Читать книгу Rachel’s Pudding Pantry - Caroline Roberts - Страница 7

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.