Gooseberry Fool (Tales From Appleyard Book 3) Read online

  ‘I think there’s every possibility it will be bloody brilliant, Willow. It’s a shame that Merry couldn’t come today, but when I talked to her at the beginning of the week she seemed really keen. Have you made the list of things you’re hoping to produce?’

  ‘Yes, it’s on the table. Come and sit down and I’ll show you.’ She handed Freya a piece of paper. ‘I still can’t believe I didn’t know that Merry had sold the hotel in Worcester and bought a shop up here; that has to be the biggest co-incidence.’

  ‘I know. It’s brilliant what they’ve done with it, you won’t believe it until you see it.’

  Freya took a few moments to read what was in front of her, and even though Willow had simply listed the products, she knew her friend well enough to know that they would all be beautifully packaged; the ice cream would be softly whipped inside smart tubs, the blackcurrant cordial would glow ruby red from glass bottles, and her gooseberry and elderflower jam would look like the pale golden glow of a winter sun. As for the smell when their lids were removed; Freya was out in the fields already. They would look perfect against her range of juices.

  ‘I think Merry will be thrilled to stock these. I’m going to see her on Thursday, why don’t you come with me? You could discuss how this could work for you both, and to be honest, Willow, I’d love to get involved. I think what we’re both trying to do could be the perfect complement to each other.’

  Willow smiled a little shyly. ‘Are you sure it doesn’t seem a bit rude? I mean, I haven’t seen Merry for ages, or much of you for that matter, and now I feel a bit like I’m throwing this all in your faces.’

  ‘That’s the way of life, Willow, we’re all busy. Those strawberries out there don’t grow by themselves do they, and I certainly don’t think you’re being rude, and neither will Merry. In fact far from that, I’d like to view it as a wonderful turn of fate – the perfect opportunity for all of us. Perhaps after all we make our own fate…’

  Freya held Willow’s look for a moment, recognising that she knew the truth of what she had said. Hopefully one day soon, she would find out the real reason why Willow was so keen to start this new venture. There would be a reason, there always was.

  Willow sat still for quite a while after Freya had left, pondering the direction their conversation had taken, and wondering whether she should confide everything. There was something different about Freya, a kindred spirit perhaps, something that despite their years of friendship she had never seen before. Freya had had a tough time last year, losing her father and what had seemed then the only hope of keeping her beloved Appleyard alive. She had come close to selling up, that Willow knew, but now she seemed more alive than she had ever seen her, more in tune with things. Perhaps she would understand after all.

  With a sudden start, the smell of the room hit her again, and she got up swiftly. She had ice cream to make, and then she must go and see Henry. She had a favour to ask.

  Henry Whittaker should have been a banker or a stockbroker, or even a solicitor, anything but an artist; it just didn’t suit his name. You’d only need to glance at him though to know that he’d never picked up a copy of the Financial Times in his life. If he owned any clothes other than aged, paint-splattered jeans and t-shirts, Willow had never seen them.

  He was, in fact, the model tenant. He’d been with them for over two years now, coming to them with impeccable references and a firm, if paint-speckled handshake. He paid his rent on time, every month, and took great care of the property; in fact his vegetable patch rivalled Willow’s own, albeit on a smaller scale. He never had wild parties, and although Willow had made tentative enquiries, there didn’t seem to be any girlfriends on the scene; or boyfriends for that matter. She often wondered in a motherly way whether he was lonely, but two energetic spaniels accompanied him wherever he went, and that seemed to be enough. As time passed, the lines in their relationship had become blurred from tenant and landlord, mainly at Henry’s insistence and now Willow found it hard to look on Henry as anything other than a good friend.

  Today, like most days, he was sitting at his computer, headphone wires trailing across his shirt. She’d been pulling faces through the window at him for over five minutes before he spotted her, his face creasing into a broad grin the minute he did. He waved at the door indicating that she should come in.

  ‘That’s the one thing I can never quite understand about you,’ she remarked, after she’d spent a few minutes making a fuss of the dogs. ‘Every time I come in here you have headphones glued to your ears, and yet who’s going to hear your music? We’re too far down the road and Jude’s office is right on the other side of the courtyard, even when he is there.’

  Henry held out one of the headphones. ‘Do you want to hear what I was listening to?’ he asked, his clear grey eyes dancing with mischief.

  Willow took the wire tentatively in one hand, imagining her ears being pounded by some raucous thrash metal. Instead all she could hear was a hissing noise. ‘Oh, it’s stopped,’ she said, but then registered his amused expression. She held the wire up again, listening to the rushing noise once more. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Some kind of weird white noise or something.’

  Henry took back the headphones. ‘It’s pink actually. Slightly lower frequency than white noise. It helps you to concentrate, in a calm, relaxed kind of way.’

  Willow pulled a face at him, and he shrugged. ‘Now you know why I play it through headphones,’ he grinned. He eyed the contents of the bag in her other hand.

  ‘I sincerely hope that’s strawberries in there. And I sincerely hope they’re for me.’

  ‘There’s also a bribe dressed up as ice cream, so don’t get too excited.’

  Henry peered at her over the top of his glasses and then took them off altogether. ‘Might this have something to do with our conversation from a few days ago then?’

  ‘Possibly…’ admitted Willow.

  ‘In that case I can see this is going to be one of those conversations that requires a cup of coffee as well,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and fire up the beast.’

  Willow looked at the bag in her hand and back to Henry’s workstation. He wasn’t painting today, but designing something instead; his computer screen showing half of some sort of flash racing car, but she’d still interrupted him. He was working, so she shouldn’t even be here, but apart from the favour, she didn’t have anyone else she could talk to about this, not yet at any rate. She bit her lip, torn.

  In the end it was Henry who decided for her, taking her arm, relieving her of the bag she was carrying, and marching her across the room to the collection of sofas and armchairs which were centred round a huge fireplace. He pushed her down into the middle of one of the settees, where she was immediately joined by a dog at her side and one at her feet. She sank back against the cushions, grateful for the opportunity to sit for a moment. So far she had been travelling through her day at a hundred miles an hour and she suspected it would continue to be like that for several weeks to come.

  After ten minutes or so of silence apart from the slurping and hissing of the coffee machine, Henry returned with two huge foamy cappuccinos which he settled on the coffee table in front of her. She smiled up at him gratefully, already feeling a little more at ease, although that may have been in part due to Dylan’s heavy breathing, the beautiful blue springer spaniel, whose head was heavy in her lap.

  ‘So what’s the bribe for then?’ asked Henry after a moment, licking a strip of frothy milk off his top lip. ‘And before you answer I’ll remind you that I’m open to bribes of any kind where your food is considered payment.’

  ‘Well, that’s just it, the bribe is the bribe. I just want your opinion on the ice cream really… but—’

  Henry chuckled. ‘Is that all? Christ I wish all my clients were this easy to please.’ He got up and went back to the kitchen, returning with the tub of ice cream and a huge tablespoon.

  ‘Henry, I didn’t mean now! You can let me know in a day or two, when you’v
e had time to eat it.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘What is this day or two you speak of?’ He grinned and pulled off the lid, plunging his spoon into the creamy mass. It emerged with a huge dollop on the end and he put the whole thing straight into his mouth.

  Willow winced, expecting imminent brain freeze, but Henry just sat back, eyes closed, letting the sweet concoction melt in his mouth. He gave a series of swallows and then sat up once more, looking at her. He plunged the spoon in again and repeated the process. Willow said nothing.

  After the third mouthful, Henry sat up straighter and lowered the spoon. ‘Okay, I like it,’ he said impassively.

  Willow’s face fell. That wasn’t exactly the reaction she’d been hoping for.

  ‘Willow,’ he said, ‘that was absolutely spectacular. I was just teasing!’ He grinned, and she could see now that he was. He took another spoonful, smaller this time.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he added. ‘One minute I’m here and the next I’m out there, in the field, picking gooseberries, the sun on my arms, the insects buzzing. It’s like when the fruit is so ripe and you pop one in your mouth, all the juice and seeds suddenly exploding, and then after that first tangy hit you get the sweetness, mellow and creamy, hedgerows full of frothy elderflowers, the smell… I’m probably not doing it justice.’

  Willow blushed. ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘Is that what you feel? You’re not just making it up?’

  ‘No, I’m not just making it up,’ he said. ‘Scout’s honour… although, I am wondering why my opinion matters so much.’

  Willow reached for her coffee and took a sip, feeling Henry’s eyes on her.

  ‘I need the opinion of someone neutral. Everybody else I know is too close to home.’

  ‘Well I’ve been called many things in my time, but never “neutral” before.’ He waved his spoon. ‘And before you leap to apologise, I’m only teasing again. If you don’t mind me saying you look really nervous, which is not something I’m used to with you… however, I do understand what you mean, and I’m flattered that you’ve asked me.’ His grey eyes were smiling at her. ‘Does that make you feel any better?’

  Willow swallowed and nodded. ‘It does actually, thanks. And you’re right I am nervous about this.’ She paused for a moment, wondering how much to say, but Henry wasn’t stupid, he’d have worked it out. ‘You see I’m thinking that I might start making ice cream, and one or two other things, properly, you know to sell, but I’ve never done anything like this before, it’s all a bit nerve wracking.’

  ‘Ah, so now we’re getting to the bottom of it, but Willow, you run a fruit farm. How can you be nervous about this?’

  ‘That’s different. I don’t make the fruit, it grows all by itself—’

  ‘I think there’s a bit more to it than that,’ interrupted Henry, ‘but perhaps I should put you out of your misery. I think what you want might be in that folder there.’ He directed her towards the table with a look. ‘I took the liberty of completely disregarding the cock and bull story you tried to sell me the other day, and started to mock up a few designs for you. Have a look and see whether they’re what you’re after. I’ve tried to come up with a few differing ideas, but they might be a bit too… masculine maybe.’

  Willow’s mouth hung open. ‘How did you know that’s what I wanted?’ she managed.

  ‘Because when someone comes in here asking me to ‘doodle’ a couple of pictures of some gooseberries and strawberries for you to put on a sign in your little wooden shop, and that person knows that among other things I’m a concept artist, I’m generally able to read between the lines.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Willow, a little embarrassed now. ‘Was I really that obvious?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Have a look. I might have got it completely wrong.’

  Willow pulled the folder towards her and opened it cautiously. Whatever was inside could potentially mean this thing was about to come alive, and although a part of her was ready for it, a large part of her was not.

  She picked up the first piece of paper, struck first by the beautiful colour of the artwork, a soft green, like a summer meadow. Then there were pale golden hues, a gorgeous pink the colour of the setting sun, a deep cranberry and a dark purple, the exact shade of ripe blackberry juice. There were bold scripts, elegant scripts and modern edgy patterns. Willow couldn’t believe it. She looked up in astonishment.

  ‘How did you do all this, it must have taken you an age?’

  Henry simply smiled. ‘I was on a roll,’ he said. ‘Do you think any of them are what you’re looking for?’

  Willow gazed on in wonder. ‘I think they’re stunning. How will I ever choose? Every one of these could make a perfect logo, and I love the way you’ve put them onto some packaging already. It makes them so much easier to see what they would look like.’

  ‘It’s what I do,’ shrugged Henry.

  A rush of excitement hit Willow like a wave. ‘Can I take these away with me, to have another look? I’ve got a couple of friends I’d like to show them to as well, if that would be all right.’

  Henry waved a hand. ‘Sure, they’re yours for as long as you want. They’ll probably need some tweaking too, so just let me know what works and what doesn’t and we can go from there.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ squealed Willow. ‘Thank you so much!’ She lurched up from the sofa much to Dylan’s disgust, coffee forgotten. ‘I’ll bring you some more ice cream,’ she gushed as she rushed to the door. ‘Thank you so much Henry.’

  Henry watched her go, an amused smile on his face. His hunch had been right then. He gave a sigh; time to get back to work. But then he checked his watch, picked up his spoon once more, and worked his way steadily though the entire carton of ice cream. He liked Willow, in fact he liked both of them. He’d shared a pint or two with Jude and always found him very likeable. He had pots of money of course, and a love of the finer things in life; but it rarely got the better of him. Most of the time he appeared to be an ordinary bloke, much like himself. Only now and then had Henry seen a little seam of something darker running through him, but Jude was a very successful man, and Henry supposed it came with the territory. He wanted Willow to succeed, for her sake and, actually it was sweet that she was so reticent about her capabilities. She shouldn’t be. Henry was a pretty good cook himself, but Willow was amazing. Her food was so full of flavour, so full of life. He suspected that she could even make a cardboard box taste exceptional.

  It wasn’t until Willow got to the bottom of the lane again that she remembered her dream. It flashed in front of her as her hand touched the gate to open it. An explosion in her mind, much like the lightning that she remembered, and she turned quickly to look behind her. The wind was filling the canopy of the trees above her, lifting the leaves in a song above her head, but beyond them there was nothing but more trees and the dusty ground of the lane which reached back towards Henry’s house and the clearing where Jude also had his office. She knew that she was in the right place though; that beyond the trees was a gentle sweep of pasture land almost as far as the eye could see, land which at the moment was a carpet of grasses and wild flowers, of hedgerows and swaying corn. It wouldn’t take much to reduce it to the muddy hell hole she had seen, just a few diggers and an unhealthy greed. She shuddered, gripped by the force of the images and clutched Henry’s folder to her. She had to hope that time would be on her side.

  Chapter 4

  ‘How long is it since you moved here, Merry?’ asked Willow. ‘Only it looks like you’ve been here forever.’

  Merry laughed. ‘Well that’s only because everything is so old… myself included. I can’t believe how tiring it is, running a shop. I thought we were busy before with the hotel, but I guess I’d forgotten how much I used to delegate,’ she added ruefully. ‘But it is absolutely the best fun ever. I wish we’d done it years ago.’

  Willow eyed the garishly coloured fittings and decoration. ‘It shouldn’t work really should it?’ she commented. ‘All I r
emember from the seventies is that it was dubbed the decade that taste forgot, but this is stunning, inspired even.’

  Merry and Freya exchanged looks before Merry grinned and pointed to a rather grand portrait on the wall. ‘It was inspired, actually,’ she said. ‘Meet Christopher, our artist in residence, his wife, Marina, and their daughter, Catherine. They’re all dead by the way.’

  The painting was very striking, but Willow wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. It looked almost as though it had been freshly painted. ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ she said. ‘How can he be your artist in residence if he’s dead?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it sometime,’ said Merry. ‘But all the work you can see on the walls is Christopher’s. He was quite a well-known artist in his time; he designed wallpaper and textiles, that kind of thing. He once owned the house, and we found all these things just packed away when we moved here. It seemed right to re-use them and they gave us the theme we were looking for.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ answered Willow. ‘I love it. But you said you’ve still got things to do, more plans for the place?’

  ‘We have,’ said Merry. ‘There are things we’d like to try, but what I’d love to show you is this little space out the back here.’

  She led the way through the main part of the shop, past tables overflowing with produce, and through an archway into the rear. The smell in here was even more amazing. An array of old cupboards and bookcases lined the walls, every inch of which was covered with bottles and jars, or packets and boxes. What set these apart from the items for sale in the rest of the shop was the packaging itself, and the labels. None of the items looked mass produced, and all had an air of quality about them. The labels were classy and individual, they looked hand lettered. It was exactly the look that Willow herself was hoping to achieve.

  Willow looked about her, picking her way around the room, peering at the contents on display, and wondering whether she would be able to compete; moreover, whether anything she could produce would actually fit in here, the room was crammed to the gills as it was.