‘Down in the shed with his dad.’
‘The shed?’
‘Cattle shed,’ she clarified. ‘Elsie had it completely rebuilt over the summer, Cal hasn’t seen it yet since the two of you weren’t able to make it up for a visit. We’re planning on a new parlour next, milking parlour that is. Derek will be wanting Cal’s opinion, I’m sure.’
‘Does he have an opinion on milking parlours?’
‘Callum might not be working on the farm right now but he’s very familiar with it all. Yes, I imagine he’ll have opinions.’
She poured boiling water from the kettle into her cup and did not flinch when a few drops splashed out and hit the back of her hand. The woman was stone cold.
‘Did he tell you our family has been farming this land—’
‘He did,’ I cut in with a yawn. ‘I won’t lie, I’m notsuperinto it. Isn’t dairy farming super cruel?’
‘Some people think that,’ Lizzie said as she poured milk into her tea with a pointed look. ‘But some people think massage parlours are knocking shops so it only goes to show people aren’t always correctly educated.’
Shots officially fired.
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ I said, clutching the scorching hot cup, not worrying about potential third-degree burns. ‘Thanks.’
‘Since you’re feeling better why don’t you stay?’
I froze.
‘Callum always loves my mince pies, I’d be more than happy to share the recipe with you,’ she said. ‘You can knead the pastry, show off some of your skills.’
‘They’re not necessarily transferrable,’ I demurred, eyes on the hallway. So close but so far. ‘And I think I can feel my migraine getting worse …’
‘If you feel anyvisual disturbancescoming on, say the word and I’ll carry you back upstairs myself,’ Lizzie shot back. ‘You have my word.’
I turned to face her, eyes narrow slits. WWDKD? What would Desi Kaplan do?
‘I can’t touch the pastry. It’s not vegan.’
‘You can spoon in the mincemeat.’
‘Mincemeat isn’t vegan either.’
She pulled a glass jar from her basket and held it up for me to see.
‘Says it right here, suitable for vegetarians, vegans, people with gluten intolerances and nut allergy sufferers.’
‘Well, you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’ I said with a very bright and very fake smile. ‘Let’s make some mince pies.’
Baking was not my forte. The kitchen was not my favourite place to spend time. Get in, open the fridge, get out, that was my game plan. And if I ordered takeaway or brought food home with me, the kitchen could usually be avoided altogether. Coffee on the way to work, lunch in the canteen, dinner from the twenty-four-hour Sainsbury’s by the bus stop. Why dirty plates when you didn’t have to?
Lizzie McClay clearly did not share my sentiment. Her kitchen looked like something from a fancy cooking show. She had everything, matching mixing bowls, appliances, baking trays, pastry cutters passed down through four generations. Her kitchen scales were older than both of us combined but they were still accurate to the ounce. Her well-practised pastry came together with ease, flour, water, a dash of salt, some cubes of butter, and even though she’d claimed to need my kneading expertise, the second she started baking, it became very clear I was there to look but not touch. Not once did she have to search for a recipe on her phone, smearing the screen with greasy fingers, screeching at me to run out and buy bicarbonate of soda because all we had was baking powder and apparentlythey are not the same thing. Desi and I had agreed never to speak of our attempt to bake Joel a birthday cake again. Turned out it was essential to know the difference between tablespoons and teaspoons when it came to adding salt to a Victoria sponge.
‘And into the oven they go,’ Lizzie said, dusting off her hands with the same satisfaction as any surgeon who had perfectly executed a surgical procedure. And even though I had not tasted the goods (and never would), I felt confident saying she’d nailed it.
‘Callum said he used to bake with his grandmother,’ I said as she moved all the dirty dishes over to the sink. ‘Was that your mother?’
‘No, that was Derek’s mum,’ she replied with shake of her head. ‘Callum never knew his grandmother on my side. We lost her just before he was born.’
On the opposite side of the kitchen table, I felt a twinge. Lizzie had lost her mum, just like me. But I couldn’t say anything. Both of Caroline’s parents were alive and well and enjoying a Caribbean Christmas cruise, it had been established.
‘Does Elsie like to cook as well?’ I asked, leaving the grandparent situation well alone. There was no comfortable way to broach it.
