Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Rita opened the annexe door to a smell of garlic, rosemary… and something burning.
‘Don’t panic.’ Zenya fanned the smoke alarm frantically with a tea towel. ‘It’s only the edges.’
‘I don’t know.’ Hilda held court from her velvet recliner. ‘I let you use my facilities, and you burn the pigging place down.’
‘I thought you’d appreciate the company, and it beats you cooking for yourself, I guess.’ Rita smirked. ‘How was the funeral today, anyway?’
‘It was marvellous. Eulogy too long and very dull but they’d got caterers in for the wake. A proper job it was. Sausage rolls that even Mrs Munroe couldn’t find fault with. And I think Betty Bloom must have provided the scones, because they were to die for.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Zenya piped up, pushing the sleeves of her flowing green smock up with her chin as she began to prepare a green salad.
‘Oh, I didn’t know him, dear. He was a husband of a woman I used to go to primary school with.’
‘Don’t ask,’ Rita mouthed at Zenya’s perplexed face.
Rita peered into the oven behind her. ‘So, what exactly are we having, then?’
‘Rustic vegetable tart,’ Zenya announced proudly.
‘Heavy on the rustic, by the smell of it,’ Hilda piped up, moving herself to the pine table in the kitchen, where she sat down, glasses perched low on her nose, this week’s obituary page open.
She didn’t look up to speak. ‘If the bottom’s not soggy and it’s got no unidentifiable herbs in.
I’ll try it. I read recently about a woman taking nearly her whole family out with wild mushrooms.’
Zenya laughed. ‘I promise not to kill you, Hilda; I’m too looking forward to working with your daughter-in-law.’
The tart hit the table with a dramatic clatter, accompanied by a mismatched salad, a bottle of cheap white wine that Rita had brought with her, and three tumblers that had once belonged to Hilda’s mother and had survived the Blitz and two marriages.
Rita poured, then raised her glass. ‘To surviving the week and officially welcoming Zenya to our dysfunctional farmhouse family.’
‘To being fed and having a bit of company,’ Hilda added.
‘To chaos, women, and wellness spa dreams.’ Zenya laughed.
‘Presently powered by cheap wine and sheer delusion,’ Hilda cut in.
They clinked.
For a while, there was only the sound of cutlery scraping plates and soft hums of approval. The tart, against all odds, was rather good.
‘Ooh.’ Hilda grimaced. ‘I can taste some kind of herb I don’t recognise.’
‘It’s probably tahini paste that I stole from the restaurant I was washing up at last summer.’
‘Oh, you do work sometimes then?’ The old woman stuffed another forkful in.
Rita shook her head. ‘Hilda! Do you have to be so rude, all the time?’
‘Rude, dear? I prefer “honest with flavour”.’
Zenya grinned. ‘I’ve done a lot of kitchen work. It suits my transient lifestyle. But I’ve also picked up a few cooking skills along the way, which have proved useful when surviving on not a lot.’
‘I admire your grit.’ Hilda took a large swig of wine and wrinkled her nose.
‘Thank you,’ Zenya acknowledged. ‘And Granny Jory, for the record, I officially love you. I can feel that you’ve alchemised your pain into something the rest of us get to smile at.’
It was the first time Rita had known Hilda lost for words.
Later, as Rita loaded the dishwasher, she found herself watching Zenya chatting away to her mother-in-law. The young woman tilted her head when she listened like she really did care. There was something magnetic about her, something wild and deeply kind.
With Hilda moving to her bedroom, Zenya got up from the table and stretched. ‘I’d better hit the hay. I’m going to make a proper start on the vegetable garden tomorrow.’
After finishing tidying, Rita made drinks and took them outside.
The moon hung low, silvering the tops of the waves way in the distance and catching the tips of the long grass that covered the orchard.
She had suggested that Zenya move into the spare room in the upstairs of the annexe above Hilda’s flat, and was happy to pay her bed and board and give her a fee for each session she was going to be running.
But the free-spirited thirty-year-old wasn’t having any of it.
She would accept being fed and getting the going rate for her services.
Plus, the use of the amenities in the annexe would be a bonus, but it was under the stars where she was quite happy sleeping.
She was also delighted to be introduced to the vegetable patch and with May being a prime time for planting, she had said she would gladly help getting it back to its full growing and eating potential.
Her tent, now tucked at the back of the orchard, still with a view of the ocean, was positioned next to the low stone wall for a bit of shelter.
She had made it cosy with bunting, solar lights, and two old wicker chairs from the barn.
Zenya now sat on one of them wrapped in a blanket.
She looked entirely at home when Rita appeared wearing a night torch on her head.
‘It’s still a bit nippy for May.’ Rita held out a mug. ‘Thought you might like something to warm you up.’
Zenya took the mug with both hands. ‘You read my mind.’
‘Isn’t that your job?’ Rita’s lips turned upwards in a half smile.
The wild woman smiled. ‘Hot chocolate, too, what a treat.’
They sat side by side for a while in companionable silence, listening to the soft bleating of sheep drifting over the fields, mingling with the distant call of gulls and the gentle, steady rhythm of waves lapping against the cliffs down below.
The occasional cluck of a nearby hen completed the quiet symphony of farm and sea. The goats were clearly sleeping.
Rita broke the silence. ‘You really like it out here, don’t you?’
Zenya nodded. ‘I do. It’s quiet. Simple.’ She looked up to the sky. ‘And the stars don’t ask anything of me.’
Rita gave a small laugh. ‘A caravan is about my limit.’
‘I tried that.’ Zenya breathed a big breath. ‘But even then I felt like the walls were closing in on me.’
‘Have you lived like this for a long time?’ Rita enquired gently.
Zenya took a sip of her drink. ‘I was in foster care, mostly, as a kid. Never stayed anywhere long. Five homes by the time I was ten. When I was old enough to leave, I didn’t want anything permanent.
I’d had enough of people telling me where I should be, how I should behave, what I should want. ’ Her voice tailed off.
Rita quietly absorbed the woman’s pain.
‘Society with all its boxes. Wife. Career. Mortgage. Kids. It doesn’t know what to do with someone who colours outside the lines.’
‘So why Cornwall?’
Zenya shrugged. ‘I love the landscape and being by the sea just fills my soul with joy. Plus, people tend to stare less down here when you say you live in a tent and believe in the healing power of plants.’
Rita smiled. ‘We stare a bit.’
Zenya laughed. ‘Yes but give me curiosity over judgement any day.’
Rita took a drink. ‘You’re braver than me. I’m staying exactly where I am to try and rebuild my life.’
‘And I ran from everything and ended up in your field. Maybe we’re just two sides of the same storm.’
Rita looked up. The stars were bright tonight, clear and sharp. Somehow, beside Zenya and under the open sky, things didn’t feel quite so tangled anymore.
‘Maybe we are.’ Rita sighed, and took a sip of her hot chocolate.