Page 70 of A Year at Appleyard Farm
It didn’t take Peter long to assess what he found. He walked from one spot to the other, peering at the elderflowers, smelling the aromatic cordial and fingering the page in Willow’s notebook where her grandma had carefully written the recipe in her best copperplate handwriting.
‘So you need people to pick? And in huge quantities by the look of things. Maybe people to man the strawberry fields, and possibly people in here to keep the pans going?’
Willow smiled, watching Peter carefully.
‘Leave it to me,’ he beamed, with a glance out of the window. ‘Right, time I was back out there I reckon.’ He looked back at the room as he passed through the door. ‘Would the day after tomorrow be okay?’
Willow was right, by the time two o’clock came, the strawberry field was scorching. In fact, everywhere was scorching, but that had its advantages too. The picked fruit had marched out of the door during the morning, but actual pickers were reluctant to venture out which gave Willow the perfect opportunity to shut up shop early and pop over to see Henry. She had pored over his designs the night before, and every time she picked up the folder, she found herself returning to one particular set of designs. The colours were striking, a vibrant lime green and a deep pinky-plum, and although the motifs and lettering were modern, there was something timeless about them too. She was sure that they would appeal to the market she was aiming at.
It was much cooler in the shaded lane and she walked slowly, taking the time to trail her fingers through the fronds of cow parsley along the verge, and inhale the gentle scent from the wild sweet peas which grew there.
Henry was in the garden when she arrived, standing among the tomatoes and sweet peppers which he’d planted to take full advantage of the warmth from the red brick wall that ran the length of one side. He waved a greeting.
‘Warm enough for you?’ he called, straightening up, one hand full of sweet cherry tomatoes.
‘Only just,’ she replied. ‘But alas too hot for my pickers. Most of them have sloped off to a deckchair and a glass of Pimms, so I thought I’d come and harass you instead.’
‘Lucky old me.’ He grinned. ‘Go on in, I won’t be a minute. Dinner won’t pick itself.’
Willow glanced at the array of vegetables and herbs in front of her. Whatever Henry was planning for his tea, she had no doubt it would be tasty. She followed the path to the wide French doors, both open, stepping over the two panting spaniels who were sprawled in the shade cast by the house.
Inside, the living room was cool and dark, and she took a seat, admiring Henry’s artwork on the walls. All was quiet for a moment until the sound of a door opening caused her to look up.
A young woman stood in the entrance to the room, quite naked.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, stepping into the room and looking around. ‘Does Henry know you’re here? I could fetch him if you like.’ She made no move to cover herself.
Willow was never very good at judging people’s age, but the lithe tanned body in front of her could be no more than early twenties.
Willow cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. I met him in the garden. He said to come on in…’
‘Okay,’ she said with a smile, looking down at her feet as if seeing them for the first time. Funnily enough, her feet were not what was concerning Willow. ‘I should probably go and get dressed. Aren’t you hot?’
Willow managed a smile. ‘A bit,’ she said cautiously.
The young woman stared at her as if she was deranged, and with a nod and another smile disappeared back though the door.
‘Right, so a cup of tea, is it?’ asked Henry coming inside. ‘Or something cold?’ He was carrying a trug full of salad vegetables.
Willow was still staring at the door in the corner of the room, feeling hotter than ever.
Henry followed her line of sight.
‘Ahhh,’ he said slowly. ‘I can see you’ve met Delilah.’
Willow gazed at him. ‘Delilah?’
He nodded. ‘As inWhy, Why, Why Delilah…You know, the Tom Jones song?’
‘I can seewhyDelilah, Henry, she’s gorgeous…I just didn’t expect—’
‘She wasn’t wearing any clothes, was she?’ Henry grinned. ‘She does that. She’s a goat keeper,’ he added, as if that explained it.
Willow remained seated, hoping for further explanation, but as Henry hopped from foot to foot, it became clear that it wasn’t going to arrive any time soon.
‘Henry Whittaker, you’re a dark horse,’ she said in her best school matron’s voice. ‘And don’t tell me she’s your sister; nobody has a sister like that.’
‘No, she’s not my sister.’ He laughed. ‘She’s not my niece either.’
