Page 67 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
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 there are 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’ve had time to eat it.’
He looked at her steadily. ‘What is this day or two of which you speak?’ 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 unusual for 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.’
