Looking at the lovely, lived-in face, Isla couldn’t stop the smarting of tears or herself from dropping the bag of carrots and rushing forward. She nearly knocked Bridget down as she threw her arms around her. ‘Oh, Gran! I’ve missed you so much.’ The surprisingly fit figure yielded to the hug and patted her on the back.
‘Me, or my baking?’ She disentangled herself from the embrace. ‘Enough of that carry on now, go and sit down before these get cold.’ She turned away but not before Isla saw that she too was blinking back tears. Isla picked the plate up off the bench, and carried it over to the table that had been laid for afternoon tea. It would fetch a pretty penny these days that table, she thought as she rubbed her hand over its lemon-yellow top. Formica was classed as retro, and therefore it was cool.
Bridget pushed the plate towards her and not needing to be offered twice, Isla reached forward and took a scone. The butter dripped down her chin as she took a bite and Bridget got up to fetch the roll of paper towel. ‘Still a messy Miss I see.’ She ripped a piece of the towel off and handed it to her granddaughter, pleased to see her baking being enjoyed.
‘Gran you make the best scones in the world.’
Bridget sat up a little straighter and helped herself to one before adding, ‘Isla don’t talk with your mouth full. It’s the secret ingredient that makes them so light. Margaret’s always on at me to tell her what it is.’
It was over the second cup of tea that Bridget cut to the chase, ‘Right, enough of the pussy-footing around. What is it that has brought you home?’
Isla’s hand froze with the half-eaten scone midway to her mouth. She’d never been able to pull the wool over Gran’s eyes. ‘I’m home because I’ve missed getting the third degree from you.’
‘Humph, well your mother said that after you had broken up with that Tim you went off to America and had some sort of epiphany that you wanted to come home. I told her she needed to stop reading those self-help books she’s addicted to and talk sense.’
Gosh, she had a way with words, Isla thought, her mouth twitching. ‘To be fair Gran, Mum was right in a way. My time in California helped me realize that I had no work-life balance in London. I’d gone as far as I could go in my career over there, I’m single again and what’s that saying?’ She frowned casting around for it. ‘Oh, you know – you can take a girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of a girl.’ Isla wiped the crumbs from her mouth; she was quite pleased with that analogy. ‘So, ta-dah! Here I am.’
‘Who do you think you are? Dolly Parton,’ Bridget said with a snort helping herself to another scone. ‘They’re lonely places, big cities.’
How her gran would know, given she’d never been out of New Zealand, Isla couldn’t fathom, but she did know better than to argue.
‘So my girl, what’re you going to do with yourself now that you’re back?’ Bridget was not a woman who’d sit back and rest on her laurels and Isla was well aware there’d be no swanning about in her dressing gown for a few days to get over her jet lag. Not while she was living under Gran’s roof.
‘I’m not sure. It’s all been a bit of a whirlwind since I decided to come home.’ Isla felt bad for not having given Upscale Developments notice of her intention to leave. Her extended leave of absence had just turned into a permanent leave of absence. Then again, they’d had their pound of flesh from her over the last seven years. Besides, it was such a competitive industry she knew there’d be plenty of fresh, bright young things, chomping at the bit to step into her shoes.
Sitting there in her gran’s kitchen where she’d always been right at home with a full tummy, she felt like she could breathe properly for the first time in a long while. Of course, knowing she had a nice little nest egg sitting in the bank was a comfort. It meant she didn’t have to panic about what her next step would be. She hadn’t come back from London completely bereft. ‘I was thinking while I was on the plane about setting up an online design business. That way I can base myself here.’
Bridget’s pleased expression didn’t escape her granddaughter.
It was seven o’clock that evening when Isla’s second wind began to wane. She wiped the kitchen bench down and hung the tea towel over the oven door before popping her head around the living room door to announce she was done in. Her gran had just settled herself into her recliner for her daily current affairs fix, and Isla kissed her on the cheek goodnight. Her room was still a shrine to the sixties, right down to the orange Candlewick bedspread neatly covering the single bed. It’d been a long time since she’d slept in a single bed, Isla thought, as her eyes settled on what was leaning up against the pillow.
The sight of Caroline, the pretty porcelain doll she’d itched to get her hands on as a child, made her smile. An ice maiden who’d been out of bounds, she had sat in her yellow crinoline dress on top of the chest of drawers in this room for as long as Isla could remember. She’d belonged to her great-grandmother, and Gran had always told Isla that one day, when she was old enough to look after the doll properly, it would be hers. Ownership of the family heirloom was skipping a generation as Gran said she didn’t trust Mary not to try and make her over.
Isla picked the doll up. ‘Hello Caroline, I guess I’m finally old enough to look after you.’ She stroked the dainty, delicately painted face peeping out from beneath her bonnet, before carefully placing her back where she lived on top of the chest of drawers. Peeling back the bedspread, she climbed into bed and still feeling the floating motion of the plane, her last conscious thought was that she’d unpack in the morning.
Isla was hanging up the last of her clothes and trying to shake off the fuddle-headed feeling of having slept solidly when Gran knocked on the door. The smell of fresh scones once more tickled Isla’s nose. ‘You’ve been busy this morning, Gran. You never stop.’
‘Margaret’s picking me up in five minutes for Bingo and the Bingo ladies love my scones.’
Bridget had never driven, she’d never felt the need living in Bibury. Tom had always taken her where she wanted to go if she couldn’t walk there herself, and now Margaret was more than happy to have a little bit of petrol money tucked away in her glove box.
‘Margaret, with the insufferably superior attitude who goes on and on about how well her daughter is doing in banking up in Auckland?’
‘That’s her, and do you remember Elsie Graham? She lived opposite the school and used to have the pesky terrier; it’s a Jack Russell these days, horrible thing, but that terrier played merry hell with you children on your way home of an afternoon.’
Isla nodded, she remembered the ankle-biter well.
‘Well, she drives Margaret mad going on and on about how light my scones are. Margaret’s scones could be used as a permanent building material,’ Bridget sniffed. ‘Elsie’s got an ulterior motive, though. I’m the current President of the Bibury Women’s Bowls Association, and she’s determined to be made Vice President. The only thing is, I wish she wouldn’t talk with her mouth full. It’s a very unattractive trait of hers.’
Isla bit her lip to stop the grin that threatened, as they heard a horn toot Margaret’s arrival. Oh, how she’d missed her gran! There was no one quite like her.
‘Hold your horses, I’m coming,’ Bridget muttered. ‘What’ve you got planned today then my girl?’
‘Well, I think I might pop over to the Kea for a coffee now that I’ve unpacked. I’ll have a bit of a wander around. You know, reacquaint myself with the town.’ The instant stuff Gran was fond of had not given her a sufficient caffeine hit. ‘Enjoy Bingo. Wipe the floor with Margaret.’
Isla got her competitive streak from her grandmother.
Sometimes you meet somebody and know instinctively that this person is someone you’re going to be friends with. It might be a certain light in their eyes that hints at a kindred spirit, or it could be the way they smile that lets you know there will be a shared sense of humour. That’s how Isla felt as the redheaded vision who looked to be of a similar age to her,
standing behind the coffee shop counter, greeted her cheerily.
It wasn’t just down to her warm welcome, though – it was more than that. Later, when she mulled their meeting over, she’d tell Caroline that it was because of the woman’s mane of curly, red hair. Isla could imagine how many hours she would have spent agonizing over it when she was younger. Kids could be cruel, latching onto any point of difference. For Isla, the point of difference had been her name. She’d had a lifetime of explaining it was pronounced like ‘island’ but without the n and the d. The fact that her name did, in fact, mean ‘island’ in Irish was neither here nor there. Every time she repeated this mantra she would send a silent, ‘Thanks very bloody much,’ to her parents. It was alright for them with the ordinary, if slightly biblical, names of Joe and Mary.
Isla had been her mother’s nod to her Irish ancestry as had Ryan. ‘It’s not fair,’ she’d wail on occasion to Mary. ‘Why couldn’t you call him something unpronounceable too?’ In protest, she’d taken to calling her brother Ennis after coming across the Irish town’s name in a book and deciding it sounded suitably rude. He’d retaliated by calling her turd face. Ennis had stuck, turd face had not.
Isla could imagine the redhead sending silent, aggrieved messages to her parents for the genetics that had blessed her with Little Orphan Annie hair as a child. Yes, she thought, the parents probably both had mouse brown, boringly straight hair. Now, this woman probably loved those red curls. She imagined the woman’s hair would be part of who she was just as she quite liked the fact her name was different these days. Of course, the Shopaholic actress, Isla Fisher had helped both their causes!
‘The savoury pinwheels are really good, if I do say so myself.’ The redhead indicated the cloche covered goodies, next to the till. ‘I baked them an hour ago.’
Mm, they did look yummy and accounted for the delicious smell hovering in the air, and Isla noted that she hadn’t been stingy on the cheese. ‘Why not? I could do with a bit of comfort stodge. Ih and I’ll have a double-shot latte too, please.’
The woman who looked to be around Isla’s age giggled. ‘Sorry, I’m trying to drag my aunt out of the stone-age but its plunger coffee or nothing.’
‘Really?’ Isla didn’t know why she was surprised; she was back in Bibury now after all. Not wanting to sound obnoxious, she quickly covered up her reaction. ‘Ah, I wondered what I could smell along with the baking, you can’t beat the aroma of plunger coffee. Blue Mountain?’
‘Liar,’ the redhead laughed. ‘And yes, it is, I’ll put an extra spoonful in if you like?’
‘Yes, please. I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.’
‘Big night?’ The woman took the note Isla fished from her purse and after ringing up the order, she handed her a couple of coins back. Isla watched as she lifted the cloche, removed the biggest pinwheel with a pair of tongs and placed it on a plate. A woman after her own heart. ‘Heated and served with relish?’
‘Ooh yes please.’ She was right; this woman was indeed a member of the comfort food sisterhood. ‘And it’s jet lag. I arrived home from Los Angeles yesterday.’
‘LA, that sounds very glam. What brings you to Bibury then?’
‘I grew up here, but I’ve been away working in London for the last ten years, and I lived in Christchurch before that. I had a bit of a sunshine stop in California to break up the trip home.’
‘Ten years, that’s a long time to be away, has the place changed much?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to have much of a look around, but from what I saw yesterday, no it hasn’t changed a bit.’
‘Small towns are like that. That’s what makes them special I think.’
Isla hadn’t thought about it like that before. She’d always been on intent as making as much change as possible.
‘Why did you decide to come home?’ The woman looked over her shoulder from where she was setting the microwave timer. ‘Sorry, you can tell me to mind my own business if you like.’
‘It’s fine,’ Isla said before reeling off her new catchphrase. ‘I finally realized that I had no work-life balance and I was missing my family. It was just time to come home that’s all. What about you, you said Noeline’s your aunt?’
‘Mum’s second cousin actually. I just call her aunty, it’s a habit from when I was a kid, and it’s a long story, but I’ve only been here a month myself. I’m from Christchurch, but I’ve been living over in Crete for the last couple of years.’
Isla was intrigued. It was a big leap from Crete to Bibury, but then again so was London to Bibury. It was kind of nice to know she wasn’t the only new arrival back in town too. ‘That’s an interesting choice of place to go and live. I wouldn’t think there’d be much chance of stuffing up your work-life balance in the Greek Islands.’
She laughed. ‘Yup, stress isn’t a word that’s in their vocabulary. I went over on holiday initially but wound up staying. I met someone—’ The smile turned to a frown. ‘Oh crap! I forgot the ginger crunch; it’ll be ginger bloody crisp by now. Sorry, I’ll be back with you in a tick. Grab a seat.’
Isla watched her disappear out the back and went and sat down. She was spoilt for choice; the place wasn’t exactly buzzing. Her designer’s eye took in the worn décor. The café felt like it had given up hope. It was serviceable, a truck stop and nothing more. She caught sight of a sepia photograph on the wall. It was the only point of interest in the room. It was a group of hardened miners, frozen in time, the picks they were holding in front of them denoting the era.
That was what she would focus on were she to give the place a facelift – the mining history of the town. She would give it a rustic and welcoming vibe as befitted the Coast. That was what this part of the world was famous for after all, that and its storytellers. So busy was she making over the café in her mind’s eye that she barely noticed the door to the café jangle open.
It was only when she felt a warm breeze that she realized she was no longer the only customer. She glanced over in the direction of the door, and her expression froze. She’d know that back anywhere, she thought, her heart thudding. She suddenly wished she wasn’t feeling like such a crumpled wreck, as he turned and saw her.
Chapter 6
‘Isla? Hi, wow, it’s been a while. I heard you were back.’
‘Ben, hey. How’s it going?’ Awkward, awkward, awkward and not just because this man had seen her naked. She knew he’d seen her yesterday when she’d sat with her nose in the air in the passenger seat of her dad’s Ute. Isla squirmed in her seat wishing she could press a button on her phone and transport herself anywhere but here. Instead, she began rearranging the little packets of sweetener and sugar in the pot on the table for want of something to do with her twitchy hands.
‘Yeah, pretty good actually. I don’t know if you heard, but I took over the garage last year.’
He was in his overalls, and his strong, familiar hands were resting on the back of the chair opposite her. His face had thinned out with age, and a light stubble decorated his jawline. He looked good, far too bloody good. Don’t go there, Isla Brookes. ‘Mm yes, Dad told me that your parents have retired. They’ve become cruising fanatics I hear. Good for them and you. It’s what you always wanted, so I hope business is booming.’
‘I can’t complain. There’s never any shortage of cars to fix, and people always need petrol. And yeah, the folks are hardly ever home these days. When they are, Dad’s started to talk in “cruise” speak, and Mum dresses for dinner.’
Isla forgot to be uncomfortable as she laughed at the image of Mrs Robson in formal attire, serving up steak, egg, and chips. ‘What’s cruise speak?’
‘Oh, things like “shall we have a cocktail or head up to the buffet for a bite?” I have to remind Dad that in Bibury its head up to the Pit for a pint of beer and a pie. They’re probably in Indonesian waters now as we speak, having High Tea or something.’
‘Good for them.’ She sounded like a jolly-them-along Girl Guides Leader.
&nbs
p; ‘Yeah, they’ve earned it.’
‘Do you still live at home then?’
‘God no!’ He laughed, and Isla was suddenly very aware that she was a thirty-year-old woman who’d just moved in with her grandmother.
‘I bought a house a few years back; it’s an old villa tucked down a back section off River Road. She’s a labour of love, but she’s home. So are you back for a holiday?’
‘No, I’m home for good.’
‘Really? I had you down as a big city girl these days.’
‘I’d had enough of big,’ she said shrugging. She wasn’t giving away any more than that. Or at least she hadn’t planned to. He was waiting for her to elaborate, and she couldn’t be doing with an awkward silence. ‘It was just time to come home and do something different and, well, Gran’s not getting any younger.’
‘I heard about her fall. That would’ve been a bit of a scare for her and you all. She’s a tough old bird though, nothing broken. So you’re staying with her?’
‘Yes, for the time being. It seemed like a good idea for me to be around to make sure there’s no repeat performance of her lying on the kitchen floor for hours in pain.’ She shuddered at the thought of her poor, dear grandmother helpless like that. ‘Besides Gran and I rub along well together whereas Mum, and I are great for the first couple of days and then it’s as if I revert to being a teenager, and she reverts to being a menopausal maniac. It’s not fair on Dad to put him through that again.’
Ben laughed. ‘I remember you and your mum used to have some real ding dongs.’
‘Oh yeah, our house was hormonal hell for a few years there.’
‘Hiya Ben, the usual?’
‘Hey Annie, yes ta.’
Isla felt a sharp pang of something she couldn’t quite pinpoint as his gaze flickered over to the counter. Once upon a time she’d have known what his usual was, now she wouldn’t have a clue.
Sweet Home Summer Page 5