The Switch

by Beth O'Leary

  * * *

  That night I sit beside Fitz at the breakfast counter and sift through the replies I’ve had about the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club. So far five people have asked for transport to come to the grand opening, and there are seven others who have said they’ll confirm nearer the time, plus a handful who sounded interested. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but it does feel rather exciting.

  Every so often I check whether Howard’s available on the chat page. His ideas for our website sound wonderful—his grand plan is that we’ll use it for fundraising. I’m keeping it a surprise for now, but I already can’t wait to show Fitz when it’s done. The only downside is that Howard says he needs a little money to get things off the ground. He says he’ll likely double it with fundraising within the week, so I’ll get it back and more in no time, and it certainly still sounds like the website is worth doing. I’m just waiting to hear how much money he needs.

  As I work my way through all my messages, I land on my conversation with Arnold, a series of cat videos interspersed with the odd bits and pieces about Hamleigh and the garden. I pause on his name, then on a whim I click to go to his profile.

  There’s some writing there now, as well as the picture. My name is Arnold Macintyre, and I’m turning over a new leaf, says his About Me section. Is anyone out there doing the same? I’d love to chat to a like-minded soul …

  I rub my neck. I wonder if anyone has responded to Arnold’s question. Is there a like-minded lady out there, chatting to him about turning over a new leaf? It hadn’t really occurred to me that if Arnold’s talking to me on this website, he’s probably talking to other people, too.

  I pause over the message button. There’s a green dot by Arnold’s name. It’s funny to think of him up there in Hamleigh, sitting at his computer.

  EileenCotton79 says: Hello, Arnold. I’ve got to ask. What do you mean when you say you’re turning over a new leaf?

  Arnold1234 says: Well, I felt a little inspired by you, actually.

  EileenCotton79 says: Me???

  Arnold1234 says: You’ve taken life by the horns again. I stopped doing that far too long ago. So now I’ve started again.

  I stare at the screen for a while. Arnold starts typing.

  Arnold1234 says: I go to Pilates now, you know.

  “Ha!”

  Fitz turns away from his laptop screen and looks at me, eyebrows raised. I smile sheepishly.

  “Nothing interesting,” I say quickly, swiveling Leena’s laptop a little.

  EileenCotton79 says: What else??

  Arnold1234 says: Leena taught me how to cook Pad Thai for dinner.

  EileenCotton79 says: But Leena is a dreadful cook!

  Arnold1234 says: Well, I know that now, don’t I?

  I laugh again.

  EileenCotton79 says: And Betsy told me you’re on the May Day Committee, now, too …

  Arnold1234 says: I am. Though your granddaughter is refusing to make the May Day Eileen specials, so I doubt the day will be up to much.

  I smile. Every year for May Day, I make toffee apples to sell on a stall outside my front gate. Arnold always buys three, grumbles about the price until I irritably let him have a discount, then gloats about it all evening. Usually with toffee in his teeth.

  My fingers hover over the keys.

  EileenCotton79 says: Well, how about I promise to make you some toffee apples when I get back?

  His answer takes a long time to arrive.

  Arnold1234 says: Special discount price?

  I laugh, rolling my eyes.

  EileenCotton79 says: Free, for looking out for Leena while I’m away, and as a thank-you for the cat videos. They’ve really kept me smiling.

  Arnold1234 says: Well, how can I say no to that?

  I smile.

  Arnold1234 says: And how about the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club? How’s that coming along?

  I forgot I’d mentioned it to him at all—it’s sweet of him to remember.

  EileenCotton79 says: It’s the grand opening this weekend!

  Arnold1234 says: I wish I could be there.

  And then, as I’m absorbing that rather surprising sentence:

  Arnold1234 says: Well, if I was invited.

  EileenCotton79 says: Of course you’d be invited, Arnold, don’t be daft.

  Arnold1234 says: I’ve never even been invited into your house, so I wouldn’t like to presume …

  I frown at Leena’s laptop, pushing my glasses down my nose.

  EileenCotton79 says: You don’t mean … ever?

  Arnold1234 says: Ever. You have never once invited me around.

  EileenCotton79 says: Well. I think you’ll find I did invite you around once.

  Arnold1234 says: Aye, well, not since that first day, then.

  I bite my lip, then absent-mindedly dab at it to fix my lipstick.

  It occurs to me, with the benefit of distance, perhaps … I have not been very charitable when it comes to Arnold.

  I wait for a while, unsure what to say. After a moment Arnold sends me a video of a cat riding on a Hoover. I laugh.

  Arnold1234 says: Thought I’d lighten the mood.

  EileenCotton79 says: Well, Arnold, I’m sorry. When I am home, I would very much like to invite you in for tea and a toffee apple.

  Arnold1234 says: I’d like that.

  Arnold1234 says: Good luck with the grand opening, Eileen. We all look forward to having you back in Hamleigh again.

  And, with that, the green dot disappears.

  * * *

  Tonight is my last night with Tod. I don’t leave until Monday, but I want to reserve the weekend for goodbyes with my new friends.

  I don’t precisely feel sad, saying goodbye to Tod. We’ve known from day one it was coming, and when the moment would be. This is why I’m so very surprised when he sits up beside me in his plush white bed and says:

  “Eileen, I’m not ready to say goodbye to you.”

  I’m so taken aback I have to wait for the right words to come, and it takes so long that Tod’s face falls.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, reaching reflexively for his hand. “I’m just surprised. We’ve always said…”

  “I know.” He presses my hand to his lips. Disordered after an afternoon in bed, his silver-gray hair is fluffy and rumpled; I smooth it back to the way he likes to wear it, swept back like Donald Sutherland’s. “It’s been extraordinary, really. There’s no other way to put it. You’re really one of a kind, Eileen Cotton.”

  I smile, looking down at the sheets across my lap. “We said today was goodbye.”

  “Well, tomorrow can be goodbye. Or the next day. Or some distant day a long way off.” He smiles roguishly at me, linking his fingers with mine. “Go on. Let me have a go at winning you round. Come to our cast party tomorrow. It’s a barbecue on a rooftop in King’s Cross. Good food, good conversation, the occasional West End star…”

  “Skip the party,” I say impulsively. “Come to the launch of the Silver Shoreditchers’ Social Club.” I press a kiss to his cheek. “It would be so lovely to have you there.”

  He pauses. “Well, I … I suppose I could.”

  I beam. This project has been the most important part of my time here in London—it feels right to have Tod there for its grand opening. And perhaps what he says is true. Perhaps this doesn’t have to be over, just because I’m going to move back to Yorkshire. It’s only a couple of hours away on the train, after all.

  It only occurs to me after I leave his house that Howard has said he will be at the grand opening too. Oh, dear. I suppose this is when dating gets complicated.

  27

  Leena

  “Absolutely not,” I say firmly.

  “But Vera’s got the squits!” Penelope wails at me.

  I’ve got so much to do I don’t even have time to find that funny.

  “Penelope, I have to be out there making sure everything is running smoothly! Surely there is a young woman in this village who can b
e coerced or bribed into being May Queen.”

  “I suppose … There’s Ursula…”

  Ursula is the sixteen-year-old whose parents own the village shop. She is usually to be found curled up with a book in the corner by the fresh vegetables. I have never seen her exchange a word with anybody.

  “Perfect,” I say, turning back to the beautiful coat-of-arms garlands currently being slung between the lampposts on Peewit Street. It’s a chilly morning; the garlands are reflected in silver in the puddles on the pavement, and the flags we’ve fixed to the war memorial at the end of the street are flying beautifully in the wind. “I leave it in your capable hands, Penelope.”

  “That garland is wonky,” Roland says.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply. “Thank you, Roland.”

  “No trouble,” he says amiably, buzzing away after Penelope.

  “It is, you know,” comes Jackson’s voice.

  I turn. In the end, I went very gentle on him with the May King costume. He’s dressed in green trousers tucked into tall brown boots, and a loose white shirt belted at the waist, kind of like how I imagine Robin Hood, only as if he was a massive rugby player instead of a wily man of the forest. The May Day wreath is already around his neck. It’s beautiful—Kathleen wove it out of wild flowers and leaves she found in the hedgerows.

  The pièce de résistance, though, is the horns. Big green ones, curving like ram’s horns, as tall as my Easter bunny ears were.

  I went gentle, but I wasn’t going to let the man off without some ridiculous headwear.

  “Hey,” he says as I suppress a smile. “I kept a straight face when you looked like Roger Rabbit.”

  I press my lips together and adopt the most solemn expression I can manage. “Very regal,” I say. When I turn back to the garlands, I feel something land around my neck. I look down; the May Queen wreath, the same as Jackson’s, but with a few pink flowers woven among the white.

  I spin on my heels to look at him again. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, moving to take off the wreath.

  Jackson’s hand catches my wrist. “You know Ursula will never do it. Come on. Community spirit.”

  “I can’t be in the parade, I’ve got to organize everything!” I protest. “The May King and Queen float has rotted through the middle—I need to either find a very talented carpenter or another float—and…”

  “Leave it with me,” Jackson says, one dimple beginning to show in his cheek. “Be my May Queen and I’ll find you a way to travel in style, all right?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “In case you’re wondering, this is my suspicious face.”

  “I’ve grown pretty familiar with that face, actually,” Jackson says. His hand is still on my wrist; I wonder if he can feel my pulse fluttering. “Leave it to me,” he says again, and when he drops my arm I can still feel the memory of his fingers on my skin, warm like sunlight.

  I need Ethan to get here. It’s been too long. I’m getting silly and distracted by this stupid—this whatever-it-is, this crush on Jackson. This week I’ve caught myself thinking about him when I shouldn’t be, rerunning our conversations as I make dinner, imagining what he might have been thinking. Remembering the sandy freckles under his steady blue eyes and the feel of his body pressed against mine as I was thrown back against the living room mirror.

  I check my phone—I’m waiting for Ethan to text and let me know when he’ll get here—but I’ve got no signal, as per usual. I growl, turning back to the garland-arranging, my brain ticking its way through the list of jobs still to do: check Portaloos have arrived, deal with flooding in the field currently planned for parking, ring the man about ice delivery, check in with Betsy on food stalls …

  Penelope returns. “Ursula said she’d rather let one of those falcons peck out her eyes than be May Queen,” she announces.

  “God, that’s … graphic,” I say. I have clearly misread Ursula. “OK, I’ll think of someone else once I’ve sorted food stalls and ice and flooding and Portaloos.”

  “Breathe, dear,” Penelope says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done so much already! I’m sure Betsy won’t mind if you take a little break.”

  “Penelope,” I say, patting her hand, “this is genuinely the most fun I’ve had in … God, I don’t know, ages. Please don’t make me take a break.”

  She blinks those owlish eyes at me. “You are odd, love,” she says.

  I grin at her and check my phone again: three miraculous bars of signal, though still no text from Ethan. I shake off the thought and get Betsy up on speed dial (not joking: Grandma’s phone actually still has speed dial).

  “Sorry I missed your last call!” I say into the phone, gesturing leftwards to the men putting up the garlands. (Rob and Terry? I think it’s Rob and Terry? Or are they the ones I commandeered to block off traffic to Lower Lane?)

  “Leena. The food stalls. They’re not coming.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I don’t know!” Betsy sounds almost tearful.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it.” I ring off and dig out the number for one of the food stalls. They’re all run by separate people, mostly local to the area; the cheese-toastie guy’s number is the first I find.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Firs Blandon offered us double.”

  “Firs Blandon?” The village that the Neighborhood Watch are always bitching about? “What for?”

  “They’re doing May Day too, I think. Got a sign up next to yours on the road, directing people their way. Bigger sign than yours, actually,” cheese-toastie man adds helpfully.

  “Don’t do this,” I say. “I am already on my way to Firs Blandon”—I’m heading for Agatha at a jog—“and I will be getting you all back to Hamleigh-in-Harksdale as agreed, but it’s going to be messy, and I can promise you, it’ll all be a lot nicer if you just come back and fulfill your contractual obligations here in Hamleigh.”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause. “I didn’t sign anything,” cheese-toastie man points out.

  Feck, feck, feck. No, he didn’t. We just contacted the food stalls that come every year and asked them to do a medieval theme this time, and they all said, Oh, sure, we’ll be there! There might have been a contract once, when May Day was first organized, but God knows where that is.

  “We still have legal rights,” I say coolly, though I haven’t a clue if that’s true.

  “Right. Well … sorry, Leena. There’s not a lot of money in the cheese-toastie gig, and … Sorry.” He rings off.

  I unlock the car. Penelope appears beside me, her giant eyes wide with worry.

  “There are no food stalls!” she says, clutching my arm.

  “It’s a disaster!” roars Basil, approaching at a very slow but purposeful jog. “Bloody Firs Blandon! I should have known they’d be up to something!”

  “All right, Leena?” calls Arnold from over the road, where he’s checking the bulbs in the hanging lanterns.

  “All of you: in,” I say, pointing to the car.

  I chuck the keys at Penelope, who catches them, then looks extremely surprised her reflexes were up to the job.

  “You’re driving,” I tell her.

  “Oh, but what would Dr. Piotr say?” Basil asks. “He said Penelope ought not to—”

  Penelope’s eyes twinkle. “Bother Dr. Piotr,” she says, opening the driver’s door. “This is exciting.”

  * * *

  I wouldn’t say I feel safe with Penelope driving. But we certainly make progress.

  “That was a red light,” Arnold says mildly, as we go sailing past it.

  “It would have been green in a minute,” Penelope says, foot on the accelerator.

  I, meanwhile, am glued to my phone.

  “Who’s in charge at Firs Blandon?” I ask. “Is there a mayor or something?”

  “What? No,” Arnold says. “I suppose there’s probably a chair of the parish council.”

  “There might well be,” Penelope says shrewdly, “but they’re most likely not
in charge.”

  I glance up from my phone. “No?”

  “Eileen’s chair of our Neighborhood Watch,” Penelope says, taking a sharp bend at sixty. “But we all know Betsy runs things, don’t we?”

  “Whoa, whoa, that was a thirty sign!”

  “Well, I didn’t see it,” says Penelope.

  I roll my window down as we enter Firs Blandon. There are garlands! And lanterns! The bastards!

  “Excuse me,” I say to one of the men hanging garlands. “Who’s in charge, here?”

  “Take me to your leader!” Basil barks from the back seat, making himself chuckle.

  “In charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the chair of the parish council is…”

  I wave him off. “But really though. Like, when someone starts parking a bit too near a junction or the pub starts charging an extra quid for fish and chips, who is it that gets things to go back to how they were?”

  “Oh, you mean Derek,” the man says. “He’s down there, getting all the food stalls set up in the right spots.”

  “Thank you,” I say, then let out a small shriek as Penelope puts her foot down again.

  “I’ve never trusted men called Derek,” Penelope says rather mysteriously, as we come into view of Firs Blandon’s Main Street, now filled with all our food stalls.

  “You guys park up,” I say, already pulling the passenger door open. “I’m going in.”

  Derek is not difficult to spot. He is a man in his late sixties, wearing a very bright and entirely unnecessary yellow hard hat and brandishing a megaphone.

  “Right a bit! Left a bit! No left a bit! No left!” he shouts into the megaphone.

  “Derek?” I say pleasantly.

  “Yes?” He barely glances around.

  “Leena Cotton,” I say, stepping in front of him with my hand out. “Here representing Hamleigh-in-Harksdale.”

  That gets his attention. “Didn’t take you long,” he says, and there’s a little smirk on his face that really gets my blood boiling.