‘Juliet, I was wondering what sort of owl would be most suitable? I have been researching them and a barn owl is so typical, but a snowy owl so beautiful. What do you think?’
‘Honestly, Léo, I think you’re overthinking all of this. Can’t we just mix together a bit of flour and water, squidge it up, make a sort of owllike shape and bung it in the oven?’
He looked at her as if she had suggested opening a tin of beans for the king.
‘No, Juliet, we cannot. I have been reading about your Lammas, and it is a wonderful and very old festival. I have spoken to Father Benedict, who is most keen that the celebrations should be expanded over the next few years, and sees this year as the perfect time to launch that plan. Our owl is to be the centrepiece in the church, it must earn that place. So please, stop grumbling at me with your squidging and bunging, and help me think about how to achieve perfection.’
A single arched eyebrow was Juliet’s only response, but the call to perfection appealed to her, and that evening she began sketching owls, wondering just how wise she had been to ask for Léo’s help.
FOURTEEN
‘Okay, Juliet, today is the day. Are you ready to make the owl bread?’
She could hardly believe it was already the first of August and that she had been back at Feywood for three months. Her life in London had already faded to nothing but a murky memory, other than those times when she was just drifting off to sleep and a sudden flashback came sharply to mind, awakening her with a jolting shock and, more often than not, a rush of shame. But today couldn’t be further away from London; today was about the village, about Lammas and about this damn owl bread.
‘I’m ready, but I’m also rather wishing I’d never got myself into all this.’
Léo laughed.
‘Do not worry. Between us we will make something to be proud of. Butvite! We must get on or the vicar will not get his loaf.’
Juliet tied on an apron and rolled up her sleeves, wondering what her London acquaintances would say if they could see her now. Mind you, most of them didn’t surface till midday at the weekends, sleeping off the excesses of the night before. It was early still, and she glanced out of the window as the morning sunstreamed in, thinking that she would prefer to be here, in flat shoes with a clear mind, even if it did mean getting covered in flour. And it clearly would. Léo was lifting a huge, dusty bag of the stuff onto the counter.
‘Bon. We need a kilo of this, but only a small amount of yeast. We do not want our loaf to rise too much and lose the beautiful shape we are going to create. Cold water, also. Please get half a litre.’
Juliet rolled her eyes.
‘I have no idea what half a litre is, but I suppose I can work it out.’ She pulled out a measuring jug and examined it theatrically. ‘Ah, you mean a pint, now I see.’
As she had hoped, Léo visibly bristled.
‘I do notmeana pint, Imeana half litre…’ He trailed off as he saw her grinning at the running tap. ‘Oh, I see, I have fallen into your trap once again.’
‘Sorry, you’re such an easy mark. Here’s your water.’
Léo soon got his revenge, it seemed to Juliet, as within minutes she was elbow-deep in the huge bowl, trying to wrangle the mixture into a smooth ball.
‘It’s hopeless, it’s just all sticky.’
She held up a hand webbed with dough.
‘Juliet, you have been kneading for about thirty seconds, you have many minutes left to go. Bread is not an instant thing, it takes time and sweat, but it will be worth it.’
‘Yuck, I’m not sure anyone wants my sweat involved.’ She glowered at him. ‘I don’t see why we can’t just use a bread machine.’
‘That would not be in keeping with the spirit of Lammas,’ said Léo sententiously. ‘Rather, maybe you should reflect upon the blessings and many abundances of your life as you work.’
It seemed to Juliet there was no adequate response to this other than to work her irritation into the dough. Bloody man: healways made her feel simultaneously ignoble and self-righteous. She tried to keep up the momentum of her feelings as she pulled and scraped at the sticky gunk, but as the dough started to take shape, she found that her annoyance ebbed.
‘Look, it’s real dough!’
‘Indeed, well done. That is the first part of the job finished. Now comes the real work.’
Juliet swiped her forearm across her face.
‘What do you mean? It’s a ball now, isn’t it? Can’t we make the owl?’
‘We are a long way off making the owl, which is why we had to start so early. Okay, more flour.’
