Читать книгу Wish Upon a Star - Trisha Ashley - Страница 13

Stella was excited by the move to Sticklepond, and Celia looked after her and Toto while I was in the final throes of the packing, so they were spared the worst.

But I was so exhausted that it took me a couple of days to bounce back, before I resumed getting up with the larks. I’m an early morning person, as you’ve probably gathered, and I enjoy baking away to the sound of the radio while everyone else is still asleep … except Toto, of course, who was usually hanging around my feet hoping for fallen scraps as soon as he’d been out into the garden.

In London my view of the sky had been limited to the small patch above the paved area, but here I could hardly wait to see the first light coming up behind the copse of trees at the back of the house, while the village below us still slept in darkness.

That morning’s skies were streaked with pink, blueberry and silver, like a very special Eton mess. I wondered if I could devise a blueberry Sticklepond mess …

But that would have to be another day, for this one was to be devoted to macaroons and I wanted to get two articles out of it – a simple recipe for Sweet Home, and a longer piece all about this new macaroon shop that Ma had told me about, for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page. I’d already made a start on that one.

Since moving up to rural West Lancashire I’ve heard tell of a magical macaroon shop in a nearby market town, though it seems a bit of a mythical beast to find so far from London. I’ll let you know when I have investigated further, but meanwhile, here’s my own very good macaroon recipe.

Ma had gladly relinquished the kitchen to me, since she’d rarely done more than microwave a ready meal or slap a sandwich together in there herself, and already it had taken on a new and familiar persona, being now full of my mixers, bowls, implements, cookbooks and notebooks, with a laptop area in the pine breakfast nook in the corner.

I made plain macaroons and then some chocolate ones, which were delicious, and then typed some notes into the laptop. I was trying to build up an even bigger hoard of articles than I had before Stella was born, seeing I’d be occupied with other things in autumn and winter … and I still couldn’t quite believe that we were committed to flying across the ocean for a risky operation. My fear that she would fall ill before then was almost as extreme as my fear of the operation itself – even thinking about it made me eat four macaroons straight off, one after the other.

The magazine and newspaper were fine about my filing my articles from Lancashire (or they would be, once broadband had been installed in the cottage next week), and would send a photographer round as necessary, when they couldn’t use illustrations from stock. Actually, I prefer it when they use pictures of my baking, because I get loads of despairing mail from readers saying the things they make never look perfect, like in the cookery books, but they can see that most of mine don’t look like those either. Food needs to look good enough to eat, but it doesn’t need to win a beauty competition. I hate this cult of ‘food presentation’ where someone fiddles around with the food, adding a scoop of this and a dribble of that, and mauling it about, or the magazine hires a food stylist, which is a bit like airbrushing a naturally beautiful fashion model, setting an unattainable standard because it isn’t real.

Not me: I’d so much rather have a chunk of crumbling apple pie with a dollop of cream, or a delicious fruit fairy cake with slightly singed edges.

It’s probably just as well for my figure that I now have someone else to help me eat all my baking, though not so good for Ma’s. Not that Ma cares about her figure: she says she was born to be a dumpling and why fight nature?

Stella wandered into the kitchen in her pyjamas just as I was arranging a pyramid of chocolate macaroons on a plate, her silken hair in a tangle and dragging Bun, the large plush rabbit that Ma had bought her when she was born, by one ear. She looked at the cakes and removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to say, sleepily, ‘Awesome.’

‘I think I’ve been letting you watch too much TV while I’ve been unpacking and sorting out,’ I said ruefully.

Stella seemed no worse for the move now we’d settled in. We went to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool later in the week, where she was checked over thoroughly, though she was to be monitored regularly by Ormskirk Hospital, which was nearer, and only referred back in future for any problems … which I sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.

The vicar, Raffy Sinclair, came to call one afternoon – he often visited Ma, but this time he came specially to see me.

I’d never met him to speak to before, though I’d seen him about sometimes. He was a tall, handsome man, an ex-rock star who moved to the village a couple of years ago and married Chloe Lyon. When I went to her chocolate shop to buy the chocolate angel lolly for Stella’s Christmas stocking she’d said they had a little girl too, called Grace, though I think she is much younger than Stella. (And that big chocolate angel she gave me before Christmas had a most inspiring message inside, telling me not to fear the future. As I ate the delicious chocolate, I felt I was ingesting hope with it.)

Stella was having her afternoon nap when the vicar arrived so we were able to have a good talk. He knew about her problems, of course, because Ma had told him.

‘Martha says you’ve sold your flat and moved in here, in an effort to raise enough money to take your little girl to America for a life-saving operation,’ he said, when I’d made coffee and fetched in a plate of macaroons (I was still experimenting with flavours).

‘Yes,’ I said, and told him all about the operation and Stella’s medical condition – I really opened up and poured it all out, but he was the kindest man.

‘I still need about another twenty thousand pounds, I think, because all kinds of extra expenses keep cropping up. Someone advised me to take a qualified nurse on the plane there with me, for instance. And insurance – well, that’s difficult too.’

‘How long have you got to raise the money?’

‘The surgeon in Boston has pencilled her in for the start of November so we need to be there by the end of October. I ought to start booking the plane tickets and the hotel and so on … I’ve just waited to see how far off the target I was after selling the flat. My best friend, Celia, and her husband, Will, have been a huge help, setting up the Stella’s Stars fundraising site, which is getting lots of small donations, too.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make it – and I and the rest of Sticklepond will help you,’ he promised.

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m really a stranger here. I mean, we’ve only visited before, we aren’t really part of the community …’

‘Oh, that won’t matter,’ he said, and assured me that the villagers would all unite to support a good cause.

Ma, who’d wandered in at that moment still holding a fully loaded paintbrush, taken a macaroon and begun to leave again without seeming to notice the vicar, stopped and focused at that.

‘They may not for this one, because my family were never well liked in the village: I told you,’ she said to Raffy, taking the jade cigarette holder from her mouth and gesturing with it. A half-smoked red Sobranie dropped out of the end and Toto, who’d followed her in, sniffed at it before making friendly overtures to Raffy. I’d have warned him about getting white dog hairs on his black jeans if he hadn’t already got a liberal sprinkling there from his own little white dog, which I’d seen him out with sometimes.

‘I’ve heard the odd rumour about the Almonds,’ he admitted, ‘but it was something that happened so long ago that I think only the most elderly parishioners know the details. But when it comes to helping a child, I can’t see any of them thinking twice about it.’

‘Why exactly aren’t the Almonds well liked? You’ve never actually told me,’ I said, emboldened to press Ma by the presence of the vicar.

She straightened with the Sobranie in her hand, shoved it back in the holder, and then shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘It’s as the vicar says, an old story, and I don’t know all the details. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘The important thing is to raise the money,’ Raffy agreed, ‘and we’ll soon do that – so trust in the Lord and make all the bookings. There’s nothing the village likes so much as uniting to fight for a good cause – only look how we saw off those property developers in the village itself, and then managed to have planning permission for turning the Hemlock Mill site into a retail park overturned.’

‘True,’ Ma said, and then she suddenly seemed to become aware of the loaded brush in her hand and, without another word, went out again.

‘I wish she’d put a coat on, because that wind is cold, even if it is May,’ I said, watching her through the window as she started back up the garden towards the studio. Then Hal suddenly loomed up next to her from behind a clump of Fatsia japonica, draped his tweedy, shapeless jacket over her shoulders, and they turned and went up the steps together.

‘Hmm … I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hal smile before,’ Raffy said thoughtfully. ‘He usually looks like Indiana Jones on a bad day, crossed with just a hint of the Grim Reaper.’

‘They do seem to be good friends,’ I said noncommittally, ‘and he’s here quite a bit … though weekends and evenings, mostly. Perhaps today is his half-day from the Hall.’

‘I don’t think it is, actually,’ Raffy said, ‘but with the estate coming right up to his cottage on the other side of the lane, I expect he just popped back for something.’

He smiled at me. ‘Chloe said she’d had a nice chat with you before Christmas in the shop. She loves your “Cake Diaries” in the newspaper and says that you also write about cake in a magazine – I don’t know where you find the time,’ he said, taking another macaroon.

‘To be honest, sometimes I’m not too sure myself,’ I confessed. ‘Things have been slightly easier as Stella’s got older and stabilised, though she’s prone to infections and then we have to get her treatment straight away. Each bout seems to sap what energy she has …’

‘Yes, I don’t suppose she has a lot of resistance to things and it must be a huge worry to you.’

‘It is, and I really don’t want any more complications till we leave for Boston. She needs to put a little weight on before the surgery too. You’d think with all the cakes around she’d quickly do that anyway, but she’s the pickiest eater in the world.’

‘Unlike me,’ he said, ruefully eyeing the macaroon plate, now almost empty.

I asked suddenly, ‘You do think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you? Only the operation is experimental and although Dr Beems has been very successful with it, there are no guarantees …’

‘Of course you are. You’ve had to make the decision with your head, not your heart, because logically there’s no other course of action you can take, is there? If she doesn’t have it, you’ve been told that she doesn’t have a long-term future, it’s as simple as that.’

I felt better for hearing him spell it out. Then Stella woke up sounding a little fractious and I fetched her in to meet Raffy. She seemed to like the look of him – and who wouldn’t?

‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, digging out a Cellophane-wrapped chocolate figure from his pocket. ‘Chloe sent you a gift. Are you allowed chocolate now, before tea?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, ‘it’s very good chocolate.’

‘An angel,’ breathed Stella raptly, taking it.

‘Stella’s very into angels at the moment,’ I told Raffy. ‘I think it’s Ma’s fault for pointing out all the angels in the graveyard.’

‘And the funny little men with horns and tails in the window,’ Stella said.

‘Oh, yes, the Heaven and Hell window is great,’ he agreed.

‘Grandma paints angels in her pictures,’ Stella confided. ‘Flying ones with bird faces. Moses and Toto are flying round in her new one and Hal is holding on to the angel’s leg to stop it flying right off.’

‘I’d like to see that!’

‘I thought I saw an angel when I was having Stella,’ I told him, ‘and though Ma said it was a nun going by in a white habit, it seems to have stuck in her head. The oddest things do.’

‘You saw an angel? I must tell Chloe,’ he said, interested. ‘We’re both great believers in guardian angels. Get her to tell you about the time she saw one when she was a little girl.’

Stella announced that she was going to show the chocolate angel to her Sylvanian Families and vanished off back into her bedroom.

‘Transylvanian?’ Raffy asked, looking mildly surprised.

‘No, Sylvanian. They’re collectable toys, little fuzzy animals.’

‘Oh, right.’ He passed on an invite from Chloe to take Stella to her Mother and Toddler group, which met on Monday mornings up at the old vicarage.

‘If she’s well enough, it would be nice to go and meet other local mothers and children,’ I said, ‘though so far I’ve tended to avoid that kind of thing in case coughs and colds are going round.’

‘I’ll ask Chloe to warn you if there are,’ he promised. ‘But if not, I should give it a try and if Stella finds it too tiring, you needn’t stay long.’

‘You’re right, and it would get us out of Ma’s way for a bit too … Though actually, she doesn’t seem to mind Stella hanging around her, because in many ways they’re kindred spirits. Ma’s already said that she’d much prefer to keep an eye on Stella while I go into Ormskirk on Saturdays and do the big weekly supermarket shop than do it herself.’

‘Let me think about fundraising for the rest of the money, and I’ll get back to you with some ideas as soon as I can,’ Raffy said, getting up and shrugging into a long black leather coat. ‘We need an organised push to raise it quickly, but it will come,’ he assured me, and with a smile left me feeling hopeful, comforted and cheered.

When I got back after seeing him out, the last two macaroons had vanished from the plate and Toto and Moses were lying innocently before the stove.

‘You have crumbs in your whiskers,’ I told them coldly, before going to see what Stella was up to.