Appleby Farm (40 page)

I stopped talking, tapped on the keyboard of my laptop and the screen filled with the name of my new business: Appleby Farm Vintage Company.

‘We leave it exactly how it is,’ I announced.

‘Oh, darling!’ sighed Mum, her hand fluttering to her pearls. ‘I love it already.’

Dad patted her knee. ‘Calm down, Margo,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t see how doing nothing is going to achieve much.’

I ignored him.

‘I’ve known nothing but love here at Appleby Farm and that’s thanks to you two.’

Auntie Sue beamed at me and pushed the chocolates back to Uncle Arthur.

‘And at the risk of sounding a little bit cheesy, my plan involves sharing that love with others.’

Dad tugged his moustache sceptically.

‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ I said, ‘the Appleby Farm Vintage Company has three objectives at its heart: keep the farm in the Moorcroft family; help Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur retire in comfort; and diversify to keep the farm profitable, embrace progress and respect its heritage. So how do I do that …?’

I explained how my new company would have four divisions: hospitality (which at the moment was just the tea rooms), holidays, food and drink and, finally, my pièce de résistance: weddings.

‘What sort of food and drink?’ asked Dad.

‘Dad,’ I tutted, ‘questions at the end.’

‘Sorry,’ replied Dad, looking suitably chastised.

I told them about my idea to develop the ice-cream brand and find stockists throughout the Lake District, and my (admittedly slightly whacky) plan to make cider. I reckoned we could make at least twenty gallons this year alone. I told them about Rigg Farm and their woodland yurts and how successful they were at attracting corporate bookings.

‘We are going to renovate the shepherd’s huts and turn them into holiday accommodation, and not just with our two huts. Harry has got two we can have and eventually I’m going to buy a few more and fill a whole field with them. Imagine “Back to Basics” farm holidays. Dad’s banking contacts would love it!’

I explained how I’d convert the old dairy into retail space, expand the vegetable garden to grow produce to sell, and change the honesty box into a proper farm shop.

‘Weddings?’ grunted Uncle Arthur. ‘And that wasn’t a proper question so don’t tell me off.’

I nodded excitedly. This was my favourite bit; I really wanted them to like this idea. ‘According to a recent survey – of Lizzie’s newly engaged mates, no need to go into detail – nearly seventy per cent of brides-to-be are considering a vintage farm wedding for next year. It’s a booming industry.’

‘Really?’ said Dad, hoiking a still dubious eyebrow. ‘Always good to join a new market early on.’

‘And we’re holding our first wedding here in December for Tilly and Aidan, so we’ll have lots of photos for the brochure and website. And I also want to get my hands on a carriage and my own horse, so we can offer vintage transport to the church. Ooh, they could use Bobby too, I hadn’t thought of that!’

I jotted myself a note before I forgot.

‘But the point is,’ I said, jabbing my finger on the table, ‘it will all look the same, it will still have its quirky charm, it will still be Appleby Farm. If future generations of Moorcrofts want to be dairy or beef or sheep farmers, they can. It will all still be here.’

Mum, who had been nodding throughout my entire presentation, gave a polite cough. ‘Darling, it all sounds wonderful, but what about you? It sounds like a huge business empire to me. There won’t
be
any future Moorcrofts if you’re not careful.’

Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Mum, when I’m ready to settle down, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Will I?’ she beamed. ‘Oh.’

We shared a secret smile. She and I had come a long way this year. Auntie Sue caught my eye, too, and gave me an approving wink.

Eddy had his own section in my presentation: I proposed that we offered him the job as farm manager to oversee the maintenance of the land and buildings, work on the shepherd’s huts and hopefully set us up with a cider press.

The animals had a mention too: the pets, Benny, Björn and Madge, would of course move with my uncle and aunt, but I wanted to keep the Jersey cows and learn how to look after them myself. I loved them as much as Auntie Sue did and needed their milk for ice cream. And I wanted to keep the hens. A farm’s not a farm without hens, I said, echoing Harry’s words from last night.

Auntie Sue was delighted. ‘That’s a relief, lass. There’s only room for one or two chickens at that bungalow and certainly no cows.’

‘I didn’t know you wanted a bungalow?’ teased Uncle Arthur. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

She cuffed him round the ear.

‘I’m going to keep Kim but sell Kanye,’ I announced, ‘and as soon as we’ve got the all-clear from the vet, Uncle Arthur, I think we should sell the beef herd to give you a bit of a nest egg. Ooh and by the way, Harry definitely wants Dexter.’

Uncle Arthur sighed. Our eyes met and I faltered. Here I was blazing through his farm like a tornado. Was all this a step too far? He reached out and squeezed my hand. ‘Carry on, lass,’ he mumbled.

‘Talking of money, Freya?’ said Dad.

I swallowed. ‘Yep. Just coming to that.’

This was where my whole plan could come crashing down round my ears. I’d made some massive assumptions. I just hoped I’d got it right. I looked at my watch: seven twenty-nine. Harry would be here any time now.

‘Mum, Dad, how would you like to live at the farm?’ I held my breath.

‘Good gracious!’ Dad exclaimed.

The pair of them blinked like bears coming out of a cave into sunlight. Which, frankly, was better than I’d expected. These were people who’d lived a life of opulence abroad for twenty-five years. Appleby Farm was a lot of things, but none of them was associated with luxury.

At that moment the phone began to ring.

‘Damn it, just as things were getting interesting,’ Auntie Sue groaned, hobbling off on her arthritic knee to the office.

There was a knock at the door and I hurried towards it, leaving my parents to stare at each other with bewildered expressions.

I opened the door and there was Harry, a breath of fresh air, full of vitality and curiosity, in jeans and a T-shirt despite the cool autumn evening. My heart hammered as I searched his eyes for traces of our awkward encounter at Willow Farm, but there was nothing to see except warmth.

‘Not late, am I?’ he said, brushing his lips against my cheek.

‘Perfect timing, actually.’ I ushered him to the kitchen table where he shook hands with the men and kissed my mum. ‘I’ve just asked Mum and Dad if they’d consider living here.’

I looked at my parents’ faces. ‘Just for a few years – say, five. Until I can afford to buy it myself. If you bought the farmhouse and buildings and twenty acres—’

‘Only twenty?’ began my uncle, until I held up a finger to shut him up.

‘I reckon that will be plenty for my business. But this is where Harry comes in.’

Harry leaned his forearms on the table and nodded. ‘I’ve got plans for expansion and the most cost-effective way to do that is locally. Freya thought that you might be able to help me out.’

‘Do you see, Uncle Arthur?’ I said, giving his shoulders a hug. ‘You can rent the rest of the land out to Willow Farm; Harry is desperate for more acres. It keeps it in the family and gives you an income.’

‘Is that right?’ marvelled Uncle Arthur, a huge smile threatening to split his face in two.

Harry nodded. ‘I must say it does sound like a good solution. Come over to Willow Farm, Arthur, and I’ll show you my plans for biofuels.’

‘Will do, lad.’

‘Well, we were thinking of relocating to the Lakes,’ Dad said thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, Margo?’

Mum’s face was all furrowed, her eyes were shiny with tears and her bottom lip was wobbling furiously. She opened her mouth to speak and a little squeak came out. ‘It sounds wonderful to me.’

‘You seem to have thought of everything, Freya,’ said Dad, looking pink. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Fantastic!’ I jumped up and clapped. ‘And in five years—’

‘You’ll be thirty-something,’ Dad interjected. ‘I must agree with your mother. This is a terrific undertaking for a single woman. Where’s your life in all this? What about love?’

Harry shifted in his seat and I could have died with embarrassment. I tried to come up with a witty retort but all I could conjure up was the image of Harry’s finger stroking my cheek last night and how for one moment I’d felt like my heart would burst.

Deep breaths, Freya.

Before I’d managed to reply, Auntie Sue stumbled back into the kitchen in a flap.

‘There’s a girl on the phone who says she’s a friend of Lizzie’s. She wants to come and look round our
wedding venue
.’ This last bit required extremely wide eye-opening on her part. ‘She says can she have her wedding photos with the cows?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’ I shrugged. ‘Gloria and Gaynor will look lovely with ribbons round their necks.’

‘I’ve heard it all now,’ chuckled Uncle Arthur, elbowing Harry in the ribs.

‘She also says she wants to see which room she and the bridesmaids will be getting ready in!’

I’d already thought of that. I got to my feet. ‘Right. When’s the wedding?’

‘Next June.’

‘Perfect,’ I said briskly. ‘The farmhouse’s new reception room and downstairs bathroom will be finished by then. OK, I’d better talk to her.’

‘Where’s that going to go?’ asked Uncle Arthur, scratching his head.

‘Your office. And the office is moving to the hayloft above the milking parlour.’

I scampered out of the room, leaving Harry shaking his head in amusement and Mum and Dad arguing over which of them I took after the most. Both of them, pleasingly, seemed keen to claim me as a chip off their old block.

A couple of hours later I jumped into bed, head whirling with all the amazing things that had happened. Julian and his intensive dairy shenanigans had been well and truly kicked into touch. My parents had agreed to buy the farm and help me get the Appleby Farm Vintage Company off the ground. Auntie Sue had persuaded Uncle Arthur to make an offer on her dream bungalow first thing in the morning, and I would offer Lizzie a job as manager of the tea rooms. My eyes closed and I burrowed further under the blankets. The only thing that was missing from my perfect evening was someone to share my happiness with. As my body started to drift off to sleep, the last face I saw was Harry’s.

The next few weeks absolutely flew by and we all celebrated when the Hereford herd was officially cleared of TB. As soon as the movement ban was lifted, Eddy and Uncle Arthur took the calves off to be auctioned and Harry came along to collect Dexter, Uncle Arthur’s prize bull.

In a matter of weeks, everything on the farm seemed to have gathered pace. I spent half my time in meetings with Patience Purdue at the planning department, talking about changing the use of some of our buildings, or with my new best friend Jayne from the tourism office, who in turn had told me about funding that the farm might be eligible for, which, of course, led to more meetings. Goat joked that with the amount of work I was putting his way, he might as well put a caravan in the farmyard to save him going home. At least we hoped he was joking.

I did have a short break at the beginning of October when I took my new tea rooms manager, aka Lizzie, away to the Yorkshire Dales for the night to stay in the most beautiful shepherd’s hut on a hillside next to a stream.

Spending time in such tight proximity had made us closer and taught us things about each other. For instance, I found out that Lizzie is a bit OCD when it comes to cleaning work surfaces – useful to know and a very commendable trait in the catering profession. And she discovered that I laugh in my sleep – less useful, but at least she now knows she has a happy boss.

The following day we arrived back stuffed with English breakfast and, more importantly, ideas for our own Appleby Farm Vintage Holidays business just in time to see Harry supervising the delivery of one of his shepherd’s huts. It was in even worse condition than ours and he and Eddy declared it a long-term project for the spring. Eddy was already getting stuck in to renovating our first hut, ready for Tilly and Aidan to stay in. It was to be vintage in style, of course, with a double bed at one end that converted into a little table and bench seats in the day, a kitchenette at the other and the world’s tiniest log burner in the centre to keep them warm on their December wedding night.

Auntie Sue and Uncle Arthur’s new bungalow was almost ready to move into and Auntie Sue was having a lovely time with the developer, picking out her tiles and colour schemes. Dad had had the farmhouse valued and between the four of them and the family solicitor they had agreed a price. I’d dreaded Julian’s reaction to missing out on the deal but Dad had shaken his head.

‘He won’t dwell on it,’ Dad had said confidently. ‘He’ll move on to something else. Projects like this fall through all the time.’

And he had been right; Julian hadn’t seemed that bothered and claimed to be too busy negotiating a deal on some land to build a wind farm along the Norfolk coast. It did cross my mind, slightly uncharitably, that Julian’s reaction was due to his assumption that one day he’d inherit the farm through Mum and Dad’s will, but I wasn’t prepared to lose sleep over that issue just yet.

By mid-October, and only a month into the job, Lizzie had managed to expand her role and assert herself in almost every area of the Appleby Farm Vintage Company.

‘I need to be able to deputize for you,’ she’d explained to me, as she packed up boxes of our new leaflets to take to a wedding fayre. ‘And I want to be part of everything, not just the tea rooms.’

Which was why we were in the new dairy at eight o’clock one morning, making ice cream – Lizzie’s first attempt. Maybe it was the white clogs or the long overalls or the white hair nets, I wasn’t sure, but I never felt I looked my best when making ice cream.

I watched Lizzie as she poured fresh Jersey milk into the pasteurizer. With her olive skin and full lips she managed to look gorgeous even with her hair scraped back under a net. I felt like an ugly duckling standing next to her.