Heidi Rice - Summer At Willow Tree Farm - The Perfect Romantic Escape

‘Just had a disagreement with the rotary blade.’ Art lifted his bandaged hand as if to prove it was still attached. ‘It’s sorted.’

‘Give or take thirty-two stitches,’ Ellie added.

Art shot her his stop-being-a-drama-queen look.

‘Thirty-two stitches! In one hand?’ The woman crossed her arms over her chest, her concern escalating. ‘That sounds like some disagreement.’

‘Mummy, has Art lost his fingers?’ The girl clung to her mother’s leg, her eyes widening with a combination of fear and fascination. A puff of wild red hair surrounded a face covered in freckles, making her look like Little Orphan Annie after she’d been electrocuted.

‘No, sweetie, they’re still there,’ the woman murmured patting the child’s head. ‘Just about,’ she added under her breath.

Art crouched down and wiggled his fingers inside the bandage. ‘See, Melody, it’s all good.’ Straightening, he swept a sharp look over Ellie and Melody’s mother. ‘Stop scaring the children, ladies.’ He lifted the bag of medication out of Ellie’s hand. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ He rubbed the girl’s hair. ‘Bye, Melly,’ he said, then headed across the yard and disappeared behind the farmhouse.

What work did he think he was going to be doing on a farm with an injured hand? Ellie wondered, but stopped herself from shouting after him. Time to relinquish her responsibilities as Art’s keeper.

‘There goes the most stubborn guy on the planet,’ remarked the woman standing beside her.

‘You have no idea,’ Ellie murmured, the stomach muscles that had been knotted tight ever since Art had raced into the kitchen dripping blood finally starting to relax. ‘I had to practically kidnap him to get him to the doctor’s.’

‘Why does that not surprise me,’ the woman said, before unfolding her arms and offering Ellie her hand. ‘Hi, Tess Peveney, I’m Mike’s wife. You’re Dee’s daughter?’

Ellie nodded, returning the firm handshake.

Mike had to be the red-headed guy she’d met the day before. Melody had obviously inherited her father’s mercurial hair.

‘Ellie Preston,’ she introduced herself, her maiden name coming out more naturally this time. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

‘You too. Sorry I missed the welcoming party yesterday. I was busy suffering the tortures of hell in Gratesbury. Otherwise known as helping out at a birthday party for sixteen four-year-old girls.’ She tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shuddered. ‘If I hear “Let It Go” or see another pink balloon, Barbie cupcake or sparkly deely bopper again in this lifetime I may have to be sectioned.’

Ellie laughed. ‘That sounds almost as traumatic as having to drag a bleeding man to Gratesbury’s minor injury unit.’

Tess grinned. ‘Nope, it’s much worse. I think I may actually have post-traumatic Frozen disorder.’

‘I like Frozen , Mummy,’ Melody piped up, hopping from one leg to the other. ‘Anna and Elsa are the best.’

‘I know how much you love Frozen , baby.’ Tess rolled her eyes for Ellie’s benefit, before addressing her daughter. ‘Run into the farmhouse and have a pee before we head for Salisbury.’

‘Do I have to?’ Melody begged, wiggling furiously.

Swinging her daughter around, Tess gave her a pat on the bottom. ‘Yes, because you need to…’ Taking a deep breath she launched into the Frozen anthem… ‘ Let it go … Let it go .’

Her daughter ran off, struggling to complete the song’s chorus around her delighted giggles.

‘Are you going anywhere near the market in Salisbury?’ Ellie asked, once they had both stopped laughing. ‘I was supposed to be helping out my mum today on the stall.’

‘Actually, that’s exactly where we’re headed. Melly and I just finished baking the stall’s supply of strawberry shortbread and sourdough loaves. Or rather I baked and Melly ate as many strawberries as she could cram into her mouth.’ She swung round to indicate the trays she’d been loading into the car when Ellie and Art had arrived. ‘Why don’t you tag along?’

‘That would be terrific,’ Ellie said, pleased to get the chance to escape her unnecessary concerns about Art. Spending the rest of the afternoon in the company of women seemed like the perfect antidote to the morning’s drama.

*

Situated in the historic centre of Salisbury, the city’s main square had served the population since medieval times as a thriving community market. Presided over on one side by the majestic Georgian columns of the Guildhall, which now housed the city council, and hemmed by the patchwork of shopfronts ranging in style from half-timbered Tudor to redbrick Victorian, eight hundred years of the city’s history was here. As Ellie muscled her way from the car park behind the square through the crowds of shoppers buying everything from home-made soap to burritos, it was clear the Artisan Market was still a thriving place of commerce in the present day.

Indian spices blended with the scent of freshly roasted coffee and patchouli oil. The standard-issue green gazebos vied for space with gleaming metal food trucks and striped awnings, while the jubilant Caribbean riff of a steel band floated over the shouts of the traders and the general hubbub of people enjoying a sunny June afternoon getting lots of retail therapy. A pair of elderly ladies in floral prints inspected a stall laden with hand-sewn cushions next to a gang of teenagers with tattoos and nose rings clustered around another stall peddling multicoloured cupcakes.

‘How long has this market been in operation?’ Ellie shouted to Tess as they made their way through the labyrinth, laden down with a tray each of the strawberry shortbread Tess had baked. The few times she’d been to Salisbury in her teens all Ellie could remember was a market full of jumble sale knock-offs that she’d looked down her nose at as a London teenager with vast fashion sophistication.

Tess glanced back, Melody clinging to the hem of her T-shirt so as not to get lost in the crowd. ‘The Artisan Market? Quite a while. It’s a brilliant venue for us. It attracts a great foodie crowd. But, unfortunately, it’s only on one Sunday a month. Dee also runs a stall at the farmers’ market here every Wednesday and the general markets, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, when she’s not manning stalls at other farmers’ markets around the county.’

‘That must require a huge amount of work, doing all that baking?’ Ellie said, readjusting the tray. Her arms were already aching and they had two trays of bread still to transport.

‘We don’t just sell baked goods,’ Tess said. ‘Dee does amazing jams and preserves too. And Annie is a whizz with pastry – she’s on a mission to single-handedly reintroduce the wonder of quiche to the south-west of England – and Annie’s husband Rob makes some very nice elderflower fizz when he has the time,’ Tess replied. ‘But yeah, time is a problem because most of us are stuck doing day jobs. So Dee is the one who has to bear the brunt of the work.’ Tess shouldered her tray and sidestepped a queue of people lining up to buy themselves a dosa wrap from a Bombay street food stall. ‘Most of the speciality markets don’t run after Christmas,’ Tess continued. ‘So there is some chance to stock up and catch up on our sleep. But as most of our merchandise is freshly prepared, not much. And, to be honest, the time spent travelling to venues and setting up, and then clearing out, is also pretty prohibitive.’

Ellie spotted her mother’s stall ahead of them. The queue was even longer than at the dosa wrap one, with her mother in the centre of it all busy chatting with one of her customers while Josh and Toto packed their order into folding cake boxes.