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Chapter Fifteen
As a symphony of larks tuned up on the window ledge and the sun cut through the gap in the curtains to chase the darkness from Bernice’s spare bedroom, Rosie was roused from her slumber. She had no idea what time it was, but for the first time in years she had slept uninterrupted. Insomnia had been a constant companion throughout her life, winding its vicious tentacles around her whirling mind night after night, chasing her thoughts through catacombs with no exit. But that night had been blissfully devoid of such nightmares.
Maybe if she concentrated on the immediate issues of smartening up Willowbrook Lodge and its garden and involving herself on the periphery of village life in Somersby and Cranbury, she could shut out the implosion of her life over the pond. But perhaps she could do more than that. She could sleep here and, she had to admit as she stretched out her limbs en route to the powder-pink bathroom, she felt energised for the first time in months.
She wallowed in a hot bubble bath and then sauntered down to the kitchen, goosebumps pressing against her apricot silk robe in the chill of the April morning. As a brisk wind whistled its melody through the branches of the cherry tree, her eyes lingered on the monstrosity that was the only source of heat and cooking in the cottage – the ancient cream Aga.
Okay, one thing at a time.
She clicked on the kettle and brewed herself a pot of English Breakfast tea. Then, she hooked her fingers through the handle of her favourite china cup with a single pink rosebud painted on the side, opened the kitchen door, and stepped into the garden.
The dew-drenched grasses and ferns slashed at her naked ankles and knees but, even that early in the morning, the garden offered a kaleidoscope of colours, vibrant with awakening life – green shoots thrusting their presence into the sunlight, tulips interspersed with highly scented freesias. The faint breeze tickled their velvety petals, an invitation to spread their glory as the bourgeoning cherry tree projected its grandeur over all it surveyed, dispersing shafts of warm spring rays.
Whilst Rosie recognised very few of the shrubs and flowers in the garden, her abiding memory from her previous visit was of her aunt’s herb garden – her proudest achievement and an ever-evolving work of art. As she brushed past the meticulously laid-out chequerboard of herbs, their fragrant aroma of lavender and rosemary, of oregano and thyme, wafted up to her nostrils and, in that moment, she determined that if she did nothing else with her time here, she would spruce up the herb garden to its former glory in honour of her aunt… and she would start the task today!
She finished her tea, then dashed back upstairs to dress for the day. Of course, she realised as soon as she opened her suitcase that she’d brought nothing with her from New York that could possibly scream “a horticultural day out in an English country garden”! It was either her black skirt suit that she had worn to her aunt’s funeral, or a pair of expensive designer jeans that Lauren had bought her for her birthday.
Well, at least that prevented her from prevaricating.
However, when she returned to the back door, the bulbous clouds she had seen earlier had turned to a menacing shade of pewter and were playing a game of celestial tag. The deluge ofthe previous night had resumed, the rain pounding the flagstone with alacrity. Rosie sighed; at least the meteorological gods were sticking to their advertising slogan, and she hoped that “April showers would bring May flowers”.
As gardening was off the agenda, she decided to switch her attention to culinary pursuits instead and attempt one of her aunt’s recipes from the journal. She’d just have to learn how to tame the Aga. She replenished the huge brown teapot and settled down at the kitchen table to study the selection of recipes on offer. However, she didn’t have to go beyond the very first page to know exactly what her debut in the baking arena would be, and she took her time reading what her aunt had written as the preamble to the recipe.
Strawberry Tarts for Broken Hearts
Strawberries are often referred to as the fruit of love. When the strawberries in this recipe are sliced as directed, they appear heart-shaped, bursting with sweetness and zinging with a luscious rich red, the colour of love and passion. They are nutrient-rich and packed with healthy antioxidants, especially if grown in your own garden! Some believe they possess healing qualities and can alleviate melancholy. And if that isn’t enough to tempt you, darling Rosie, the strawberry plant is part of the rose family.
Rosie smiled as a warm fuzzy feeling spread through her chest. Her aunt had always possessed an uncanny ability to predict the precise treatment for any emotional ailment – she must have known Rosie would find a use for the opening remedy. Strawberries were her favourite fruit, too, and not only that, there was an abundance of the sweet scarlet berries in thepatch at the bottom of the garden. And when sliced theydidresemble a perfect heart shape!
The illustration accompanying the recipe was exquisite. The plants runners meandered around the text like a Christmas wreath, the verdant foliage interspersed with a smattering of white, daisy-like flowers and the rich red of the ripe fruit which burst from the page.
She quickly scanned the recipe, scribbled a list of the ingredients on a piece of scrap paper, and slotted her feet into an old pair of Hunter wellies waiting to be pressganged into service next to the back door. She then made a run for it to Susan’s shop where she purchased the required ingredients before taking a trip to the strawberry plot at the bottom of the garden.
The spiky straw surrounding the plants was sodden from the persistent rain, but as she lifted the leaves gently with her fingers, the big, fat, juicy fruit hung like pendulums ready to be harvested. She couldn’t resist popping one into her mouth, relishing the acidic tang as it crashed against her taste buds, and she reached for another and then another.
Why did fruit you picked yourself always taste so much better?
She carried her bounty back to the kitchen and rubbed her hair free of rain droplets on a tea towel before scrutinising the beast of an oven. She could delay their tango no longer. After fifteen minutes of lifting the hot-plate lids and exploring the internal mechanisms she was still no nearer to igniting its fiery passion.
She was just about to give up and adjourn for a rejuvenating cup of tea, when she found the Aga instruction booklet in a plastic envelope in a cupboard, and fortunately, following instructions was something she was an expert at. She wassurprised to learn that it ran on oil, but considering it was more akin to a small family saloon, she shouldn’t have been. After a bit of fiddling, the oven sprang into life, and she set about weighing out the ingredients for her strawberry tarts.
However, the last label anyone could attach to her in New York was Domestic Goddess. In fact, the white polystyrene blocks were still in her oven in her apartment, and while she had used the microwave to heat up her carry-out coffees, or the odd cinnamon roll, she had never actuallybakedanything since she left home to go to college where she had lived on takeaways and coffee.
To her dismay, the further she proceeded into the recipe, the more the kitchen started to resemble culinary Armageddon, with a liberal dusting of flour and icing sugar, and splodges of butter and strawberry jam littering the counter tops. After half an hour of wrestling with the sweet shortcrust pastry – which had taken on an unappetising grey tinge – and whipping up the cream, she was ready to slot her culinary masterpieces in the oven.
She couldn’t face another minute in the kitchen while she waited for them to bake so, as it had stopped raining, she sauntered out into the garden, leaving the washing up until later. She paused at the herb garden and crouched down to break off a sprig of lavender. The aroma floated to her nostrils and sent a blast of nostalgia to her chest. She knew her aunt would be proud of her attempt at baking one of her recipes, if not the chaos she had brought to her otherwise pristine kitchen.
She selected a second herb, rubbing its wide, jagged-edged leaf between her fingertips and taking a sniff. Mmm, she knew this one. Mint – its clean fresh fragrance so reminiscent of the gum she chewed through high school to help alleviate bouts of anxiety. She noticed that sprouts of grass had sprung between the plants, so she knelt down to remove them, arching her backto the sky. It was so satisfying to see even that small square of soil in her aunt’s beloved herb garden cleared of debris that she spent the next half hour enlarging it.
Eventually, she sat back on her heels, massaging her aching shoulders and wiping a trickle of perspiration from her brow with her forearm. She was about to congratulate herself on a job well done when a waft of burnt caramel reached her nostrils and she realised she had forgotten to take the pastry tarts out of the oven.
Oh No!
With some difficulty, she unfolded her stiffened legs and sprinted back into the kitchen as tendrils of grey smoke began to snake from the Aga door. She had no idea what to do. She frantically searched the kitchen drawers for a pair of oven gloves and, with her arms outstretched, tentatively cracked open the door to release a mushroom of black smoke which floated up to the ceiling before dispersing, like the aftermath from a nuclear explosion.
Slowly she removed the evidence of her first foray into baking.
She couldn’t contain the splutter of mirth that erupted from her chest as she recalled her intention to take a few snaps of her works of culinary genius to upload to her Instagram account, tagging Lauren and Toby and telling them that she was well on her way to mending her “broken heart”. The tarts were now circular blocks of charcoal ready for the barbeque. It was entirely possible that if shedidpublish the results of her baking skills, she’d not be getting a visit from Julia Child or Mary Berry, but from Homeland Security.
