The Garden of Forgotten Wishes - Trisha Ashley Page 0,15
espresso?’
‘Er … frothy, please,’ I said, but turned down the offer of ice-cream.
Charlie produced two cups of frothy coffee from the hissing stainless-steel monster, and it must have had plenty of caffeine content, because I felt myself perking up after only a couple of sips.
‘Hear that noise?’ asked Elf.
I nodded; I had become aware of a faint grinding and rumbling somewhere in the background.
‘That’s one of the original electric ice-cream-making machines in the back room – you need to keep using them constantly or they seize up,’ she said, unpeeling a mini biscotti from its wrapper and dunking it into her coffee. ‘I even sometimes use the original patented Victorian devices, where everything is done by hand. You can see some of the photographs and original adverts for Agnes Marshall’s Ice Cave, and Ice-cream and Water-Ice making tubs on the wall.’
I’d noticed the wall opposite the paintings was decorated with posters and photos, as well as being set with a stable door that had the top ajar, which presumably led into the adjoining Lavender Cottage.
‘The Verdis opened a teashop here selling ices in late Victorian times, you know. They were of Italian descent and my mum was the last of the family.’
‘Oh, really?’ I said, interested. It seemed rather exotic for a little village up a dead-end valley and I’d had no idea ice-cream making was flourishing that early.
‘Jericho’s End was in its heyday of popularity with the Victorian daytrippers then, and they say it was the first ice-cream parlour in the north of England, but I don’t know …’
She broke off as the small, battered white van that had been parked in front of my car drove slowly past, emitting a bronchial rattling noise and the pale face of the red-haired man I’d glimpsed earlier scowled at us through the open window.
‘Dear me – I wonder what he wanted? I suppose he’s been up to the Hall, trying to make trouble again.’
Elf, seeing my blank expression, explained, ‘He’s one of the Vanes, a local farming family, but he set himself up as a self-employed gardener/handyman, though he’s a poor hand at both. And almost as dour and unpleasant as his father,’ she added. ‘He helped in the Grace Garden one day a week for my late brother-in-law, but when my nephew inherited, last year, he let him go. Lazy and couldn’t tell a lupin from a foxglove.’
‘Did you say his name was Vane?’ I asked, most of what she’d said washing over me, as I wondered if this was some relative of mine. If so, I can’t say I’d really liked the look of him.
‘Yes, Wayne Vane.’ She giggled at my expression. ‘His parents christened him Esau, but from a child he insisted on being called Wayne. Personally, I think he’d have been better sticking to the original.’
‘You’re right,’ I agreed. ‘Esau Vane has an unusual ring to it, but Wayne Vane just sounds a bit silly.’
‘Anyway, that’s neither here nor there,’ Elf said a little more briskly, turning back from the window, where the last trace of blue exhaust hung in the air.
‘What were we saying before? Oh yes – ice-cream. I’m making lemon today. Of course, our bestseller is my lavender and rose, but I like to ring the changes. Your wages may not be munificent, Marnie, but you may eat all the ice-cream you want, like Charlie. There is a little fridge-freezer in your flat, so you can keep some to hand, too.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘that sounds lovely.’
‘We call the place a café-gallery now, but basically we’re still an ice-cream parlour and, apart from tea and coffee, only serve ice-cream, sorbets and my home-made lemonade, ginger or nettle beers.’
‘I didn’t know you could make nettle beer,’ I said, surprised.
‘Oh, yes, it’s quite delicious, but you must pick the young tender tips of the nettles. When the time is right and the fancy takes me, I brew up a fresh batch, or a jug of lemonade in what I call my stillroom in the cottage, which is through that door over there.’
So I’d been right about the stable door leading into the cottage itself.
‘Lavender Cottage was originally a row of three and the Verdi family crammed themselves into the upstairs and back of this one. Father bought the other two when he came here to live, between the wars, and knocked them into one. Then when he married Gina Verdi, he had the doors put through into this one, too, and it’s very convenient now that