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She thought she saw the hint of a fleeting smile beneath his hood as she looked up at him. And how odd that he didn’t know thyme. From his few words she guessed that perhaps he farmed on some large concern. And whoever it was who enjoyed the fruits of his labor must have a very plain and limited palate.
‘Well, yes, the flavour is very nice. Subtle, you might say. Brings out the flavour already there and sort of lights it up. And it is quite hardy. Takes a lot to kill it, I tell you!’ She chuckled, pointing to the large patch of woolly thyme. ‘See that flattened out patch, there in the middle? The old kitchen tabby likes to lay there and soak up the sun.’
In a moment of spontaneity and the chance to prolong a conversation on herbs and their uses, Cook asked if he might like to try a little tea with her . . . mint, a bit of ginger, and a pinch of the lemon thyme. ‘In my kitchen, if you wish; or out of doors, perhaps. It’s a nice day for that.’ She leaned down to pluck a weed from between the plants. ‘Oh! And by the way,’ she said, flicking the weed into the waste-pile at the end of the garden, ‘my name is Vinca Bunce . . . or just Cook, as most round here call me.’
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