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that girl!

      Tom arrived at one o’clock prompt with a warm smile, a bottle of red wine and a unicorn-themed colouring book for Maisy. He had also ‘made the effort’, and was out of his usual dirty-denim farm gear, dressed smartly in a pale-blue shirt and a pair of beige chinos.

      ‘Hello, Tom,’ Jill greeted him, whilst stirring the gravy. ‘How’s the lambing going?’

      ‘Fine. About three-quarters through now. There’s a light at the end of the lambing-shed tunnel.’

      ‘Yes, we’re getting there too,’ added Rachel. ‘Thanks again for your help the other night.’

      ‘Ah, you’re welcome. These things happen. It’s all part of the job.’

      ‘Well, it was really appreciated,’ Rachel confirmed.

      Tom then lifted Maisy up in his arms and ruffled her blonde hair. ‘Hi, Maisy. How’s tricks?’

      ‘Good … Is that for me?’ She’d spotted the colouring book he’d brought in with him and scampered down as he nodded, saying, ‘Aha, it is.’ Delighted with her gift, and after adding a quick ‘Thank you,’ she went off to find her crayon set.

      ‘Take a seat, Tom,’ Jill said. ‘Make yourself at home. Dinner won’t be long.’

      Sat at the table next to Tom a short while afterwards, Maisy piped up, ‘Tom, have you seen Pete, my lamb?’

      ‘No, not yet.’

      ‘Can we go and see him now, Mummy?’

      Rachel was about to carve the joint of beef, as the final stages of the meal were coming together. ‘I’m sure Tom’s seen enough lambs of his own this week …’

      ‘It’s okay, I don’t mind,’ he said, smiling.

      ‘Well, maybe after dinner, Maisy. In fact, it’s nearly ready now, so go and wash your hands, and then you can help put some water glasses out on the table and three wine glasses for the grown-ups.’

      ‘O-kay.’ Maisy headed reluctantly off to the downstairs bathroom.

      ‘Tom, maybe you’d open the bottle of red you brought?’ Rachel asked, hunting down the corkscrew in the cutlery drawer. They didn’t generally have wine with their meals. It was considered a bit of a luxury in their squeezed budget of late.

      They were soon all sitting down to eat around the farmhouse table. Rachel had served out the plates of roast beef and crispy Yorkshire puddings with a selection of fresh vegetables, golden roast potatoes and Jill’s gorgeous gravy. At Jill’s request, Tom had taken up the seat at the head of the table. Rachel felt herself stiffen seeing him sit there. For a second, she could picture her dad, Robert, in that very place settling down for his Sunday roast. When she was big enough, she’d carefully carry his dinner plate across to him, piled with meat and vegetables and one of Mum’s delicious Yorkshire puds. Dad would give her a wink and a big smile. There were so many memories just waiting to creep up on Rachel. Tom was most welcome, of course, but it was still difficult seeing someone else sat in her father’s place.

      The dinner-table conversation flowed as they chatted about their respective farms and Maisy told Tom all about her swimming lessons and the animal paintings she’d done. They ate and talked, and drank the wine. It was a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon and a real treat after cold nights and long days lambing.

      ‘This is truly delicious, ladies, thank you. I hardly bother cooking a roast dinner for myself. It just takes too long. I come in starving usually and need something straight away.’

      Jill gave Rachel a knowing glance. ‘Don’t beat yourself up Tom, you’ve got your hands full,’ she replied.

      ‘I do cook, but simpler stuff. Steak, gammon, pasta, pop a pizza in the oven, that kind of thing.’

      ‘Grandma’s made pudding too!’ Maisy added, gleefully.

      ‘That sounds good.’ Tom grinned.

      ‘There’s bread and butter pudding or brownies. I don’t like the nasty currant things in the pudding, so you can have mine,’ the little girl offered Tom.

      ‘Well, remember you need to finish your dinner first, Maisy,’ her grandma reminded her. ‘Including the broccoli trees.’

      ‘A-huh. I know.’

      ‘I can certainly recommend the bread and butter pudding, despite the nasty sultanas,’ added Rachel with a wry smile. ‘It’s divine – the custard’s all light and fluffy and nutmeg-flavoured.’

      ‘It’s my grandmother’s recipe,’ Jill beamed proudly. The recipe was handwritten in the family’s baking cookbook, which Rachel had nicknamed ‘The Baking Bible’, and though Jill knew the instructions off by heart, she still liked to have the page open at Grandma Alice’s swirly handwriting as she prepared the ingredients. It almost felt like she was there beside her.

      It was lovely to see her mother smiling, Rachel thought. Jill had been weighted with grief for far too long.

      They were soon tucking into bowls of bread and butter pudding, with its golden crispy top, soft fluffy custard and sultana middle, with a blob of thick cream melting down over it. Maisy was already happily sporting sticky fingers and smudged lips from her chocolate brownie.

      ‘This is amazing, Jill,’ Tom enthused. ‘Takes me back to visiting my granny in her cottage kitchen years ago. The Aga was always on and there was always something smelling wonderful, ready to come out of the oven just for you. She used to make this pudding too, I remember it well.’

      ‘The old recipes are often the best, I think. I have a whole book handed down from my mother and her mother before her, with extra recipes I’ve discovered over the years popped in there too. Along with my stalwart Mrs Beeton’s of course, and a few tweaks from Mary and Delia.’

      ‘Berry and Smith – they’re Mum’s best friends, you know,’ Rachel added with a grin.

      ‘You know, you could make a business out of selling these, Jill, and that glorious sticky toffee pudding I had the other night. Bet you have more pudding delights up your sleeve too, by the sounds of it. I’d certainly be queuing up to buy some.’

      ‘Oh, yes, proper old-fashioned puddings,’ Rachel agreed. ‘You might just be on to something there, Tom.’ The seed of an idea that had started in her mind the other evening was finding its first shoot. ‘What do you think, Mum?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know about that. I’m just a home baker, that’s all.’ Jill batted away the suggestion. ‘Any seconds for anyone?’ she added, spotting that Tom’s dish had been swiftly cleared.

      ‘Blimey, I’m full as a tick … but you know what, that’s an offer I can’t refuse, so maybe just a spoonful. I have a feeling I’m being fattened up.’ Tom laughed.

      ‘Definitely.’ Jill grinned.

      Rachel looked across at Tom. He was of medium build, but well-muscled, and was around six foot tall. His physical lifestyle meant he was fit and well, and he could no doubt pretty much eat what he liked without putting weight on. He caught her glance and smiled warmly across the table. His eyes were a deep liquid brown – she’d never really noticed quite how dark they were before.

      ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to move after all this, but I really should be getting back soon to check on my ewes.’

      ‘You still haven’t seen Pete,’ chanted Maisy.

      ‘Of course, you can show him to me on my way back,’ said Tom.

      ‘You’ve surely time for a cup of tea first?’ suggested Jill. ‘Let your meal settle for few minutes at least.’

      ‘That’d be great, Jill. Just a quick one. And thanks again to you and Rachel. This has been a real treat.’

      ‘It’s been lovely to have you here,’ Jill

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