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Chapter 7
Sandchester

The paperwork was signed that afternoon and by the time Saturday evening came, the sky dark and the wind beginning to groan, Esme was officially the new tenant. When she went home and told her mum, she felt a small bubble of excitement about life for the first time since it had all come tumbling down around her. As much as her heart was still shattered into a hundred pieces, she wasn’t one for sulking or staying still. She was lucky to have the money from her parents; not many people would get such a chance, and she was determined to make the best of it. Having said that, her mum still had some reservations.

‘So you’re becoming a hermit?’ asked Carol, furiously cleaning the kitchen table, her features tight with worry. And considering she didn’t furiously clean anything unless she really had to, it showed the depth of her concern.

‘I’m not, Mum. I can still walk into town from there. I just need a torch when it gets dark.’

‘You’ll get murdered,’ Carol replied, her voice rising a little.

‘No, she won’t, dear,’ said Stephen. ‘There was more chance of that happening in London than there is here in Sandchester. She’ll be fine. Well done, love. Good work.’

Esme smiled.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Carol asked, calming down a little. ‘I don’t like the idea of my baby girl being out there in the middle of the woods all on her own.’

‘Oh, Mum,’ Esme had replied, getting up from the breakfast bar and giving her mum a big hug. ‘It’s not in the middle of the woods, it’s just on the outskirts of town and I am sure about it. Even if I wasn’t, it’s too late now. I signed the paperwork earlier.’

Leaving the cloth, Carol stood up straighter, a smile beginning to light her face. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better have a drink and celebrate then.’ Stephen opened a bottle of fizz and Esme couldn’t help but count her lucky stars at having such supportive parents. ‘To new beginnings,’ Carol said.

‘To new beginnings,’ Esme repeated and felt a little of her heartbreak soften.

*

Esme moved in the next morning with her few meagre possessions and set about cleaning everything. Everyone had offered to help, including Alice, but for some reason she wanted to do this on her own. When she’d moved in with Leo, he’d been so set on where everything had to go, and knowing how organised he was, she hadn’t argued. He’d always been fastidious and she didn’t want to disrupt his life as she was moving into his place. She wanted to slot into it gently because he’d said it became their place that day, but in reality, it had always been his. This was hers, and Esme wanted to clean the place herself with music blaring out, in a bid to stamp her authority on the cottage, and on her life. Somehow, it felt like an important marker, the start of a new phase, even though she hoped it was only a temporary stop, and she’d be back in London before too long.

When her friends arrived late Sunday morning, when the sky was pale and filled with the watery winter sun, she could see their panicked faces through the windscreen before they’d even got out of the car. Mark, Helena and Lola climbed out, muttering to each other, but Esme couldn’t make out what was said until she opened the solid wood front door.

‘Sweetie, what have you done?’ asked Mark, walking over to give her a hug. A dark scarf was wrapped high around his neck making the bright blue of his eyes stand out against his beautiful olive skin. ‘You’re going to live in a gingerbread house in the middle of nowhere. Like a witch.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ Esme replied, crossing her arms over her chest trying not to shiver. She stood next to him facing the cottage and cocked her head. ‘Okay, so it is a bit crazy old lady, but it’s so sweet and cosy inside. And you’ll never guess what it’s called?’

‘What?’ asked Lola.

‘Mistletoe Cottage! How cute is that! It grows in the trees around here as well. Look.’ Esme pointed to a tall tree to the right of the cottage and the bright green mistletoe encircling its branches.

Mark paused. ‘Are you telling me you know different types of plants already? You’re getting countrified.’

‘I’m from the country, Mark. I’ve always been countrified. It just wore off a bit in London. Believe me, I still found myself saying things like “Ooo, it’s going to rain,” every time I came home and saw a cow sitting down.’ Mark stared, astonished.

‘Well, I love it,’ said Lola, smiling. ‘And us country folk always say weird things like that. My mum used to say wind from the east for two weeks at least when we were facing a cold snap—’

‘Or saluting magpies,’ added Esme.

‘Sweet Barbra Streisand,’ Mark mumbled, then smiled broadly. ‘But it is actually very cute, even though it’s in the middle of nowhere. Did you know we couldn’t use the satnav to get here? It tried to take us into a field. We got a very strange look from a horse when we pulled up at its gate. It’s a good job you texted us directions.’

Helena’s eyes were wide as she tried her best to smile. ‘Who was the last person to live here?’

Esme stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘A crazy old lady. But it’s much better now I’ve cleaned up.’

‘I’m telling you now, my sweet,’ said Mark, ‘you are not buying any cats.’

‘Deal,’ Esme replied, and led them inside.

Esme sat on the old worn sofa, now covered with pretty throws and cushions donated by Carol and Alice. Leo hadn’t liked cushions. He found them annoying, so Esme hadn’t ever really bought any, but as this was her home, she could decorate it however she wished. Joe had even said she could paint if she wanted too; the landlord didn’t mind at all. The owners didn’t care what she did as long as the rent was paid and someone was in there so it didn’t get damp. Mark brushed the seat with his hands before sitting and Esme tutted at him before bringing over a tray with steaming cups of tea.

‘It does have a certain something,’ said Lola. ‘It’s old-fashioned and homely.’

‘I think it’s called shabby chic,’ Esme replied.

‘Definitely shabby, sweetie, not so much chic.’ After gawping around, Mark gave Esme a reassuring grin. ‘But I agree, it does have a certain something. It’s bloody cold though.’

‘It doesn’t have central heating,’ Esme replied.

Mark’s astonishment returned and Esme had to stop herself laughing at his incredulous expression. ‘How do you keep warm?’

‘I’ve got a log fire but I don’t know how to light it. So it’s lots of jumpers and this little four-bar fire-thing Dad gave me. I might even treat myself to some thermals.’

‘Jesus wept,’ he replied, shaking his head.

Lola sat forward and took a cup of tea. ‘I’ve been thinking about this whole cookbook thing.’ Esme worried she was going to say she’d changed her mind and now thought it all a terrible idea, or that Esme was mental. ‘I think you should start a blog while you do it and record the recipes you test.’

‘Me? Write a blog?’ Esme fiddled with the corner of a cushion. Technology wasn’t her strong point and whilst she was quite outgoing, did the world care what she had to say?

Helena brightened. ‘Lola, that’s a great idea. Esme, you should totally write a blog, you’d be amazing. And if you’re cooking and stuff, testing recipes, you could post all the ones you’re not going to use in the book.’

Esme considered this new development. Lola did work in marketing, which meant she knew more about this stuff than any of them. If she said it was a good idea, it probably was. She could start a blog with no outlay, but could she write stuff that people actually wanted to read?

‘I think that if you want to publish a recipe book,’ said Lola, ‘it’d be good for you to build your own brand first. Then you’ll be well known, or at least known, when you’re approaching publishers; you’ll have an audience ready-made for them to sell to.’

Esme pictured her name on a website with people writing kind comments about her food, then she’d be mentioned in magazines and on TV shows and soon they’d be referring to her as a blogging sensation now launching her own recipe book. Okay, so maybe that was getting a little bit ahead of herself, but if she was going to embark on fulfilling her dream, she might as well dream big. ‘Okay,’ she said, nodding. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll do it. We need a name though.’

‘You have a name,’ said Mark, teasingly.

‘You know what I mean,’ Esme replied. ‘For the blog. I can’t just call it Esme’s Blog. Even I think that’s boring and I know nothing about marketing.’

‘How about The Easy Cook?’ said Mark. ‘Don’t you say all your recipes are easy to make?’

Helena laughed. ‘No way.’

‘Why not?’

‘It makes me sound like a slapper,’ Esme cut in.

‘What about The Outback Cook?’ offered Lola. ‘You are in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Oh, no.’ Mark shook his head. ‘She’s not Australian and the back of beyond isn’t the same as the outback. People will expect recipes for kangaroo meat or something.’ Esme’s mind shot back to Joe. He’d mentioned travelling to Australia. Then he’d suddenly switched the conversation back to business. It was a stupid thing to say but he’d grown up a lot since she’d seen him last. Not just physically. He’d seemed too old in a way, weighed down almost, but then, being a grown-up did that to you sometimes.

‘Recipeasy?’ asked Helena.

‘I like it, but I think it’s taken,’ said Esme. She regarded the old furniture and the ancient kitchen, her grandma’s recipe book already sitting on the worktop waiting for her. ‘How about Grandma’s Kitchen? I’ll be using my grandma’s recipe book and you guys know how special she was to me.’ Thinking about the blog, she wanted the world to know how special her grandma had been. So full of advice and love, and with the most caring, nurturing nature. Esme had loved her with all her heart.

Esme’s friends turned to her and for a moment, said nothing, then their faces erupted in wide grins. ‘It’s perfect,’ said Mark, clapping.

Helena nodded. ‘I love it.’

‘Definitely,’ said Lola. ‘It’s just right.’

‘That’s got to be it, hasn’t it?’ Esme bounced in her seat with excitement.

‘To Grandma’s Kitchen,’ said Helena and they all clinked their tea cups as a toast. The living-room light flickered for a few seconds and Mark and Helena eyed each other.

‘Ghosts, or dodgy electrics?’ he asked.

‘Neither,’ Esme replied. ‘It’s just that bulb is a bit loose.’

Mark shook his head. ‘I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ezzy.’

Esme chuckled. ‘Yeah, so do I.’

After they finished their tea, Esme gave them a tour of the house and enjoyed watching Mark’s expression when he saw the bathroom.

‘Are you fucking joking?’ he asked. ‘Salmon and avocado? It’s like something from The Good Life.’

‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Helena, winking at Esme. ‘You could grow your own veg, keep some chickens …’

‘Great idea,’ Esme replied, suppressing a grin. ‘I could even get a greenhouse.’ Mark’s jaw dropped.

‘You could keep a goat too and make cheese. It’d all be great for your blog,’ chipped in Lola.

‘Stop it,’ shouted Mark, covering his ears. ‘I’m going downstairs.’

In the afternoon, they put their coats on and strolled around the fields in the crisp winter air, chatting about work. Esme missed the buzz of the studio and the excitement of the city as Lola told them about a play she and Eric had been to see. But as Esme breathed in the fresh, chill wind, her skin felt cleaner for its freshness and even Mark commented on how peaceful the place was. As the sky began to darken, she cooked them dinner and they ate huddled on the sofa, discussing the break-up.

‘I have to say,’ said Helena. ‘You’re doing very well, honey.’

‘I’m trying,’ Esme replied. ‘I still cry. A lot. I miss you guys though.’ She reached out and took Helena’s hand.

‘We miss you too,’ Lola replied. ‘And your puddings.’

Esme tutted. ‘I know what you’re getting at and don’t worry, I made pavlova.’

‘Yay!’ everyone shouted and Esme giggled as she went to collect it from the kitchen. She missed her friends more than she could say. They’d always been there for her, celebrating every success and commiserating with every failure. They’d helped her sell her stuff when she moved into Leo’s. She’d had to let go of her beloved second-hand furniture because Leo insisted there wasn’t room for it and it didn’t go with the sleek, minimalist style he preferred. He wasn’t one for clutter and considering she could be so clean and organised in the kitchen, Esme was rather messy out of it. Esme hadn’t minded clearing out some of her old junk, being so in love and happy, but sometimes, when she was upset, she did miss the familiarity of those old worn knick-knacks.

Even though she offered for them to stay over, her friends all returned to London that night as they had work the next day. It was only an hour and a half’s drive and she couldn’t blame them. The spare room at the cottage hadn’t been cleaned yet and was so full of stuff you couldn’t actually move. The gang had all agreed a drive back to London was better than sleeping on the sofa in the freezing cold living room. As she waved them off, Esme felt tears sting her eyes. She hoped her friends hadn’t seen them; she didn’t want them to worry. But she wished she was in the car with them returning to the sights and sounds of the city she loved. It was so alive and vibrant, and Christmas time in the city was the best. A different sort of buzz lingered in the streets. One of joy and fun, rather than focus and concentration. But standing here in the middle of nowhere, in the darkness, the trees swaying in the wind, she felt very much alone.

That night, in the silence of the house, Esme snuggled in bed. Wrapped in three layers of clothes, she shut her eyes and tried to sleep. She hadn’t slept that well since returning home. Her bedroom at Mum and Dad’s felt too cramped and claustrophobic, and here, in the open fields, Esme missed the constant hum of traffic she had grown so used to. The silence of the countryside felt heavy and dense and she tossed and turned, hoping sleep would come. When it didn’t, Esme sat up and picked up her laptop from beside the bed. If sleep proved elusive, there was no time like the present to start her own blog. She clicked on some cooking blogs for inspiration and anticipation tingled through her body. She pored over images to use, giving just the right feel of cosiness and class. She didn’t want it to look anything like Felicity Fenchurch’s awful super-cute, twee blog that was all pink with giant pictures of her face looming out at you. Esme wanted hers to be about the food, and about love.

Before long, Grandma’s Kitchen was up and running. And as the sun came up and shone through her window, she closed the laptop, the battery out, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

*

Grandma’s Kitchen

Hi everybody, I thought I’d better begin my blog by introducing myself to you! My name’s Esme Kendrick and I love, love, LOVE cooking! Sorry for using big shouty letters but I do really love cooking! I’ve been working as a food technologist on some TV shows since I graduated university, but have always wanted to cook my own food and write about it, so that’s why I’ve started Grandma’s Kitchen.

It’s named after my lovely grandma who left me her ancient and amazing recipe book. It even has recipes from her mum and grandma in it, so it’s a real family heirloom. It means the world to me, and I hope that through sharing my successes and failures with you, you’ll enjoy trying out some new recipes and begin to love cooking as much as I do.

So what more can I tell you? My grandma, Pearl, was a brilliant cook and taught me everything I know. I think that, after discovering what a liability my mum was in the kitchen, she focused all her energy on me and my sister, Alice. Mum won’t mind me saying that – she’s an amazing mum, but she never really liked cooking and much prefers a takeaway or having dinner in the pub to slaving over a hot stove. One of my earliest memories is of Mum trying to cook a sausage casserole and it going so horribly wrong that Grandma had to step in. I remember she turned this burnt, crazily spiced mess into something delicious she called Cowboy Casserole. I’ll share the recipe with you later. You’re sure to love it!

I’ve just moved back to my hometown after my life took an unexpected change of direction. It’s been a bit of a knock, but you have to keep moving forward. My dad always says never go backwards, so I’m taking the plunge and starting this blog. The recipes you’ll find here will be family-friendly (my sister insisted! She said cooking different dinners for the adults and kids would drive her insane!) and are easy to follow with no weird ingredients. I can’t wait to share my first recipe with you soon!

*

After a couple of hours’ sleep, Esme awoke and went downstairs to write her first proper recipe for the blog. It was the first Monday she should have been at work and it felt strange to be her own boss and not have anywhere to go. Esme wrestled with a restlessness that filled her muscles with unspent energy as she flitted around the kitchen making herself a cup of tea.

So much had happened in such a short space of time. Less than a week ago her life had been ticking along as normal, her routine engrained in her mind and body. She could have walked to the tube station blindfolded and told you exactly what Leo would say in any given situation. She wondered what he was doing now. He’d have been to the gym and be at work already. Resisting the urge to cry, Esme clicked through her blog– her future – and sat back on the sofa, waiting for the number of hits to start pinging. Deep down, she knew this wasn’t going to happen, but couldn’t resist watching for half an hour anyway.

She picked up her grandma’s recipe book. The black leather cover was worn and frayed at the edges. The red ribbon she had inherited with it was beginning to fray as it forced numerous pieces of paper covered with scribbles and scrawlings back inside. She took off the band and opened it to leaf through its pages, examining each one and the delicate handwriting listing the recipes.

Affection and tenderness warmed her through. Her great-grandma’s fingers had touched these pages, as well as her grandma’s and her mum’s. Carol’s attempts at cooking from her youth were weirder and wilder, involving a lot of Seventies aspic-based recipes and random swearing. But her grandma had been an amazing cook and family legend had it that Esme’s great-grandma had been incredible too, creating exciting dishes even through rationing. This was why Esme loved cooking so much. It was history, their history. It meant her grandma who had helped her through so much, whose loss she had felt so deeply, would never be forgotten if her recipes were still being cooked, and the love that went into them still existed.

An old torn piece of paper fell from the side and she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. It was a recipe for vanilla biscuits and in the margin, in a small, elegant hand, she could see the words, ‘Carol loves these’. Her grandma had written it and Esme smiled at the thought of her mum as a little girl, begging for biscuits just as she and Alice had done. She carefully placed it back inside and glanced again at the counter on her blog. It still registered zero hits. She checked the clock. It was now just after lunch and boredom gnawed at her brain. Esme made herself a bowl of cereal and sat back down on the sofa, still in her pyjamas, two jumpers and her favourite big, fluffy bed socks. Pulling one of the throws off the back of the seat, Esme tucked it around her as the cold of the cottage tried to seep into her bones.

Spooning soggy cornflakes into her mouth (she hated them all hard and crunchy), she opened the book to her favourite comfort food recipe. Just reading the words ‘orange tea bread’ made Esme’s mouth water. Maybe this could be her first recipe for the blog? After leafing through the book and scanning the index in her brain, Esme decided this was definitely the right one to begin with, and even though she’d made it so many times before, she wanted to test it one last time, just to make sure the measurements were all correct. Esme moved to the kitchen and began weighing out flour, butter, sugar and boiling oranges for the tea bread.

The rickety old cottage was soon filled with the sweet smell of oranges and when the loaf was cooked and cooled, Esme cut a piece and smothered it with butter. Taking a bite was like being 5 years old again, home from school at her grandma’s house while her mum worked. Esme remembered being hungry and happy sitting with her grandma at her old fold-out table, talking about the things she had done at school that day, or playing Happy Families with Alice. It was one of her favourite recipes of all time.

Esme re-read the instructions she’d written down, changing some of the wording and some of quantities to suit her own palate. Instead of white sugar, she had added light brown sugar for a hint of toffee and though she could use orange juice or flavouring, real oranges were better. Two hours later, she helped herself to another slice of the delicious bread and typed up her findings, posting for the second time.

*