The Little Wedding Shop by the Sea. Jane Linfoot
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A Tour of Daisy Hill Farm Continued: Red boots and spring rain
‘So if you were having a birthday cake, I think either a tractor, or a cow would suit you.’ I’m musing here. Allocating cake designs to people? It’s a thing I like to do as soon as I get to know a little about someone. Even if they are blowing hot and cold.
We’re bowling along rutted tracks back to the main farm, and to be honest there’s simply no space left in my head for another fact about cows or sheep or fertilizer or slurry. Slurry? It’s the most disgusting thing out. Take it from me, you DO NOT want to know details. And don’t write me off as an air head, but my brain is officially rammed. There’s enough agricultural information in there to last at least two lifetimes, which is why I decided I have to fill the space as we drive back to the farm with a conversation about normal stuff.
‘Why the hell would I want a birthday cake?’ Rafe sends me another of his disbelieving sideways glances. I’ve noticed he resorts to these a lot when it’s me doing the talking not him.
I’m torn between frustration at him being so unreceptive, and a horrible pang of sympathy for someone who obviously hasn’t blown out any candles in a very long time. How can a guy be so out of touch with the fun side of life?
‘When did you last have one?’ This is less rude than it sounds, I’m only trying to keep the conversation on topic. And asking questions will save me from what Immie calls my nervous splurging.
‘How do I know? Probably when I was about five.’
Probably not true at all. Isn’t it a typical guy thing to dismiss what doesn’t interest them?
‘My mum made the most awesome birthday cakes,’ I say. It’s out before I can stop myself, because usually I’d rather not talk about my mum, especially not with strangers, so I move on swiftly. ‘For my fifth birthday I had the most amazing merry-go-round cake, with prancing horses and barley sugar twists holding up the roof.’ Growing up in a kitchen with the table covered in icing bowls and piping bags definitely rubbed off on me, but there’s no point sharing that with a cake hater.
‘So I grew up with cows and tractors, you grew up with cake. That explains a lot.’ He gives a sarcastic laugh. ‘It’s always the kids who have easy childhoods who grow up to be annoyingly happy adults.’
Two side swipes in one breath. I doubt that my mum bringing me up on her own counted as easy for her, not that I’m going to tell Rafe that. My dad died when I was too young to remember, we never had much money or owned a home, but my mum made up for it in every other way. Our home might have been tiny, but it was filled with warmth and love and colour. If those digs were meant to shut me up, I’m not letting him get away with it.
‘Whereas you had so much, and still turned out moody and bad tempered,’ I snap back. That came out more harshly than I intended, but maybe someone needs to tell him.
He comes straight back at me. ‘Well, sorry I don’t go round wearing spotty wellies and thinking the whole world should be made of sugar, but some people have responsibilities.’
I had no idea he’d even noticed Cate’s red boots. What kind of guy takes offence at wellies?
He gives a snort. ‘And just so you know, in-your-face red hair might match your name, and it might be fine if you want to scream “happy hippy”, but I’m not sure it sends out the right message for a Wedding Coordinator.’
I’m wearing borrowed wellies, have go-wild-after-break-up hair, and I’ve been thrown into the job. I take a minute to collect myself in the face of that attack.
‘Actually, I’m not a Wedding Coordinator, I’m an Events Manager according to you.’ I throw that at him for starters. And whereas I might have been thinking along those lines myself about the hair a couple of weeks down the line, now he’s been so rude, I’m damned if I’m going to tone it down. ‘As for my name, I’m called after the blue poppy, not the red one.’ My mum’s favourite flower, our garden was bursting with them. ‘Known as meconopsis.’
His only reply is to lean forward and flick on the stereo, and we roar up the lane back towards the farm. Oasis blasts away the silence, and the beat is loud enough to make my head throb. As we pass the farmhouse Immie is there waving her arms, and there’s lucky respite as Rafe cuts the music and slides open the window.
‘You two getting on okay? No more falling in ditches I hope?’ She asks with a breezy laugh.
I’d say overall it’s a big fat ‘no’ to both those questions, but she isn’t waiting for an answer.
‘By the way Rafe, Morgan texted, says he’ll be round to help with the engine rebuild later,’ she adds.
‘Fine.’ Another monosyllabic reply from Rafe.
Immie’s fourteen year old son, Morgan, has morphed from a sweet boy to a monster overnight due to a testosterone rush. That’s Immie’s description, not mine. But if Rafe is an example of Immie’s choice of fun male role models to keep Morgan out of trouble, I feel sorry for poor Morgan.
‘We’re just off to see the venue field, I’ll be back for him in a bit.’ Rafe says, as he slams the window shut, and then we’re bouncing off down the lane again.
As he turns through a gateway with an open five bar gate, I’m a) still fuming b) thinking we need some signage.
‘So what would yours be then?’ His question comes from nowhere as we skid down a field.
‘Sorry?’ I have no idea what he’s talking about.
‘Your birthday cake. What kind would you make for yourself?’
Who’d have thought he’d ask that?
‘A summer garden, bursting with flowers.’ Easy to answer. ‘And I might not have a cake, I’d probably make a cupcake tower.’
Too much information there obviously, given he’s shaking his head again, but then he pulls to a halt in front of an open barn, and my eyes go wide.
‘This is it,’ he says, with a ‘take it or leave it’ shrug. ‘Ceremony in the building, marquees anywhere on the grass, and car parking in the next field beyond the trees. Nothing more to it than that.’
I know I shouldn’t be gushing, but my surprise whooshes any remaining crossness away. ‘It’s so pretty.’ Even on this grey winter’s afternoon it’s beautiful. With the carved wooden pillars across the front of the open barn and the ancient flag floor, I can imagine it festooned with garlands of summer flowers. As I take in the field rolling gently down past a fairy wood to a stream, I can suddenly see why Cate has set her heart on marrying here.
Rafe flings open the tractor door and jumps out, and cold air floods into the cab, along with the most disgusting stench.
I bury my nose in my sleeve as I clamber down after him. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘The smell?’ His expression suggests amusement, but on second glance it’s more of a grimace than a smile. ‘Muck spreading in the next field.’ He folds his arms. ‘Is there a problem?’
Obviously he doesn’t think so, despite the stink being enough to make me retch. I peer over the hedge. The grass is covered with a thick brown mat of what looks like cow poo.
‘You aren’t going to …’ My voice is coming out as a squeak. ‘You aren’t going to do that in this field are you?’
‘It’s next on the work sheet,’ he says, as if it’s the most matter of fact thing in the world.
‘Are you mad? You can’t have brides wading through …’ I man up and say it. ‘… cow shit.’
He doesn’t flinch. ‘Don’t worry, a bit of spring rain, and it’ll soon soak into