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Great, he didn’t even know her name. ‘Hall, Ellie Hall.’
‘Well, Ellen, do make yourself comfortable.’
She was too nervous to correct him.
He poured out two coffees and passed her one, pouring in milk for her from a small white porcelain jug. She took a sip; it was rich and dark, definitely not instant, then she sat back in the chair, trying to give the air of cool, calm and collected. She was bricking it inside. She hoped her voice would work normally. As Lord Henry took his seat on the other side of the immense desk, she tried out the word ‘Thanks’. Phew, at least she could speak, though she noted that her pitch was a little higher than normal.
‘So, how long have you worked in the catering industry, Miss Hall?’ He leaned towards her, rubbing his chin, his brown eyes scrutinising.
She froze, ‘Ah … Well …’ About never. Seat of the pants didn’t even cover it. What the hell was she doing here? ‘Yes,’ she coughed into her coffee, ‘Well, I’ve had a few years’ experience.’ Baking at home, for friends, birthday cakes, cupcakes, Victoria sponges and the like, not to mention her ‘choffee cake special’. And, yes, she made the tea and coffee regularly at the insurance office. ‘I have worked in a restaurant.’ Saturday-night waitressing as a teenager at the Funky Chicken Express down the road for a bit of extra cash. ‘And I have managed several staff.’ Where was this coming from? She had trained another waitress in the art of wiping down tables. Though, she had filled in that weekend for her friend Kirsty at her sandwich bar, when Kirsty’s boyfriend went AWOL.
Ellie thought that had planted the seed. She’d loved those two days prepping the food, making up tasty panini combinations – her brie, grape and cranberry had been a hit. She’d warmed to the idea of running her own company after that, spent hours daydreaming about it, something that involved food, baking ideally, being her own boss. That, and her nanna’s inspiration, of course, lovely Nanna. Ellie remembered perching on a stool in her galley kitchen beating sponge-mix with a wooden spoon. Nanna had left her over a thousand pounds in her will – it would give Ellie the chance to cover this lease for a couple of months. Give her the time to try and make a go of it. She was sure Nanna would have supported her in this venture. Ellie would have loved to have turned up at her flat for a good chat about the tearooms and her ideas to make the business work, over a cup of strong tea and a slice of homemade lemon drizzle. But someone else was living there now, the world had moved on, and Nanna too. She really missed her.
Ellie managed to smile across at Lord Henry, realising she ought to say more but not quite sure what. How did you capture those dreams in words?
‘And if you did take on the lease for the tearooms, Miss Hall, how would you propose to take the business forward?’
‘Well …’ Think, think, you’ve been practising answers all night, woman. ‘I’ve had a look at the current income and expenditure figures, and I’m certain there’s room for improvements. I’d bake all my own cakes and scones. I’ll look carefully at pricing, staffing levels, costs and the like, offering good-quality food at a fair price for the customer, and keeping an eye on making a profit too. But, most of all, I want to give people a really positive, friendly experience so they’d want to come back … And, I’d like to try and source local produce.’
Lord Henry raised a rather hairy grey eyebrow. It sounded stilted, even to her.
At that, there was a brusque knock on the door. It swung open. ‘So sorry I’m late.’ A man strolled in. Wow, he was rather gorgeous, in a tall, dark-haired and lean kind of way. He offered an outstretched hand to Ellie as he walked past her chair and acknowledged Lord Henry. He looked late twenties, possibly early thirties. ‘There was a problem with the tractor,’ he offered, by way of explanation, ‘She needs a major service, but I’ve got her going again for now.’
He had a firm grip, long fingers and neat nails.
‘Miss Hall, this is Joseph Ward, our estate manager.’
‘Hello.’ Ellie smiled nervously. Another interrogator.
The younger man looked back at her with dark-brown eyes, his gaze intent, as though he were trying to suss her out. Then his features seemed to soften, ‘Joe, I prefer Joe.’ A pointed glance was exchanged between the two men. Ellie sensed a certain tension, which had nothing to do with her. Joe sat down, angling his seat to the side of the desk. There was something about him that reminded her of the guy off Silent Witness, hmm, yes, that Harry chap, from the series before, with his dark-haired English-gentleman look. He must be over six foot, on the slim side, but not without a hint of muscle beneath his blue cotton shirt, which was rolled up to the elbow and open at the neck. He looked smart-scruffy all at once.
‘Sorry if I interrupted you there. Please carry on where you left off.’ His voice wasn’t upper class despite his appearance, having the Geordie lilts of her home town. He smiled at her.
On closer inspection she noted that his eyes were a deep brown with flecks of green. Her mind had gone blank. What the hell had she been talking about?
‘Local produce?’ Lord Henry prompted.
‘Oh, yes, I’d certainly look to use the local farmers’ markets and shops to source good local food.’
‘Hmn, sounds a good idea,’ Joe nodded.
‘Well, Mrs Charlton, the lady who’s been running the tearooms announced her departure rather suddenly,’ Lord Henry took up, ‘She’s had the lease here for the past twelve years and we were rather hoping she would be back to start the season again in a month’s time. With Easter being at the end of March this year, we would need somebody quickly. Would that be a problem for you?’
‘No, at least I don’t think so. I’d hand my notice in at work straight away. I’m meant to give a month, but the company owes me some holiday, and I believe they are usually quite flexible.’ Did that actually mean Lord Henry was interested in her? What about Supercook Cynthia from earlier?
‘So, what is your current position, Ellie?’ Joe looked right into her eyes as he spoke, unsettling her. He wasn’t going to miss a trick, was he? Damn, and it all seemed to be going so well.
Deep breath, how to phrase this one? ‘Ah-m, well, I have been working as an insurance administrator. But, as I was explaining to Lord Henry, I have been building up my experience in the catering industry over many years. My friend owns a bistro, where I regularly help out.’ Fill in sandwich bar here. ‘And I have worked at a local restaurant.’ Funky Chicken, as a waitress, the heckler in her mind added. She was losing her nerve rapidly.
‘I see.’ Joe was mulling her words over, rubbing his fingertips across his chin, definitely unconvinced.
‘Ah, right. Well then. I see.’ Lord Henry was cooling too.
‘And what formal qualifications do you have in catering, Ellie?’ Joe.
She began to feel sick. None, I have none. Her voice came out small, ‘I haven’t anything formal other than the standard health and hygiene requirements.’ Liar, liar pants on fire. Well, she’d be getting those as soon as possible. ‘Much as I’d have loved to, I haven’t trained professionally as a chef.’ A lump stuck in her throat. She knew she shouldn’t have come, what had she been thinking? The dream was slipping away …
‘But,’ she had to grasp at something, tell them how much this meant to her, ‘I want this more than anything. The admin, the insurance role, that’s just a job, a means of earning money. But I’m passionate about my baking. I cook fabulous cakes and pastries and scones. That’s not just me saying it, either, my family, my friends are always asking me to bake for them. I can make soups and quiches. I’ve wanted to run my own tearooms since I was a little girl.’ The words were gushing out now. ‘Just give me a year. Give me this season and I’ll show you. I can turn the business around, pay you a good lease, and attract more people to the castle to do the tours that I notice you do. We could plan themed open days. I could cook medieval-style food,’ She wasn’t even sure what kind of food ‘medieval’ might be. ‘Try cream-tea afternoons. Link up with local charities, host a fundraiser, a summer fete. Halloween, why not? It looks spooky enough here.’ She ran out of steam then.
Joe was giving her a wry smile. She wasn’t sure if he liked what he heard or was thinking that she was totally bonkers. Where had all that come from? She hadn’t actually thought of any of it till now; it certainly wasn’t what she’d been rehearsing in her head all night. Some last-ditch chance at getting hired, probably. A final fling at her dream or else it was back home. Home wasn’t so bad, to be fair. Her mum and dad were great, but it was a narrow life, living in a brick-built semi in Heaton, and working in an office block in the suburbs of Newcastle. She couldn’t afford her own place. Well, not now anyway. That particular dream had been ransacked by Gavin-bloody-tosser-Mason. She needed this so badly, this new start. And a castle, surely, wasn’t a bad place to begin.
They were staring at her, an awkward silence forming around them. Then Lord Henry stood up, indicating that it was time for her departure. ‘Well, thank you for taking the time and effort to come all this way, Miss Hall.’
There was no ‘We’ll be in touch very soon’ like good old Cynthia had. Though Joe did add, ‘We’ll let you know something in the next week or so. We do have several candidates to see and there may be second interviews.’ He stood up, his hand outstretched. His fingers clasped warmly around her own.
‘Yes, we’ll be in touch.’ Lord Henry gave an inscrutable smile.
Out in the cool corridor, Deana caught up with her. ‘Do you want to have a quick look around the kitchens, the tearooms? Get an idea of what you’re in for?’
‘Okay, yep, that’d be good.’ Go on, just dangle that carrot, show her everything she was about to lose.
They wound down the stone stairwell. She could almost imagine an old witch up at the top with a spinning wheel; all ready to prick the girl’s finger, send her to sleep for a hundred years, and then there’d be her knight in shining armour galloping in to kiss her awake again. It happened like that in fairytales, you see, oh yes, those heroic men would hack down a forest just to get to you. Where were all the heroes nowadays? She sighed – she’d obviously been fed too many Disney movies as a child. Back out to the courtyard again and in through a heavy wooden side door that opened with a creak into the kitchen. It was big, very big, with rather drab mushroom-grey-painted walls; you could cater for a function easily from here. Weddings and parties were flitting through her mind. It had obviously been designed for bigger things than a tearoom. She wondered if it had been the original castle kitchen, but there were no signs of anything pre-seventies, really, no old ranges or copper kettles, no Victorian bells lined up on the walls for the staff (Downton was still flitting around her head), just practical stainless-steel work surfaces, a two-sided sink, huge oven, modern microwave, fridge, chest freezer and dishwasher.
Deana waltzed through, pointing out the various equipment, apologising for the general state of the place, explaining that Mrs Charlton, the previous lease-owner, had left in a hurry at the end of last season, only recently announcing that she wasn’t coming back – some family crisis, apparently.
On closer inspection the walls were a bit greasy-looking, and the convection fan had a layer of tar-like grime; it needed taking down, scrubbing and bleaching. But Ellie didn’t mind a spot of cleaning.
There was a narrow passageway leading from the kitchen. Deana set off, Ellie following her through to the tearooms themselves. Now this was back in time, a real contrast to the kitchens. History smacked you in the face – high stone walls, leaded windows, a massive fireplace; they’d need whole tree trunks, not logs, on that grate. A huge pair of antlers was fixed high above the hearth; that would have been one hell of a scary deer, like something out of the ice age. Deana was chattering on about how different it was when the visitors were there.
‘Are they real?’ Ellie asked, looking up at the antlers.
‘Replicas, I believe, but the originals were from a real animal, fossilised. Can’t tell you when they were dated, but, yeah, that would have been a brute of a beast, wouldn’t it?’
‘You’re telling me!’ It was like Bambi on steroids.
The corridor had taken them from twentieth-century kitchen – it hadn’t quite reached the twenty-first yet, back to some sixteenth-century vault. Well, the tearooms certainly had character: reams of it. There were about ten dark-wood tables with chairs, their floral-patterned seat pads frayed. It was an amazing place, but it all looked rather unloved.
Even so, she could picture it there with the fire on, posies on the tables, the smell of home baking, friendly waitresses in black skirts, white blouses and frilly aprons, and herself cooking away in the kitchen, doing plenty of Nigella spoon-licking, having to test all the cakes personally, of course – Ellie’s Teashop.
Back in the car a few minutes later, she realised she was trembling. Maybe it was just the Northumberland March chill. Or perhaps it was the fear that this was the last she might see of this place. She wanted this so much.
2 (#u46f23b22-eeab-577b-9579-7d94aa76f2be)
Ellie
She pulled up, finding a parking space four houses down from her family home in Heaton. Rows and rows of brick terraces crowded around her. It wasn’t a bad place to live; the neighbours were friendly, there were coffee shops and takeaways around the corner, a park near by and a ten-minute metro ride and you were in the lively city centre of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. But today she’d had a taste of something different; a castle brimming with history in the middle of the most stunning countryside, big Northumbrian skies, open space, a taste of freedom. And she wanted to taste just a little more of it, to live it, breathe it, cook in it.
Today had given Ellie a sense of her future. Made her want the job all the more. Yet she wasn’t at all sure how the interview with Lord Henry and Joe had gone. Her inner interview-ometer was registering pretty low.
She got out of the car, walked down to number five, and wandered in for what might have been the thousandth time. Smells of polish and vegetables filled the air. She found her mum, Sarah, in the kitchen, peeling carrots. Onions, parsnips and a hunk of marble-fatted beef sat on a chopping board ready for cubing.
‘Hello, pet … So, how did it go?’ She turned to her daughter with a cautious smile.
‘Umn, I don’t know, to be honest … It was an amazing place … proper castle … big grounds. The people seemed nice.’ Well, Lord Henry seemed quietly intimidating, but he was the sort of person it might take a while to get to know. Deana, she was just lovely. And Joe, hmn, gorgeous Joe, something about him made her feel uneasy, yet he seemed okay, a bit aloof, maybe, but then it had been a formal interview. His questions had definitely been more searching than Lord Henry’s. She’d need to be far more prepared, do some full costings, a business plan and book her health and hygiene course, if there was to be a second interview or anything. If … a small word, massive implications. She plastered on a hopeful smile as her mother looked across at her.
‘Well,’ her mother’s tone dipped into school-marmish, ‘It is a bit out of the way up there. I’m still not sure why you’re looking that far out? Just think of all the fuel. How long did it take you to get there?’
‘About an hour.’ Due north up the A1, then a maze of winding lanes. She wasn’t thinking about travelling every day, she wanted to live there – the ad said there might be accommodation with the lease. But she hadn’t mentioned that yet. No point getting her mum all wound up if it wasn’t going to happen.
‘Are you sure about all this, Ellie? It does seem a bit of a whim. I still can’t grasp why you’re thinking about giving up a good office job with a reasonable salary. What if it all goes wrong? You won’t be able to waltz back into the insurance job again, you know – what with the recession and everything.’ Sarah looked up from chopping carrots, her blue-grey eyes shadowed with concern.
‘Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Oh, pet. It’s not that I don’t want you to do well. I just don’t want you to fall down with this. Get caught up in some dream and then realise it’s not all it’s supposed to be. I’d hate for you to end up with no job at all.’ She wiped her hands on her floral apron and gave Ellie an affectionate pat on the shoulder. It was as near a hug as she was going to get.
Her mother was sensible, cautious; she liked order and stability. Sometimes it drove Ellie nuts. Yes, the concern was no doubt born of love, but lately the family safety net felt like it was strangling her. When were dreams so bad, so dangerous? The two of them got on alright, but often Ellie felt very different from her mother. They viewed the world through different eyes. Ellie felt that there was something more out there in the big wide world, something she hadn’t found yet. And so what if it all went wrong? At least she’d have tried.
‘It’s not as though there are jobs on trees at the moment, Eleanor.’ Jeez, her full name was coming into action now. Mum really was toeing the sensible line.
‘I know that. But, I’d find something else if it came to it, Mum.’ She’d waitress, clean loos or something if she had to, if it all went belly-up a few months down the line.
Sarah just raised her eyes to heaven and took the slab of meat to hand.
Ellie sighed. Nanna Beryl would have understood. But she wasn’t here to back her up any more, bless her. A knot of loss tightened inside. She was such an amazing character, hard-working, fun, loving and wise. Nanna had inspired Ellie into this baking malarkey, many moons ago in her tiny kitchen flat – Ellie cleaning the mixing bowl out with big licks of the wooden spoon once the cake had gone into the oven. She had watched, she had learned, had her fill of sticky-sweet cake mix, and she had loved. She kept Nanna’s battered old Be-Ro recipe book stashed in her bedroom, with Beryl’s hand-written adaptations and extra recipes held within it. Her choffee cake was awesome – a coffee-chocolate dream: one bite and you felt you’d gone to heaven.
But bless her, she had died just over a year ago. Ellie still felt that awful pang of missing her. Hopefully she was up in heaven somewhere still cooking cakes and keeping all the angels cheery and plump. Yes, she was sure Nanna Beryl would have supported her in this, told her to go out there and give it a try. She could almost hear her voice, that golden-warm Geordie accent, ‘Go on canny lass, diven’ worry about your mam. She was born sensible, that one. It’s your life, your dream.’
And she needed this change, especially with everything that happened six months ago with that tosser Gavin. Nah, she didn’t want to even think about that. He wasn’t worth spending thinking-time on.
Ellie popped her jacket in the understairs cupboard and came back to the kitchen offering to make the dumplings for the stew. She asked her mum about her day, glad to divert the attention and questions from herself. Sarah had a part-time job at the Co-op around the corner, as well as doing a couple of mornings’ cleaning at the doctor’s surgery. They chatted comfortably. Mixing the dumpling ingredients took Ellie’s mind off things. She added dried herbs to the flour, then the suet and water, rolling the dough between her hands, circling broken-off lumps in her palms into neat balls ready to float on the stew.
Ten minutes later, the front door banged open and Keith, Ellie’s father, appeared with a loud ‘Hullo’ and a broad grin, returning home after a day plumbing and handy-manning. He popped his head into the kitchen. ‘Good day, girls! How did it go, then, our Ellie? Head chef already?’
‘Not quite,’ she smiled. ‘There’s a chance of a second interview. But I’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘Well, best of luck, bonny lass. Best of luck. Better go up and get myself changed out of these work things. Stew is it tonight, Mam?
‘Ah-hah.’
‘Great. I’m starving.’
Things had been slower for him these past few years with the recession biting hard in the building trade, but he’d do odd jobs as well as the plumbing, anything really. He had a trade – he was lucky, he often said. Ellie listened to his cheery whistle as he headed upstairs to change out of his navy boiler suit.
Jason, Ellie’s brother, sauntered in soon after, dumping muddy football boots in the hall. He was nine years younger than Ellie, seventeen to her twenty-six, and still at sixth form. In the main he tried to avoid schoolwork as much as he could, filling the gap with sport, occasionally interrupted by a crush on a new girl. This month it was Kylie of the white-blonde hair and dark roots from down the road. She was still giving out confusing signals, apparently, one minute sitting next to him on the bus to town, full of chat, the next giggling with her friends and hardly giving him the time of day.
‘Jason, boots out the back, please. Not the hall. The house’ll be stinking. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,’ Sarah shouted, catching him before he drifted off upstairs, and the aroma of sweaty teenage footwear permeated the house.
An hour and a half later, they were all assembled around the kitchen table. Jay was famished, as per usual, and shovelled his stew down like there was no tomorrow. Then a normal night in the Hall household followed: telly – sport or soaps, Coronation Street being Mum’s favourite, the boys swapping channels to any footie that might be going, general chit-chat, cup of tea, off to bed.
Ellie opted for an early night. The trip up north, the interview, had drained her. Lying there under her single duvet, within the four pink-painted walls – one cerise, three blossom, (she’d chosen the shades aged twelve) of her small bedroom, she thought about her day at Claverham Castle. Was there any chance they might offer her the lease? If so – wildest dreams – would they also offer her a room there? What might it be like, working there, living there? Her dreams felt like bubbles, floating iridescent in a blue sky of hope. But, then, wasn’t there always the inevitable pop, then plop, when you came splatting back down to earth?
Her thoughts spun on, sleep elusive. She should have been better prepared, done her homework, thought about it all more thoroughly. And, she hadn’t even mentioned half the things in the interview that she’d mentally prepped in bed the night before. Maybe her mother was right; doing things on a whim was never the best option. But something inside told her she was right to try for that interview today. She’d been so excited reading the ad in the job pages of the Journal, then ringing up, actually getting an interview, taking those steps towards her dream. She could make a go of it, given half a chance. The if dangled before her, her dream on a very thin thread, making her feel queasy in the pit of her stomach.
Concrete, steel, glass – Ellie’s working world. Tuesday, the day after her tearoom interview, and walking into the impersonal open-plan insurance office made her feel flat; just serving to remind her of how the next ten years might pan out – the most exciting prospect being a promotion to claims supervisor, more targets to push for, deadlines to beat, staff to rally.
The other staff there were fine, to be fair. Her ally, Gemma, the only one she could trust with the truth about the interview and why she’d taken a day’s holiday, collared her at the coffee machine.
‘So? How was it?’ her friend uttered in hushed tones. She knew how much this interview meant to Ellie, and had volunteered a few days ago, half-jokingly, to become a waitress for her should it all come off. Gemma was a townie through and through, and dreaded the thought of leaving the city for anything.
‘It went okay-ish … I think,’ Ellie whispered back, taking a plastic cup in hand, positioning it and pressing the button. ‘It’s hard to tell. There’s someone else lined up for it, though, I think.’
‘Ah, but you never know. Good luck!’ Gemma smiled encouragingly right through to her blue-grey eyes. She was tall with a lean, boyish figure and platinum-blonde hair cut in a short, choppy style.
‘I’m just waiting for …’ Ellie started.
‘Morning, ladies.’ Weasly William, a colleague in their claims team, shuffled up beside them, making Ellie jump.
‘Morning, Will,’ Ellie replied. Gemma just raised her eyebrows. He always seemed to appear just when you were chatting about something you shouldn’t: sex or alcohol, in Gemma’s case. She was sure he did it on purpose. Her theory was, and this had been giggled over on many a night out, that he was either a spy for the management, a perve, or just fancied the pants off Ellie.
Anyway, his presence cut their conversation short.
‘Right, then, I’d better get back to work,’ Ellie said cheerily, taking her coffee with her.
‘Catch you later, El. Full details at lunchtime. I’ll get us a Krispy Kreme.’ Gemma grinned.
Back in from work, her feet throbbing from the walk from the metro station to the house – not ideal in two-inch heels on uneven pavements with a gaggle of commuters.
Her mum shouted from the lounge as Ellie’s feet hit the welcome mat, ‘There’s been a call for you.’
Ooooh. ‘Oh, okay, who?’ She sounded calmer than she felt.
‘Joe, somebody-or-other … Uhm, Ward, I think.’
A lump tightened her throat. So this was it – the decision. The rejection. She’d be staying at the insurance office for the foreseeable future, then.
‘Any message?’ Deep intake of breath.
Ellie was frozen in the hall, her mum behind the closed door of the living room, by the muffled sound of her voice.
‘Just, could you call him back? He’ll be there until six. I’ve jotted the number down on the pad.’
Deeper breath. She glanced at her wristwatch. OH MY GOD – she only had ten minutes left to ring him back. She wanted to know, but it was almost better not to. At least now, not knowing, there was still the slightest possibility that she might be in with a chance. Her stomach lurched. She was planted to the spot.
Right, Ellie May Hall, her mind gave her a kick, keep to the 3 Cs – cool, calm, collected. She kicked off her stiletto shoes, wriggled her toes. The relief was fabulous. And now for the phone. All this fannying about had already lost her, she glanced at her watch again, two minutes.
‘Okay, then,’ she spoke aloud to herself, in her best calming tone. ‘Let’s do this thing.’ She grabbed the notepad, pen, handset. All she had to do was dial the number. Gulp.
She didn’t want to. What if she broke down, couldn’t reply at the ‘Sorry, but’ bit?
