Rita started nodding furiously again, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Now come on.’ Stan opened the passenger door. ‘I’ve got a goat pen to fix properly before that Camilla becomes even more of a four-legged scandal.’
FIFTEEN
Rita opened the annexe door to a smell of garlic, rosemary… and something burning.
‘Don’t panic.’ Zenya fanned the smoke alarm frantically with a tea towel. ‘It’s only the edges.’
‘I don’t know.’ Hilda held court from her velvet recliner. ‘I let you use my facilities, and you burn the pigging place down.’
‘I thought you’d appreciate the company, and it beats you cooking for yourself, I guess.’ Rita smirked. ‘How was the funeral today, anyway?’
‘It was marvellous. Eulogy too long and very dull but they’d got caterers in for the wake. A proper job it was. Sausage rolls that even Mrs Munroe couldn’t find fault with. And I think Betty Bloom must have provided the scones, because they were to die for.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Zenya piped up, pushing the sleeves of her flowing green smock up with her chin as she began to prepare a green salad.
‘Oh, I didn’t know him, dear. He was a husband of a woman I used to go to primary school with.’
‘Don’t ask,’ Rita mouthed at Zenya’s perplexed face.
Rita peered into the oven behind her. ‘So, what exactly are we having, then?’
‘Rustic vegetable tart,’ Zenya announced proudly.
‘Heavy on the rustic, by the smell of it,’ Hilda piped up, moving herself to the pine table in the kitchen, where she sat down, glasses perched low on her nose, this week’s obituary page open. She didn’t look up to speak. ‘If the bottom’s not soggy and it’s got no unidentifiable herbs in. I’ll try it. I read recently about a woman taking nearly her whole family out with wild mushrooms.’
Zenya laughed. ‘I promise not to kill you, Hilda; I’m too looking forward to working with your daughter-in-law.’
The tart hit the table with a dramatic clatter, accompanied by a mismatched salad, a bottle of cheap white wine that Rita had brought with her, and three tumblers that had once belonged to Hilda’s mother and had survived the Blitz and two marriages.
Rita poured, then raised her glass. ‘To surviving the week and officially welcoming Zenya to our dysfunctional farmhouse family.’
‘To being fed and having a bit of company,’ Hilda added.
‘To chaos, women, and wellness spa dreams.’ Zenya laughed.
‘Presently powered by cheap wine and sheer delusion,’ Hilda cut in.
They clinked.
For a while, there was only the sound of cutlery scraping plates and soft hums of approval. The tart, against all odds, was rather good.
‘Ooh.’ Hilda grimaced. ‘I can taste some kind of herb I don’t recognise.’
‘It’s probably tahini paste that I stole from the restaurant I was washing up at last summer.’
‘Oh, you do work sometimes then?’ The old woman stuffed another forkful in.
Rita shook her head. ‘Hilda! Do you have to be so rude, all the time?’
‘Rude, dear? I prefer “honest with flavour”.’
Zenya grinned. ‘I’ve done a lot of kitchen work. It suitsmy transient lifestyle. But I’ve also picked up a few cooking skills along the way, which have proved useful when surviving on not a lot.’
‘I admire your grit.’ Hilda took a large swig of wine and wrinkled her nose.
‘Thank you,’ Zenya acknowledged. ‘And Granny Jory, for the record, I officially love you. I can feel that you’ve alchemised your pain into something the rest of us get to smile at.’
