would wish to settle in a small community. She only said this as she believed Liberty would quickly move on to bigger and better things, but it did nothing to smooth Paul's ruffled ego. Not that he had ever worked hard, or much at all, but he would miss the gossip and young flesh on tap at the tea room.

He had felt a little bad telling a strange man where Liberty would be living just before Christmas; possibly not a good idea to chat happily to someone dressed like a cat burglar, but the fifty pound note pressed into his hand took any lasting guilt away. All he could see before him was retirement and being dragged around boring gardens by his uninteresting and ungainly wife. He couldn't bear to sit and watch people enjoying the bewitching Miss James's food, so had decided to take Gwen on her first holiday in thirty years.

They borrowed a caravan and towed it to Blackpool. Gwen sat in a café chewing a very hard rock bun and watched the raindrops coursing down the window, contemplating whether divorce and loneliness would be better than this. Surely anything would be preferable? Paul, meanwhile, was in the bookies watching his safe bet come in last. He tore up his slip and threw it on the floor, ignoring a fiery look from the bookmaker, and wondered if there was any more money to be made from dispensing information on Liberty James. He certainly wouldn't mind getting to know her better . . .