Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © Caroline Roberts 2019

Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustrations © Hannah George/Meiklejohn

Caroline Roberts asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008327651

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008327668

Version: 2019-04-30

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1. Coming Home to Chocolate Pudding

Chapter 2. Troubled Times and Midnight Pudding

Chapter 3. Sticky Toffee Pudding at Dawn

Chapter 4. Pet Lamb Patrol

Chapter 5. Bread and Butter Pudding and Sunday Dinner

Chapter 6. Puddings and Plans

Chapter 7. Unicorns and Cupcakes

Chapter 8. Birthday Treats, Tears and Chocolate Pudding

Chapter 9. Coffee, Chat and Chocolate Brownies

Chapter 10. Coffee, Brownies and Chat

Chapter 11. Full Steam Ahead

Chapter 12. It’s a Wrap

Chapter 13. A Very Gorgeous Apple Crumble

Chapter 14. A Pudding Production Line

Chapter 15. Thirty-Nine Puddings and a Pantry

Chapter 16. Grandmas and Ginger Puddings

Chapter 17. The Cattle are Lowing

Chapter 18. Prosecco, Plans and Mini Meringues

Chapter 19. Renovations and Roulade

Chapter 20. A Disastrous Date Pudding

Chapter 21. Hay and Delay

Chapter 22. Memories and Muffins

Chapter 23. A Pudding Picnic

Chapter 24. Puddings Galore

Chapter 25. Pudding Preparations

Chapter 26. A Proper Pudding Party

Chapter 27. Be Careful What You Wish For

Chapter 28. A Conflab Over a Cuppa

Chapter 29. A Brave New Day

Chapter 30. Daddy Daycare

Chapter 31. A Snake in the Grass

Chapter 32. To Kiss or not to Kiss

Chapter 33. Aching All Over

Chapter 34. A Sky Full of Stars

Chapter 35. Harvest Supper

Chapter 36. Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

Chapter 37. Wise Words and Lemon Meringue Pie

Chapter 38. A Pudding Stall

Chapter 39. Best in Show

Chapter 40. Summer Storms and Searching

Chapter 41. Pancakes and PJs

Chapter 42. The Best Apple Crumble Ever

A Letter from Caroline

Acknowledgements

Turn the Page to Discover Delicious Recipes to Try at Home – Only the Pudding Pantry Favourites Will Do!

About the Author

Also by Caroline Roberts

About the Publisher

Dedication

For Alfie – my first grandchild

Epigraph

The proof of the pudding is in the eating

Old English Proverb

She is the perfect

example of grace

because she is a

butterfly

with bullet holes

in her wings

that never regretted

learning to fly

J.M. Storm

Chapter 1

COMING HOME TO CHOCOLATE PUDDING

Heading back down the grassy slope, Rachel caught a glimpse of golden light ablaze over the vista of the Cheviot Hills, the sky above filled with cloudy trails of mauve, grey and orange – the sun set early here in Northumberland in March. Though she’d lived here in this valley all her life, every now and again this landscape with its vast, dramatic beauty simply took her breath away.

Rachel was on the farm’s quad bike, with Moss her faithful border collie on the back, having checked the fields were secure and ready for the new lambs and ewes. Earlier that afternoon, and working with the tractor, she’d put out some hay and bales of straw in large rectangular stacks to provide some shelter for the animals.

She paused for a few seconds looking towards those high hills that rose steadily from the valley where Primrose Farm nestled. Down here at the lower levels, there was grassy pastureland that led to brooks and streams, which ran cold and fresh from the moorland peaks above.

Despite this stunning panorama, there was a biting chill to the wind this evening, especially when you were on the back of the quad. Rachel’s fingerless gloves were no match for the nippy spring weather, and as the sun dipped the temperature cooled even further. It was six o’clock and time to head home to the farm.

She could see the farm’s outbuildings down in the valley; the lights were on in the lambing shed where Simon, their farmhand, would be settling down to work for the night. Beyond that, there was the old barn, which they used mostly for storage nowadays, and a warm welcoming glow came from the honeyed-stone traditional farmhouse where she knew her mum, Jill, and young daughter, Maisy, would be waiting for her.

Rachel couldn’t wait to arrive back and get cosy. She drove down the grassy bank, pausing to close the gate to the farmyard, parked the quad securely for the night, and walked towards the farmhouse porch where, even before opening the door, the sweet, warming smells of home cooking greeted her. Ah, bliss, Mum must have been baking. Rachel wondered what delights awaited her. Jill was a fabulous baker, mostly of the old-school-pudding-and-cake style, and boy were they good. They certainly cheered both stomach and soul, and were just what Rachel needed after a cold day out on the farm.

She took off her green wellington boots in the porch, and then opened the door to the kitchen where the rich chocolatey aromas were truly mouth-watering.

‘Mumm-ee.’ Little Maisy flew across to give Rachel a big hug, her blonde wavy hair bouncing as she ran.

‘Hello love, everything right?’ Jill turned from where she was washing up at the old stone sink to greet her daughter with a warm smile. Jill’s dark brown hair, which she wore in a loose bob, was peppered with grey nowadays.

‘Fine, thanks. So, you’ve been baking again, then?’

‘Yes, felt like getting the old mixer back out.’

‘That’s great,’ Rachel smiled. It had been a while since Mum had made any of her puddings and cakes, despite her having loved her baking so much. The kitchen had been the hub of so many sweet and scrumptious creations during the whole of Rachel’s childhood. Coming in from school, Rachel would often wonder what pudding delight might be waiting for her. She used to try and guess by the scents that greeted her at the door. Today’s smelt undeniably of cocoa.

‘Ooh yes, it’s the chocolate one,’ Maisy said, as if reading Rachel’s thoughts. ‘I’ve been helping, haven’t I, Grandma?’

Yes, that was the smell she’d recognised, that rich chocolate sponge and sauce. It was one of Rachel’s favourites.

‘You certainly have,’ Jill answered. ‘You’ve been a great little helper … been sifting the flour for me and all sorts.’

It was lovely to see the friendship and love so apparent between grandmother and granddaughter. And, it was wonderful that Jill was baking again too, returning step by step to the things she once loved to do.

‘Oh my, I don’t think I can wait. It smells divine, Mum. I’m famished.’

‘Well, supper’s not ready for another half hour yet, I’m cooking a stew,’ said Jill.

‘That sounds great … but a whole half hour … I couldn’t have a little taste of that pud just now, could I?’ teased Rachel.

It was sitting there, still warm on the kitchen side by the Aga, tempting her. Moss had sniffed it out too, standing tall with his nose to the air, before he settled down, resigned to snooze beneath it.

‘Why don’t we have pudding before dinner, Grandma?’ Maisy asked cheekily, with a big grin.

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Jill answered.

Rachel was nodding in time enthusiastically with her daughter now.

‘Pretty please?’ Maisy’s grin widened.

‘You’d have to be sure to eat all your dinner, mind …’ Jill’s resolve was weakening, ‘But well, maybe just this once, why not.’

‘Yay! Yesss!’ they cried out. The three generations of Swinton girls started giggling together. And, it was lovely to hear laughter back in the farmhouse once more.

‘Come on, then.’ Jill organised some dessert bowls and spoons, and dished out three portions for them, pouring over some of the spare dark and glossy chocolate sauce she’d made, with a swirl of double cream to finish. They sat together at the old pine table that had been the focus of many a family meal and celebration over the years – Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries – where they’d shared stories of their days and lives, and of late where they had shared their tears. It was the very same table where Rachel had sat as a little girl herself, and it was very much at the heart of their farmhouse home. Now, watching her young daughter sat next to Mum, digging into the delicious homemade pudding, was the most comforting sight and made Rachel feel all warm inside.

There were soon plenty of ‘Umms’ and ‘Ahhs’ coming from Rachel and Maisy as they tucked in with delight. The pudding melted in the mouth, with rich cocoa-sweet flavours.

‘Thank you, this is wonderful, Mum,’ Rachel said.

It felt like a big move in the right direction for Jill, and for their newly shaped family. For a while now, the laughter had stopped, and her mum had stopped her baking too, saying that it hardly seemed worth it. There had been, still was, this huge, gaping hole in their lives … yet, slowly but surely, they were trying, and beginning, to knit it back together.

Chapter 2

TROUBLED TIMES AND MIDNIGHT PUDDING

The farmhouse kitchen was lit by the glow of a single lamp at the desk where Rachel sat staring at her laptop. Jill had gone up to bed an hour before and little Maisy was tucked up fast asleep, no doubt hugging her favourite soft-toy lamb, in her lilac-painted room that had been so carefully and lovingly decorated by her grandad. The tug at Rachel’s heart was strong right then, for her father to whom she could no longer go for advice, and for the three of them who were here trying their best to hold the farm together.

The clock ticked away on the kitchen wall. It was already past midnight. However long she looked at those figures, they weren’t going to get any better. Rachel sighed, rested her elbows on the wooden desk and held her forehead in her hands for a few seconds, her dark wavy fringe tumbling down over her fingertips. She wasn’t going to let this beat them, no way. Primrose Farm had been in their family for generations. She had to keep it going for the three of them, for their future, and also for their animals – the sheep and cattle they’d reared and cared for over so many years. What they had all been through, two years ago now, could not be in vain.

But every month, when she drew up the farm accounts, it was plain as day that any profits had been squeezed further and their income was down. They lived a frugal enough life as it was. Luckily, they didn’t need fancy clothes or holidays. The only one getting new shoes or clothes was Maisy, as she was growing so fast. Rachel felt the tension knot across her brow. She got up to make herself a cup of tea and, fetching the milk from the fridge, spotted that there was some of Mum’s gorgeous chocolate pudding left. She helped herself to a slice and warmed it in the microwave – a little cocoa magic might help lift her spirits.

Rachel knew the time had come to talk about the farm’s struggling finances with her mother. She’d tried to protect her from this until now – her mum had had enough to cope with – but it was only right that Jill knew what they were facing, and they needed to approach this as a team. If it meant selling a couple of fields for the sake of the farm, Rachel mused, then so be it, except she wasn’t quite sure how Jill would take that news. And, any income from that might only be a drop in the ocean.

There might be other avenues they could explore. Farming friends in the area had started doing bed and breakfast ventures. In fact, traditional farmhouse B&Bs were becoming quite the thing. After all, they lived in the most beautiful Northumbrian valley in the foothills of the Cheviot Hills, but with Maisy so young, Rachel was wary of opening up their home to strangers. There must be other ways to diversify.

For tonight, however, her head was tired and fuzzy, and she was feeling cranky. It was hard to think clearly any more. Time for bed. Tomorrow was for taking things forward. Yet, having to tell her mum the truth about their dire financial situation filled her with a gnawing anxiety. It was one conversation she really wasn’t looking forward to, but it would have to happen soon.

‘Hey, Moss.’ She smoothed the head of the black-and-white sheepdog who was lying down beside her. ‘Come on then, boy.’

It was time for him to go back out to his kennel in the yard. He was meant to live outside, but often sneaked in for the warmth of the Aga and some affection. Rachel liked him there with her, to be honest; he was great company as well as being excellent when working with the sheep, her dad having trained him well. How much they both missed him.

Chapter 3

STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING AT DAWN

A week later, and lambing at Primrose Farm was in full flow.

‘Come on then, petal. Let’s get you to bed,’ Rachel said.

‘But Mu-um.’

‘No buts, Maisy. It’s already past your bedtime, and it’s school again tomorrow.’

It was Sunday evening, the weekend was coming to a close, and her almost five-year-old daughter needed her sleep. Oh yes, her little girl’s birthday was fast approaching at the end of the month – yet another thing to think about, party planning – but Rachel was too tired to get her head around the thought of entertaining a host of excitable children just now. With late nights, early starts and a couple of all-nighters completed, the lambing brain-fog had well and truly descended.

‘But who will look after Pete? And how will I know he’s all right?’ Maisy sounded genuinely concerned, a frown forming beneath her pale-blonde fringe. She had been helping Rachel to bottle-feed the pet lamb over the weekend since his mother had rejected him (being a triplet, and the weakest of the trio).

‘Well, that’s easy Maisy, because it’s my turn on night shift tonight, so I’ll be there with him.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yep, I’ll be keeping a very close eye on him,’ she reassured. ‘And all the other sheep and lambs too, of course. So, I’ll let you know how Pete is first thing in the morning when you wake up.’

That seemed to appease Maisy. ‘O-kay.’

‘Come on, then. I’ll come up and read you a bedtime story.’

The little girl got up from the large farmhouse kitchen table at the same time as her mum.

‘Night, Maisy,’ called Jill from across the kitchen. Rachel was both surprised and delighted to see that her mum was baking again this evening.

Maisy dashed over to give her a goodnight kiss. ‘Night, night Grandma … Ooh, are they for me?’ As she was lifted up in her grandma’s arms she caught sight of a batch of vanilla cupcakes that were cooling on the side.

‘They might be. You can have one in your packed lunch for school tomorrow. But now, it’s time to brush your teeth and get to bed.’

‘Aw, not fair!’ The little girl gave a cheeky, hopeful smile.

‘Tomorrow,’ Jill said kindly but firmly, smiling back, as she ruffled her granddaughter’s soft wavy blonde hair.

Maisy slid down and scampered back to Rachel. ‘Can we have the Floss story please, Mummy?’

‘I should think so.’

Her daughter loved the countryside tale with its lovely illustrations of the sheepdog and his new family.

They were soon settled upstairs in Maisy’s small but prettily painted room. Maisy was tucked up in her bed under her unicorn print duvet with her cuddly lamb toy that she’d had from being a baby. Rachel began reading, her voice rhythmic, soothing. Both mother and daughter enjoyed the farmyard tales. The books they had read over and over were familiar and reassuring, with a sense that everything would be all right in the end. After all they had been through in the last two years, they really needed to believe in that.

Maisy’s eyelids were getting heavy by the last page. Unfortunately, so were Rachel’s – she could so climb under that duvet with her daughter and curl up, but there’d be no sleep for her tonight. Nature and the farm wouldn’t wait. The ewes and lambs needed her care.

Simon, their trusted farmhand, had already worked all last night and most of this afternoon, snatching only a few hours’ kip in between. This was her shout. She didn’t mind really. The lambing night shift was often peaceful, out in the barn with just the sounds of the sheep baaing and the hoots and calls of nature at night-time from outside. She had done this for many years now, each springtime, learning alongside her father. She wanted to make him proud and show him she could do well, that she would carry on and do her best by Primrose Farm and the livestock there. After all, it wasn’t just the animals that were relying on her now, her mum and her daughter needed her to make sure the farm kept going too. It was their home as well as their livelihood.

She shifted carefully off the bed and leaned over to give her little girl a gentle kiss on the forehead, trying not to disturb her. ‘Night, petal.’

‘Night, Mummy,’ came a whisper, Maisy’s eyelids already closing.

‘Time for a quick cuppa before you head out?’ Jill asked, as Rachel came back downstairs to the farmhouse kitchen.

Rachel glanced at her wristwatch. ‘Nah, I think I’d better get across to the shed. I told Simon I’d let him go at seven.’

‘Well, give me a minute and I’ll make up a flask for you. You can’t go out without some food for the night. There are some ham sandwiches ready in the fridge wrapped in foil. Oh, and I’ve also made some sticky toffee pudding … there’s an individual portion I’ve put aside just for you.’

‘Oh, great, thanks Mum. I love that stuff.’ It was wonderful to see her mum with a little of her old spark back, slowly coming back round to the things she used to love.

‘I know. Got to keep the troops fed, and your energy levels up.’

‘Definitely. I’ll not argue with sticky toffee pudding. And, it’s great to see you baking again, Mum.’

‘And you’ve got your phone?’ Jill neatly bypassed the comment.

‘Yes, of course. And …’ Rachel went to the coat peg in the porch and checked everything else she needed was in her old Barbour waxed-jacket pocket: a pen-knife which had been her dad’s, string, her lambing cord which was sometimes necessary with a difficult birth. ‘Yep, got all my kit.’

‘Well, have a good night out there. Hope it stays nice and calm for you.’

‘Me too.’

Jill packed her off with her bundle of food, a large flask of tea and a tin mug in a well-worn rucksack.

‘Come on, Moss. You can come too.’ Rachel whistled at the sheepdog who was settled by the Aga, having snuck in with her earlier. He leapt up, eager to help.

Rachel walked across the yard, headed round the corner of the old stone barn and down a short track to the lambing shed. Dusk was moving in with its long shadows and cooler air. The light was fading softly from its grey-peach glow, diffusing into the indigo of night. She heard the peeping call of an oystercatcher, spotting a pair of them – a dart of bold black and white – overhead, with their distinctive long orange bills.

She soon reached the lambing shed – a large, steel-framed structure. It was more modern than the other buildings on the farm. The lights were bright in there and the smell as she entered was earthy, of straw and sheep.

‘Hey, Simon. All been okay?’

Their middle-aged farmhand looked up. He had dark hair that was greying at the temples and a rugged but friendly face, lined from years of working outdoors. ‘Aye, grand. Just keep an eye on number 98 over there. She’s got twins but one of her teats isn’t working, so she’s struggling to feed them both for now. You might have to supplement them a bit when you’re feeding the pet lambs.’

‘Okay, thanks for the heads up, and how’s Pete? That’s the pet lamb from Friday. Maisy’s named him.’

‘Aye, he’s grand. A little fighter, that one.’

‘Phew, that’s good, Maisy’ll be distraught if anything happens to him.’

Life and death were normal processes at the farm, but it was hard at times not to get attached to individual creatures, especially when they were cute little lambs and you were only going on five years old. In fact, it was still pretty hard at twenty-four, Rachel mused. Her dad used to say she was far too soft back when she was a little girl herself, and that she shouldn’t name the animals, but Rachel couldn’t help her caring nature. She’d try her utmost to keep her animals alive and well, even in the most forlorn of cases. Her dad had reminded her that sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

‘Aye, well, we’ll do our best by him,’ said Simon, bringing her back to the here and now.

‘Naturally.’

‘Everything else has been pretty steady. A few of the ewes and their lambs have gone back out into the fields from yesterday. They all seem fine.’

‘Right, well, I’ll let you get away.’

‘Thanks, lass. I must say I’m ready for some kip.’

‘Oh, hang on, Mum’s sent over a couple of cupcakes for you.’ Rachel dug a small package from her bag.

‘They’ll be grand with a cup of coffee when I get in. Thank Jill, won’t you?’

‘Will do and you’re welcome.’

Simon set off leaving Rachel alone with Moss and the sheep. She switched off the radio that Simon had left playing. In the daytime she liked the chat and the music, but at nightfall it was nice to appreciate the peace, interrupted now and again with the sounds of the baaing of the new lambs and the ewes.