Page 20 of Christmas at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘Well, have a good day,’ said Rachel.

‘Will do.’ His tone was ironic. ‘It won’t be nearly as exciting as your paperwork mountain.’

‘Nearly, but not quite.’ Rachel pulled a wry face.

‘Hah, I might even have to have a look at my own paperwork tonight. Seeing as there’s nothing else happening …’

‘Well, you know what they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’

He shook his head, yet still managing a small smile. ‘Thanks, Jill. See you soon, folks. Take care, Frank.’

Rachel came out from behind the counter to give Tom a peck on the cheek. ‘Sorry,’ was all she could say, sensing his frustration behind the smile.

‘No worries. See you soon, Rach.’

She’d far rather have a carefree flirty evening with Tom than working away yet again, but there were reports to make, records to complete, government checks to fulfil – and no one else was able to do it for her. Why did life have to be so bloody exasperating?

After their lunchtime customers – all six of them – had left, Rachel mooted, ‘So, Mum, how do you think we can best go forward with the Pudding Club idea?’ She was impatient to move things on quickly, if Jill was in support.

‘Well, I do think we should at least give it a try. I have to say, it’s been whirring around in my head since you mentioned it – a sign of a good idea in my book. It’ll not cost us much to set up, just more of our time. I imagine it’ll be something we’ll need to hold of an evening?’

Yet another night that Rachel would be tied up and would have to think of childcare. But if it had to be done, so be it. ‘Yes, I think that’d work best.’

‘So, what do you think we’d need to charge for this Pudding Club?’

‘I don’t think we should make it too expensive; let’s keep it attractive and inclusive, but of course we’ll need to make a little bit of money out of doing it, or else there’s no point. I’m thinking there are young mums who might want a night out, older people wanting some company, and anyone interested in baking, really. What do you think, say £5 per session? That’d cover a tea or coffee, the puds to taste, and we should come away with a bit of profit for the business too.’

‘Yes, that sounds reasonable. Do we hold a club night fortnightly up until Christmas and see how it goes?’ suggested Jill.

‘So, you’re definitely in?’ Rachel couldn’t help but grin.

‘Of course, I’m in. Sounds a lovely idea.’

‘Really? I thought you seemed a little cool on it at first.’

‘No, I just wanted us both to think it through properly.’

‘Aw, thanks, Mum. You’re the best, you know that? It will mean another evening of work for us, though.’

‘Yes, I realise that, but it does sounds quite sociable. I think we might enjoy it too!’

‘We might have to take turns with who hosts it, or ask Granny Ruth across to help with little Maisy.’

‘Yes, we can organise that, and I’m sure Ruth would enjoy getting involved. In fact, I’ve asked her across for supper later, so we can mention it to her then.’

‘That’s great. Mind you, I have promised Maisy she can come to the first night if the Pudding Club went ahead,’ added Rachel.

‘So, what date shall we start, and what’s the first pudding theme to be?’ Jill was sounding quite animated now.

‘Sooner rather than later. We may as well get going quickly, to hopefully pick up some new customers. So, what’s coming up soon and what puddings can we tie that in with?’ Rachel paused and suddenly thought of Bonfire Night and Jill’s scrumptious crumble. Ooh, yes, something around November Fifth would be ideal. ‘This might work – Guy Fawkes, fireworks, and your …’

‘Toffee Apple Crumble,’ Jill finished the sentence for her, with a smile.

‘Hah! We could make our first Pudding Club go off with a real bang!’ Rachel announced with a huge grin.

Later that day, another autumn beauty with soft sunshine and just a gentle nip of cold, Rachel reached the small row of honeyed-stone cottages where her Granny Ruth had lived since leaving the farmhouse at Primrose Farm herself, when Rachel and her family had moved in, following the long-standing family tradition that the eldest son would eventually take over. She pulled up outside, and walked up the neat front garden path, ready to collect Granny to take her back to the farm for supper with them. The last blooms of a pale-pink rose that climbed the wall beside the cottage door were holding on in the autumn chill. There was a pot of bold deep-purple and yellow winter pansies on the front step to greet any guests. Granny loved her gardening, even though she struggled with arthritis that was particularly bad in her knees.

Rachel knocked on the door and then went on in, knowing that the house would be unlocked and that she was always welcome. ‘Only me, Granny,’ she called.