---

There were touches of frost on the heather, and the moors were quiet in the darkening afternoon, as thirteen-year-old Emma saw Jack Allen approaching. He passed the old farmhouse at the edge of the village. In the distance, she could just make out the amber lights of the town, and the top of a church spire.

‘Hi,’ he said, his hazel eyes warm as she neared.

‘Hi, Jack,’ she said, pushing her frozen fingers into her pockets. When she breathed puffs of white fog billowed out. She felt her stomach clench, like something was inside her, bouncing on a trampoline. She wondered why they called it butterflies, when surely a swarm of bees would be more appropriate?

They started walking along the path, which cut through the moors and across to the next village.

‘Have you spoken to your mam?’ asked Emma. She’d been up, tossing and turning, worrying about it. Hoping that just for once Janet Allen might be persuaded to change her mind.

He shook his head. ‘I tried, but all that happened was I got a ten-hour lecture.’

Emma felt her stomach plummet. ‘So, I won’t be coming then.’

She kicked at a stray rock. Had she really thought that she’d be able to go to Jack’s thirteenth-birthday party? Not really, said a small voice within. Still, every year the Allens threw a birthday party for Jack at their large triple-storey home, usually in one of the converted barns. It was one of the highlights of the young social scene in Whistling and Emma had always longed to be able to go, but due to their family’s long feuding history, she’d never been invited. Perhaps, she thought now, she never would. She scowled at the ground.

Jack ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s your party – you could have insisted that you wanted all your friends there,’ she said.

‘If I did that she would have just cancelled it, I’m sure.’

Emma looked away. If it had been her, she’d rather have cancelled it than not have Jack come.

He touched her arm. ‘We can do this, if you like, celebrate just the two of us.’

She smiled, her black mood lifting somewhat. He was right, surely it was more special if it was just the two of them?

‘I didn’t bring your present though,’ she said, biting her lip.

He shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘Did you try your father this time?’ she asked. ‘I thought maybe if you asked him—’

Jack shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t agree, not if it meant a fight with my mother.’

She nodded. She’d known it was a long shot right from the start. Just being friends with Jack was hard enough; it was only in the last few months that he’d started taking more chances to see her, like they were doing now. She supposed boys were different. She would have risked – had already risked – several arguments and fights about Jack with Evie and her aunts just so she could see more of him.

They used to speak every day after school; Emma used to hang back especially just so they could. But Janet Allen had put a stop to that a few months ago, when she saw the two of them laughing outside the school gates. She stopped her car so abruptly it left a trail of dust, and jumped out, leaving the door open in her haste. A few people around them gasped, some laughed, as Mrs Allen slipped in her heels as she marched across the cobbles towards her and Jack.

She shoved a finger under Emma’s nose. ‘Stay away from my son!’ she roared. Emma jumped back in shock.

‘Mam!’ protested Jack. ‘We were just talking – calm down.’

‘Calm down? Calm down! Get in the car this instant Jack Robert Allen, how dare you embarrass our family like this,’ she said, wrestling him towards the car. Jack tried to pull his arm away. ‘You’re the one being embarrassing,’ he hissed, his face red with shame.

But Mrs Allen’s grip was vice-like and she shoved him into the car. Seconds later they’d sped off, and Emma had been left alone and mortified, with the sound in her ears of dozens of her schoolmates whispering and laughing at her.

After that, Jack had avoided her for a week, to her hurt and dismay. Till he passed her a note in the corridor, telling her to meet him by the abandoned farmhouse after school.

‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he said when they met. ‘And for not speaking to you. It’s my mother – she’s become impossible, she said that if she caught me talking to you again, I’d be grounded for a year. I’ve tried to explain that you’re different. I mean, you don’t even really believe in any of that nonsense about your cottage and the food your family make, do you?’ he asked.

It was one of the first times they’d ever spoken about it – so directly, anyway.

Emma felt her throat constrict. She’d always played it down around Jack. She hadn’t really known that he had thought it was all nonsense until now.

‘Um, no, not really,’ she said, ignoring the small part of herself that was screaming, ‘Liar!’ inside.

‘Exactly – well, that’s what I told her, but she won’t hear it.’

Since then they’d met every few days for a long walk after school. Now that Mrs Allen was sure that he wasn’t speaking to her, she’d stopped coming to fetch him, which was a relief for Jack, who’d found the situation embarrassing. ‘I mean, no one else gets fetched.’

Emma could well understand his mortification. She was that glad though that he thought their friendship was important enough to him that he had arranged a way for them to still keep it – even if it had to happen in secret. It was better than the alternative.

As they walked home now though, six months later, Emma thought of the weekend approaching, when, she, as usual, would be the only one in her year not going to Jack’s birthday party. She couldn’t help but wish that it was different.

Jack was moaning about how he would have given anything not to have Stella Lea come. ‘She’s always whining – it drives me mad, but no, “The Leas and Allens have always been friends”,’ he said, imitating his mother’s voice. ‘So, she’s coming, of course.’

Emma shook her head. It wasn’t fair – why did Stella Lea get to go and not her?

---

Emma’s attitude towards The Book began to change after she and Jack began to spend more time together. Evie noticed the change when Emma started to come home late, with no explanation of where she’d been, smelling of fresh earth and heather, her face guarded, her tone terse, monosyllabic when questioned.

Perhaps, thought Evie, it was the way Emma’s eyes averted when she saw The Book, or the way that just for a moment they would flash with resentment when she was asked to help with a recipe, where before they would have sparkled at the thought of helping someone.

Evie blamed the spate of near-miss recipes that season. It could happen sometimes, like an unseasonal rainfall. When John Pendle came for a recipe to help his farm flourish, his crop got blight. When Katie Harvey wanted to win the harvest pageant, she came down with measles. Many more would occur before that spring, and soon, Evie saw the doubt begin to creep into Emma’s eyes; noted in fear the way Emma began to tally each one up, a grim satisfaction upon her lips as if it explained something deeper.

That was the year Emma began to resist, and wouldn’t step inside the kitchen for days.

Evie watched as she fought herself, her fingers twitching, her shoulders tensed, until at last she’d light the fire in the old range, and finally allow herself to do what she loved.

Evie saw how each time it took longer and longer for Emma to get back into the kitchen. Her notebook – once so full and minutely observed – lay blank and abandoned for weeks, sometimes months, on end.

‘She’s been spending time with young Jack,’ whispered Dot, one dark, cold November afternoon. Pennywort was dozing with his head on the table as she peeled the carrots for a recipe for Mrs Morton’s bad sight. Aggie shook her head. ‘I saw them myself,’ Dot insisted. ‘It’s like Margaret all over again,’ she went on sadly.

‘Maybe not,’ said Evie. ‘I’ll have to speak to her.’

But it was like trying to stop a train by standing on the tracks.

‘So… you and Jack Allen,’ she began.

‘Yes?’ asked Emma, feeling her face flush as she took a seat across from Pennywort, who laid his head on her arm and promptly closed his eyes again.

‘I hear you’ve become quite good friends.’

Emma looked up. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘No,’ said Evie, as she began to chop an onion. ‘It’s just, well, we can’t help noticing that lately, you haven’t wanted to cook anything and I wondered if Jack—’

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with him.’

Emma looked away; she heard his words inside her head. I told my mother you thought it was rubbish – you do – don’t you?

‘Okay,’ said Evie, in the tone of someone who was looking for more. Emma looked up. ‘Maybe it’s because, well, sometimes they don’t really work anyway.’

Evie nodded. ‘That’s true enough, but then that’s the truth with all things, love. No one succeeds at everything all the time, even this,’ she said, pointing at The Book. ‘Though sometimes things do work, just not the way we think they should.’