‘No, but it’s a good idea for another time. I’m thrilled because all your certificates are up to date and you’re safe to sell cheese.’
‘When I’ve seen Amy, I’ll go home and make some more,’ said Fran, trying to match Erica’s enthusiasm.Shewould have been excited if she hadn’t had to worry about selling antique roof tiles to raise a quick eight hundred quid.
Seeing Amy wasn’t very cheerful, either.
Amy was tired and grumpy and spent most of the minutes before she fell asleep saying how wonderful Roy was. To add to Fran’s discomfort, she nearly ran into Amy’s solicitor on her way out.
‘Hello, Mr Addison. Why are you here?’ she asked.
He smiled back. ‘Sorry, can’t say. Client confidentiality.’
‘Of course. How silly of me,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, hope you’re well.’
She wanted to add that Amy was asleep and he wouldn’t get anything useful out of her, if it was indeed her he was hoping to visit.
But as she walked away she couldn’t help wondering if Amy had summoned him so she could alter her will in favour of Roy. She knew she was being neurotic – it was a care home, after all. Any one of the clients could have asked him to call. It was only too easy to think the worst, however.
When Fran was finally home, after the stressful visit to the bank and the dispiriting time with Amy, she found it was wonderful to take herself off, alone, to her cheese room and concentrate on producing items for Erica’s stall. She put the radio on andheated,stirred, cut, flavoured and let stand several gallons of the very best milk there was. She realised this was not an unbiased opinion, but when, a few hours later, she tasted the mascarpone – which needed no flavouring to make it heavenly – she felt it was not unjustified.
ChapterThirteen
On Saturday morning, the day of the farmers’ market, Fran got up horrifically early. She loaded her car and set off down the track.
She was a little worried about what Roy might get up to while she was out all day but decided there couldn’t be too much. Antony’s friend had come out and valued the tiles, which turned out to be reassuringly valuable. His visit had coincided with one of Roy’s frequent trips to the pub and that had been very convenient. She and Issi had decided that as she had practically sold the tiles already, if Roy tried to sell them too, behind her back, it would be too late. And, Issi had pointed out, only a very neurotic person (she nodded at Fran) would worry about such things.
As Fran turned into Erica’s drive so they could put all the cheese into her refrigerated van, she decided that today was going to be fun, and she’dputall her concerns behind her and focus on the cheese.
Even though it was too early for it to be full of busy shoppers, the sight of the market was very cheering. There were stalls with piles of vegetables smelling of newly turned earth and freshness. Every size and shape of bread you could imagine – from spelt loaves studded with pumpkin seeds and glazed with honey, to rustic rounds of rye, nobbly and appealing, and everything in between – took over two stalls. Honey, beeswax polish and candles gave off the scent of wax and turpentine. There were buckets of cut flowers, including foliage gleaned from the hedgerows, and a stall selling products from goats milk including soap and cosmetics. A local pottery had a table full of bowls, plates, mugs and jugs, all in the most beautiful blue. The bright awnings, the cornucopia of produce (all local and high quality) coupled with the banter of the other stallholders lifted her spirits. That, and the wonderful waft of coffee that floated towards her from the café, already serving bacon baps and toast to the stallholders. Fran smiled.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe this cheese!’ said a woman, tasting some of Fran’s garlic- and nettle-flavoured cream cheese a couple of hours later. The nettle was more for the look than the taste, but Fran was very pleased with the effect.
Thanksto Erica’s imaginative signs advertising Fran’s guest appearance, the stall was attracting a lot of attention. A few supper club people came, most of them buying something from both Fran and Erica. Megan was the exception. She was wearing cigarette pants, a shearling body warmer with high-heeled boots and an Hermès scarf. She looked as if she belonged in Sloane Square, not a country market.
‘Tastes of compost heaps, if you don’t mind me saying,’ Megan announced.
‘How do you know what compost heaps taste of?’ asked Erica.
‘You know what I mean!’ said Megan, rolling her eyes and flinging her hands about in an artistic way.
‘Actually I do know what you mean,’ said Fran. ‘I don’t agree that my cheese tastes like that, but you can imagine what a compost heap tastes like.’
Megan’s expression softened a little. ‘So how are you getting on with Roy? He’s such fun, isn’t he?’
Fran smiled and nodded. ‘Barrel of laughs.’
‘And he’s so caring of Amy, isn’t he? I think he must see her almost every day,’ Megan went on, managing to make Fran feel she neglected her.
‘I hope he doesn’t overtire her,’ said Fran.
‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that. He’s very considerate of her age, he told me. But she likes to know everything that goes on on the farm.’
‘Shemight get a little bored with being told about it,’ said Fran. ‘I keep her pretty well up to speed.’
‘Yes, but do you tell her everything?’ asked Megan. ‘I mean, Roy said there was a reclamation man visiting the other day. Did you tell her about that?’
Wondering how on earth Roy knew, Fran said, ‘Well, no, I didn’t tell her about that. I thought it would worry her.’
‘Very considerate of you, but Roy feels that because she’s still got all her marbles, she has a right to be kept informed.’
