MAKING marmalade was a tricky business. It took sugar, cumquats, jars, a recipe, concentration…
They had everything they needed. Deirdre had obviously decided the pantry stores needed to be filled just like a real castle’s would be in case of siege-and as sugar didn’t seem to have a use-by date and the castle was slightly younger than siege times, they were set.
They found a hoard of a hundred or so empty jars. Hamish downloaded a recipe from the Internet. They had a couple buckets of cumquats.
Which left concentration.
Concentration was harder.
Susie had to remove pips from every cumquat. Hamish was standing right beside her, pipping his own cumquats. The castle was totally silent. Taffy and Rose were fast asleep. Marcia was in her room, online to the other side of the world.
Weren’t you supposed to talk companionably as you cooked? Susie thought. Wasn’t that in the manual?
He was so big. So male. He was focussed on each individual cumquat pip as if it was his next million-dollar deal.
He was just…just…
She was so…
So what? He didn’t know. She was pipping her cumquats in silence, focussed absolutely on the job in hand. She was holding a cumquat half at arm’s length, squinting at it so she wouldn’t get hit in the eye by juice as she prodded for the pip. Her tongue was out to the side, just a little bit. Intense concentration.
For marmalade.
She’d make a good futures broker, he thought. She was up to approximately cumquat number ninety and she hadn’t faltered. Intelligence. Persistence. Great little tongue. Cute nose. Eyes that were so…
‘How many more, do you think?’ she asked, and he hauled himself back to cumquat duty with a start.
‘I’m thinking we’ve done enough.’
‘Right.’ She eyed the rest of the cumquats they’d picked-in a bucket on the floor and as yet unpipped-and shoved them under the bench with her bare toe. Out of sight. Maybe she wouldn’t make such a great futures broker. Maybe she’d make a better criminal lawyer.
He started to smile but she was waiting, expectant, and he had to haul his thoughts together and turn to the recipe.
‘OK. Put the cumquats and sugar together and cook until done.
‘Just like that?’
‘That’s what it says.’
‘No skill at all. I could do this myself.’
‘Would you like to?’
She hesitated. ‘No. I wouldn’t know what to do at the end.’
‘It says what to do here.’
‘Great. You read and I’ll stir,’ she said. ‘OK?’
So she stirred and he read and he stirred and she read and then they both sat and watched the vast pot of honey-gold marmalade until finally, finally their test drop formed a skin and Hamish announced that it was done.
Their cleaned jars had been sitting in the range for the duration of the cooking, slowly warming. Hamish set the jars out and Susie poured and poured and poured until they had thirty-odd jars of cumquat marmalade lined up on the big kitchen table. They attached lids, they cleaned up their mess and then they turned and looked in satisfaction at what they’d done.
All evening they’d worked almost in silence. It wasn’t that they’d meant to be silent or that they were uncomfortable with each other, it was simply that words were unnecessary, Susie thought. Now, as she looked at the golden jars, words were even more unnecessary. What they’d done this evening…
She’d take this home with her. Would she eat it? Maybe, but maybe she’d keep one jar.
How long did marmalade last?
How long did love last?
Where had that come from? Dumb thought. She thought of Rory, of standing beside the man she loved, making her wedding vows. She’d thought it would be for ever.
And now she was standing beside this big, kindly man who was Rory’s cousin. What she felt for him was… different.
Of course it was different. How could she love Hamish?
How could she not?
But Hamish’s thoughts were on practicalities. ‘We’ll box them up,’ he said softly, looking at the pots with the air of a man who’d done a difficult job to his satisfaction. ‘If we send them air freight they’ll get there as fast as you will. You’ll be able to eat Loganaich Castle Marmalade for breakfast every morning.’
‘Will you keep some, too?’
‘Sure.’ He eyed the bucket under the bench. This was a great new splinter skill. How come he’d never thought of doing such a thing? ‘Maybe Marcia and I can make some more. But do you want all these?’ he asked, suddenly uncertain. ‘If you eat porridge for breakfast, then you’ll hardly use thirty pots of marmalade.’
‘I only eat porridge while I’m here. I never eat porridge while I’m anywhere else.’
He relaxed. ‘Very wise. So if Marcia and I make more marmalade we can send it over.’
‘Maybe this is enough.’
‘It’ll last for a good long time.’ He grinned, trying to tease her to smile. He liked it when she smiled. The stress lines around her eyes faded, making her seem younger, more carefree. Which was how she should be. ‘Every time you eat it you can think that the cumquat trees haven’t lived in vain.’
But that was a mistake. As soon as the words were out he knew that he’d committed an error. Reminding her the cumquat trees were doomed.
‘I guess I’ll remember they’ve been knocked down.’
‘If you want to be miserable you can think that.’
‘I don’t want to be miserable.’
‘Then don’t think about it. Move on, Susie.’
‘Stop remembering this place?’
‘If it makes you emotional, yes.’
‘If I stopped thinking about anything that makes me emotional I’d be in for a pretty barren existence.’
‘You stay under control that way.’
‘Which is important?’
‘Of course it’s important.’ He moved to adjust a marmalade jar which had dared not be in line with the others. Right. He now had thirty perfectly controlled pots.
But moving hot jam jars was a mistake. The jar he moved cracked, like a mini-explosion in the stillness. Maybe the jam had been too hot. Maybe the jar hadn’t been heated up enough. Whatever the reason, there was suddenly jam running over the table, spoiling his careful symmetry.
He moved to shift the nearest jars away from the broken one. He lifted one, then swore as the heat seared through the cloth he’d used to lift it. He dropped it-and it cracked like its neighbour.
‘I’d just let them settle this among themselves,’ Susie said cautiously, eyeing the mess with trepidation. ‘This might be an instance where lack of control just has to be accepted.’
‘I never-’
‘Hamish, if you lift another jar you’re risking all-out calamity. I do want some marmalade to take home.’
He eyed the jars. He looked at his burnt fingers. He looked at the mess. ‘But if I shifted these-’
Susie grabbed his arm and tugged him over to the sink. ‘Leave it,’ she ordered. ‘Your poor hands.’ She plunged his hand under cold water-which did feel better than trying to pick up more marmalade.
‘I’ll get some burn cream,’ she told him but he shook his head.
‘It’s minor.’
