Blue Skies at The Birdie and Bramble

by Alison Craig

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

As the sun starts to shine it's time for Maddy and the team at The Birdie & Bramble to make some changes, but will Maddy find the strength to stand up for what she wants and discover the true nature of friends, family and love?

Release date: April 5, 2021

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 288

Sample

The one thing I love about the restaurant business is that it is never dull. In fact, it is so challenging and unpredictable that when I roll out of bed in the morning, I have no idea what to expect.

Just last week we found ourselves holding The Great Birdie and Bramble Sausage Challenge, a competition thought up on a whim to settle an impasse between Claude, our head chef, and Javier, our head waiter.

It had all the hallmarks of a very entertaining day, so I made sure to be in the restaurant early, a good half an hour before the others arrived. First to pitch up was the diminutive and brilliant Claude who continues steering our ship to bigger and better things, his reputation growing, his talent in the kitchen bringing customers from all over the country to taste his amazing food which recently earned him a red rosette from the AA, which has really put us on the map.

Five minutes behind him was Mouse, just a year ago a desperately shy Goth Art student and parttime dishwasher who had recently undergone a literal metamorphosis, her confidence now soaring under the tutelage of Claude, and not just in the kitchen.

Claude initially appeared to be a scary bossy man in whites but had, over time, revealed underneath his cool exterior a heart of gold as he slowly nurtured Mouse, bringing out the very best of her. With his strict rules – no piercings, hair tied back, no painted nails – gradually she’d emerged as a very natural, confident woman no longer feeling the need to hide behind her curtain of black hair and swathes of inky clothing. But it’s not all Claude’s doing, of course, my daft cousin Hamish is madly in love with her too and in his eyes, she can do no wrong.

It is the love and support of these two very different men in her life that has given her the confidence to relinquish her role, in the kitchen, to follow her dream of becoming a full-time artist. This confident decision tempered only slightly by insisting she works on the floor, at least two nights a week, in case she sells none of her work and starves to death. Of course, I am delighted, firstly because we have such fun working out front together and secondly because if she hadn’t stepped back from the hot plate, we would never have discovered that Javier is an absolute whizz in the kitchen too.

Luck was on our side the day he walked in off the street having read a hastily scrawled note in our window, amidst one of many crises, which simply read, ‘Help needed, apply within.’ Three hours later he did a trial shift and since then the charming Spaniard has become an integral and indispensable part of the team. Having been born and brought up in a hotel and restaurant business in Spain, catering runs in his veins, so he can turn his hand to most things and is more than happy to do so.

Javier was last to arrive, holding a cardboard box which looked heavy but, as there was a dishtowel over the top, we couldn’t see the contents. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he grabbed a coffee and disappeared into the kitchen.

Managing chefs’ egos is an acknowledged downside of running a food business and Claude was no exception. Classically trained and French, he was very particular about his kitchen and who has access to it. When Mouse announced her plans and he was informed that Javier was stepping into her shoes, initially his long pointy hooter was slightly out of joint. Our maestro of the hotplate acknowledged Javier was a fabulous front man but voiced serious doubts that his skills would transfer to the kitchen, so naturally things came to a head.

One day as we sat eating our staff meal after a busy lunch service, Claude and Javier, our two Alpha males, got into a very animated discussion about sausages, the way only two food-obsessed blokes can. They went on and on about size, shape, consistency, length and were quite oblivious to Mouse and I doubled up trying not to snort with laughter at this almost chimp-like standoff, testosterone flying. So, I threw down the gauntlet.

‘Right, you two. The only way to settle this is for you both to make your best sausage, then we can have a blind tasting for customers and amongst ourselves. So, we will find out, fair and square, whose sausage is the best.’

There was a bit of grimacing and foot shuffling as both men, convinced they were right, were reluctant to be put to the test.

‘Come on,’ said Mouse, ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’

‘Fun!’ said Claude, giving Javier a sideways look.

Javier’s response was a gentle smile and a shrug. ‘Sure. Porque no?’

This left Claude with little choice but to join in, so it was decided they each had 48 hours to produce their supreme sausage. Both men committed to the challenge and determined to win began making notes, checking ingredients, and furtively squirrelling themselves away at either end of the workbench in the kitchen scribbling notes. Individually they visited Uncle Fraser, who was also sworn to secrecy, at his butcher shop across the road to discuss their meaty requirements. Neither gave anything away to each other or to the rest of us.

As Sausagegate loomed, tension was mounting. Claude and Javier being ultimately polite to one another but aware that the clock was ticking on who would be declared the winner. During this ridiculous display of macho nonsense, Mouse and I fought to keep our hysteria at bay, the basis of which were the impressively high number of sausage-related innuendos we had come up with to amuse ourselves.

The day of the tasting arrived.

We all agreed to adhere to certain rules; after all, there was a lot at stake.

1. We were all banished from the kitchen as Claude and Javier cooked and prepared lunch.

2. Customers were asked when they arrived if they would like to take part in the Great Birdie and Bramble Sausage Challenge.

Almost without exception when we explained what was going on, our customers were suitably intrigued and didn’t hesitate. Just after we took their drinks order, each diner got a small plate with two slices of the sausages in contention. There was a great degree of discussion between them I observed before they declared their favourite, with results duly noted. The fact they had to discuss it proved both sausages had merit, thank goodness. I was already planning my runner-up speech, fearing the result would almost certainly bruise someone’s ego. The kitchen was taking the whole thing very seriously indeed.

The first customer I presented the plates to declined, which I reported to Claude when he slipped into the dining room to check the bookings.

‘Why she say no?’ he asked, desperate for feedback and clearly taking it very personally, as if she had just insulted his very being.

‘She’s a vegetarian,’ I answered.

‘Oh, OK,’ he said, returning to the kitchen slightly less put off.

Mouse sniggered.

And so, it went on.

At the end of the lunch service, it was our turn to taste. Mouse went over to retrieve Uncle Fraser from the butcher’s shop. His son, Hamish, came shambling in, grinning and removed his muddy boots at the door. Being a vegetarian, he wasn’t going to taste, but he wasn’t going to miss out either. Even Noel closed his antique shop for twenty minutes to take part and so, troops gathered, we settled down for the blind tasting.

Once we were seated, Claude and Javier, in a rather gladiatorial fashion, whipped out of the kitchen, chests puffed out and sat at opposite ends of the table. An Ennio Moricone soundtrack played in my head whilst Claude took the floor and explained that the remainder of the sausages have been cooked, sliced, and placed on identical dishes. There was a saucer covering each contender to hide any discrepancy in colour which might give the game away. We had no idea which was which, and neither did Claude and Javier, but just to add to the drama, they both whipped out linen dishcloths and asked me to blindfold them, ensuring absolute impartiality.

‘If we do this, we do it properly,’ said Claude tightening his napkin around his head, which made his already very prominent nose look enormous. Mouse and I stared intently at the table, deliberately avoiding one another’s eyes. There was no doubt a huge guffaw would go down very badly at this juncture.

The tension was thick as the tasting began.

To be honest, and I’m not just saying this, they were both stoating sausages. Meaty, moist and delicious, but in my opinion, there was one which offered a depth of flavour – a rich smoky paprika undertone, with caraway seeds and spicy black peppercorns throughout – that was so moreish I could have scoffed the lot. The other had sage, tiny flecks of red pepper, and a slight fennel aftertaste. Silence reigned as we masticated and made notes, the odd groan of pleasure escaping unchecked. Tasting over, blindfolds removed. I gathered everyone’s notes and removed myself to another table to count the results as the others sat with bated breath.

‘OK,’ I said, standing up and turning to face them. ‘First, the customers’ votes. There were a total of fifty-two customers—’

‘Gosh, that’s good for a Tuesday,’ said Hamish, rewarded with a nudge from Mouse.

‘Sorry,’ he said looking down as Claude nodded for me to continue.

‘It’s very close,’ I said. ‘Of the fifty-two, twenty-four preferred Sausage B and twenty-eight Sausage A, and I can reveal sausage A is … Javier’s sausage!’

A cursory round of applause and a pat on the back for Javier. Claude’s lips pursed as I continued.

‘Next, the professionals vote – that’s us, by the way,’ I clarified. ‘OK, everybody, except one, preferred Sausage A, Javier’s sausage, including you, Claude!’ I grinned, which caused great hilarity and broke the ice. Claude nodded.

‘Not me!’ said Javier, standing up. ‘I prefer Sausage B.’

I watched him deliver this news directly to Claude. Despite overwhelming evidence that his sausage was the outright winner, he insisted the Frenchman’s attempt was superior, ever the charming diplomat. Initially Claude was a little miffed, and we all stayed silent, sensitive to his feelings and unsure of how he and his ego would react. We watched as he reached forward, plucked another morsel of Javier’s sausage off the plate, scrutinising it with his eyes before plopping it into his mouth. Hardly daring to breathe, we watched as his snout twitched and he rolled it back and forth in his mouth, chewing it and finally swallowing it before pronouncing, ‘It is true! Javier’s sausage is the superior product. A worthy winner, monsieur. Congratulations!’ He stood and walked over to Javier, who leapt out his chair to accept the hand of sausage supremacy and friendship.

And from that day to this? The two of them are inseparable. Really.

The other interesting result of this debacle was Uncle Fraser, who was so impressed with the taste of Javier’s sausage, he asked him to come over to the shop and show him how to make it so he could sell the Birdie and Bramble Banger in his butcher shop.

‘Cross promotion,’ he declared, looking at Hamish, who had been trying to drag his father into the new millennium in regard to his business for years.

So Sausagegate was over. It had been a risk and could have gone terribly wrong, but I am thrilled to report that since then Claude has become a mentor to Javier, who is in turn a willing sous chef, eager and keen to learn everything from Claude.

So here we were, remarkably steady and busy with Mouse and I out front together one or two nights a week. A further three nights a week, I work with one of our three student part-timers Ruby, Erin and Prue, and when Willam comes back from his honeymoon, he intends to work five days a week.

The only day we are closed is Sunday, opening again on Monday night for dinner.

At last, a perfect balance and a happy team.

Well, it was until I buggered things up.

I’ve been relishing my job, motivating staff, chatting to customers and keeping suppliers happy whilst dealing with all the marketing and social media too. It has been relentless which is just the way I like it; it means I have no time to think about my, frankly catastrophic, personal life.

I am not one of these women who thinks that life is not complete unless there is a man involved. Since I decided to return to St Andrews and commit to running the business, I have felt loved and supported by my new family. I swear on Frank, my wee dachshund’s life, this statement is logical and true during the hours I am upright and awake.

But as I drift off to sleep, absolutely puggled at the end of every day, I have no choice but to relinquish control, and nine times out of ten Jack MacPherson, the Merchant of Venison, is there.

I can lock him out during the hours of daylight with a million other things to distract me, but the battle with my subconscious leaves me wanting, and too early most mornings I wake to the reality that Jack and I, despite our visceral connection, are only together in my dreams.

Jack. It’s as if the fates conspire to keep us apart. The moment we met in rather inauspicious circumstances, in Uncle Fraser’s shop, he took my breath away. I was grieving for my dad and was only back in St Andrews to sell his restaurant, planning to return to my life in London ASAP. The last thing on my mind was love but love doesn’t consult the people involved, it just does its damnedest. Be it chemistry or kismet, I was hooked. That first sojourn back in St Andrews ended in a magical night. Jack and I shared just one kiss and yet as I travelled the globe, expanding my horizons and trying to decide what I wanted out of life, that kiss remained like a tattoo on my heart. No matter where I travelled the need I felt to return to St Andrews, to run the Birdie and Bramble, surprised me more than anyone. Though my decision to move back was not led by my feelings for Jack, I would be lying if I said that the hope that we might pick up where we left off hadn’t crossed my mind. Which we eventually did.

It was a slow burner. When I first returned from my travels, my business partner William was in crisis, so I had to hit the ground running and was at the restaurant every day and night trying to steady the ship. When Jack and I saw each other again, it was clear that visceral connection was still there, stronger than ever. But the combination of his job and mine meant for those first few weeks all we managed were a series of snatched moments, the sexual tension building to a ridiculous level. Then one day, Jack took things to the next level, picking me up and taking me to his cottage for what I thought was going to be a beans-on-toast impromptu supper, only to realise not only had he had spent hours cooking and preparing the most delicious meal, but he had set a table for two that could not fail to make a girl swoon. And swoon I did. After months of fantasising about this man, it felt like a dream when we finally sealed the deal, did the beast with two backs, danced the horizontal mambo aka shared the most extraordinary night. The following morning every cell of my body was tingling, my head racing, believing, ridiculous as it sounds, that Jack really was who I was destined to be with. For a woman like me, who has never believed a man was that big a deal, this was a shock on many levels.

It was barely daybreak the following morning when we were woken by the dogs going mad. I was totally disoriented as Jack went off to investigate the kerfuffle, leaving me lying on the bed, grinning, like some sort of deranged satiated lovesick teenager.

Ten minutes later, impatient for him to come back to bed, I went off downstairs to rectify the situation, only to come face to face with a complete stranger. Meet Jody, an Australian girl he had a one-night stand with a year ago, when he was in Australia for a wedding. And if you thought things couldn’t get worse… You’re wrong! Swaddled against this woman was a silken-haired wee baby Scarlett, whom she claimed was Jack’s. It completely sideswiped him and us, if there ever really was an us. Both in shock as he drove me back to St Andrews, he promised he would sort things out, and as I looked at his squished sleepy face, and unruly hair framing that look off utter shock as we said goodbye my heart went out to him, and to be honest me too.

The Birdie, as ever, was busy as hell, so I worked every hour as Jack went to ground for a few days. My imagination running riot about him, her and the baby holed up in his cottage together, there was a lot of gnashing of teeth. When we finally caught up, he explained that when he met Jody, she was in a fragile state as her marriage had just broken down, and they had a fling, simple as that. Jody was adamant that Jack was the only guy she had slept with, so she was convinced Scarlett was his baby. Of course, I encouraged him to get a DNA test but he said no, at this point it would be like calling Jody a liar, and if he did that, then what hope would there be of building some sort of relationship for the sake of the child.

At this point I went slightly bonkers and decided I would do a DNA test without Jack’s consent or knowledge. It was a knee-jerk reaction to the arrival of this baby in his life. It was all very well if he wanted to believe Jody but a one night stand? In Australia? I was very dubious indeed. When I told William my plan, he was horrified at the mere suggestion, but Sarah, my oldest pal and partner-in-crime, agreed to help me. But once I had snagged a DNA sample from Scarlett and nicked Jack’s toothbrush, I had to forge Jack’s signature which was when Sarah had second thoughts and backed out of the plan. I understood completely – after all it was a criminal act. But I was like a runaway train and so bagged, tagged, signed the forms, and sent them off. I felt sick doing it but my curiosity and desire to protect this honourable man won the day.

However, before the result came back came the biggest shock of all came when Jack got up one morning to find Jody had packed her bags and disappeared. Leaving the baby behind.

This all happened on the days running up to William and Noel’s wedding. I was up to my oxters in getting the restaurant ready for the big day. My goal was to make it the best day William and Noel had ever had, so the wedding preparations were thorough, extreme and as a result, rather tiring. I had no option at this stage but to leave Jack to it. We texted every day, but I was as much use as a chocolate fireguard; I knew less about babies than nuclear physics and I knew bugger all about that.

The DNA test result arrived at the Bothy on the morning of William and Noel’s wedding. As the best woman, I had a million things to do, the m. . .