‘But I’m a bit worried about the weather,’ he added.
‘The weather?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I reckon there’s a storm brewing and that won’t be good news for our fruit.’
The sky I could see through the window was blue for as far as my eyes could see.
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I said, thinking he was fretting over nothing.
‘You haven’t experienced a Wynbridge storm yet, have you?’ he pointed out. ‘Where are you off to all of a sudden?’
‘I need to pop to town,’ I told him. ‘I won’t be long. Do you need anything picking up?’
‘No,’ he said, looking outside again. ‘I don’t think so, but you better hang on a minute, there’s someone just pulled on to the drive.’
I felt my frustration grow as I looked out the door and saw a man dressed in a suit climb out of his car, reach back inside for a clipboard and then stride over to the barn. Before I’d had a chance to take a step, he’d slipped inside.
‘The cheeky bugger,’ said Grandad, clearly irritated, as was I.
‘I’ll go,’ I firmly said.
The last thing I needed was for him to get riled up.
‘Why don’t you put the kettle on?’ I suggested. ‘Whoever he is, he’s bound to expect tea. Everyone around here does.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Grandad muttered, but he filled the kettle anyway.
‘Can I help you?’ I demanded, as I marched into the barn and found the man sticking his rather beaky nose into the boxes which held some of Grandad’s collection. ‘That’s private property, as is this barn. What do you think you’re doing?’
He turned to look at me, in his own time which was irritatingly much slower than mine, then consulted the clipboard in his hand.
‘Felicity Brown?’ he questioned.
He both looked and sounded annoyingly smug.
‘Yes,’ I said, standing straighter. ‘That’s me. What do you want and who are you?’
‘My name is Peter Pagett, I’m from the council.’
‘Right,’ I said, raising my eyebrows in the hope that it might encourage him to elaborate.
He took his time looking around. Beadily taking everything in before he spoke again.
‘I’m here to discuss an event which occurred here at the weekend.’
‘You’d better come into the house then,’ I said, attempting to usher him out.
I had no idea as to what there could possibly be to discuss, but I didn’t like seeing him in the barn any more than I had liked watching him poke his nose into Grandad’s things.
‘Mr Pagett,’ I bluntly said to Grandad when we went into the house. ‘From the council, here to discuss Saturday night.’
Grandad looked as clueless as I felt.
‘Tea?’ he offered.
‘No thank you,’ Peter Pagett said, again checking something on his clipboard. ‘Was this the kitchen where the food that was served on Saturday was prepared?’
‘Yes,’ I frowned.
He pulled a pen out of his top pocket and put a tick next to something I couldn’t read because it was upside down and too far away. I gripped the back of a chair. My frustration with being held up was already on a slow rolling boil and I could feel it bubbling faster with every second.
‘And,’ he said, glancing up from the sheet, ‘the barn that we were just in was where the food was served, was it?’
‘Yes,’ I said again, raising my eyebrows in Grandad’s direction. ‘But I’m guessing you already know that.’
‘I just need you to confirm it, Miss Brown,’ he said with a nauseating smile.
‘Have you got some sort of ID?’ Grandad asked. ‘What’s with all the questions?’
‘It has come to my department’s attention,’ Mr Pagett explained in a monotone and as if he was reading straight from a manual, ‘that you have been preparing food for public consumption in a kitchen that has not been council approved. As far as I am aware, you have no food business registration, no food safety qualifications and there has been no visit from the environmental health team. Is that all correct?’
‘Yes,’ I shrugged, ‘but…’
‘And furthermore,’ he continued, ‘you have also been using the barn outside as a venue in which to serve the food that has been prepared here in this kitchen. That is correct, isn’t it?’
Grandad and I exchanged another look.
‘Where are the conveniences for your paying guests?’ he continued, having consulted his list and piped up again before either of us could answer.
‘Conveniences,’ Grandad repeated, sounding nonplussed. ‘Paying guests?’
‘Look,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘Just hang on a minute. The kitchen hasn’t been approved and the barn hasn’t been registered because the business isn’t up and running yet. It won’t be launched until the conversion work has been carried out.’
‘And yet you had a function here Saturday evening?’
‘What we had,’ Grandad furiously said, ‘were a few local friends visiting to try out some of my granddaughter’s wonderful food. No money changed hands and anyone who needed the loo nipped into the house.’
‘Our get together Saturday night,’ I exasperatedly told Mr Peter Pagett, ‘was nothing more than a dinner party for friends.’
‘I see,’ he said.
‘I am going to be converting the barn and setting it up as a venue for hosting supper club evenings featuring different local producers in the future, but right now we’re miles away from that. Right at the beginning of the journey in fact, but if I have to deal with people like you to reach the destination, then…’
‘Fliss,’ Grandad cut in.
‘It was a dinner party,’ I restated, amending my tone. ‘For friends. Nothing more.’
‘May I ask who suggested otherwise?’ Grandad asked.
That was a very good question.
‘You may,’ said Mr Pagett. ‘But I am not at liberty to tell you.’
‘Some snake in the grass,’ I said to Grandad, ‘looking to scupper our plans before we’ve even started. It certainly wouldn’t have been anyone who was here on Saturday.’
‘Of course, it wasn’t,’ he agreed.
‘I’m sure they reported what was going on with the best of intentions,’ said Mr Pagett. ‘Their motivation would no doubt have been a concern for public health and safety.’
I had to laugh at that.
‘There was absolutely no
