‘Yeah, you know? It’s for people who like vintage, countryfied lifestyle stuff.’
‘Granny stuff?’
‘Well, yeah,’ Lucy says. ‘It’s nice. Lots of young people are into it.’
‘But…’ I’m baffled. ‘She looked about eighteen and was dressed like the ghost of a nineteenth-century milkmaid. When I was her age I wanted a pin through my nose, and I ripped all my mohair jumpers so I could look like Vivienne Westwood. Last thing I wanted was to live like some fantasy grandma.’
‘Auntie Margi!’ Lucy playfully scolds. ‘What annoys you more than anything?’
It’s such a change of topic I give my head a shake.
‘Um, when all your laundry jumps inside the duvet on the spin cycle? Why does it do that?’ I venture, then change my mind. ‘No, when your apples come in little individual moulded cup things. All that packaging drives me mad. No, scrub that. Jacob Rees-Mogg, the rotten little…’
‘Nope.’ My niece cuts me off. ‘You hate when people expect you to be all old-fogeyish, right?Right?’
Lucy pulls a face, waiting for me to connect the dots myself. I pretend I can’t see what she’s getting at just so she’ll roll her eyes and smile.
It’s true, of course. Just because I have my bus pass doesn’t mean I wouldn’t use it to get to a Buzzcocks reunion, not that that can happen, but you get my meaning. Not that I do go to gigs these days. Anyway, you shouldn’t assume I don’t go to gigs just because of the greys in my hair.
Lucy interrupts my thoughts. ‘So, let’s not judge young people just because of the way they look? Or because of their interests.’
‘You are young people!’ I tell her, and she shakes her head.
‘The kids I teach are Fern’s age. I could almost be their mum.’
I suddenly feel extremely old, and Lucy looks sad again, so I drop the subject and reach for her hand instead, giving her a reassuring pat before our food arrives.
Fern sets my plate down in front of me. I whisper my thanks in case I startle her.
‘Plated it up herself,’ Izz tells us. ‘Mostly.’
‘It looks delicious,’ Lucy tells Fern, who can’t meet her eyes. Instead, she blushes and screws her mouth to the side like Lady Di. It’s unpractised and a bit disarming.
‘Which of the farms are you from?’ I risk, straining my ears to hear her answer over the thrum of chat in the room.
‘Brambledown.’
‘Brambledown Farm? Does that make your dadTommy Brash?’ It’s out before I can stop myself and I wonder if it sounded rude. I can’t imagine this will-o’-the-wisp coming from bristly, brusque Tommy’s farm. Mind you, he’s a man of very few words as well. Grunts and grimaces, yes, but very few words. Maybe it does make sense after all.
‘Dad said I had to get a job now I’ve left school.’
‘And you don’t fancy being a farmer?’ I ask, and it’s clearly a question too far. The girl withdraws like a snail into a shell.
‘What do you reckon then, Fern?’ Izz asks. ‘Reckon you could manage nine till three thirty every day ’cept Sundays? I’ll teach you all my recipes.’
‘Cakes too?’ Fern says – the loudest thing to come from her mouth yet.
‘Cakes too.’
‘And bread? I’d love to bake my own bread.’ Fern’s getting animated now. ‘I live with Dad and Grandad. They’re not into baking much.’
‘Ah, um…’ Izz looks to me for help.
‘What’s this?’ my niece wants to know, looking between us.
‘It’s tricky, the bread thing,’ I say, and Izz guides Fern through to the kitchen with her arm across her shoulder, explaining. Izz daren’t be overheard speaking about it in public, not after all the fuss.
Me however, I have no qualms. I lift my cutlery and make a start on the fried egg. ‘Didn’t you know?’ I say to Lucy, all arch and enjoying myself. ‘The only person baking any kind of bread in this village is Scrimengor.’
