Sophie Henderson looked out at the sea of impassive faces and swallowed. No matter how often she’d told herself that it would be fine, that coming back to her old school to talk about her job would be a breeze, it really, really wasn’t. There’s a reason I never wanted to go into teaching, she thought as Mr Jones, the Head of Year Twelve, droned on with his introduction.
Churchwell School’s main hall had changed little in the ten or so years since she’d left, and Sophie was uncomfortably aware of feeling simultaneously like a student again, but also realising how much time had passed since she’d been the one sitting down there, and Matthew Carter, Managing Director of Carter’s Cider, had come in to give this same talk. Seeing those distinctly bored looking, but admirably fresh faced students sitting on the plastic chairs, staring back at her, did little to banish her nerves. Had she looked the same, when Matthew had come in on Careers Day? She hoped not.
‘And so, I’m sure that Sophie will be more than able to not just dispel the myths about her job as a cider maker, but also explain the very good reasons why a job at Carter’s Cider might just be for you.’ As Mr Jones finished his introduction he glanced over at Sophie, who stood up a little too hurriedly from her chair, causing it to totter precariously on its back two legs before it righted itself with a thud on the wooden boards of the stage. Trying to ignore the trembling in her knees, she looked out at her captive audience, a fixed grin on her face.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ she said, her voice echoing slightly back at her from the walls of the main hall. ‘It’s great to be here.’
As she drew breath she was sure she didn’t imagine the whispered, ‘Yeah, right,’ from somewhere in the front row.
‘I hope I can answer your questions today about what it’s like to work for Carter’s Cider, and that some of you might consider applying for the apprenticeships, which, for you, will begin after your exams finish next summer.’
‘Only if we get to drink the cider!’ A voice came from the audience, and was greeted with raucous laughter.
Sophie’s grin got a little more fixed. ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that,’ she said quickly, ‘as part of my job actually involves cider tasting. So, who knows, perhaps you might get to do that, too? If you’re old enough to drink alcohol, of course!’
Recognising that the heckler had been, as they would put it themselves, ‘burned’, or at least mildly singed, by Sophie’s instant response, the audience laughed a little more enthusiastically, and, encouraged, Sophie started to relax. She’d only agreed to speak at the careers day because David Armitage, Chief Cider Maker, had double booked himself and was, by his own admission ‘a little too long in the tooth to be down with the kids anyway, these days.’ At twenty-nine years old, Sophie felt the age gap keenly as she continued to speak, but, she figured, a lot had happened to her in the years since she’d left school. After ten years in the cider business, now having risen through the ranks to be Deputy Cider Maker, she was an enthusiastic and eloquent speaker, and found that the words came easily.
As her speech drew to a close, and she paused for any questions, Sophie felt a flutter of nerves again. What if none of the students had any questions? Should she just continue to stand there, or should she sit down again? Mr Jones had been a little hazy on what happened after she finished talking. Thankfully, a hand shot up a few rows back from the front. Sophie breathed a sigh of relief.
‘So, like, you try all the cider before it leaves the factory, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Sophie replied.
‘So, what happens if you’re not happy with it? Does it just get, like, chucked down the drain?’
Sophie smiled. ‘Well, thankfully that doesn’t happen very often, as we’re pretty good at making cider both we and the customers will be happy with. Although…’ she paused tantalisingly, keeping her audience hanging for a moment ‘… there was an incident just over a year ago that meant we did have to get rid of about seventy thousand pints from one of the oak vats in the barn.’
‘Seventy thousand!’ Mr Jones echoed. ‘That seems like a criminal waste. I’m sure someone could have found a use for it!’ He pointed to himself and grinned. His audience laughed at the attempt at a dad joke.
‘I don’t think you’d have wanted to drink it.’ Sophie shook her head good naturedly. ‘After all, if you throw someone in a cider vat, it tends to contaminate the product a bit!’
Suddenly the sixth form audience looked a whole lot more interested. ‘Does that happen often?’ Mr Jones asked.
‘No, thank goodness,’ Sophie said. ‘And I think you can only get away with doing it if you happen to own the business.’ She was referring, of course, to the night Jonathan Carter, co-owner of Carter’s Cider, and erstwhile Lord of Misrule, had thrown a man into the top of one of the Vintage oak vats after he’d been threatening the love of his life. Jonathan had released the man into the waiting hands of the local police, and, while the details of the case had never been made public, the episode had gone down in local folklore as the most dramatic thing to be added to cider since his late father, Jack Carter, had changed his grandfather’s recipes back in the early eighties and several local farmers had staged a go slow tractor protest outside the front gates of the cider farm.
‘It took four days to empty and clean the vat, and refill it with more of the Vintage blend, and it did slow us down for a little while, but thankfully the guy didn’t do too much damage.’
‘Wouldn’t he have drowned?’ a voice called out from the floor.
‘There’s a stainless steel ladder inside each of the vats so that the coopers can get in and repair them,’ Sophie replied. ‘I think he’d have been pretty cold, but he would have been able to tread water – or cider – until he was released.’
‘Wouldn’t be a bad way to go, anyway,’ Mr Jones replied, grinning. The audience dutifully laughed again. ‘Thank you, Sophie, for giving us such an enlightening talk about your job and the business you work for. And if anyone’s interested in applying for an apprenticeship for after your exams next year, we have the paperwork at the back of the room, which needs to be completed by November this year, so do please pick it up on the way out.’ Shaking Sophie’s hand, and uttering a low, ‘Well done,’ he released her from the stage.
As she walked back behind the curtain and tried to make her way down the steps and out into the auditorium towards the exit, she was brought up short by the scent of a familiar, and distinctly unwelcome aftershave. Pausing in the gloom, cursing the fact that her knees had started to shake, she waited at the top of the steps.
‘After you, Soph,’ a voice whispered in the darkness. ‘Good speech, by the way.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Sophie muttered, trying to hide her discomfort with defensiveness.
‘Same as you, I expect.’ The figure drew closer as Sophie gingerly trod the rickety wooden steps away from the stage and into the corridor. ‘Lecturing this lot about having to work for a living.’
‘I doubt you’d know much about that.’ Sophie tried to push past him, but he reached out a hand to stop her. Looking up from her feet, she met the cocky gaze of her ex-boyfriend, Mark Simpson, who was the manager of a dairy farm a few miles from the school. Her heart thumped painfully as she remembered the last time she’d seen him, and she hoped that he wasn’t going to try to remind her of that now, in earshot of all the sixth formers.
‘Don’t be like that,’ Mark replied, his hand still resting on her elbow. ‘Why don’t we go for a drink tonight? Talk things through.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ Sophie said, pulling away from his touch. ‘And since the last time you wanted to talk was because I caught you shagging your admin assistant in that excuse of an office of yours, I doubt you’ve got much to say to me either.’ Resisting the urge to look back, Sophie raised her head and walked straight down the corridor and out of the entrance to the school, pausing only to sign herself out of the visitors’ book. By the time she’d got to her car, her hands had almost stopped shaking.
Before she started the ignition, she pulled her phone out and checked her emails. At the top of her inbox was yet another email from a rival cider firm, Martingtons, based in Herefordshire. A long standing contact there had been trying to poach her from Carter’s for years, and every time Alannah emailed her the job offer got more lucrative. Sophie was still dithering about what to do: should she hand in her notice and start a new phase in her career, get away from what was safe and familiar and step out of her comfort zone, or should she hang on in there at Carter’s and hope that some time soon David, much as she liked him, would hand his tasting jug over to her?
Resolving to look at the offer in more depth when she’d finished work that day, Sophie checked her other messages, which included an image heavy email from her grandmother, Lily. A romantic novelist by trade, Lily had recently discovered Pinterest, and was busily compiling virtual boards of pictures of ‘swoonworthy romantic heroes’ to aid her with her current novel. Lily’s current ‘hero’ of choice was Keanu Reeves, and Sophie had spent a fair few evenings over the past few months snuggled up on Lily’s sofa as they worked their way through his extensive back catalogue. Lily, predictably for a romantic novelist, was most keen on The Lake House and Sweet November, whereas Sophie was rather fond of the John Wick films. Grinning as she scrolled down the email, which contained at least ten different pictures of Keanu, Sophie resolved to look in on her grandmother after she’d finished work. At least, she thought as she pulled out of the school car park and headed back to Carter’s Cider, her grandmother’s email had lightened her mood after the encounter with Mark. He was someone she certainly didn’t want to think about any more than was strictly necessary.