Summer at Rachel's Pudding Pantry Read online

  ‘Yeah, it went all right, actually. Maisy enjoyed her day on the beach.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Yeah, I think Jake’s trying really hard … he seems to have changed this time. It’s like he finally wants to be there, be a proper dad for Maisy.’

  Tom looked at her with a frown, ‘You’ve changed your tune, Rach. What happened to “the unreliable little twat”?’

  ‘Well, we all deserve a second chance, don’t we? The opportunity to put things right.’

  ‘Yeah, but it seems like he’s had a whole load of second chances, Rach.’

  ‘Tom, he’s Maisy’s dad. And, whether you like it or not, he’s going to be around and a part of her future.’ Somehow, they’d have to work this out – her, Tom, Maisy and Jake, when he made his visits.

  ‘That’s not really a given, is it, the way he flits off on a whim. Christ, we didn’t choose our exes well, did we?’ He sounded exasperated.

  Rachel had hoped to smooth things over by coming around, but they still seemed miles apart. Tom was in a black mood, and some of it was justified, but she needed him to click out of it soon.

  ‘No, we didn’t,’ she admitted. ‘Look, I know everything’s a bit tough right now, but we can get through it. And … bloody hell, Tom,’ she couldn’t help her frustrations spilling over, ‘could you just try and be a bit more positive about the future? We’re getting married in less than three weeks’ time and I want us to enjoy it, to celebrate with our family and friends, Jake included.’

  ‘What?’ Tom looked gobsmacked. ‘You’ve gone and invited Jake to our wedding?’

  Oh god, she’d let it slip. The cat was well and truly out of the bag now.

  ‘Look, Maisy invited him, I couldn’t very well say no. It’s not the end of the world, Tom. Maisy wanted him there.’

  ‘But I don’t. How would you feel if Caitlin was coming to the wedding?’

  ‘That’s different and you know it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’s all arranged with Jake now. I’m not going to let Maisy down.’ Rachel was undeterred. ‘I want her to be looking forward to our wedding day, Tom, and if that means Jake coming, so be it.’

  ‘Jeez.’

  ‘Look, I came around to try and make things better between us,’ Rachel let out an exasperated sigh. Whatever she said or did lately, it seemed to keep spiralling them back down into conflict. ‘And I know you’re having a tough time with all this, with Caitlin and the farm, but can you at least try to look at things from my perspective? It’s hard for me too, and you’re so damned grumpy about everything lately.’

  ‘Sorry for speaking some home truths. Look, I just don’t trust the guy, that’s all. There’s only one person that Jake cares about, and that’s Jake.’ His tone softened, ‘Look, I … I just don’t want to see you or Maisy getting hurt again.’

  She recognised some truth in that. Perhaps Tom was only trying to look out for the two of them.

  Tom sighed once more, ‘Look, I really need to get on with this paperwork, Rach. I’ve a lot to think about right now.’

  Did he mean them? Their relationship, their wedding, as well as all the practical stuff?

  She swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘Okay, I’ll see you soon, though. Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he answered, although his tone was flat.

  As Rachel closed the farmhouse door behind her, she found herself shedding a tear. It was less than three weeks until their wedding day, so why was she feeling so sad and lonely?

  28

  Rachel posted a lovely image of Jill’s latest baking masterpiece on both Instagram and the Pantry’s Facebook page – a delicious-looking lemon meringue pie with a piled-high soft meringue top. ‘When life gives you lemons … bake a pie’, she typed. She liked to put up pictures of their puddings on social media to provide a little online cheer and hopefully tempt customers in.

  ‘Another delicious-looking pud there, Mum. That’ll please the online crowd no end. Right, I’m going to pop into town to pick up a few essentials, I’ll be back before long.’

  ‘OK, thanks love, I’ll hold the fort here.’

  In all honesty, Rachel needed a moment to clear her head. First, she headed to the post office and got in the queue to send off a parcel of ginger pudding. It was for someone who’d called at the Pantry on their holidays, sampled their culinary delights, and wondered if they did a postal service. Rachel was delighted and jumped at the chance to help.

  She was four back in the queue, tapping her foot, when she couldn’t help but overhear the conversation at the counter.

  ‘By the way,’ the well-to-do lady at the front asked, ‘can you recommend anywhere local for a bite of lunch?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ It was Susan on the counter today. ‘There’s the Cheviot Café here on the high street, and if you’d like somewhere cosy which does lovely food nearby, there’s the Pudding Pantry out at Primrose Farm, just outside the village.’

  Ah, bless her for recommending them.

  ‘Oh … funny you should say that, I did a bit of research just this morning,’ the woman countered, ‘and I saw some poor reviews on that Pantry place …’

  Rachel felt herself flush with embarrassment, luckily hidden from view by the tall chap in front of her. How? They generally had such lovely comments and good reviews.

  ‘Well, I’ve been there myself and had some wonderful food,’ Susan replied. ‘The soup and sandwiches are very nice, and all the cakes and puddings are homemade.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s changed lately,’ said the lady, before bustling out of the post office. She evidently wasn’t keen on giving them the benefit of the doubt.

  When it was Rachel’s turn, Susan looked up with a start, ‘Oh, hi Rach,’ she blushed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there in the queue. Did you hear that?’ she added in hushed tones.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I wonder what these online reviews are, though? I’ve never spotted anything like that.’

  ‘No, might just be one Minnie Moaner. Can’t be helped sometimes.’

  ‘No, maybe not. You can’t always please everyone, I suppose.’ But Rachel was desperate to find out what had been said. It could be affecting their trade already.

  Rachel sorted the parcel delivery and made her way out to the street. Perhaps there was time for a quick diversion, to check out the competition … She walked towards the Cheviot Café and couldn’t help but hear the teenage waitress chatting away with a local middle-aged lady by the doorway.

  ‘Oh, and did you see those awful comments on Facebook? About the Pudding Pantry? Think we might be getting more customers coming back here now,’ the young waitress said with a wink.

  Rachel’s ears pricked up. She was fiercely protective of her business and their reputation; they worked so bloody hard. She stepped up to the café’s threshold: ‘I’d mind your tongue if I were you, Grace.’ Blimey, bad news certainly did travel fast in this town.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Rachel. It’s just what I saw on Facebook,’ the young girl floundered, blushing pink.

  Rachel just shook her head, then stepped away and carried on walking towards the truck. Hopefully the girl might think twice about gossiping in the future but, in the meantime, Rachel needed to find out for herself what was going on.

  Sitting in the truck a few minutes later, Rachel dug out her mobile phone and clicked onto Facebook, her fingers trembling.

  There were several ‘likes’ on the lemon meringue image, and a couple of positive comments. And then she read one comment which made her stop, her hands frozen above the phone: ‘The food might look great, but the staff are not friendly in the least. Had a very frosty reception, and a lukewarm coffee. Wouldn’t recommend.’

  Oh, it was awful to think someone had had a bad experience with them. Rachel didn’t remember anyone saying the coffee hadn’t been warm enough, or they’d have certainly given them a fresh cup straight away. She’d have to ask Mum if she’d spoken with anyone over t
he last few days.

  Next, she took a look at Instagram. There were comments below the lemon meringue pie image of ‘Looks scrumptious!’ and ‘Lemonlicious’, which made Rachel smile, and then another of ‘I’m coming right away. Save me a slice.’ A further comment read, ‘Been to your Pudding Pantry last month and it was a delight. Looking forward to visiting again soon’. She sent a little ‘thank you’ reply, saying that they looked forward to welcoming them back. Aw, this was heart-warming, and the best kind of publicity when customers had a lovely time and shared their experiences.

  And then came the worst kind of publicity in another comment: ‘Never to return! Food very average. Stodgy scone. Poor staff, no acknowledgement or friendliness, almost verging on rudeness.’

  Reading it made Rachel go cold. Rachel was ready to champion Jill’s melt-in-the-mouth scones, though it was just possible someone hadn’t enjoyed theirs, but they always made a point of welcoming every guest with a smile and a hello, often a quick chat too. Even in the busiest of times, if someone came in, they would at the very least acknowledge them. Rachel knew that you couldn’t be perfect all the time and that expectations might be different for different customers. One person had commented a few weeks ago that they had been put off by the dreadful farmyard smells in the yard – well, the Pantry was on a farm, after all. But this latest comment seemed different – malicious, almost …

  Next she turned to TripAdvisor. Rachel opened the page whilst holding her breath. And yes, below a couple of lovely four- and five-star reviews, there was a one-star, their very first. She read on with a feeling of dread. All their hard work, their achievements so far, felt as if they were being obliterated: ‘Absolutely shocking! Awful all round. The woman serving was rude and uninterested. Sticky toffee pudding vile – dry, tasteless and like a brick. Overpriced. One of the worst tearooms I have ever been in. Never to return. WOULD NOT RECOMMEND.’

  Underneath that were some additional comments in reply, saying, ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ And, ‘Sounds like another café that doesn’t live up to the hype.’

  Rachel sat at the steering wheel feeling gutted. Had someone really felt they had had such a bad time? And why had nobody drawn it to their attention on the day? Her head was spinning.

  With trembling fingers, she rang Eve. She needed a second opinion. An outsider’s view. Maybe she was just taking it too much to heart with it being their business – the venture they’d put all their savings and soul into. ‘Hi … Eve, can you do me a quick favour? Take a look at our Pudding Pantry Instagram and TripAdvisor reviews, can you? And ring me back, hun.’

  ‘Ah, okay. Why?’

  ‘Just see what you think.’ She didn’t want to influence her friend either way.

  Within a minute her mobile was ringing.

  ‘Oh, my God. That’s awful, Rach. That’s trolling, that is.’

  ‘Do you think it’s real? That those customers have had such bad experiences? But we haven’t had any complaints made in the Pantry at all.’

  ‘Well, maybe one person had a rare off experience, or it could just be one of those professional moaners,’ Eve conceded, ‘though I can’t see you or Jill being rude to anyone. Might there have been a stodgy scone lurking in the batch? Who knows!’

  ‘Hey, you, don’t be so cheeky! But yeah, I could cope with one poor comment coming in in the last couple of days, but suddenly these three or four together on Facebook and Instagram, and then that TripAdvisor one was particularly dreadful …’

  ‘I know, and Jill’s sticky toffee is famous around here.’

  ‘Oh Eve. What if people believe this? It’ll put them off coming. After all the hard work we’ve put in this last year, setting the Pantry up, getting our name established.’ She went quiet for a moment or two, with Eve sighing in support down the line. ‘Maybe I can delete the bad comments off our Facebook page? I suppose I could look into that, but who’s seen them already? I can’t take anything off TripAdvisor, though, that’s out of my control.’

  ‘You could maybe report it?’

  ‘Maybe … But how do they know it wasn’t justified? Like, no wonder I’m saying we’re great, ’cos I run the place.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you see if anything else goes on tomorrow, and I’ll help you look into what we can do to counter it in the meanwhile? See if we can block the comments or something.’

  ‘Okay … Thank you, my friend.’

  ‘No worries, I’ll defend Jill’s sticky toffee till the death!’

  It was on her mind all night. Rachel found herself restless and unsettled, trying to think who might possibly be behind it. Could there be another Pudding Pantry somewhere and they were mistakenly getting their reviews?

  She felt very much like joining Tom in his bear cave. By three a.m., she was up and standing in the kitchen, hugging a mug of tea by the light of a half-moon. She looked out over her moon-bathed fields, mellow in their night-time grey filter. It was so peaceful, a beautiful, calm summer’s night – in contrast to her troubled mind. Opening the porch door as quietly as she could, she stepped outside, her feet bare. It was cool but not cold. It grounded her in fact. She gazed across her land, and then back to the barn across the yard, the Pudding Pantry. She loved this place, her farm, and the fabulous tearooms they had created. No one should be able to say these awful things, not if they weren’t true. Whatever happened next, she vowed to do her utmost to stand up for the Pudding Pantry, and all that it meant to them.

  29

  Sure enough, the next day, there were yet more negative comments spilling in, some on TripAdvisor, some on their Instagram page, one on Facebook. This time Rachel checked out the profiles of those who were posting. They were all different. Some with pictures of pets, or places in the North of England. But, suspiciously, none had a face in the profile picture and nearly all of them had been created within the last week or so. Very curious.

  She read: ‘Looked like the place has never seen a mop or cloth’, and, ‘Staff rude, never bothered to say hello’, ‘Unfriendly and uninspiring’. And again: ‘I would not recommend.’

  There was an air of ingenuity about them all. In fact, an air of maliciousness.

  Rachel took a deep breath. There was no way she was going to take this lying down. Let battle commence.

  She answered the comments one by one, saying that they took huge pride and care in the quality and friendliness of their tearooms, and pointing out that these matters should have been drawn to their attention at the time so they could have been discussed and rectified straight away. She also started compiling a log of comments, profiles and timings of these negative responses. Then, if needs be, she was ready to report them.

  In the whole of their last year of trading there had been just one ‘two-star’ review on TripAdvisor. And there had been six ‘one-stars’ in the past three days – something was definitely up.

  Despite the fact she was putting on a brave face and mentally preparing a way forward, there was no denying that Rachel felt troubled and saddened by what was happening. She had heard this morning from Frank that his elderly neighbour Irene, one of the Pantry’s regulars, had cancelled her morning coffee trip with a friend, as her daughter had passed on her concerns about the cleanliness of the place after reading one of the reviews. Frank, bless him, had told Irene it was ‘all a load of old tosh’ and ‘nonsense’. But Rachel was undeniably worried about the trickle-down effect of the comments. She prayed it wasn’t about to get worse.

  Life on the farm had to go on, however, and the next day Rachel made her usual early morning rounds, checking on her cattle and sheep grazing out in the fields. Thankfully, all seemed well on that front, and the country views and fresh air lifted her spirits a little. Mum had nipped out to Kirkton to see Brenda and to pick up a few items at the deli, and Rachel had a spare hour before she was due to open the Pantry. She decided that a little baking therapy was what was needed. Unsure of what to make, she took down the Baking Bible from its shelf in the kitchen and, intending to
leaf through it, she found it had fallen open at one of Jill’s handwritten recipes: blueberry and lemon muffins. A perfect pick-me-up. Something they could sell at the Pantry and enjoy on their coffee break themselves. Maisy would also be delighted to find a zingy, fruity muffin ready for her when she got back from school.

  Rachel rummaged through the kitchen cupboards for the ingredients, finding flour, sugar, fresh eggs collected from the farm, creamy butter in the fridge. Luckily, they had a punnet of blueberries in, as they were one of Maisy’s favourites. Pinafore on, her bright red spotty one, radio playing in the background, and she was ready to cook. As she weighed out all the ingredients, sieving the flour and listening to the reassuring hum of the mixer, it all felt therapeutic. The muffin tins were lined with polka-dot paper cases, and the oven of the Aga awaited. Spooning the pale-cream mixture into each case, whilst humming along to some country music on the radio, took her mind off her troubles, for a short while at least. The warm, sugar-sweet aroma of baking – with a hint of berry and citrus – soon began to fill the kitchen.

  Baking might not make all your problems go away, but it sure seemed like therapy to Rachel just now.

  30

  It was the following evening, and Rachel was about to hold the last Pudding Club session before the wedding, although there would also be the special bonus club night on the eve of the festivities, when all the members would be pitching in from home to make the catering spread extra-special. Cake stands had already been offered to ensure that every table at the reception had its own very pretty feast.

  Rachel was taking the helm solo tonight, as Jill was staying home to look after Maisy; the little girl still seemed tired after a busy few days at school and all the emotions of Jake’s recent visit, and she needed to get a good night’s sleep to be up and perky for her lessons the next day. Granny Ruth was feeling poorly, her cough back with a vengeance, bless her. So Rachel told her to stay in and have an early night, hoping to goodness she’d be feeling better by the wedding day.