Page 90 of Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘I’m so sorry, Rach. I don’t know what to say, I …’

He reached to touch her hand, which she pulled back instinctively.

She couldn’t stay here now. Couldn’t be near this man who’d had the chance to alter something so monumental. This man who’d witnessed her dad’s fragile state of mind … and done nothing. Someone she’d thought they could all trust.

She was up and out of the bed, pulling on socks, underwear, her T-shirt, in a frenzy.

Tom looked shocked and sat up in the bed, trying to explain. ‘Look Rachel, how could I have known? How could anyone? Like I said, he seemed a bit down, but nothing like I hadn’t seen before—’

Her anger flared. ‘Down, a bit down. He was fucking suicidal, Tom.’

Rachel bolted out of the room, down the stairs, and grabbed the keys to the quad from the kitchen side.

Go … get away, her bruised mind was telling her. But her heart felt so damn heavy as she closed Tom’s front door. She started the quad and drove off: angry, confused, scared to look back up at his bedroom window.

Later that afternoon, back at the farmhouse, Rachel was baking as therapy. She smashed the rolling pin down onto the bag of digestive biscuits. Crush, thwack, crush.

She had kept her head down all day. Getting on with the farm work and her shift in the Pantry – although avoiding the eleven o’clock rush when a certain someone was likely to pop in for his bacon roll. Mum had told her that Tom had called in, looking slightly anxious and asking after her.

He had also texted several times through the day. She hadn’t answered.

‘Everything all right, Rachel, love?’ said Jill, walking back into the kitchen after fetching washing from the line. She knew the signs of an aching heart.

‘Yes, fine.’ Rachel’s answer sounded curt, she realised; she needed to keep her bad mood in check. She’d already decided that Mum didn’t need to ever find out the truth. ‘Yes, sorry. Hi, Mum,’ her tone softened.

‘You know you could do that easily in the mixer,’ Jill prompted.

‘Ah yes, but this is far more satisfying.’ Another thwack.

‘O-kay.’ Jill knew when to stop delving. ‘I’ll just get this folded and put in a pile for ironing later, and then I’ll need to crack on with something for supper.’ She left her daughter to her baking, giving her a little space.

Next, Rachel began to melt the butter, popping a golden lump in a pan on the Aga’s slow hob. She then took it off the heat and stirred the biscuit crumbs through it, ready to spoon and shape the mixture into the base of a flan dish, in fact, two dishes – one cheesecake would be for the Pudding Pantry and the other for them as a family, with a spare slice or two reserved for Eve. Maisy was luckily over there on a play date just now with Amelia.

Rachel had already been out and picked a bowl of plump raspberries fresh from the garden, and had her other ingredients lined up ready to mix together – white chocolate, yet to melt, along with cream cheese and double cream. Concentrating on the stirring and beating helped ease Rachel’s frustrations, and she was soon lost to the task, checking the mix was at just the right consistency. After the biscuit bases had chilled in the fridge, she took them out and spooned out the deliciously sweet, cheesy mixture, layering the puddings with fresh raspberries and a little of Jill’s homemade raspberry jam. She then spooned another creamy layer over the top.

‘They’re looking good.’ Jill came back in, just as Rachel was about to pop them back into the fridge. Later, she’d add the soft, fruity-raspberry topping, drizzling it over to finish.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘So, do you want to talk about it, love? Was everything okay last night?’ Jill prompted, concerned for her daughter.

‘Yeah, fine.’ Rachel’s voice was way too chirpy.

‘You sure? You don’t seem yourself today at all, love. You can talk to me, tell me if anything’s bothering you.’

‘It’s nothing, honestly.’

‘If he hurt you, made you feel uncomfortable …’

‘Oh no, honestly. No, it’s not like that. It was nothing like that.’ No physical pain, anyway. But, she was never going to tell Jill the truth. It wouldn’t change anything. It would just hurt her mum to know, like it was hurting her deep inside. That sense of guilt, that they might have been able to stop it, change things, rising to the surface like a tidal wave, and wedging even deeper into her heart. ‘I just don’t think we’re that suited, that’s all. We just need to cool things, get back to being mates. It’s all just too awkward otherwise.’ Rachel smothered the facts.

‘Well, as long as you’re all right, love.’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Okay, well, I’m always here if you ever need to talk …’

‘Thanks, I know …’ Rachel then busied herself at the washing-up bowl for a while, looking out across the fields from the farmhouse kitchen window; watching as heavy clouds – dark as bruises – moved across the sky.