Wednesday 13th December
In Poppy’s kitchen at Daisy Hill farm: Sweet spots and roast potatoes
‘Someone’s been busy with the decorations. Did you ever see so many hearts in one place?’
Okay, I know the girl who’s banned herself from thinking about Christmas shouldn’t be enthusing. But seeing as I love Poppy so much, it’s hard not to. Since I was last in the kitchen at Daisy Hill Farm, a whole load of garlands have been strung around the walls, with so many wicker hearts and hessian bows it looks as though someone grabbed the Range’s entire seasonal stock.
Poppy laughs. ‘Rafe bought this lot to welcome me home last Christmas.’ We can take it from this he was ecstatic to see her come back then. But we all knew that already.
Immie’s looking proud and she high fives Gracie, who breaks off from her felt tips and colouring for just long enough to oblige. ‘Rafe, Gracie and I hung them up this afternoon while Pops was making the cakes for Sophie and Saffy. Seemed like a good idea to make the most of the quiet time before the pre-Christmas storm.’ If she’s referring to the next two weddings in terms of metaphorical bad weather, I’m with her on that.
I’m hazy about how things work at any wedding, let alone a double one. ‘Is each couple having their own cake, then?’ There are sponges on cooling trays and wrapped in cling film, lined up all along the granite work surface on the long side of the kitchen. If they’re only having one cake between them, it’s going to have at least ten tiers.
Poppy smiles. ‘They’re two sets of twins, but they’ve got very different tastes. Sophie and Taylor are having plain sponge, covered in buttercream icing, with fruit decoration. And Saffy and Travis have gone for nude chocolate cake, with fresh-cream filling and flowers. Four tiers each.’ She’s got her feet up on the sofa and she’s rubbing her bump. Although she can’t have been sitting down for long.
Rory puts Teddie’s chair down by the sofa, then goes to inspect the line of cakes. ‘Did you mention an extra one?’ He’s slightly later coming in as he took Teddie back to Home Brew Cottage for a nappy change.
We women all grin at each other, but Immie takes pity on him first. ‘Your cake’s waiting over by the Aga, next to the pile of plates.’ She passes him a knife as she heads for the kettle. ‘You do the honours and cut it up and I’ll pour the tea.’
You have to have tasted Poppy’s chocolate cake to know how delicious it is. This one’s got a tiny bit of orange zest in the deep layers of dark-chocolate sponge to remind us about our five a day, and a splash of Cointreau to soften the lashings of pale-chocolate buttercream. At dusk on a windy winter’s afternoon, there couldn’t be better pick-me-up. As I close my eyes and let the icing melt on my tongue, it transports me to my own personal heaven. I completely forget that Luc’s probably packing his suitcase as we chew. That there are still four brides and weddings to negotiate before I can finally get properly stuck into my Friends boxed set. And that Rory’s given up annoying the hell out of me and started worrying about the kids instead. Although it’s not long before the man himself crashes very rudely into my momentary happiness bubble. After two monster slices of cake, Rory’s obviously forgotten all about being a down-hearted loser of an uncle and he’s back to his high-energy positive self.
‘So I was looking on BuzzFeed just now when I was changing Teddie. Apparently you can actually incorporate babies in your home-fitness workouts.’
Immie looks impressed. ‘Reading during nappy changes? That’s from the advanced course. Sounds like you cracked the multi-tasking thing, then.’
He rubs his forearm, then bends down to where Teddie is sitting in his bouncy chair and holds up his tiny hand to give him a mini high-five. ‘Slinging this little guy around all day really tones the muscles. But baby gym takes it one step further.’
I squint at him, because I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing. ‘Please tell me, you are joking?’
‘Keep up, Supernanny. You were the one who suggested checking out Google. All the celebrity dads are using their babies instead of weights. I’ve seen the pictures. There’s exercises for core fitness, upper body, legs and chests. Apparently the kids love it.’
I can’t stop myself from stating the obvious. ‘But you just stuffed your face with cake, Rory.’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Teddie and I will easily work that off later. Although, realistically, running around after these two …’ His all-encompassing nod includes Gracie. ‘I reckon I burn more calories than a lumberjack. I might need to take some cake with me when we go back to the cottage, just so I don’t fade away before morning.’
From the way Immie’s eyebrows have shot upwards, she’s as appalled as me. ‘You can’t treat babies like dumbbells. You will be careful not to drop him?’
‘Obviously.’ Rory rolls his eyes. ‘What these famous dads are simply pointing out to the rest of us guys is that parenting doesn’t have to be all misery. Approached in the right way, it can be fun too. I might even blog about it. Baby at the Brewery would go down a storm on the Roaring Waves website. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that angle before.’
‘How much longer have you got them for?’ Poppy’s asked the question we’re all thinking as we shake our heads at each other.
Rory wrinkles his nose doubtfully. ‘After a bit of a setback post-op, Erin’s now recovering well. So only a few more days, I think. Once we’re all having a good time, it’ll whizz by.’
‘So how about Christmas?’ Poppy’s done it again and put my thoughts into words. Not that I should even be interested. ‘Everyone’s coming here for a huge Christmas Day feast. We’re starting with cocktails in the orangery, then having lunch at a huge table in the drawing room, in front of a roaring log fire, with dancing in the evening. You will come too, won’t you, Rory?’ The searching stare she gives me tells me she hasn’t completely accepted my decision to spend the day in my attic. ‘Let’s face it, no one who’s tasted Rafie’s rosemary and goose-fat roasties would refuse that invitation.’ She gives me another significant frown.
Immie leans back, pats a stomach that’s almost as big as Poppy’s and groans. ‘I’m already dreaming of your flaming plum pudding drenched in rum sauce with a splash of cream. With your Christmas pudding ice cream melting over it.’
Rory pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘Thanks for the kind invite, Pops. You know I’m the biggest fan of Rafe’s crispy Maris Pipers. And I’ll definitely stay to see Holly through the last of Jules’s weddings.’
Poppy ponders. ‘That’s Seth and Katie’s alpine wedding in the barn on Monday. Are you invited to that one too?’
Rory looks like he’s racking his brains to consult his mental diary. ‘You’re right, I think I am. My sixth wedding in 2017. No wonder I can’t keep up.’ Unbelievably he’s snaffling yet another slice of chocolate cake, pushing crumbs into his mouth as he carries on. ‘But as far as Christmas goes, once I get the kids back to Erin, so long as the warehouses are full enough to keep St Aidan’s wine flowing for the full festive season, I promised to head to Bristol to catch up with the old crew over there.’ It’s exactly the kind of on-the-run, no-commitment arrangement Rory specialises in. So no one looks surprised he hasn’t accepted Poppy’s invite.
I know the guy drives me round the bend. And admittedly, I’d do anything to avoid being in the same room as him. But suddenly hearing Rory won’t be around on Christmas Day leaves me feeling like all my stuffing’s dropped out. Which would be really silly at the best of times. Considering I won’t even be there myself, it’s doubly ridiculous.
‘So when are you getting your Christmas tree, Poppy?’ Okay. I’m doing my best to avoid trees and Christmas. But I’m blurting out nonsense just to cover up that I’m feeling like shit for no reason. It has to be this damned wedding stress that’s making me wobble all over the place.
Poppy gives me yet another stare, which is hard enough to let me know my floppy insides aren’t quite as private as I’d like them to be. ‘The Aga keeps the kitchen so hot, we’re waiting until next week for the tree. This way we’ll actually have some needles left on for Christmas.’
Surprisingly Rory’s joining in this conversation. ‘Did you decide on a blue spruce in the end, Pops?’
The words ‘blue spruce’ sliding into the conversation oh-so casually almost make me drop my tea mug. ‘You can get those around here?’ If I sound incredulous, it’s only because of the trouble I had sourcing one for Luc’s loft apartment last year. It seems strange now to think at the time I couldn’t make do with anything less than those gorgeous muted blue-green branches. My elaborate tartan and stag-themed decorations were such an important part of the build-up to our Christmas trip to Luc’s parents in Scotland. Although finding a blue spruce big enough was bound to be difficult. There’s not much demand for ten foot Christmas trees of any kind in central London. As for getting it up the stairwell, that was another story entirely.
Rory’s grinning. ‘It’s my thank you to Rafe and Poppy for helping me out. Any kind of tree – you name it, I’m your man.’ He hesitates for a second, then thinks better of it and continues. ‘Well, not me exactly. But my mate has the biggest Christmas tree farm in the South West. With hundreds and thousands of trees, you can’t go wrong.’
Rory and his endless connections. No surprise there, then. As for me, my plans for a Christmas-free December are slowly being eroded. It’s suddenly uncomfortably full of festivity.
When I’m not having a tree at all this year, it’s hard to imagine being back in the kind of place where a plain old green tree was entirely out of the question. My boxes of decorations are in piles in that storage unit. It might not just be for this year, either. The way things are going, I can’t see what’s ever going to change. As I realise I may never get to open them again, the sweet taste of chocolate on my teeth takes on a strangely sour tang. When I get to thinking about how long it took me to tie enough purple and green-checked bows for an entire ten foot tree, my mouth waters even more. I’m remembering haring along Oxford Street in the rain and the dark because I’d run out of ribbon late on a Saturday afternoon, and I wanted to get the tree finished to surprise Luc when he came back from his golfing with the guys. The colours of Poppy’s kitchen are blurring in front of my eyes, like the reflections of the festive lights were on the wet pavements that day. There’s a strangled ache in my throat and a pool of saliva under my tongue. As my face crumples, I’m looking down, watching a big splash of water spreading out on the rough-hewn wood of the tabletop.
Immie’s first to notice. ‘Elephant balls, what are those tears doing on your plate? Are you crying, Holly?’
I’m wiping my sleeve across my cheek and sniffing at the same time. ‘It’s only because my stags won’t get to come out.’ My New Look acrylic sleeve is doing a crap job when it comes to soaking up the damp. I’ve no idea why I’m sobbing about stag decorations I only got last year. ‘And I won’t get to see my fairy lights either …’ I’m gulping in air as I snivel.
Immie’s on her feet and as her arms close around me, she pulls my nose against her sweatshirt and I’m engulfed in the sweet scent of lily-of-the-valley fabric conditioner. ‘Babe, come here, it’ll feel better after a nice cup of … er …’ If she was about to suggest tea, that boat already sailed.
Poppy’s flowery apron-covered bump is nudging my elbow. ‘Kitchen roll, Hols?’
My nod is as disgustingly feeble as my mouse voice. ‘Thanks, Pops … I’m just missing my cherubs, that’s all … and my knitted Santas might get eaten by mice before I even get to unpack them again …’ I grasp the fistful of paper towel Poppy pushes into my hand. At least my massive nose blow is less wimpish. ‘It’s why I wanted to stay away from Christmas this year …’
‘How about more chocolate?’
The slice of cake Rory’s chopping is the size Freya used to put out for Santa when she’d set her heart on something really humungous. Somehow the size matches the desperation in his eyes. The year she decided she wanted a real-life gypsy caravan, she insisted on leaving an entire quarter of cake, even though we both knew the truth about who Santa was by then. That was the Christmas we realised how good her forward planning was. Ordering ahead for when we could go off on our own as teenagers and be nomads. Afterwards, I don’t think my dad ever forgave himself for disappointing her that year. I don’t think she really minded getting a garden shed version instead. It even had wheels. My dad’s little joke. The only drawback was, they weren’t attached, so it wouldn’t roll. Not that it mattered at all, seeing she’d neglected to ask for a pony to go with it. It was so much more out there than the art set and sparkly tights I’d asked for. That was the great thing about her. She had the imagination to have really big dreams. So even if she only made it halfway, the results were still pretty spectacular.
I dig up my sleeve, pull out a tissue and scrape it over my eyes. ‘Thanks Rory, but I’m good. I’ve already had two slices.’
If that’s a disappointed shrug, he soon turns it into a grin as he whisks the plate away. ‘I’ll take care of the cake, then. I’m sorry, Panda Eyes, if I’d known you were having crises with Christmas, I’d never have mentioned spruce of any colour. Especially not blue.’
It takes a second to sink in. ‘My eyeliner’s run?’
He’s laughing. ‘Only a bit, it’s nothing to worry about.’ Which obviously means it is.
Although, what’s needling me more is him being observant enough to know exactly the words that had set me off. ‘I thought we’d agreed before that you couldn’t see into my head?’
He purses his lips. ‘Mostly not. This must have been an exceptionally transparent exception.’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Anyway, enough about you, Berry. This is way more important. I’ve found a way to stop Teddie screaming when he has his nappy changed. At least, it worked just before.’
Immie’s straight in there. ‘Never. This I must see.’
Poppy’s laughing. ‘Are you sure it’s not just a fluke?’
‘A one-off accident, perhaps. I was flicking through my YouTube favourites earlier.’ Rory looks supremely confident as he slides his iPad out of his windcheater pocket. ‘Dad’s Rock blog talks about babies having sweet spots. And Teddie’s just happens to be Rufus Hound dancing to Cheryl Cole’s Fight For This Love. Remember the one … Red Nose Day, 2010?’
Now I’m the one frowning. ‘That big guy with splits in his trousers taking the mick out of our Cheryl’s soldier dance? Why is that in your favourites list?’ This guy never ceases to amaze me.
‘Because it’s funny?’ Rory has the decency to look mildly ashamed. ‘Teddie’s obviously inherited my sense of humour, even if you don’t share it.’
‘Let’s see then…’ Any way of moving on from spruce blues and wet screwed-up hankies, I’ll take it.
‘Okay.’ Rory’s holding his iPad in front of Teddie in his bouncing chair. As the first bars strike up and Cheryl begins to sing, there’s no reaction at all from Teddie.
Immie’s leaning in. ‘A bearded guy with lipstick, a red jacket with braid and buttons … and army boots with a thong sticking out of the top of his low slung trousers? And girls dressed as boys?’ She sounds mystified. ‘There’s a lot of mixed gender messages there.’
Poppy joins her. ‘There’s plenty of stamping and gyrating and flashing spotlights. From the roaring, the Red Nose crowd like it, even if Teddie’s not sure.’
I’m dancing at the side, singing along. ‘We’re gonna fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this love, we’re gonna fight, fight …’ I catch Rory’s smirk. ‘What? It’s one of my girlie tunes, okay. I’m kind of with Teddie on this. It’s just a pity he isn’t …’ I’m about to say ‘joining in…’ when Teddie gives a yell.
The next moment, he begins to kick. His eyes have gone all starry and big, and he’s holding both hands out towards the iPad, opening and closing his fingers.
Poppy and Immie stand back in awe and watch. Meanwhile never being one to sit on the sidelines and miss out on this track, I’m dancing and smiling down at Teddie. As I hold a hand out to Gracie, she carefully puts the top on her felt tip. Then she slips down from the chair, comes and holds my hand and dances too.
Then the music comes to an abrupt stop. In the sudden silence we all stare at each other, surprised smiles on our faces.
‘How amazing was that?’ Poppy laughs.
‘Could two minutes, twenty two seconds of respite be any sweeter?’ Rory couldn’t be looking more pleased if Bad Ass Santa beer had won a medal for best Christmas ale of the decade. ‘That’s long enough for anyone to change a baby – even me.’
Immie’s puzzling. ‘Fascinating to see a baby being so impressed by the tribal beat and warlike imagery.’
We all turn to stare at her together. ‘What?’
As Gracie tilts her head at me, her expression is solemn. ‘Why have you got black on your eyes?’
‘Damn.’ I’d almost forgotten. I’m rubbing my lashes, opening my mouth to explain, when Rory gives a shout.
‘Everyone ready? One more time!’ And then he presses play and a second later we’re all dancing again.