Wedding Tiers

A peacock distantly wailed from the grounds of Blessings, as if in agreement, even though I thought it was a bit of an exaggeration. I’m not that soft.

I dabbed my eyes with the edge of my sweatshirt. ‘Of course I’m not crying, it’s wood smoke. That last lot I put in the stove must have been damp. And there’s no reason for me to get upset, because you’ve got lots of good years left in you, Harry,’ I said, more positively than I felt, because look what happened to Granny, who was several years younger. And now I had only Harry and Ben—and my friend Libby, of course. But not only did she live far away, she was also rather like a cat in that, though fond of me, she had her own agenda and came and went as she pleased.

‘I’ve got thick vegetable soup on the stove—I’ll bring you some and fresh bread rolls later, when I take Mac out for a walk,’ I said. Harry is fiercely independent, but I fill his little freezer with single portions of soup, casseroles and all kinds of things, with the heating instructions written on the lids. And I make sure he has fresh bread and biscuits—whatever I’ve been cooking.

‘I like that minestrone best,’ he said ungratefully, pausing with Mac on the threshold and letting gusts of October air, redolent with autumnal garden bonfires, into the room. ‘Got a bit of news, I nearly forgot to tell you. Mr Rowland-Knowles has put Blessings on the market.’

I stared at him. ‘But he’s only just moved back in!’

‘Yes, but he found that stepmother of his had run the place into the ground. She only used the modern wing and let the rest go hang, and you need to keep on top of these Elizabethan houses or they quickly start to go downhill.’ He shook his head at the waste of it all. ‘He came round yesterday afternoon and asked me to look over some rotting woodwork and tell him what I thought.’

Harry, who’d been an expert carpenter in his time, had done work in most of the old houses in the area, so that made sense.

‘It was in a right state—windows blown in and the rain’s made a mess of the floor in one bedchamber, not to mention the woodworm taking hold and the roof needing repairing. The poor man’s desperate not to part with it, but he can’t afford to put it to rights.’

‘That’s such a shame!’

‘Vindictive. His stepmother had the right to live there unless she remarried, but now she finally has, it’s a mixed Blessing!’ He grinned, happy with his little joke.

‘But what will happen to Dorrie’s home if Blessings is sold?’ I asked, for Miss Doreen Spottiswode was Tim’s aunt, his mother’s eldest sister, who now lived in a dilapidated cottage in the grounds and, together with an ancient gardener, did her best to stop the place running completely wild.

‘I don’t think they can get her out. She’ll be like a sitting tenant, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Mrs Rowland-Knowles never managed it, try though she might, for Miss Dorrie had just as much right to see out her days there as she had to live in Blessings. But Miss Dorrie’s looked after that garden since she came here to live with her sister, just after she married. She loves it, and it will hit her hard if strangers take it over.’ He shook his head sadly.

‘I suppose Tim Rowland-Knowles thought about all that before he came to his decision, and there mustn’t have been any option, Harry.’ I didn’t know Tim well, because he hadn’t been near Neatslake since his father died, and not often before that, since he and his stepmother hadn’t got on.

But I suddenly remembered the summer when we were fifteen and Libby’s game plan (which involved acquiring the skills she thought would be necessary in order to become a rich man’s wife) had led her to wangle invites for us to tennis parties at the vicarage. Tim was often there, because the vicar’s drippy seventeen-year-old daughter, Miriam, had a crush on him. He’s tall and thin, with a shock of untidy white-blond hair and vague blue eyes, and you couldn’t imagine him being terribly successful as a solicitor.

At the time Libby was convinced she resembled Debbie Harry, which she didn’t, and her efforts to make her cheekbones stand out meant she constantly appeared to be sucking a lemon. As for me, all I wanted was to look just like one of the black-clad female guitarists in the Robert Palmer ‘Addicted to Love’ video. We were both totally deluded and neither look really went well with tennis clothes, so it says much for Tim’s good nature that he directed the occasional kind smile in our direction.

When Harry had hobbled back into the garden I emailed Libby, though I had no idea whether she was in her pretty London mews house or in Pisa, where she had a rather palatial flat complete with a roof terrace covered with lemon and olive trees in huge terracotta pots. Ben and I had been out there a couple of times, for holidays—she’s always been terribly generous and her second husband, Joe Cazzini, who died last year, had been a lovely man.

‘You remember when we were at school and were taken round Blessings in the fifth year?’ I wrote. ‘You said you wanted to live there, and one day you’d have a house just like it. Well, here’s your chance, because Tim Rowland-Knowles (do you remember we used to play tennis with him at the vicarage?) has had to put it up for sale…’

Of course, I didn’t seriously think she’d want to buy it! Libby’s plans had always involved shaking the dust of Neatslake off her dainty feet for ever, and her visits here since her first marriage had been mere flying ones, in and out, to catch up with me. No, I was just using the news as something exciting that might break the monotony of my emails to her, because she’s not that interested in making jam and mixed pickles.

Her emails were always much livelier than mine and I always enjoyed reading them, though I wasn’t jealous of her lifestyle at all. I much preferred my rooted and settled existence to her butterfly one.

But as I pressed ‘send’, I realised that my roots were feeling frail and threatened, as if they had been undermined by a stealthy mole and were dangling in the air. I supposed all Harry’s talk about dying had unsettled me.

I wished Ben—big, solid and as familiar to me as myself—was home right this second to give me a reassuring hug. He was my rock—and I knew that was a trite and overused phrase, but in my case it was true. But then, our life here kept his flighty artistic soul anchored to reality too, and that couldn’t be a bad thing.

Chapter Two Sweet Music (#u7c249ba6-0fc7-5846-b7bc-e6e167e8659d)

My wedding cake business, creating personalised fantasies in fondant icing, has really taken off recently. They are based on a rich, dark, organic fruitcake covered with natural marzipan, though there is nothing healthy or wholesome about the icing outer layer! Last week, as I finished off a cake in the shape of a magicians top hat, complete with emerging bride and bridegroom rabbits, it occurred to me that this dichotomy neatly sums up the life we lead—eighty per cent healthy and wholesome, and twenty per cent the enjoyable but unnecessary icing on the cake.

‘Cakes and Ale’

The next morning found me putting the finishing touches to a violin-shaped wedding cake, and although I absolutely adore creating something new, this one had really tried my skills to the limit!

For a start, I couldn’t think how to put the arch in the neck, until I hit on the idea of building it in wedges of cake like a bridge, propped up underneath until the keystone piece was inserted to hold it all together.

Now it was neatly encased in white icing, polished smooth with powdered sugar, and with the name of the happy couple and ‘IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE, PLAY ON’ lettered around the edge, subtly highlighted in edible silver.

The strings had also taxed my brain, until I thought of pulling white toffee into long strands, then laying them out to harden on greaseproof paper, before attaching them. I was just completing the last of some spares, in case of mishaps, when the front door suddenly flew open, letting in a brisk breeze, which blew it into a bow.

Three Chanel suitcases in descending sizes thudded onto the mat one after the other, closely followed by the petite but elegant figure of Elizabeth Cazzini, alias Libby Martin, my oldest friend.

I was not really surprised to see her because Libby usually comes and goes as she pleases, without warning, but I yelled, ‘Close the door!’ as the rest of the hardened toffee strings showed signs of rolling off the counter.

‘OK, there’s no need to shout!’ She shut the door and then regarded me with astonishment while I played a losing game of cat’s cradle with the last toffee strand before it hardened.

‘Oh, well,’ I said resignedly, putting it to one side. ‘I already have several spares.’

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Putting strings on this violin cake.’ I gave her a quick kiss, at arm’s length because of my sticky apron, and said, ‘Look, just let me fix them into place with sugar paste, and then the really difficult bit’s done and I can relax and have a break. Put the kettle on.’

‘OK,’ she agreed.

With a bit of concentration I managed to attach the strings, then turned to find she’d made two mugs of strong, steaming tea and was rummaging in the biscuit tin. She came up with a pecan puff. ‘How many calories in these?’

‘I’ve no idea. But what are you doing here, Libby, and where did you spring from? I wasn’t expecting you, was I? I only emailed you yesterday and I thought you might still be in Pisa.’

‘I was. And you should have been expecting me, after telling me Blessings was for sale! But I can see if the Griffin has a room free, if you can’t put me up? And unless you’ve done something radical to that Spartan bathroom, it would be much more comfortable anyway,’ she added frankly.

‘Of course you can stay,’ I said, ignoring this slur on my house, which I admit was shabby and comfortable and not terribly modernised. In fact, apart from installing a wood-burning stove in the living room for heating, it wasn’t much different from when it was Granny’s, right down to some ancient and nameless precursor to an Aga in the kitchen inglenook. ‘I just wish you’d let me know. The spare bed isn’t made up and it’s covered in marrows.’

‘How very seasonal,’ she said, cutting the pecan puff in half and putting the rejected piece back in the tin. Libby is very easy to feed because she will eat anything, but only in tiny, doll’s-house portions, which is probably how she retains her figure. ‘But it’s OK, Josie, I’m going out shortly to look over Blessings—I’ve got a viewing order—so you’ll have plenty of time to sort it out.’

I carefully carried the cake into the larder and came back, removing the headscarf I’d covered my hair up with and the enormous flowered wrap-around pinafore. Freed from the possibility of getting her rather glorious suit stained with foodstuffs, Libby got up and gave me a proper, warm hug that belied her crisp and cool manner, but then I know the real Libby under that sophisticated (and sometimes sarcastic) shell.

‘Seriously, Libs, you actually got the first flight back in order to view Blessings?’ I asked incredulously, returning the hug. ‘Not that it isn’t good to see you,’ I added hastily.

She sat down opposite me at the big, scrubbed pine table, her forget-me-not-blue eyes open wide. ‘Of course! I told you that one day I would like to live there, you said so yourself.

‘Yes, when we were fifteen, and Tim Rowland-Knowles’s father let the school take our class round the house, as part of a history lesson, Libby!’

‘I remember—the teacher took our class photo in the garden afterwards and I had a Princess Diana haircut while you were a New Romantic. I’m not sure which one of us looked worse.’ She shuddered at the memory, but since she looked very pretty in the photo (which I still have) it must have been the thought of my outfit that did it.

‘Even then, I didn’t think you meant you intended living in that particular house, Libs, just one like it.’

‘Yes, but that was because I never thought that it would come on the market. It was my ideal. And, if I recall, you once said you were going to be a gardener, marry Ben, have two children and live in the country—but just because you never did any of that, it doesn’t mean that I can’t fulfil my dream, does it? As soon as I got your email I contacted the estate agent and then got on the next plane.’

‘I am a gardener, Ben and I don’t need to get married to prove our love for each other, and Neatslake is surrounded by countryside,’ I said defensively. I didn’t mention the children, which, as she knows, just never came along…

Libby, not the most sensitive of flowers, took a minute or two to evaluate what she’d just said, and then apologised. ‘Sorry, Josie. I take it Ben is still refusing to have any investigations done to see why there are no bambini? That man has a stubborn streak a mile wide!’

I nodded guiltily, because I’m sure Ben would have been horrified to discover that I discussed our private affairs with anyone else. He’d always been a bit jealous of my close friendship with Libs and he tended to say things about her sometimes that made me think that, despite having several weird arty friends from the wrong side of the tracks himself, some of his parents’ snobbery must have rubbed off on him. That had certainly never stopped him accepting her invitations to holiday at her flat in Pisa, or to take us out to dinner at the flagship Cazzini restaurant near Piccadilly, the first one that Joe ever opened.