My new friends were a revelation.
After showing the guests to their rooms, with an extreme apology about the lack of a bathroom for the single room (the drains excuse came in handy after all) and a promise of a slight discount, I used the guise of the glitch in the booking system to subtly discover precisely what Charlie had promised them.
A locally sourced, organic three-course dinner and breakfast I could manage.
The activities were a whole other matter. The Tufted Duck had not prepared me for what the third woman to arrive described as ‘the lifestyle reconfiguration sessions’.
A bit of googling led Daniel to DamsonFarm.comand a basic stock template website that gave scant details beyond the address and some vague marketing waffle. Charlie had cleverly created the impression of exclusivity and up-scale secrecy, rather than a half-baked shambles that hadn’t made it beyond her notebook. So, at least our guests had no preconceived notion about what lifestyle reconfigurationmight look like in reality.
Becky had the best idea of the day so far: ‘I think we need to start with alcohol.’
Once Alice arrived, Becky swapped her fleece for a smart pea-coat Daniel dug out of somewhere and took everyone outside for some local mulled-cider tasting. Local, as in Alice had picked it up at the local Co-op. Mulled, as in I’d thrown in varying amounts of cinnamon, cloves and orange juice and then warmed up the three different brands of cider and decanted them into rustic-looking pitchers I’d found in the pantry.
As Alice and I raced back and forth emptying the dining room, scrubbing the bits that showed and debating whether to go with crockery that almost matched, or to embrace the situation with as random a set as we could put together, Becky held court on the patio outside, lit up by a couple of lanterns Daniel found in the garage and the new living room candles. As the group huddled amongst the weeds around a hastily repurposed side-table, she spouted forth the kind of spontaneous nonsense that had won her salesperson of the year six years in a row.
Pausing to duck her head back inside, Becky accurately assessed the situation as nowhere near ready and announced to the group that they would now be able to take a tour of the orchard and see the apple trees for themselves.
‘What, this cider was made from apples grown here, on this farm?’ I heard the endless-scarf woman ask, as I opened the dining room window to try to let the stench of mildew out.
‘You can’t seriously expect us to go trooping round the filthy countryside in the pitch dark?’ the second man, Simon, said, his voice dripping with derision.
‘Oh, come on man, where’s your spirit of adventure?’ Stephe chortled. ‘We can trust Becky, she’s an expert, after all!’
‘Oh my goodness, Simon, are you in need of a top-up, let me rectify that for you immediately!’ Becky trilled, sloshing another ladle of cider into his mug. ‘Come on, someone grab that other lantern and please, do listen out for the ghost of the Damson Damsel. Don’t forget to bring your drinks with you!’
I don’t know what she did with them, but when they returned nearly an hour later, stiff with cold, designer boots encrusted with mud, cheeks aglow, they seemed in a far better mood than when they’d left.
‘Right, then, dinner will be served at seven-thirty. Take your time freshening up. We’ll see you in the living room for pre-drinks when you’re ready.’
‘Forty minutes?’ I whispered. ‘To prepare a three-course meal from scratch?’
Becky gaped at me. ‘You haven’t started cooking?’
‘We’ve been cleaning, tidying, trying to find five wine glasses that aren’t chipped and enough towels without holes in and a million other things that needed doing. Alice’s been decanting shower gel and shampoo into old jam jars and making fancy labels out of chopped up birthday cards.’
‘Well, we’d better get cooking, then, hadn’t we?’
I grabbed her arm before she marched into the kitchen. ‘This is amazing, Becky. We’ve been friends for less than five hours and I completely love you already, but you don’t have to stay. Alice works in the pub, she’s going to act as server for me.’
Becky glanced over at Alice, her brow furrowed. ‘I’ve never seen you in the pub,’ she said, all trace of perky saleswoman Becky vanished.
Alice nodded, stopping ironing a napkin to stick her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve never seen you in the Boatman.’
Becky inhaled with a gasp. ‘Eleanor, you probably don’t know about all this yet, but she’s a New Sider.’
‘I know all about the feud that happened before either of you were born, I know that Alice is from the New Side, because she gave me a lift to the Co-op. What I’m not sure about is what that’s got to do with my current predicament.’ I went back to furiously slicing the potatoes for dauphinoise.
‘Well… what will people think?’
‘What people? I really don’t think Stephe and Saskia are going to be particularly bothered.’ I handed her a chunk of cheese and a grater. I really didn’t have time for this. ‘Alice doesn’t care, do you?’
Alice, back to ironing, looked up, a glint in her eyes. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’
‘Ooh.’ Becky’s eyes darted from side to side as she contemplated this seemingly mind-blowing information, that two women from opposite sides of the same village could spend an evening in a kitchen together. ‘Like a covert operation?’
Alice squirted a puff of steam from the iron into the air, as if making a point. ‘Precisely.’
‘I’ve been to thirty-seven different countries in the past six years, and got up to all sorts of things I hope my mother never finds out about. This is quite possibly the most exciting one yet.’ She stopped mid-grate. ‘Please don’t tell my mum, though, Eleanor. She’s giving me enough grief as it is. Or anyone else! I know it’s stupid and I shouldn’t care what people think. I know the whole New Siders being treacherous, sneaky bottom-feeders is probably a load of nonsense these days, but… well. No offence, Alice.’
