conventional farming I couldn ’t do it for that. Here, Abigail!’ He summoned his wife, a rangy woman who looked as if she’d be more at home in a classy solicitor ’s office than in a farmyard. ‘No wonder we only cater for niche markets.’
She looked long and hard at me. For a moment I was reminded of Nick in his keen young days, sniffing out a lie. ‘Is this some loss leader? Does his poultry cost twice as much as usual?’
‘I’ve never used him for chickens.’ They came free-range from a neighbour, who also supplied me with eggs.
‘Pork?’
I might have been on a witness stand. ‘I’ve not used it enough to have a regular supplier.’
‘Has he ever offered it to you?’
‘Look, I’m only asking you to price up a regular delivery of beef. If you can offer pork and bacon – yes, I’d kill for good old-fashioned bacon, the sort that doesn’t leave white goo in your pan – then let’s talk about that too. Meanwhile, let’s stick to this particular issue, shall we?’
Over a cup of Earl Grey, served by Abigail in a china cup after we’d come to an agreement, I asked, ‘Why were you so concerned about my original supplier’s price?’ But I knew the answer already.
‘If it’s not off the back of some lorry,’ she said, despite Dan’s warning cough, ‘I’d say it was old stock illegally slaughtered and put into the food chain.’
‘There’s no call to make accusations,’ Dan protested.
‘Oh, there is,’ I said. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, too – why do you think I’ve come to you? Yes, just to celebrate, just this once, I will have one of those scones, please.’ It came with clotted cream, and jam. In my mind’s eye I could see the judder of the scales. But it was worth it. Every last gram.
Chapter Six
Friday morning was Josie-time, my own private quality time. Each week I left the village at eight thirty-five prompt. If I passed anyone – and today it was Fred Tregothnan apparently arguing the toss with Nick Thomas as they stood outside the village shop – I waved, but no one in the village knew where I went. Maybe they thought I had an assignation with a secret lover – and I was happy to keep it that way. Actually, they’d have been half right. Piers, the instructor, and I did have the odd highly pleasurable shag, and it was always nice to know I could pull a bloke half my age, but the main business of the morning was a flying lesson. I’d gone on the principle that if Sarah Ferguson could fly a helicopter, so could I. I’d no ambition, as she did, to write children’s books about choppers. Certainly not
children’s
books about
choppers
! I just did it for the pleasure. It invigorated me for the whole of the next week. Well, the flying or the recreational sex.
I always got back in time to open up the bar, remind Lindi exactly what she was supposed to be doing and get into the kitchen. There was more passing trade on Fridays, people nipping off to their holiday homes or heading back to the city a day early to beat the weekend M5 jams. Today I was gratified to have quite a run on the organic steak I’d brought back with me, and plenty of favourable comment. I’d made sure I marked it up as a Special, lest people compare the price with the one in the menu. When I had a new menu printed, the prices would be even higher, so I could sell it at a profit, not just little more than cost.
As soon as Reg Bulcombe registered the offer on the blackboard , he strode over to me, jabbing at my chest. I stared down at his parsnip of a finger.
‘Yes, Reg. What can I get you?’ I asked before he could speak. ‘Your usual?’
‘I can’t have my usual, can I? ’Cos you’ve slapped a fancy great price on its head. Going organic, are we? We’ll see about that. You mark my words we’ll see.’
‘If you mean to get rid of the Portaloos again, you’ll find I’ve trumped you. Now, do I draw you a nice cool pint or are yougoing to throw your toys out of the pram and
She looked long and hard at me. For a moment I was reminded of Nick in his keen young days, sniffing out a lie. ‘Is this some loss leader? Does his poultry cost twice as much as usual?’
‘I’ve never used him for chickens.’ They came free-range from a neighbour, who also supplied me with eggs.
‘Pork?’
I might have been on a witness stand. ‘I’ve not used it enough to have a regular supplier.’
‘Has he ever offered it to you?’
‘Look, I’m only asking you to price up a regular delivery of beef. If you can offer pork and bacon – yes, I’d kill for good old-fashioned bacon, the sort that doesn’t leave white goo in your pan – then let’s talk about that too. Meanwhile, let’s stick to this particular issue, shall we?’
Over a cup of Earl Grey, served by Abigail in a china cup after we’d come to an agreement, I asked, ‘Why were you so concerned about my original supplier’s price?’ But I knew the answer already.
‘If it’s not off the back of some lorry,’ she said, despite Dan’s warning cough, ‘I’d say it was old stock illegally slaughtered and put into the food chain.’
‘There’s no call to make accusations,’ Dan protested.
‘Oh, there is,’ I said. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, too – why do you think I’ve come to you? Yes, just to celebrate, just this once, I will have one of those scones, please.’ It came with clotted cream, and jam. In my mind’s eye I could see the judder of the scales. But it was worth it. Every last gram.
Chapter Six
Friday morning was Josie-time, my own private quality time. Each week I left the village at eight thirty-five prompt. If I passed anyone – and today it was Fred Tregothnan apparently arguing the toss with Nick Thomas as they stood outside the village shop – I waved, but no one in the village knew where I went. Maybe they thought I had an assignation with a secret lover – and I was happy to keep it that way. Actually, they’d have been half right. Piers, the instructor, and I did have the odd highly pleasurable shag, and it was always nice to know I could pull a bloke half my age, but the main business of the morning was a flying lesson. I’d gone on the principle that if Sarah Ferguson could fly a helicopter, so could I. I’d no ambition, as she did, to write children’s books about choppers. Certainly not
children’s
books about
choppers
! I just did it for the pleasure. It invigorated me for the whole of the next week. Well, the flying or the recreational sex.
I always got back in time to open up the bar, remind Lindi exactly what she was supposed to be doing and get into the kitchen. There was more passing trade on Fridays, people nipping off to their holiday homes or heading back to the city a day early to beat the weekend M5 jams. Today I was gratified to have quite a run on the organic steak I’d brought back with me, and plenty of favourable comment. I’d made sure I marked it up as a Special, lest people compare the price with the one in the menu. When I had a new menu printed, the prices would be even higher, so I could sell it at a profit, not just little more than cost.
As soon as Reg Bulcombe registered the offer on the blackboard , he strode over to me, jabbing at my chest. I stared down at his parsnip of a finger.
‘Yes, Reg. What can I get you?’ I asked before he could speak. ‘Your usual?’
‘I can’t have my usual, can I? ’Cos you’ve slapped a fancy great price on its head. Going organic, are we? We’ll see about that. You mark my words we’ll see.’
‘If you mean to get rid of the Portaloos again, you’ll find I’ve trumped you. Now, do I draw you a nice cool pint or are yougoing to throw your toys out of the pram and
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