Brewer's Tale, The by Karen Brooks Page B

Will and I set to restoring the brewhouse.
    Entering it for the first time in six years was not the joyous moment I’d imagined. As we pushed open the old door, snatching it swiftly as it almost came away from the hinges, the smell of dust, bird droppings and the odour of stale wort assailed us. A stream of light filtered through the filthy windows, striking the aged mash tun, exposing the garlands of cobwebs suspended from the wood. Colonies of dust spiralled into the sunlight like tiny moths chasing a flame. In the far corner, a huge kiln loomed. Under the windows, two shallow troughs sat, dark and empty. A row of barrels squatted between them and the kiln. The good news was their wood appeared sound and the metal hoops that girthed them weren’t rusted. I might yet be spared the cost of a cooper.
    Leaning against one of the barrels was the mash stirrer. Hefting it off the floor, I upended it so I could examine the laddered paddle for any splintering or rot. Mother had brought this with her when she came from Holland and, though it was a deceptively simple piece of equipment I’d seen deployed in other brewhouses, she insisted on using this stick to stir the mash and wort. She claimed it carried within it her family’s talent for brewing. I didn’t doubt it and proposed to use it as well. Satisfied it was intact, I set it down and continued my survey.
    Gathering dust on the table in the middle of the room were bungs for the barrels, a copper hand cup, spigots and a mallet that, when I picked it up, was lighter than I recalled. Putting it down carefully beside a dull funnel, I flexed my fingers.
    As I crossed the room rats scurried before me, and from the shadows and dark corners came the sound of small feet and high-pitched squeals. I opened the door at the far end that led to the small shed Mother had used as a malthouse. The hinges were stiff, and I used my shoulder to thrust the door open, almost tumbling down the steps. It was too dark to see clearly, not even the small window admitted much light. Propping the door open, I descended the few steps and bent down to touch the floor. It was, thankfully, dry, but filthy with grit and dirt. I shuddered and, not for the first time, doubt engulfed me. I went back up the steps and stood in the doorway, hands on my hips, facing Will and Adam.
    Will shook his head, arms folded. He didn’t believe we could do it. I took a deep breath and the disturbed dust made me cough. I resolved then and there that I would prove Will wrong. I swung to Adam and, to my great relief, saw only calculation on his face.
    â€˜How’s the malthouse?’ he asked, putting down the old tundish.
    â€˜Dry.’ I clapped my hands together to rid them of debris. ‘For now.’
    Adam nodded. ‘That’s a start.’ He turned slowly. ‘Well, at least all the equipment appears to be here.’
    â€˜Aye. But the truth is, it will take more work than first thought …’
    â€˜More work, Mistress Anneke?’ griped Will. ‘It’ll take the king’s army.’
    â€˜Rubbish,’ said Adam and, propping the outside door wide open so more light flooded the space, he knocked his fist against the mash tun. The sound reverberated. ‘This merely needs a good clean.’ He bent down and examined it from below. ‘There’s a piece of wood wants replacing, but nothing Jasper Cooper won’t be able to tend quickly. I’ll go and see him shortly, ask him to have a look.’
    I wasn’t to be spared a cooper after all.
    Adam strolled to the troughs and inspected them as well. ‘You weren’t a part of this household when the brewhouse was used almost every day, Will. It was a sight to behold and one we’ll see again.’ He smiled. ‘Just as the equipment is coated in dirt, disguising its value, you’re allowing first impressions to blind you to what’s before your eyes.’ Wiping away a cobweb, he