‘Not supermarkets! Niche grocers and delis! What’s wrong with you, Fran? These are influential people. They could make your brand.’
It felt a little odd to think of the cheese she made with such love and, initially, such difficulty as a brand. ‘Sorry, just a bit tired.’
‘But you’ll make it?’
‘If I can. But what kind of mascarpone do you want? I mean, the kind I make from a culture, which is the best, takes longer. And you know I use unpasteurised milk?’
‘That’s why it’s so good! I need your best, and I need it by tomorrow afternoon if possible.’
‘So I’ve got less than twenty-four hours,’ said Fran slowly, doing some calculations in her head but knowing she didn’t really have a choice. This was such an amazing opportunity. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ll send a courier. You just let me know when you’re nearly done and it’ll be picked up.’
‘I’mon it. If I can’t do it I’ll ring you back.’
‘You must do it!’ said Roger and disconnected.
But as soon as she’d put the phone down she realised she couldn’t make it unless she had cream. She didn’t even know if any of the cows were still giving milk. She’d lost track of the farm a bit – looking after the puppies had been like living in another world – and being so tired didn’t make it any easier to think. If there was no milk her brand wouldn’t get this huge boost, and if she was going to get the cheese made in time someone would have had to make cream. It was probably all impossible.
She went to find Tig. He and Issi were back in the cowshed, looking at the cow and calf, who were now happily coupled up, looking the very picture of bovine contentment.
‘They are beautiful,’ said Fran, aware she was interrupting a special moment between Tig and Issi.
‘They are,’ said Tig simply.
‘It was such a privilege to see the little one born. Do have a name for him? Or don’t you give your cows names?’
‘I certainly do,’ said Tig. ‘And I reckon Antony’s a good name.’
Fran cleared her throat, not quite sure how to take this. ‘I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.’
‘He’s a very handsome specimen,’ said Issi. ‘And so is Antony.’
‘Yes,well, maybe,’ said Fran. ‘Now, Tig? Issi may have told you that I’ve had a call from Roger, who bought all my cheese at the farmers’ market.’
He nodded.
‘I need to make a lot of mascarpone. Are all the cows dry? Have we got milk? And if we have, has anyone made cream?’ She studied Tig’s expression but couldn’t read it. ‘No, of course not, you haven’t had time.’
Her spirits slumped. It was all too good to be true. A collection of people influential in the food business were going to taste her cheese – but only if it was possible for her to make it. And there was no cream. All the cows were dry.
Tig humphed and Fran looked up again. A slight alteration in his usually inscrutable expression indicated he was pleased. ‘I’ve always staggered the calving a bit, so we always have milk. More now it’s spring, of course, but yes, we’ve got milk.’
‘Oh, Tig!’
He smiled properly. ‘And my mother’s been up to skim off the cream. We didn’t like to waste it.’
‘Oh, Tig! Oh, Mary! I love you both.’
She set off towards the house, her mood suddenly upbeat. She would have a quick bath, then she would gear up into her cheesemaking clothes and head for the cheese room. She would make the most of this marvellous opportunity.
Shewas glad she’d made mascarpone often enough now to feel confident about what she was doing, although she always concentrated really hard. It was vital that she didn’t add too much culture as the unpasteurised milk has its own bacterial structure. But once she’d done the initial blending of milk and cream and got it to the right temperature, she could leave it for twelve hours. If she got up early, she could drain it until it was nearly the right texture, and then she’d get on to Roger and he could send the courier. Sleep wasn’t far away, she kept reminding herself.
Once again the cheese room wrought its calming magic. She’d designed it, Antony had brought it into being, and she loved it. She also loved mixing the pale yellow cream and milk, stirring it, working her alchemy, transforming it into the most sumptuous cheese she had ever eaten. As she tested the temperature of the cheese, time and again, waiting for it to read the right number, she wondered if this could satisfy her. Maybe she didn’t need to make a hard cheese? Maybe this was enough?
But later, as she finally finished cleaning down the cheese room, she realised it wasn’t. She had to find that quarry and learn the proper skills of a cheesemaker.
It was just after 7 p.m. when she made her way back into the house, extremely tired but extremelysatisfied.She could now leave her cheese to drain for twelve hours, set her alarm for seven in the morning, finish the cheese off and then ring the courier. What could go wrong?
