The village looked picture-postcard perfect. The summer sun brightened the buttery-yellow stone of the old buildings, and she couldn’t spot a single drooping bloom in any of the riotous hanging baskets that lined the pavement. It was breathtakingly pretty.
At least, she hoped it was the view taking her breath away. ‘Let’s sit for a minute and soak all this up.’ They crossed to the narrow village green where an iron bench sat in the shade of a huge tree. She slumped onto the seat.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Katie asked. ‘Oliver, wait for Mum.’
‘I’m fine. Perfectly fine. I just wanted to look at the view.’ She tried not to sound as puffy as she felt. When Sophie breathed in, she started to cough. ‘Whew, all this fresh air,’ she joked. ‘I’m not used to it.’
It was nothing to worry about. Her GP and cardiologist agreed on that. Just a skippy heart that definitely didn’t mean her imminent demise. Definitely not.
That was easy for them to say. It wasn’t their heart going like the clappers. They should try living with it. Or not, as the case may be. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ She gestured to the bench. ‘Let me just see if Harriet needs us to pick anything up while we’re here.’ That might buy her a few more minutes to catch her breath.
Hi, she texted, we’re shopping in the village. Do you need me to get anything for you?
Sophie smiled. Sure, that would be useful, thanks. Sx
Her phone pinged a few seconds later. Harriet didn’t waste time.
Ignoring her still-pounding heart, Sophie got up and followed the children up the high street. Move along, nothing to see here, just a woman hopefully not about to have a stroke.
Her breathing eased after a few more steps. By the time Oliver waved at one of the windows, Sophie felt okay again. ‘It’s the butcher.’ He waved again. ‘We met him here with Dad yesterday!’
A bell jingled as they pushed open the old-fashioned shop door. The meaty aroma that hit them made Sophie’s mouth water. Those sausage rolls looked like lunch to her.
The spectacled young butcher stood behind a long scarred wooden table with all the meats behind him or laid out in the big bay window beside him. Wooden crates stacked with vegetables and interesting-looking packets lined the opposite wall.
A severe-looking woman with a distinctly Thatcheresque hairstyle was just paying.
‘How be?’ said the butcher.
‘Very well, thank you,’ Oliver answered. ‘This is my mum.’
‘How be?’ he repeated to Sophie.
She could feel the severe-looking woman staring at her. ‘You’re the lady needing the rest.’ Now she was staring at Sophie like she was terminal. ‘For your nerves,’ the woman added.
Her nerves! That made her sound like a nineteenth-century lady. Where did she put those smelling salts? ‘Actually, it’s my heart. Well, not my heart, exactly, but my blood pressure. My mum had a stroke when she was only young.’
Now why had she told that to a perfect stranger?
The woman nodded. ‘Bea told me.’
‘Who?’ asked Sophie. She didn’t remember meeting any Bea. The masseuse was called Molly.
‘You mean the lady with the tea shop?’ Oliver asked the woman. ‘We talked to her yesterday, when we were here with Dad.’
The woman nodded. ‘That’s right. ’Ow are you feeling?’ she asked Sophie. The woman’s hair might be severe, but her voice was kind.
‘Fine, thank you. I’m having massages at the spa. They’re wonderful, although I’ve never heard of most of the techniques.’
Sophie couldn’t tear her eyes away from that hair. Not a strand moved out of place when the lady shook her head. ‘Molly loves ’er Eastern ways. Not me. Sticks and stones will break my bones.’ But Sophie was too busy wondering how much hairspray the woman used to pay attention to what she was saying.
‘You’re off today,’ she added.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You have today off. No massage.’
‘Erm, that’s right.’ How did she know so much about Sophie’s schedule?
‘’Ow were the kebabs?’ the butcher asked.
‘Great,’ said Oliver.
‘You should get a pie from Hazel while you’re here.’ The butcher pointed out of his bay window. ‘Hazel’s Pies. She’s got cherry now.’
‘No, out of the cherry,’ said the lady. ‘There’s still a plum one, though.’
‘Well, thank you, maybe we’ll get one,’ said Sophie. ‘Do you know where I can get some thyme?’ These people clearly had their fingers on the pulse of the village if they could inventory Hazel’s pies.
‘Delia’s,’ said the butcher, pointing again out of the window.
Delia’s Deli was nearly next door. The walls of the small shop were lined to the ceiling with pale-green shelves full of colourful tins and jars of pickle, pots of jam, biscuits, fancy pasta and oils. Everywhere Sophie looked made her mouth water. A big basket filled with crusty bread sat on top of a glass case full of cheeses, meats, olives and pesto.
The woman behind the till wore a red apron that said No, not that Delia.
‘I take it you’re Delia?’ Sophie asked.
‘But not that Delia,’ Delia answered. ‘How can I help?’ Her lipstick was bright red and perfectly applied. Sophie had always envied women who could pull that off.
‘I’m just after some thyme. Oh, and chopped tomatoes.’ Sophie squinted at the pâtés in the case. ‘But that looks delicious. Is it made locally?’
‘Everything is,’ Delia said. ‘Would you like to taste a sample?’ She was already lifting one of the pâtés out of the case. ‘Here, try the Brussels. I prefer it to the Ardennes.’
Sophie took the biscuit Delia offered. The smooth pâté melted in her mouth. ‘Mmm, I could eat that for dinner! I’ll take some, about this much, please.’ She held her thumb and finger apart. ‘Does anyone not love this?’
Delia shook her head. ‘Hardly anyone.’ She neatly sliced a good portion and wrapped it in some deli paper. ‘Are you visiting?’
‘Hey, Mum, look, that’s our farm’s cheese!’ Katie pointed to a small, neatly lettered sign stuck into a soft round cheese. ‘And there.’
‘Do you know James?’ Delia asked.
‘Not really. We’ve done a house swap with Harriet for two weeks.’ She was sure she saw Delia’s expression change.
‘I see. You’re friends with her, then?’
The sudden chill in the shop definitely wasn’t coming from the cheese case. ‘We’ve only just met,’ she said. ‘My husband is a solicitor, too. They know each other professionally. That’s all.’
Delia smiled again. ‘James is a top bloke, but that wife of his is another story.’
In the entire history of gossip, nothing flattering ever followed the phrase that wife of his. ‘Oh?’ It was absolutely none of Sophie’s business what the village thought of Harriet. But that bait was possibly even more tempting than the pâté Delia had just fed her.
On the other hand, Sophie wasn’t sure she wanted to draw out any criticism. Short as their acquaintance had been, she already knew she liked Harriet. She was perhaps a bit … regimented, but she had saved their holiday. She felt some loyalty to the woman.
Delia clearly didn’t. ‘We have tried to welcome her, but, well, she’s a bit peculiar, don’t you think? Some of the things she’s come out with. It’s like she doesn’t want to be friendly. It’s only right to expect a person to make a bit of an effort if they want to fit in. But we don’t judge.’
Sophie begged to differ about that point.
‘I’ve heard from Susan,’ she went on, ‘she’s the woman who cooks sometimes for them, that she’s got everyone under her thumb at home.’
‘She’s got lists!’ Oliver said. ‘Everywhere, even in the bathroom.’
Delia pulled a face of mock-shock.
‘Well, with working full-time I guess she needs everything organised,’ Sophie murmured.
‘But you said she was anal,’ Oliver ad
ded.
Sophie felt her cheeks burning. ‘We’ll just take these things, thanks.’ She hurried them out to continue their shopping.
‘Everyone here is so nice!’ Oliver said as they made their way back to the farm.
Sophie wouldn’t say that. ‘Careful you don’t tip the box, darling, or the pie will squash.’
Oliver righted the bag.
‘Hungry?’ she asked the children as they crunched up the gravel drive. She could hear the bees buzzing in the lavender. Katie would be happy that Harriet’s garden was doing its bit to save them. ‘We could take lunch into the garden. They’ve got that nice table out the back.’ That might even lure Dan away from his work, she thought as she turned the key in the lock.
Dan flung open the door. ‘Where’ve you been, Soph?’
‘You frightened the life out of me!’ She laughed. ‘Have you been waiting there for us? I’m flattered. We went to the shops. I told you.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘I mean, I left you a note. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were working.’
‘There’s no note.’ There was that edge to his voice again.
She frowned. ‘I’m sure I did.’ He followed her into the kitchen where she searched on, around and under the kitchen table. ‘I left it just here, I know I did.’
‘If you’d left it, then I would have seen it. That’s how notes work. I was worried. Anything could have happened to you.’
‘But we only went to the village. I wanted to help you.’ She held up her canvas bag. ‘I picked up a few extra things for meals.’
‘I only asked for chopped tomatoes. Soph, was that really so hard?’ He held up the tins she’d got. ‘Wrong, wrong, wrong again. I didn’t want them with herbs.’
‘I didn’t notice. Will that ruin the taste?’
‘Let’s hope not,’ he said. ‘What extra things did you get? Show me.’ With every little pot and packet, his expression grew more thundery. ‘We probably won’t eat all this. Did you get biscuits?’ He held up the pâté, then shook his head. ‘What makes you think I need help, anyway? I asked you for one simple thing and you come back with all this.’
‘You forgot thyme,’ she said. He could point out her errors all he wanted. The fact was, he hadn’t done the whole shop when he had the chance, which was why she had to go out in the first place. His mistake, not hers.
She kept these thoughts to herself.
‘Come with me,’ he said, taking her hand. She followed him out the front door. He pointed to one of the borders. Unlike the others that ringed the garden, this was filled with shrubs instead of flowers. ‘What do you think that is?’ He pointed to a scrubby-looking bush.
Sophie hated quizzes like this, but she was used to playing the game.
‘I’m guessing thyme,’ she said. She should have known that, first, Harriet would grow her own herbs and, second, that Dan would find them. She mentally subtracted the point she thought she’d scored. ‘Of course, there’s fresh thyme. Sorry.’
‘Don’t I always take care of it? Silly bean, you’re hopeless.’ Then he folded her into his arms. ‘You did one thing right, though. That plum pie.’
She leaned into his chest. She was always so grateful for these moments, after, when everything was okay again.
There was no trace of his aggravation any more. ‘Want to eat it now?’
‘What, before our meal? Yes, please!’
‘Do we have to tell the children?’ he asked.
‘Let’s wait till they’re distracted and I’ll meet you in the kitchen with a fork.’
Their arms tightened around each other. How she loved their world-of-two conspiracies.
‘Oh,’ Sophie whispered as she twisted in his arms to take something from her pocket. She held up two scraps of paper.
Thyme, read one.
The other was her note.
‘Silly bean,’ he said again.
Chapter 9
Monday
Harriet couldn’t believe her eyes, even after she’d rubbed the sleep from them. She wasn’t seeing things. There was a man in their kitchen! A giant, hulking man dressed all in black, like a deadly ninja, with his hood pulled up over his head to hide his felonious face.
Harriet froze in the corridor as he ransacked another cabinet. The hairs stood up on her neck. Billie and James were upstairs, unaware that they were about to have their throats cut.
Well, not if Harriet had anything to say about it. She retraced her steps a little back into the hallway. Even though she was facing mortal danger, she congratulated herself on tidying away the shoes. That was just the kind of thing that would have tripped her up and let the murderer pounce.
This was exactly why she’d had the security wall built around the Gloucestershire house before they moved in. With cameras. James said it was a stupid waste of money, not to mention insulting to the neighbours, who were nothing but honest. Besides, they’d never been broken into in all the years that Coopers Farm had existed.
Well, who was stupid now, eh, James?
Harriet crept to the tall box where she’d stored all the sports equipment she’d found scattered throughout the house. She’d never been a cricket fan – until now, she thought as she hefted the sturdy bat.
She just wished she had a bra on. She was about to swing more than the cricket bat.
Harriet peered round the corner. The man had moved to the fridge. Clever. She’d read an article saying that a surprising percentage of old people kept their pension money in the fridge. Or was it the freezer?
Even in her socked feet, the man heard her as she ran into the kitchen.
‘Aaaaarrrggghhhhhhhh!’ she screamed, swinging the bat as hard as she could.
‘What the fuck?!’ He threw himself backward, landing hard on the edge of the kitchen island worktop. ‘Oof!’ He slumped to the floor, the breath knocked out of him. ‘Yo, don’t hit me!’ he said.
He was shielding his head, but Harriet glimpsed it anyway: pudgy, bright-red cheeks, bare of beard, and floppy boy band hair.
This wasn’t a man. ‘Who are you?’
‘Owen.’ His wide, frightened eyes peeped out from between his raised arms.
She’d never been on first-name terms with a burglar before.
Her grip on the bat loosened. ‘What are you doing in our kitchen, Owen?’
‘It’s Sophie’s kitchen.’ Now he looked confused.
‘Oh, right. Technically, yes.’
‘You’re not gonna hit me?’
They both glanced at the bat. ‘Sorry, no, but you frightened me.’
‘You?’ he answered, still glaring at the bat.
Harriet put it behind her back. To think, she could have brained this child! He was probably no older than Billie. She felt her hands start to tremble. ‘I’m sorry.’
Owen lowered his arms. ‘I didn’t know anyone was here. I would have knocked.’ He took her extended hand and pulled himself upright. ‘Thanks.’
‘How did you get in?’ She glanced at the wall clock. It was barely 8 a.m.
Owen held up his key fob. ‘I crash here sometimes. Sophie doesn’t mind.’
Beneath the teen’s surprisingly deep voice, Harriet heard his vulnerability. ‘But you don’t want to stay here, not now?’ That was inconvenient. ‘We’re staying here.’
‘Sorry, but I didn’t know that, did I?’
‘Well, let me ring Sophie. In a little while. It’s early yet … why are you here so early?’ Billie was never out of bed before ten these days. That was one of the reasons she’d brought them all to London the night before their flight. She had been thinking of her family, not just herself, like James did.
‘Mum and I had a row,’ Owen said. He hunched further into his sweatshirt. Even so, he towered over Harriet.
She had to wonder what there was to fight about at such an hour, but she didn’t ask. It wasn’t her business. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
Owen went straight to the cabinet to get a mug. He look
ed uncertainly at the neat stacks of dishes. ‘Where’re the mugs?’
There had been a few in that cabinet, and the one next to it, and the two below, before she’d reorganised. ‘They’re all above the coffee-maker.’ She’d moved that, too, to a more sensible place. Sophie had seemed to store everything in proximity to the dishwasher: mugs, glasses, dishes, bowls, even some tins of beans and an open packet of salted nuts. ‘I’ve tidied up a bit,’ she told Owen.
‘Are you alone here?’ he asked.
That raised alarm bells, even though, now that she’d had a good look at him, Owen was about as intimidating as those giant stuffed bears they sold in Hamleys.
‘My husband is upstairs.’ Come to think of it, where was he? James must have heard her screaming, yet he didn’t bother to see what was wrong. She could be dead down here.
That said something about the state of their relationship.
‘Ohhh. Owen,’ said Sophie when Harriet rang her later. ‘Yes, he sometimes stays with us. I hope that’s not a problem. He’s a very nice boy. He usually just comes and goes with his key.’
‘But why does he stay?’ Harriet knew lots of nice people. None of them had a key to her house. She couldn’t get her head around giving a strange teenager free rein.
‘He has a difficult relationship with his mother,’ Sophie said.
Owen had already admitted as much, but that still didn’t answer Harriet’s question. ‘No, I mean why does he stay with you?’ She kept her voice down so it didn’t carry through the house to the kitchen, where Owen was eating breakfast.
‘Ah, of course, I should have said. We fostered him for about a year when he was ten. He became part of the family and I guess he still is, even though he’s back with his mum now. It’s not always easy for him, but they do try as best they can to get on. Well, you know what it’s like living with a teenager.’
‘Actually, Sophie, now that you bring it up. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but will he be okay here with Billie? It’s just that, well, two teens under the same roof. A boy and a girl …’
The Staycation: This summer's hilarious tale of heartwarming friendship, fraught families and happy ever afters Page 9