Chapter 14
‘Okay, Juliet, today is the day. Are you ready to make the owl bread?’
She could hardly believe it was already the first of August and that she had been back at Feywood for three months. Her life in London had already faded to nothing but a murky memory, other than those times when she was just drifting off to sleep and a sudden flashback came sharply to mind, awakening her with a jolting shock and, more often than not, a rush of shame. But today couldn’t be further away from London; today was about the village, about Lammas and about this damn owl bread.
‘I’m ready, but I’m also rather wishing I’d never got myself into all this.’
Léo laughed.
‘Do not worry. Between us we will make something to be proud of. But vite! We must get on or the vicar will not get his loaf.’
Juliet tied on an apron and rolled up her sleeves, wondering what her London acquaintances would say if they could see her now. Mind you, most of them didn’t surface till midday at the weekends, sleeping off the excesses of the night before. It was early still, and she glanced out of the window as the morning sun streamed in, thinking that she would prefer to be here, in flat shoes with a clear mind, even if it did mean getting covered in flour. And it clearly would. Léo was lifting a huge, dusty bag of the stuff onto the counter.
‘Bon. We need a kilo of this, but only a small amount of yeast. We do not want our loaf to rise too much and lose the beautiful shape we are going to create. Cold water, also. Please get half a litre.’
Juliet rolled her eyes.
‘I have no idea what half a litre is, but I suppose I can work it out.’ She pulled out a measuring jug and examined it theatrically. ‘Ah, you mean a pint, now I see.’
As she had hoped, Léo visibly bristled.
‘I do not mean a pint, I mean a half litre…’ He trailed off as he saw her grinning at the running tap. ‘Oh, I see, I have fallen into your trap once again.’
‘Sorry, you’re such an easy mark. Here’s your water.’
Léo soon got his revenge, it seemed to Juliet, as within minutes she was elbow-deep in the huge bowl, trying to wrangle the mixture into a smooth ball.
‘It’s hopeless, it’s just all sticky.’
She held up a hand webbed with dough.
‘Juliet, you have been kneading for about thirty seconds, you have many minutes left to go. Bread is not an instant thing, it takes time and sweat, but it will be worth it.’
‘Yuck, I’m not sure anyone wants my sweat involved.’ She glowered at him. ‘I don’t see why we can’t just use a bread machine.’
‘That would not be in keeping with the spirit of Lammas,’ said Léo sententiously. ‘Rather, maybe you should reflect upon the blessings and many abundances of your life as you work.’
It seemed to Juliet there was no adequate response to this other than to work her irritation into the dough. Bloody man: he always made her feel simultaneously ignoble and self-righteous. She tried to keep up the momentum of her feelings as she pulled and scraped at the sticky gunk, but as the dough started to take shape, she found that her annoyance ebbed.
‘Look, it’s real dough!’
‘Indeed, well done. That is the first part of the job finished. Now comes the real work.’
Juliet swiped her forearm across her face.
‘What do you mean? It’s a ball now, isn’t it? Can’t we make the owl?’
‘We are a long way off making the owl, which is why we had to start so early. Okay, more flour.’
Léo dipped his hand into the bag and sprinkled flour liberally over the work surface, dusted his hands, then lifted out the ball of dough.
‘It has to be worked now, very hard, very well for at least five minutes, maybe more, to activate the yeast and gluten and get the rise and texture we want. Now watch my technique.’
Juliet bristled at Léo’s didactic tone but was intrigued and leant to observe more closely as he slammed into the dough with the heels of his hands, turning and folding it as he went, keeping up a string of instructions. She was just beginning to feel hypnotised by the repetitive, unrelenting motions, when he stepped back.
‘Voila. Now it is your turn, you can show me if you have learnt well.’
Bossy-boots, thought Juliet. I’ll show himall right.
Pushing her sleeves up, she attacked the dough, resisting as she did so the temptation to picture Léo’s face as she pulled and pummelled. Whack, thump, bang. It was certainly satisfying. She lifted her hands away and looked triumphantly over at the French chef.
‘There. Even got my heart rate up a bit. What’s next?’
‘What’s next? What’s next is that you keep going for another four and a half minutes.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Juliet, you have been working that dough – vigorously, I agree – for no more than thirty seconds. You must carry on.’
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘Don’t tell me you are worn out already?’
‘More bored really.’
Now she sounded like Frankie, but it was hard to keep the petulance out of her voice when he was glaring at her like a stern headmaster.
‘Well, you cannot be bored with your dough. Come on, or it will never be ready for your vicar. Your technique was good.’
‘Oh. Well. I expect it was, yes. All right then.’
She resumed what she was now considering to be her daily workout when Léo added:
‘Yes, a good technique, you listened well.’
Juliet refrained from throwing the dough at his head but relieved her feelings instead in her technique. She was sure he was dragging out the five minutes but determined not to ask if it was up. She was relieved when he finally announced, ‘Bon. Let us see if it’s ready.’
He leant over and pressed a finger into the dough.
‘Good. You see the way the press mark – what do you call it, is there a special word?’
‘The dent?’
‘Ah bon, the dent, it rises again quickly. That means it is ready.’
‘Great. So, how do we make the owl shape?’
‘Juliet, have you truly forgotten everything in the years since you last made your loaf for the vicar? The dough must be left now to rise – an hour at least.’
‘Oh right, yes, of course. Actually, this might be a good time for something else. An idea I had.’
She suddenly felt shy. Maybe he would think it was stupid, but he smiled encouragingly as he draped a cloth over the dough and placed it on the sunny windowsill.
‘I just wondered, maybe it would be fun to present the owl in a sort of summery nest – look, I did some sketches.’
She pushed some pieces of paper across the work surface, which he picked up and scrutinised. Each showed a different arrangement of flowers, fruit, foliage and even hay to make a dreamy bed for the owl to nestle in.
‘Juliet, I think this is a wonderful idea. I have a deep tray we could use – but where will we get the leaves and things we need?’
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find everything we need down in Fey Woods – the woods at the bottom of the garden, that is, not the house. Have you ever been there?’
‘No, I have not. I am not really one for tramping around in woods, but today I will make an exception for you.’
Juliet disdained to answer, just flicked an eyebrow at Léo and turned to leave.
Five minutes later, they were entering the woods. They never failed to cast their spell on her, thought Juliet, feeling the familiar shiver of anticipation as they stepped between the first few trees and the quality of the light changed. It was one of the few things left in life, particularly once she had started living in London, that felt so purely and peculiarly seasonal. There was no need of particular pop songs, or artificial scented candles, of the same tired old articles about getting your body ready for this or that or buying a new coat. In Fey Woods, you instantly knew by the filtered light what season it was. Now, in mid-summer, the woods were golden-green and the pine needles dry underfoot. There was a sensation of movement around them, of life nearby, and Léo must have noticed it too, for he asked:
‘What animals are there here, Juliet?’
‘Well, you’re unlikely to spot anything more exciting than a grey squirrel, but the woods are home to a huge range of wildlife. Masses of insects of course, but also foxes, hedgehogs and badgers – the usual sort of English woodland fare. Frankie says she spotted a deer once, but no one else ever has. Lots of birds too, and there’s a pond over on the east side that’s simply stuffed with frogs and toads and things. Our father has a policy of benign neglect, and it seems to be good for the nature here.’
‘A little like rewilding, we have some projects in France.’
‘Yes, here too. We haven’t really needed to rewild Fey Woods, though, just leave them alone.’
‘Often that is the best way, I find. Oh, and what does the word ‘fey’ mean? I have been meaning to ask.’
‘It means “fairy”, and that’s what these woods are – fairy woods.’
‘Of course! We have the same word in French – fée. But surely Juliet does not believe in fairies?’
Juliet slid him a sideways glance, to see if he was laughing at her, but found just a friendly – if teasing – expression on his face. She took a deep breath.
‘Look. You’re right that I’m impatient with people who aren’t – well, straightforward, I suppose. But even for me it’s difficult to come into these woods and not let a tiny part of myself believe that there’s some sort of magic twined around these trees.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it’s silly, but there it is.’
‘Non, not silly; I agree. And it is the perfect place to find nesting materials for our wise Lammas owl. Come, let us start looking, or the dough will be ruined.’
A companionable silence fell between them as they started to fill the basket Juliet had brought with her. Soon it was brimming with scented sprigs of pine as well as cones and feathers.
‘We don’t want it to look too Christmassy,’ said Juliet, looking at the basket. ‘I think we’d better get some flowers from the borders on the way back. There’s some gorgeous love-in-a-mist there, or even some dahlias might look pretty, if we can find some smaller ones.’
‘You know a lot about flowers,’ said Léo. ‘Somehow I did not expect this of you.’
Relaxed by the walk and the spell of the woods, Juliet did not deflect his comment, but smiled.
‘I love flowers, I always have. In fact…’ She hesitated.
‘Go on.’
‘In fact, I have been working on some flower paintings. It’s a bit different for me, but I’m enjoying it.’
Léo nodded, his face serious.
‘For an artist, it is so important to keep trying new things, even better if they are things you love. I hope maybe you will show me these pictures?’
Juliet felt all at once glad and shy. Léo did have a way of looking at you that made you feel very seen, and she wasn’t sure how much she wanted this bossy French chef to know of her.
‘Maybe. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention the flower pictures to my family.’
‘Of course. And now, how are we going to get back? I have lost all my sense of direction. I should have laid a breadcrumb trail.’
Juliet smiled.
‘Getting lost in Fey Woods isn’t something you have to worry about if you’re with one of the Carlisle sisters. We’ve all be running around here since we were tiny. Come on, this way.’
Within minutes, they emerged from the milky green of the woods back into the bright August sunshine. After a quick detour along the borders, where they cut some wispy blue love-in-a-mist and spiky red dahlias, they returned to the kitchen.
‘Okay, let’s see the dough.’
Léo fetched the bowl and brought it to the central island, then removed the tea towel with a flourish. Juliet couldn’t help herself letting out a delighted squeak.
‘Oh! It’s risen, look at that.’
‘It’s like magic, huh?’
‘It really is! Can I touch it?’
‘Not just touch it, you have to knead it again, I’m afraid, until it is firm. Come now, Juliet, roll your sleeves up at the same time you’re rolling your eyes so hard. It will only take a few moments, and we will be ready to create the owl.’
Without comment, Juliet washed her hands, dusted flour around liberally, then lifted the fat ball of dough out of the bowl and resumed her kneading, breathing in the fresh, yeasty smell as she did so. Ignoring Léo’s dig and focusing just on the task in hand felt soothing, and she was surprised when Léo broke her reverie.
‘That’s five minutes, let me see if it is ready.’
He leant in and began pulling and pressing the dough, his hands brushing hers, which she snatched away as if she had been burnt. He was standing very close to her, but looking only at his work and, for once, the normally confident Juliet felt confused. His proximity was discomfiting, but only in that it was making her blood run faster, her heart beat harder. Part of her wanted to stalk off around the kitchen island to safety, another part wanted to slip an arm around his broad shoulders, press herself into his warm body, feel his lips on hers…
‘Bon.’
She jumped guiltily.
‘It is ready.’
‘Oh, er, good, good. Right, I’ve looked into this a bit. We have to divide the dough more or less in half – half for the basic shape and half for the decoration. I’ve got some pictures, hang on.’
Soon the owl began to take shape on the baking tray as they added feathers and other features to it. Juliet forced herself to concentrate on the job, rather than allowing herself to become mesmerised by Léo’s strong, skilled hands as they gently shaped dough into feathers and curved claws. When it was finished, they stepped back to admire their work.
‘Now,’ said Léo, ‘it just needs a short time to prove, and we have to hope that we have got our quantities right so that the shape is not lost.’
During the second proving and the baking, they cleaned up and prepared the ‘nest’ on a large tray, and when the timer sounded, Juliet had a rush of excited anticipation; better, she thought, than any thrill she had felt at the prospect of yet another boozy night out with her London friends.
‘Please,’ she said to Léo as he handed her the oven gloves, ‘you do it. I feel too nervous. What if I drop it?’
‘What if I drop it?’
‘You are not remotely worried about that, so don’t pretend you are.’
‘Oui, c’est vrai.’
With steady hands, he slid the tray from the oven and placed it on the cooling rack.
‘Oh, it’s fab! Aren’t we clever?’
‘We have created something beautiful together, yes.’
They stared at each other, delighted with the perfect, golden-brown loaf that had emerged. The shapes had all been maintained beautifully, and the feathery owl gazed back at them from round eyes. Suddenly, Léo scooped Juliet into an embrace. For a moment, the euphoria of the successful bake swept through Juliet and she hugged him back, but it was quickly followed by a rush of other feelings, which confused and dizzied her. Being so close to Léo, so suddenly, the sensation of his rough cheek against her face, his arms around her body, his woody scent mixing with the smell of the bread…she was thrilled but also panicked. As they pulled away, his hands lingered on her shoulders and those deep brown eyes looked intensely into hers. Juliet knew that she could kiss him, right then, and felt her body propelling her towards him, longing for nothing else than to feel his mouth touch hers. But then she felt the doors slam shut within her and she pulled away with a sharp inhalation of breath. She turned back towards the bread, trying to cover her confusion.
‘I suppose it needs to cool a bit, then let’s get it into the nest, and then I want to take some photos before it goes down to the village. The vicar must be wondering where on earth we are.’
Léo turned away, too, and busied himself tidying oven gloves and spatulas; Juliet wondered what he was hiding, what emotions were being put back in place before he gathered himself and returned to their work.
The next hour was spent professionally as they cooled, arranged and photographed their masterpiece. At last, it was time to carry it down, and Juliet texted her sisters:
Come on you two, it’s lunchtime, time to get dressed and come to the church for the Lammas celebrations. You promised, remember?
The replies were typical: a winking face with a sticking out tongue from Frankie, who probably was still in her pyjamas, and an apologetic essay from Martha, who had been ready and waiting for hours, sorry, she’d just got caught up in her latest portrait, wouldn’t be a sec, promise.
They met at the front of the house, Léo carrying the bread which was now carefully wrapped. Rousseau and Sylvia were there too.
‘Good to see you baking the Lammas bread again, darling,’ said Juliet’s father. ‘Can I have a look?’
‘When we’re at the church. Come on, we’d better get moving or we’ll be late.’
They walked down together, Frankie glued to her phone as usual, smiling a secret smile at each new text she received, and Martha needing regular chivvying as she stopped to wonder at the colour of a leaf, or the way the sun caught a spider’s web.
‘Honestly, I don’t know why you two can’t get a move on,’ grumbled Juliet. ‘Everything around here takes so long. I’ve been waiting all morning for the bread to organise itself and now a ten-minute walk is going to take half an hour if you keep stopping to text and you insist on marvelling over every blade of grass.’
‘You’re not in London anymore, Dorothy,’ snapped back Frankie, deliberately pausing to select an emoji. ‘Chill out, there’s no rush.’
‘Well, I would like to be on time, that’s all.’
‘Try not to worry, Juliet, we have time,’ said Léo. ‘But you and I can walk ahead if you prefer?’
Remembering the almost-kiss, Juliet felt herself going pink at the thought of strolling on ahead with Léo, and then pinked further at the thought of the comments that Frankie was bound to make, never able to resist the opportunity for a jibe. She replied more sharply than she had intended, ‘It’s fine. Let’s just keep moving.’
When they reached the church, it was rapidly filling with people from not just that village but several other local places. The Lammas celebrations, forgotten now by so many churches, were famous in these parts and followed by a jolly lunch in the meadow next to the church, which Juliet could see was already bright with bunting and dotted with chairs and trestle tables. They were greeted by the vicar.
‘How wonderful, the whole family. Welcome, welcome! And is this our loaf?’
‘This is it,’ said Juliet, suddenly feeling a little shy. ‘I hope you like it.’
‘Was it made with love?’ asked Father Benedict, staring at her earnestly.
Juliet wouldn’t have known where to look, had Frankie’s snort of laughter not given her an excuse to glare in her direction. Léo intervened.
‘Of course!’ he said neutrally. ‘All the best bread is.’
‘Then in that case I will like it very much,’ he replied. ‘Now please let me see.’
Trying as hard as she could not to let her hands brush Léo’s, Juliet helped him to unwrap the loaf and reveal their owl to the little group. For a moment, no one said anything, but Martha was the first to recover herself.
‘Juliet, Léo, it’s beautiful,’ she breathed.
Everyone agreed, and Juliet found the courage to meet Léo’s eyes for the first time in several hours, finding them smiling warmly right back at her, causing her stomach to turn several not unpleasant somersaults.
‘Come,’ said the vicar, carefully taking the tray. ‘It is time to begin.’