CHAPTER THREE
It’s the morning after our trip to see Pride & Prejudice and Ethan’s appearance in the café afterwards.
On the way down for breakfast, I pop my head round the library door, just as a huge yawn is escaping.
Dad looks up from his desk and smiles. ‘It was obviously a late one, love. Good play?’
‘Very good.’ I feel a blush starting at the memory of Ethan striding onto the stage.
‘I’ve heard an old school pal of your brother’s is the star of the show,’ he says. ‘Evan, is it?’
‘It’s, er, Ethan, Dad. Ethan Fox.’ Now, of course, my face is blazing as heartily as the fire in the library grate. You could seriously roast chestnuts on my cheeks.
‘Ah yes, Ethan.’
I hurriedly change the subject. ‘Seeing Pride & Prejudice brought back memories of you diving into the lake for the TV cameras on Brambleberry Manor launch day.’
Dad groans. ‘Don’t remind me, Fen. Most embarrassing moment of my life.’
I laugh. ‘At least it had a happy ending.’
For a few horrible months earlier this year, Dad walked out on Mum and Brambleberry Manor because he’d had enough of her obsessive desire to transform the house. He rented a flat in the village and I was devastated. So was Rich, my older brother. You never want your parents to split up, whatever age you are.
Then Mum had a crisis.
She’d been counting on publicity from the local Press and TV for her grand opening. But by the day of the big Brambleberry Manor launch party, she still hadn’t managed to lure the TV people along. She was terrified that after all her hard work, opening day would turn out to be nothing more than a damp squib.
But what she hadn’t imagined was Dad riding to the rescue – quite literally – and saving the day. In a hilarious re-enactment of Mr Darcy’s plunge into the lake, he rode in on his chestnut mare, stripped down to his shirt and breeches and dived in, to the astonished cheers of the visitors. The TV cameras caught the whole thing and made a big feature of it on the evening news.
Being an introvert myself, I knew what it would have cost Dad to do what he did – and Mum realised that, too.
They got back together and now they seem stronger than ever.
‘Breakfast?’ I ask.
‘Coffee would be great. I’ll join you downstairs in a minute.’
I close the library door. It’s my favourite room in the house and it doubles as Dad’s study.
It has polished wood shelves and an enormous antique desk at which Dad sits when he’s working in a pool of light from the angle poise lamp, surrounded by paperwork and coffee mugs. There are a couple of comfy old armchairs to sink into by the huge windows that look out over the parkland. In winter, a log fire burns in the grate and it’s the cosiest place in the world to be. Whenever I walk into that room, the scent of old books instantly relaxes me and makes me feel happy, whatever my mood.
Mum hates it. She thinks it’s too old-fashioned and needs brightening up, and she dislikes the slightly musty smell of the books. But one day, when I have a house of my own, I plan to have a sanctuary just like Dad’s. Of course it won’t be on such a grand scale as this one. But I love the idea of having my very own little hidey-hole to escape to with my growing collection of books.
I leave Dad and head for the kitchen.
The real reason I’m yawning this morning is because I didn’t sleep particularly well, what with Ethan’s invitation to attend the meeting on Sunday going round and round in my head.
In the kitchen, Mum is already there, scrambling eggs on the range.
We still use the old kitchen from Georgian times when the cook used to rule the roost, and it’s huge and a bit draughty in winter. Mum’s got her horrible woolly waistcoat on over a tracksuit to keep warm. Dad keeps saying we should relocate the kitchen to somewhere smaller and more convenient – ‘It’s not as if we’re short of rooms!’ is something he’s fond of saying – but Mum is determined the kitchen will stay where it is. She loves the sense of history attached to our house and she always says it’s an absolute honour and privilege to live in it, so I can understand why she wouldn’t want to change things.
It’s bloody cold, though.
But at least we have the house to ourselves until March when it opens again for the start of the season.
You would think Mum would take the opportunity to relax while the pressure is off – but if anything, she seems busier than ever. She’s now plunged herself into refurbishments – mainly, organising a team of painters to freshen up the rooms on show to the public, and supervising the transformation of an old barn into a café.
‘Morning, Fen. Breakfast?’ says Mum.
‘Yes, please.’
She brings me a plate of eggs and some toast in a rack. ‘Good night last night?’
‘Brilliant.’ I search my brain for another topic, just in case Ethan happens to come up again. ‘Ellie entered me into a baking contest – and I’ve been invited to compete in the regional heats.’
Mum stops in her tracks and stares at me.
‘Really? When’s that?’ Dad asks, entering the room.
‘Oh, I’m not going.’
‘But why ever not?’ demands Mum.
‘Well, I . . .’ Swallowing, I stare down at my plate.
Mum sighs. ‘Fen, please don’t say it’s because you’ll be nervous because really, that’s no excuse at all. You need to go along and show them what you’re made of. Make us all really proud!’
I shrug. ‘I love baking, of course I do. But I’m not sure I’m good enough to enter a contest on that sort of scale.’
‘Yes but you’ll never know unless you try, will you, Fen?’ she raps out impatiently.
‘Marjery,’ murmurs Dad, looking as uncomfortable as I’m feeling.
Mum sighs. ‘I don’t understand you. It’s just such a great opportunity.’ She shakes her head sadly. ‘But obviously I can’t make you do it.’
‘Maybe when Fen has had a chance to think about it, she might decide she’d like to take up the challenge,’ murmurs Dad, smiling at me, and I relax slightly.
‘Well, I hope she does,’ says Mum, as if I’m not even in the room. ‘You’d never hear Richard saying he’s not going to court today because he’s nervous the opposing counsel will wipe the floor with him.’
My heart sinks. I love my brother but I can’t help feeling needled when Mum holds him up as the shining star I should aspire to be like. Every time I think I’ve got used to being thought of as a disappointment, Mum will say something provocative and it rankles all over again.
‘Our children are very different, Marjery, as you know,’ says Dad, looking at me and flicking his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation.
‘Well, of course I know that, Will. I just want the best for Fen, that’s all.’ She forces a smile. ‘On your way out, Fen, can you take a coffee along to Rob? He’s working on the chairs for the new café in the barn today.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m heading out now.’ In fact, I can’t wait to be gone!
‘And where’s Richard? I want him to talk to Rob about the design for the café tables. I’ve decided I like the idea of leaves carved around the outside.’
Rich walks in at that moment. He’s in jeans as it’s his day off and his curly dark hair is even more untamed than usual.
‘Any eggs for me, Mum?’ he asks, looking at my plate.
‘Sorry, darling, I didn’t think you’d be up this early on your day off. But I can make some more in a jiffy. Just give me a minute.’
Rich shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make myself some toast.’
‘It’s no trouble.’
Rich grins at her. ‘Honestly, it’s fine, Mum. In fact, I’d rather have toast.’ He sits down opposite me and steals a forkful of my eggs, and I slap his hand away with a smile.
‘Did I hear my name mentioned there, by the way?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes, talk to Rob about the tables, will you?’ says Mum.
He frowns. ‘What about the tables?’
‘Rob suggested carving a leaf pattern round the edge,’ I explain. Then I glance at Mum. ‘I can talk to Rob about it when I take him his coffee if you like?’
Her glance sweeps over me. Then she turns to my brother. ‘Rich, make sure he knows which design I mean. I’ll give you the page from the magazine.’
I grit my teeth. Normally I wouldn’t react, but this morning, for some reason, her reliance on my brother, who can clearly do no wrong in her eyes, hurts even more than usual.
Perhaps it’s because I’m starting to feel I should be braver in life. Have more faith in myself . . .
‘Mum, I’ve already shown Rob the magazine and talked to him about the various designs. I know which one you mean.’
‘Yes but Rich is going to finalise things,’ she says firmly, attacking a pan with a wire scrubber.
‘Because I’m not able to?’ I stare at her back in frustration.
She turns and looks at me askance. ‘Well, I never said that, Fen.’
‘Crikey, Mum, you don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. I might not have a law degree like Rich but I do actually have a brain!’
She stares at me, looking quite shocked. I suppose the mouse doesn’t usually roar!
‘I really don’t know what you mean, Fen,’ she says at last.
I shake my head wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. I’ll be the coffee girl. No problem.’ I get up from the table and Rich crosses his eyes at me and gives me a stupid grin, which makes me feel a little bit better.
I run upstairs to clean my teeth and collect my coat and bag, then I go back down to the kitchen and fill a flask with the piping hot black coffee Rob swears he needs to perform well in the mornings.
‘By the way, of course I know you have a brain, Fen,’ says Mum sharply. ‘And I think you should use it to enter that baking competition.’
I suppress a sigh. ‘Whatever.’
As I’m leaving, Dad catches my free hand and murmurs, ‘I’m proud of you, whatever you decide, love.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ A lump rises to my throat.
His grey eyes twinkle. ‘You never know, that regional heat mightn’t be nearly as terrifying as you imagine.’
I lean over and kiss his cheek. ‘I’ll think about it, Dad. But I’m not promising.’
I head off, coffee in hand, to the barn where I know Rob will be hard at work. Mum wants the new café to be a real draw for visitors, so she’s sparing no expense getting the interior just right.
When we first opened back in August, the café was a makeshift affair in the same old barn that is now being renovated, over the winter months, into a beautiful new place. And carpenter Rob, who we know through Sylvia – previous owner of The Little Duck Pond Café – was the natural choice to design the beautiful interior and furniture.
Sylvia finally shrugged off her widow’s weeds to get together with lovely widower Mick earlier this year, and Rob is Mick’s thirty-year-old son.
I like Rob. He’s the sort of guy who’s really comfortable in his own skin and has decided what he wants out of life, which I admire because I sometimes think I’ll never, ever know. I’d say Rob’s more of a strong, silent type - although when he does speak, people tend to listen. And he’s got a lovely dry sense of humour.
When I first met him, back in the summer, we hit it off straight away. I really liked Rob so when he suggested we go for a drink, I agreed, and we ended up having a really fun night. It occurred to me then that maybe we could become more than just friends. And I sensed Rob thought that, too. He even suggested we go out for dinner next time. But in the end, it didn’t work out that way.
My night out with Rob sticks in my mind even more because that was the time I made a total idiot of myself in the high street.
We were coming out of the pub and I was turning to Rob and laughing at something he’d said, when I collided with Ethan, my biggest crush ever. I immediately slid into awkward, stammering mode and when I tried to introduce Rob to Ethan, I called him Bob. So embarrassing.
Rob went a bit quiet after Ethan had gone. So to fill the gap in conversation, I told him that Ethan had asked me to join the am dram group.
Rob nodded. Then he said, ‘Ethan must like you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked you to join the group.’
I smiled happily, flushing all over again.
When I asked when he was free to go out for dinner, as he’d suggested earlier, Rob looked a bit awkward and said he had a lot on. But maybe in the future . . .
I was fine with that. In fact, it was a bit of a relief. It would have to be someone really special to make me risk my heart again, the way I did with Joe. I knew I’d take a risk for Ethan – but he was in a steady relationship with a girl called Alicia.
That’s what I thought at the time – but after last night, it’s clear that Ethan is no longer with Alicia and hasn’t been for a while . . .
Rob looks up from his lathe when I walk into the barn and runs the back of his hand over his brow. ‘Coffee. Fen, you’re my saviour.’
I hand over the flask and he grins. ‘This will speed up the work.’
‘Are you in a hurry, then?’
‘I want to get ahead.’ He pours coffee into a nearby mug then runs his hands down the sides of his jeans, smacking them on his bum, from which clouds of dust rise up. He picks up the mug and takes a swallow of the coffee.
‘You’ve got sawdust everywhere.’ I grin, pointing at the bits nestling in his slightly ruffled dark blonde hair.
‘Hazard of the job.’ He rubs his hand briskly over his head, leaving it standing up even more. ‘No, if we’re going to Brighton on Sunday, I need to make inroads into getting these tables done.’
Brighton?
I stare at him in dismay. ‘Oh, damn!’ I’d forgotten we’d mentioned a run down there at the weekend. But Sunday is the meeting of the am dram panto group.
‘Something wrong?’ he asks, reaching for a length of wood and smoothing the edge with his forefinger.
Digging my hands in my hair, I frown at him. ‘Sorry, it’s just I said I’d join the amateur dramatics group and I’ve been invited to a meeting. And it’s on Sunday.’
An odd expression flits across his face, which puzzles me.
I can’t imagine he’d be annoyed that we’ll have to postpone our trip. Rob’s the most laid-back person I know. And anyway, the idea of visiting Brighton – which we discovered was an old childhood haunt for both of us - was really just a loose arrangement; something we could do any time.
Next second, he shrugs. ‘Hey, no problem, Fen. We can do it another time.’
‘Are you sure? Because I feel really bad. I can’t believe it slipped my mind. Honestly, I’m a proper airhead sometimes.’
He grins. ‘You know, I’d have said you were the exact opposite of an airhead.’
‘Would you?’ I look at him in surprise.
‘Yes, I would. You’re super organised when it comes to work and you’ve helped turn The Little Duck Pond Café into the success that it is today.’
I stare at him doubtfully. ‘Well, that’s down to Ellie, really.’
He shakes his head. ‘I disagree. Who bakes every single cake that keeps the customers coming back for more? And who makes the best loaf of ciabatta bread ever?’ He grins. ‘My favourite, incidentally. Just for future reference, in case you ever had some going spare.’
I laugh, colouring up at his praise. ‘Duly noted.’
‘Who helps keep the café running smoothly when Ellie isn’t around? And who came up with the idea of a weekly ‘old movie night’ that’s brought in tons of extra business?’
‘Me, I suppose,’ I say slowly.
I guess I do work quite hard, hearing it reeled off like that by Rob.
Apart from reading, my biggest passion is baking – which is just as well. Because I bake all the cakes, breads and scones for Ellie’s Little Duck Pond Café, including what’s required for the mail order range. I’ll also be baking for The Brambleberry Manor Café once it opens in March, although Mum is thinking of hiring a woman she knows called Rhoda Watson to manage the place.
I did suggest that I could manage the café myself, since my shift at Ellie’s place is usually finished by eleven, and the Brambleberry Manor Café will open at twelve, along with the house itself. I pointed out that not having to hire Rhoda Watson would save money. But Mum said she’d rather it was all done properly, whatever that means.
‘I’d say you’re one of the most hard-working, efficient people I know, Fen.’ Rob smiles at me, his blue eyes twinkling with affection. ‘So stop doing yourself down.’
‘Okay.’ I do a mock salute, shrugging it off with humour. Secretly, I feel quite choked by his comments. And as I cross the grass to the car, I feel as if I’m somehow walking a little taller.
Driving over to the Little Duck Pond Café to begin my shift there, I come to a decision.
Rob seems to believe I’m capable of more than I think. So maybe I should just go to the am dram meeting on Sunday and see what happens. If I don’t like it, I don’t have to go back.
I might not feel confident enough to attend the regional heats of the Bake! competition.
But I will swallow down my nerves and go to the panto rehearsal . . .