Christmas at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘What’s the verdict, Frank?’ Jill asked a minute or two later, a trace of anxiety in her tone.

‘Well … I’d say it’s a ten out of ten. Got all those lovely warming festive flavours through it, somehow. In fact, it brings to mind a pudding my mam used to make, back in the day. Though I have to admit,’ Frank pulled a wry smile, ‘her puddings always turned out a bit on the heavy side, bless her soul. Still, it went down a treat when I was a young lad.’

‘Hah, I bet it did.’

‘Yes, she used to blame it on the post-war rations, but me and Da knew better. She didn’t have the best of teachers, mind. Now then …’ Frank was off in full storytelling mode. ‘Her mam, Nanna Wallace, lived across on the Scottish side of the border, so she did. Now, she used to make something called a “Cloutie Dumpling”. “Clarty Dumpling” me and Da secretly called it. It was a dark-coloured pudding with raisins, currants, and all sorts in. I seem to remember having it around Old Year’s Night. It was meant to be a special treat. Well, that thing was like a cannon ball. Don’t suppose it was meant to turn out that way. Hah yes, I even spooned some off one day and shaped it into balls for my catapult. That stuff made great pellets.’

Jill couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Well, we’d better not make anything like that here, Frank!’ Rachel pitched in.

‘Aye, lass, we’d have to have lashings of custard with it, to manage to get it down. My, it was hard work that pudding.’

‘Well, I’m lucky I had the best teacher in my mum, Isabel,’ Jill said. ‘And, well, I’d be lost without the fabulous Baking Bible.’

The ‘Baking Bible’ was the family recipe book that had been handed down over generations. It took pride of place on the shelf in their farmhouse kitchen and provided inspiration, recipes and tips, even now.

‘That’s where the Gingerbread pudding came from, it was one of my old Aunt Elsie’s recipes.’

‘Well, you’re onto a winner there, lass. My taste buds are waltzing.’

‘Thank you, Frank.’

Jill then focussed on getting organised for the day ahead, and began making a batch of fresh cherry and sultana scones in the little oven they had there in the Pantry. Rachel stood wrapping up sets of knives and forks in red gingham checked napkins. They were both humming away to Radio Two, and when one of Jill’s favourite oldies, Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’, came on, they ended up doing a bit of bum-wiggling in time behind the counter, with a dusting of flour spinning around them from Jill’s wooden spoon which had suddenly morphed into a microphone, much to Frank’s delight.

Rachel then headed out to the customer area to make sure the tables were all set out prettily. She’d bought a spray of red carnations from the flower shop in the village, which she split into posies and placed in the mini milk bottles they had on each table. The red was a blast of colour against the cream stone walls and rustic white furniture. She stood tapping her feet in time to the music – her cheerful wiggle belying the worry curdling in her stomach as she looked out on a near-empty Pantry.

And so began another day at Primrose Farm.

At eleven o’clock sharp, the sound of Tom’s quad pulling up came from outside. Rachel couldn’t help but grin as he strolled in, his dark eyes smiling warmly beneath chestnut-brown hair that was cut fairly short but still managed to be unruly. He was dressed in his farmyard-stained jeans, green wellies and a weathered Barbour coat.

‘Hah, we’ll be able to set the clock by you soon. I’ve already started the bacon off on the griddle for you,’ said Rachel.

‘You know me too well. And yes, a bacon roll and coffee it is. Though, I may surprise you one day and order something else. I might live dangerously and have a cheese scone or something.’ He grinned mischievously.

Rachel had to admit that eleven o’clock was fast becoming one of her favourite times of the day, seeing Tom stroll in, hungry and handsome in a windswept kind of way after having worked several hours on his neighbouring farm. And, the amazing thing was, that after years of them growing up as children close by – albeit with a bit of an age gap – they were now actually an item. A rather wonderful, sexy and caring kind of item. Rachel could still hardly believe it.

She passed him a mug of steaming coffee – strong with a touch of milk and no sugar, just how he liked it – across the counter.

‘Cheers, Rachel. Morning, Frank,’ Tom greeted the old chap who was still sitting there, browsing his newspaper, with a top-up of coffee to hand.

‘Hello, Tom. Busy morning?’

‘Yep, I’ve just put the tups out in the fields with the ewes. And, with this wet weather we’ve had lately, the fields are getting damned muddy. I’ve had to pull out a couple of stuck sheep.’

‘All fun and games, I’m sure,’ replied Frank.

‘Tell me about it,’ added Rachel. ‘There were two stuck in the mud here yesterday morning. They’d got themselves in a right state.’ She dished out the crispy bacon onto soft white bread.

Tom took the sandwich and was soon tucking in. ‘Delicious, Rach. As always. I’ll settle up. Can’t stay long, unfortunately. Gotta get back as there’s a delivery of bulk feed due in at any time.’ He handed his plate and mug back across the counter. ‘That was great, thanks.’

‘Ah, okay.’ Well, that was short and sweet. Rachel couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed.

‘Can I see you, later on?’ Tom’s smile was hopeful and his dark eyes had a rather sexy look about them. Or maybe that was just Rachel’s interpretation.

‘Yes, I’ll try. When Mum’s back over in a while, I’ll check if she has any plans for this evening herself. She’s just nipped over to the farmhouse.’ It was unlikely that Jill would be out, but she didn’t want to take her mum’s babysitting duties for granted. This new relationship with Tom was still very much finding its feet and Rachel felt she was juggling her responsibilities as a mother with it. Tom seemed pretty laid back about the situation, knowing the set up at Primrose Farm, but sometimes what they both really wanted was a couple of hours just for the two of them.

Tom leaned across to give Rachel a kiss on the cheek. Rachel caught a whiff of eau-de-sheep and aftershave, which surprisingly wasn’t too off-putting.

‘Try hard,’ he whispered sensually at her ear.

She smiled broadly, feeling a flip in her belly. ‘I will … but I do need to check.’

She watched him leave, amazed at how this new relationship had even happened, how they’d bridged that gap from neighbours and friends to becoming lovers. Seeing Tom always made her heart soar, and they were getting on so well. But they were at that crucial early stage – where it felt exciting, but also a little bit scary …

The Second Bake of Christmas

Jill’s Toffee Apple Crumble – 1997 and Present Day

In autumn, Rachel used to pick the apples with Dad from the big old gnarled tree in their garden. He’d lift her up in his strong arms so she could reach the fruit, and they’d fill a wicker basket with the large Bramley cooking apples. Mum would keep some to use straight away for her crumbles and apple sauce, the rest they’d lay out on the big kitchen table, the very same table they had now, and wrap them in old newspaper ready to store in boxes under the bottom shelf in the walk-in larder.

Toffee Apple Crumble:

450g/1lb cooking apples

75g/3oz soft brown sugar

60g butter

½tsp cinnamon

For the crumble:

175g/6oz flour

75g/3oz butter, cubed

25g/1oz caster sugar and 75g/1oz demerara sugar

Dice the apples into large chunks and place in a pan with the butter, sugar and cinnamon. Cook gently until the apples just start to soften but are still mostly whole. Remove apples from the pan with slotted spoon and place into baking dish. Pop the pan back on the heat and reduce liquid by half, stirring with a wooden spoon, and pour over the apples.

To make the crumble, sift flour into a bowl, rub the butter into flour until it resembles breadcrumbs. Stir in sugar keeping a heaped tablespoon of demerara to sprinkle over the top. Sprinkle crumble thickly and evenly over the fruit and press down lightly with the palm of your hand to smooth.

Bake at 180°C Mark 4 for 30–40 minutes until the fruit is bubbling and the crumble golden.

Serve with cream, custard or ice cream!

3

‘So, do you think you can make it over?’ Tom’s toffee-warm voice came through on Rachel’s mobile, as she parked the Land Rover outside the farmhouse, making her stomach flutter.

‘Hey, Tom, hi. Well, we’re still to have supper here. But yes, once Maisy’s all tucked up in bed … then I’ll scoot across.’ In fact, Rachel had yet to check with Jill, but her mum hadn’t mentioned that she was going out.

‘Great, can’t wait,’ Tom said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. ‘So, how’s the rest of your day been?’ he continued.

‘Yeah, not bad. The usual on the farm, and steady away at the Pantry … Look, we’re just heading in for supper and I’ve got Maisy with me, so we’ll catch up later, yeah?’ She was aware of Maisy listening in beside her and Jill was no doubt waiting inside with their meal prepared, having slaved away at the Aga again.

‘Ah, okay.’

She could hear the tinge of disappointment in his voice. She wished they could speak for longer too, but it wasn’t easy balancing Maisy and her mum’s needs with her own.

While remaining cool on the outside, Rachel’s heart was already giving little leaps at the thought of spending the evening with Tom – and whatever that might bring. Their budding relationship was still so new and still so exciting that it felt very fragile, like butterfly wings. And, even though they were getting on really, really well, Rachel was afraid they might yet break at any point. She pushed that thought aside – just because things had gone wrong with her relationships in the past, it didn’t automatically mean they would now. Not all men were unreliable and selfish like Jake, her crazy first love and Maisy’s absent and irresponsible dad, she told herself.

This, with Tom? This was built on friendship, on a steady base of caring and support. They’d known each other for years as neighbours, as farmers – since they were kids, in fact. But it had all changed very recently into something so much more than friends, and that, at times, was hard to comprehend.

‘Great, so I’ll see you later, then,’ Tom added, taking her out of her reverie.

‘Yes, that’ll be lovely. I’ll send a text when I’m about to leave, but it’ll probably be around seven thirty, once Maisy’s settled.’

‘No problem. See you then.’

‘Bye, Tom.’

‘Bye.’

Maisy was already out of the vehicle and pulling off her wellington boots at the farmhouse porch.

‘Was that Tom, Mummy?’ she asked, with a serious face.

‘Yes, petal, I’m going across to see him tonight.’ She may as well be honest.

‘Oh.’ Maisy paused for a second before adding, ‘Can I come?’ Maisy got on well with Tom and he seemed to have a soft spot for her too.

‘Sorry, not tonight, sweetheart. It’s a school night and you need your sleep. By the time we’ve had supper with Grandma, it’ll be bath and bedtime for you.’

‘Hah – not fair.’ She crossed her arms indignantly.

‘Look, we can pop across on the weekend and you can say “hello” to Tom then, if you like,’ Rachel appeased.

‘Yes!’

‘Okay.’

It was sweet that they got on so well, but yet another reason for Rachel to feel anxious. If this new relationship didn’t last between her and Tom, how would that be for Maisy? She couldn’t risk Maisy getting hurt, couldn’t risk another man her daughter had grown fond of suddenly exiting her life. It was bad enough with Jake living hundreds of miles away and flitting in and out when it pleased him – mostly out. A small sigh escaped Rachel’s lips. Why were relationships always complicated?

She opened the truck’s back door and Moss leapt out, following them into the house, hopeful of a warm place by the Aga before having to go out to his kennel in the yard for the night. Rachel leaned down and gave his back a rub, his black and white coat soft and reassuring under her palm, before taking off her boots.

Nothing says home like the smell of baking and a gorgeous aroma drifted under the kitchen door. It smelt sugary-sweet, of apples and mmm, caramel.

‘Oh Moss, you’re gonna have to stay out here just now, fella.’ The dog was banned from the kitchen during Pudding Pantry cooking hours. Everything had to be done by the book for health and hygiene reasons – they couldn’t possibly risk getting in trouble with the environmental health agency, and being shut down. She gave the dog one last pat, then hung up her old Barbour jacket on a coat hook in the porch. ‘Sorry, mate.’

Maisy was already charging about the kitchen, loudly announcing, ‘Mummy’s going out. To see Tom. What’s for tea?’

Jill looked up. She was busy at the work surface, rubbing butter into flour in a mixing bowl. Next to her was a bag of demerara sugar, no doubt ready to add to the mix and then top her second batch of crumbles.

‘If that’s okay?’ added Rachel politely. ‘Sorry, I meant to ask earlier. It’ll be later on, after I’ve settled Maisy to bed.’

‘That’s fine, love. Well, there’s a cottage pie in the oven, and we’ll try out one of these for dessert, shall we? There’s one batch already made – Toffee Apple Crumbles.’

‘I can’t wait, it sounds delicious, Mum,’ said Rachel with a smile.

‘Yum,’ grinned Maisy.

Yes, that sticky toffee apple smell filled the kitchen. It transported Rachel back to Bonfire Nights on the farm years ago, back when she was a little girl herself. Dad used to keep old firewood and debris stacked up through the year and then they’d have a huge bonfire out in the yard. There’d be hot dogs with golden fried onions and ketchup. And, earlier in the day, Mum would have dipped apples that were picked from their tree into hot toffee and then let them set on baking parchment. Rachel would have a friend or two over, and they’d watch Dad set off some low-noise fireworks with a ‘woosh’ of falling stars and colours, dramatic and sparkly as they lit the night sky but without the alarming bangs that would upset the farm animals. Then they’d eat the candied apples on sticks as they stood by the orange, crackling glow of the fire, with the sugary toffee sticking to their teeth and dripping messily onto fingers.

Memories were catching up with Rachel again. It happened all too often these days, the rawness of losing her dad still a haunting feeling within her. Even though it was over two years since it happened, there were still times when she thought of Dad and it suddenly became harder to breathe. There were just so many things here on the farm to remind her. She missed him so much.

They needed to look forwards as well as back, however. Maybe she and Jill could put on a small fireworks event this year, give Maisy a taste of that November magic? Perhaps they could invite Eve and her family along too, and Tom. They might not have much money to spare, but if the two families went halves on some pretty fireworks, then she and her mum could easily cook up some tasty food for everyone – that was their forte, after all.

‘You all right, love?’ Jill asked.

‘Yes, just remembering those fireworks nights we had with Dad,’ Rachel shared. ‘That toffee apple smell brings it all back.’

‘Ah yes …’ Jill smiled sadly, silently acknowledging their joint grief.

It felt as though the big man himself might just walk back in to the room and take up his old seat by the Aga, holding his ‘John Deere’ mug of tea.

Sometimes Dad seemed a world away, and sometimes he didn’t seem that far away at all.

With Maisy tucked up in bed, and a tummy full of delicious toffee apple crumble, Rachel headed to her room to swap her old jumper for a pretty pink-and-grey checked blouse, teaming it with her best dark-blue jeans. She flicked on some mascara and a swipe of lip gloss – she wasn’t the type to worry about wearing much makeup, and her cheeks were certainly rosy enough from working outdoors without needing blusher.

She skipped down the stairs, finding Jill in the kitchen. ‘Right, I’m off now, Mum. I’ll just be a couple of hours.’

‘There’s no hurry, love, I’m fine here. I’ve got an episode of Emmerdale to catch up on, and Jan brought me in some magazines the other day, so I can look over those. Might even glance through the old Baking Bible and get some ideas for some warming winter puds to put on in the Pantry as specials in the coming months.’

‘Mmm, that sounds good. That crumble was delicious tonight, by the way. Just the thing after being out in the cold.’

‘Thanks, love. Hopefully they’ll go down well in the Pantry this week. We need to pull a few more customers back in. It’s been very quiet lately, hasn’t it?’

Ah, Rachel thought, so Mum was more than aware of that too. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. It’s getting a bit worrying,’ Rachel admitted. ‘I suppose with it being October and out of season …’ The lack of customers, tourists, and income, these past few weeks was a real concern for Rachel, but she hadn’t wanted to worry her mum too much, or put a damper on her enthusiasm for the new business. The Pudding Pantry was meant to be lifting the farm’s struggling finances, but there was no sign of that lately. They were just about keeping their heads above water for now, but they needed a boost over the Christmas period or they’d soon be sinking once more. The very last of their savings from the summer trade had gone into installing a log-burning stove to keep the barn cosy and the customers warm over the winter months. It had felt like a wise investment, but that was it; there were no backup funds at all. And it was still a long while until the basic payment monies would be coming in for the farm.

‘Well, it’s bound to be quieter just now, I suppose. The summer tourists have all gone. And, remember, we’re still getting established.’ Jill was trying to look on the bright side. Rachel loved that about her mum – ever the optimist.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ Rachel agreed, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

‘Well then, love, don’t let me keep you. Get yourself away. Oh, and why don’t you take one of those crumbles for Tom? I’m sure he’d like that.’

Rachel stifled a giggle. Ever since a raucous conversation in the pub one night between Rachel and her girlfriends – before she and Tom had become an item – there’d been a standing joke about Tom being ‘comforting’ like an apple crumble. Her mum was blissfully unaware.

‘Will do!’ she replied, a wide grin spreading across her face.

4

Rachel drove the two miles between their farms in the dark, along the familiar, twisting hawthorn-hedged country lanes. She felt a touch nervous, her tummy in a bit of a knot, as she neared his farm entrance gate. They didn’t get an awful lot of time alone, and though she was desperate to see him, all this togetherness was still strangely new. She so didn’t want to mess things up. She pulled to a halt, and soon found herself knocking at Tom’s farmhouse door, a fizz of anticipation building as she let herself in.

‘Hi, I’m here,’ Rachel announced.

Tom turned to greet her. He was standing at the kitchen island unit, opening a bottle of red wine. His hair was still slightly damp, as though he’d just got out of the shower. Hmm, just the thought of that sent a little shiver through her.

The house was a large, traditional honeyed-stone building similar to their own. Inside however, the kitchen had been modernised with light-coloured wood units and chrome fittings – a modernisation Tom’s ex-wife had insisted on, complaining that the original kitchen was archaic. It wasn’t the only thing she’d complained about, so Rachel had heard, with the relationship falling apart after four years. Caitlin had moved back to Newcastle, leaving Tom with a wrecked heart and a large bank loan to buy her out with, so he could keep the family farm intact.

‘Hey.’ He gave her a broad smile, that reached right through to his deep brown eyes.

‘Hi.’ Rachel handed him the pudding gift from her mother. ‘Crumble,’ she said with a suggestive grin.

‘Oh, perfect. Can’t wait to tuck in …’ His smile widened cheekily.

Mabel, Tom’s Jack Russell Terrier, then dashed to greet Rachel, leaving the warmth of her rug by the stove. She was soon skipping around her visitor’s feet, with her tail wagging merrily.

‘Hi Mabel, how are you?’ Rachel leaned to pat the little dog’s smooth white-and-brown patched head.

As she stood back up, Tom took a step forward, taking Rachel into his arms. ‘I’ve missed you.’ His lips met hers with a kiss that was tender and oh so promising. The knot in her stomach began to unravel.

‘Hah, it’s only been a matter of hours.’ She made light of it, but she had been thinking about him too. A snatched ‘hello’ at the Pantry was nothing like spending an evening together. She had a feeling Tom would have liked to meet up more, but life was busy enough and Rachel hadn’t wanted to crowd him or appear needy in these early days of their changing relationship. She was still getting used to it herself.

‘I know. But still …’ Tom added, his eyes intense. ‘Glass of red?’

‘Yes, please.’

They took their wine glasses through to the lounge, where a log fire was roaring away in the stone hearth. It was welcoming and cosy there, with a well-worn plum-coloured sofa set next to a low wooden coffee table. They were soon settled there together, chatting about their respective days. This was just what she needed after being up since six thirty out on the farm, hauling big circular hay bales about, preparing their store of winter supplies in the shed ready for the cattle and sheep, then on her feet all morning and afternoon at the Pudding Pantry. Tonight was a chance to chill out in some rather gorgeous company. She began to feel herself unwind.

Tom was sitting so very close … Then the urge to kiss him again hit her. She placed her glass down purposefully and leaned towards him. He didn’t need any encouragement. His lips were warm and welcoming, their tongues soon entwined. It was becoming familiar, the way his kiss felt, so tender and passionate. Soon, Rachel’s whole body was on high alert, every nerve ending tingling.

Still on the sofa, with their upper bodies pressed so very close, Rachel pushed him down so that he lay back across the cushions. Tom was a tall guy, and as he tried to position himself so she could move across him, his lower legs and feet hung awkwardly over the sofa arm. Rachel looked at his gangly arrangement and giggled.

‘Shall we move this fireside?’ he suggested with a cheeky, and rather sexy, arch of his eyebrow.

‘I think that sounds like a very good idea. We might well end up in A & E otherwise.’ Rachel laughed.

They shifted to the rug and lay down by the glowing heat of a crackling log fire. Tom, who was now propped on one elbow, gently pushed a strand of her dark wavy hair away from her face and gazed at her intensely.

‘You’re beautiful.’

‘Oh …’ Rachel never quite knew how to take a compliment, but she managed a smile.

They kissed again, with warm, wine-tasting lips, and Rachel lay him down, teasing off his shirt, button by button, guiding her fingertips underneath the cotton of his top, and tracing the taut muscles of his chest. She gave a little grin. ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Tom Watson.’

She loved the maleness of him, his strength, those toned muscles. As a working farmer, he was fit and healthy and she had to admit he looked damned good for his thirty-three years. And, it wasn’t all about the exterior, either; Tom’s personality was kind and caring too, and in contrast to all that strength, he still had the capacity to be gentle. He’d been a great support to all of them since her father’s death. In fact, Rachel mused, as she stroked his chest, trailing her fingertips down over his stomach where the muscles quivered involuntary, the whole of him was a very special combination, and making love with this wonderful man was a joy. She couldn’t wait to experience that all over again.