When Aimee had run off after a man she’d secretly been having a fling with, just before the wedding, Jago’s heart and his already low self-esteem had taken a knock, but he was horrified to find there was also a tinge of relief that he wouldn’t have to live her lifestyle any more. He was exhausted, partying late and then getting up early for work.
Still, he’d loved her, and he’d certainly never run the risk of seeing her with someone else if he lived up in the north, because the Cotswolds were about the limit of civilisation as far as Aimee was concerned, unless she was organising a country house party in Scotland.
So he looked for a suitable property in Knutsford and Wilmslow, where David had first suggested, but they were very expensive … and anyway, he’d begun to fall in love with the area around Ormskirk, with its lush farmland and friendly people, and the long golden beach of Southport only a short drive away. And he wasn’t that far from his original search area. After all, croquembouches didn’t travel huge distances, perhaps four hours maximum, but that was still a good range.
A little more research showed that no one else was supplying them locally and, making his mind up, he switched his search to the villages surrounding Ormskirk.
Chapter 7: The Cult of Perfection
Stella was excited by the move to Sticklepond, and Celia looked after her and Toto while I was in the final throes of the packing, so they were spared the worst.
But I was so exhausted that it took me a couple of days to bounce back, before I resumed getting up with the larks. I’m an early morning person, as you’ve probably gathered, and I enjoy baking away to the sound of the radio while everyone else is still asleep … except Toto, of course, who was usually hanging around my feet hoping for fallen scraps as soon as he’d been out into the garden.
In London my view of the sky had been limited to the small patch above the paved area, but here I could hardly wait to see the first light coming up behind the copse of trees at the back of the house, while the village below us still slept in darkness.
That morning’s skies were streaked with pink, blueberry and silver, like a very special Eton mess. I wondered if I could devise a blueberry Sticklepond mess …
But that would have to be another day, for this one was to be devoted to macaroons and I wanted to get two articles out of it – a simple recipe for Sweet Home, and a longer piece all about this new macaroon shop that Ma had told me about, for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page. I’d already made a start on that one.
Since moving up to rural West Lancashire I’ve heard tell of a magical macaroon shop in a nearby market town, though it seems a bit of a mythical beast to find so far from London. I’ll let you know when I have investigated further, but meanwhile, here’s my own very good macaroon recipe.
Ma had gladly relinquished the kitchen to me, since she’d rarely done more than microwave a ready meal or slap a sandwich together in there herself, and already it had taken on a new and familiar persona, being now full of my mixers, bowls, implements, cookbooks and notebooks, with a laptop area in the pine breakfast nook in the corner.
I made plain macaroons and then some chocolate ones, which were delicious, and then typed some notes into the laptop. I was trying to build up an even bigger hoard of articles than I had before Stella was born, seeing I’d be occupied with other things in autumn and winter … and I still couldn’t quite believe that we were committed to flying across the ocean for a risky operation. My fear that she would fall ill before then was almost as extreme as my fear of the operation itself – even thinking about it made me eat four macaroons straight off, one after the other.
The magazine and newspaper were fine about my filing my articles from Lancashire (or they would be, once broadband had been installed in the cottage next week), and would send a photographer round as necessary, when they couldn’t use illustrations from stock. Actually, I prefer it when they use pictures of my baking, because I get loads of despairing mail from readers saying the things they make never look perfect, like in the cookery books, but they can see that most of mine don’t look like those either. Food needs to look good enough to eat, but it doesn’t need to win a beauty competition. I hate this cult of ‘food presentation’ where someone fiddles around with the food, adding a scoop of this and a dribble of that, and mauling it about, or the magazine hires a food stylist, which is a bit like airbrushing a naturally beautiful fashion model, setting an unattainable standard because it isn’t real.
Not me: I’d so much rather have a chunk of crumbling apple pie with a dollop of cream, or a delicious fruit fairy cake with slightly singed edges.
It’s probably just as well for my figure that I now have someone else to help me eat all my baking, though not so good for Ma’s. Not that Ma cares about her figure: she says she was born to be a dumpling and why fight nature?
Stella wandered into the kitchen in her pyjamas just as I was arranging a pyramid of chocolate macaroons on a plate, her silken hair in a tangle and dragging Bun, the large plush rabbit that Ma had bought her when she was born, by one ear. She looked at the cakes and removed her thumb from her mouth long enough to say, sleepily, ‘Awesome.’
‘I think I’ve been letting you watch too much TV while I’ve been unpacking and sorting out,’ I said ruefully.
Stella seemed no worse for the move now we’d settled in. We went to Alder Hey Children’s Hospital in Liverpool later in the week, where she was checked over thoroughly, though she was to be monitored regularly by Ormskirk Hospital, which was nearer, and only referred back in future for any problems … which I sincerely hoped there wouldn’t be.
The vicar, Raffy Sinclair, came to call one afternoon – he often visited Ma, but this time he came specially to see me.
I’d never met him to speak to before, though I’d seen him about sometimes. He was a tall, handsome man, an ex-rock star who moved to the village a couple of years ago and married Chloe Lyon. When I went to her chocolate shop to buy the chocolate angel lolly for Stella’s Christmas stocking she’d said they had a little girl too, called Grace, though I think she is much younger than Stella. (And that big chocolate angel she gave me before Christmas had a most inspiring message inside, telling me not to fear the future. As I ate the delicious chocolate, I felt I was ingesting hope with it.)
Stella was having her afternoon nap when the vicar arrived so we were able to have a good talk. He knew about her problems, of course, because Ma had told him.
‘Martha says you’ve sold your flat and moved in here, in an effort to raise enough money to take your little girl to America for a life-saving operation,’ he said, when I’d made coffee and fetched in a plate of macaroons (I was still experimenting with flavours).
‘Yes,’ I said, and told him all about the operation and Stella’s medical condition – I really opened up and poured it all out, but he was the kindest man.
‘I still need about another twenty thousand pounds, I think, because all kinds of extra expenses keep cropping up. Someone advised me to take a qualified nurse on the plane there with me, for instance. And insurance – well, that’s difficult too.’
‘How long have you got to raise the money?’
‘The surgeon in Boston has pencilled her in for the start of November so we need to be there by the end of October. I ought to start booking the plane tickets and the hotel and so on … I’ve just waited to see how far off the target I was after selling the flat. My best friend, Celia, and her husband, Will, have been a huge help, setting up the Stella’s Stars fundraising site, which is getting lots of small donations, too.’
‘I’m sure you’ll make it – and I and the rest of Sticklepond will help you,’ he promised.
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m really a stranger here. I mean, we’ve