Christmas at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry. Caroline Roberts
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driver’s seat. Moss, the collie dog, was in the back, more than happy to join them, and little Maisy was soon chattering on about school and squirrels once more. After a bumpy ride over the fields that made Maisy giggle, they were soon up at the Top Field, where Petie and the hoggs, as the lambs selected for breeding were called, were grazing. Rachel had taken a couple of cobnuts from the lambing shed store to give their fleecy friend a treat. There was no need to call out to him, as he was already galloping across the field to meet the vehicle as they slowed to a halt on the rise.
‘Hello, Petie boy!’ Maisy was out of the Land Rover in a dash, rubbing his nose and ears affectionately, and feeding him the cobnuts.
The little (well, rather stocky now) lamb was so familiar and friendly. He nibbled happily at the treats. It was lovely to see the bond he had with Maisy, but it had meant a difficult decision a couple of months ago, when Rachel should have been pragmatic and sent him to market along with the others. She just hadn’t had the heart to do it, nor to have to explain his fate to Maisy. They’d had enough sorrow in their lives. On this rare occasion, Rachel had let her heart rule her head, even considering the farm’s very limited finances.
On a quick drive around, they checked the other sheep, who thankfully seemed to be fine and were keeping away from the fences and out of trouble – for the moment, anyway.
‘Can we have Grandma’s flapjack now?’ a rather hungry Maisy asked.
‘Good idea.’
Rachel slowed the Land Rover and pulled up near a rocky outcrop at the top of the hill. They got out and walked up the last of the rise, with Moss at their heels. As they reached the top, Rachel popped Maisy onto a large, flat mossy stone that made the perfect seat, and clambered up beside her. They sat perched together with the sheepdog at their feet.
‘Here you go, petal.’ Rachel took out the golden-baked flapjacks.
Rachel’s first bite was a toffee-crunchy delight that melted in the mouth – scrumptious.
‘Yummy!’ Maisy announced her approval. ‘Ooh, look Mummy, the farm’s gone all fuzzy.’ Maisy was pointing down to their valley where, sure enough, you could only just make out the dim golden lights of their farmhouse. And there, further in the distance, was the soft glow from the buildings of Tom’s farm next door. It matched a soft tender glow within Rachel too.
Since they’d left the house, an autumn mist had swirled in across the lower fields and the stream that ran through the valley, and the view looked as though it was in soft focus. That gentle glowing scene of Primrose Farm made Rachel’s heart lift. It had suddenly got chillier so the two of them sat side by side, keeping closely snuggled for warmth, eating their flapjacks. Moss was keeping alert beneath them, on the lookout for the odd tasty crumb that might drop his way.
Dew was beginning to form on the rocks and the grass as dusk crept upon them, the sky deepening to a purply-grey. Rachel was looking forward to heading back down to a warming supper, eaten sitting around the old pine table in the farmhouse kitchen. Mum would be there now, having closed up the Pantry for the night. Rachel could picture the golden-topped crumble puddings sitting there tantalisingly, cooling on the side.
She tightened her arm around her daughter as they gazed down at their farm. And though Rachel’s heart had been shredded these past couple of years – with losing her dad so devastatingly – this legacy of Primrose Farm, though not always easy, warmed her soul. Keeping it going for the three of them, and especially for Maisy and her future, this gave her purpose. This was home.
The next morning, there was the telltale ‘fut-fut’ of Frank’s old Fiat coming up the farm track. Frank was in his mid-seventies, and a real gent. He lived in the nearby small town of Kirkton and he had become one of their Pudding Pantry regulars. Most days he’d appear for his morning coffee by ten thirty and he was always delighted to sample something sweet with it. Jill liked to try out her latest puddings and ‘specials’ on him, and he was generally most happy to oblige. He enjoyed the cake, chat and company, having lost his beloved wife a few years ago.
‘Morning, Frank,’ Jill said, smiling as he walked into the Pantry.
‘Morning,’ Rachel added from behind the counter, where she was stringing a further strand of fairy lights to hang along the till front.
‘Hello there, ladies.’ Frank doffed his flat cap. ‘Now then, what are you pair up to? Christmas lights time is it, already?’
‘It is indeed,’ Rachel answered. ‘We want to make the most of the festive spirit and give the place a bit of sparkle.’
‘There’s plenty of sparkle here already, what with you two lovely ladies here to greet me.’ Frank gave a cheeky grin.
Jill’s smile widened. ‘Come on in. Now, what can I get you with your coffee today, Frank? Oh, hang on, I’ve been baking something new this morning, a Gingerbread Pudding. Thought it’d take the chill off these damp autumn days. Fancy giving it a try?’
‘Oh, that’ll go down a treat, I’m sure.’
‘Any cream or vanilla custard with that?’
‘Custard sounds delightful.’
‘Excellent choice!’
Frank was soon settled at one of the white-painted wooden tables, happily tucking in to his sponge and custard, with the local newspaper set out beside him.
‘What’s the verdict, Frank?’ Jill asked a minute or two later, a trace of anxiety in her tone.
‘Well … I’d say it’s a ten out of ten. Got all those lovely warming festive flavours through it, somehow. In fact, it brings to mind a pudding my mam used to make, back in the day. Though I have to admit,’ Frank pulled a wry smile, ‘her puddings always turned out a bit on the heavy side, bless her soul. Still, it went down a treat when I was a young lad.’
‘Hah, I bet it did.’
‘Yes, she used to blame it on the post-war rations, but me and Da knew better. She didn’t have the best of teachers, mind. Now then …’ Frank was off in full storytelling mode. ‘Her mam, Nanna Wallace, lived across on the Scottish side of the border, so she did. Now, she used to make something called a “Cloutie Dumpling”. “Clarty Dumpling” me and Da secretly called it. It was a dark-coloured pudding with raisins, currants, and all sorts in. I seem to remember having it around Old Year’s Night. It was meant to be a special treat. Well, that thing was like a cannon ball. Don’t suppose it was meant to turn out that way. Hah yes, I even spooned some off one day and shaped it into balls for my catapult. That stuff made great pellets.’
Jill couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Well, we’d better not make anything like that here, Frank!’ Rachel pitched in.
‘Aye, lass, we’d have to have lashings of custard with it, to manage to get it down. My, it was hard work that pudding.’
‘Well, I’m lucky I had the best teacher in my mum, Isabel,’ Jill said. ‘And, well, I’d be lost without the fabulous Baking Bible.’
The ‘Baking Bible’ was the family recipe book that had been handed down over generations. It took pride of place on the shelf in their farmhouse kitchen and provided inspiration, recipes and tips, even now.
‘That’s where the Gingerbread pudding came from, it was one of my old Aunt Elsie’s recipes.’
‘Well, you’re onto a winner there, lass. My taste buds are waltzing.’
‘Thank you, Frank.’
Jill then focussed on getting organised for the day ahead, and began making a batch of fresh cherry and sultana scones in the little oven they had there in the Pantry. Rachel stood wrapping up sets of knives and forks in red gingham checked napkins.