‘To be honest, I’ve been surprised how fast the tickets have sold.’ Isla had expected the likes of the ever-hopeful Violet McDougall and young Beau from the butcher’s to purchase tickets, but she’d been amazed at how many strangers passing through Bibury had too.
‘David’s had loads of interest through the gym, and he’s directed them all to the Facebook page to buy their tickets. I’ve had a great response from the model frat too,’ Carl said.
Margaret wasn’t going to be left out. ‘And I’ve sent the link to my daughter to share amongst any of her friends who fancy a weekend down South. She’s in banking up in Auckland you know.’
Isla was careful not to make eye contact with her gran; she’d burst out laughing if she did.
‘Thanks, guys, our online sales through Facebook are going really well, and nearly all the female staff at school have asked me if Jeremy the PE teacher is going. When I tell them he is, they’re buying up large for themselves and their friends. Oh, and Principal Bishop bought a ticket too which surprised me, I didn’t think it’d be his thing at all.’
Isla crossed her fingers under the table for Violet McDougall, you just never knew what could happen. After all, look what had just happened to Gran with this Rohan fellow landing on her doorstep, she thought.
Bridget spoke next. ‘Margaret and I had an awful meeting with the horrid chap from the council at the hall this week. Honestly, the man has eyes like a ferret, and a comb over he could get arrested for. I’ve met his type before. If we’d dared so much as even glance in the direction of the hair, the list of specifications would have doubled.’
‘As it was the list of works that need doing to comply with council regulations were the length of his arm,’ Margaret said. ‘And if they aren’t completed in time then the festival won’t go ahead.’
‘Leave him to me,’ Saralee said with a steely glint in her baby blues. ‘I know how to deal with council rottweilers. First things first though, I need to go home and do the math, but I think we should just about be in a position financially to start work on the hall and begin tackling some of those specs. Ben’s brother, Hayden, has kindly agreed to do the work for the cost of the materials only, and if we organize a community working bee, we should have that list of works knocked out in no time. In the meantime though, we’ve had a great response from interested stall holders which is more money in the kitty.’
The group listened, impressed, as she reeled off every sort of food truck imaginable from kebabs through to Chinese dumplings along with an assortment of Arts and Crafts stall holders that would be setting up their stalls in the grounds and lending a festive air to the day come rain or shine. Nectar too, of course, was on board to be showcase their wares.
‘What about music for the dance later?’ Annie asked.
‘A friend of mine is into rock’n’roll dancing, and she recommended a band. I’ve seen them on YouTube, and they look great. Isla, you have wi-fi here don’t you?’ Saralee asked pulling her tablet out.
Isla nodded. She’d decided free w-fi was an added service she could offer her customers. It had been a pain in the butt getting it connected, but she reckoned it had been worth it. Saralee keyed in her search and then held the device up angling it so they could all see. They certainly looked the part, Isla thought as the screen came to life, taking in their shiny fifties style suits, and they had a good sound. Carl got up midway through the number and pulled Bridget to her feet giving her a twirl around the café much to everyone’s amusement.
‘What do you think?’ Saralee asked.
‘They’re brilliant. If they’re available and not too expensive we should book them, Gran, Margaret the music was your era – what did you think?’
Bridget sat back down her face flushed and said they were ‘very good.’ Margaret agreed.
‘Right then, I’ll check them out,’ Saralee said scribbling in her notebook. ‘Oh, and I think we should use the Bibury PTA to do the catering for supper after the dance. What do you think?’
‘Will they be able to cope with the numbers?’ Annie asked.
‘The PTA mothers are a force to be reckoned with,’ Saralee said, and Kris nodded his agreement.
‘You, Saralee are a force to be reckoned with,’ Isla said smiling and reaching for a custard square. The greedy glint in Kris’ eyes had not escaped her, and she was not going to miss out. First in, first served and all that. ‘You’ve worked wonders organizing everything.’
Saralee, blushed prettily, as a murmuring of agreement sounded around the table.
It had been a week since the Project Matchmaker meeting, and Bridget was twitchy. Something was in the air, and it was making her irritable. She’d woken early and had given up on getting back to sleep. The wind that had started to blow up out of nowhere from time to time over these last few months had her feeling out of sorts. It was down to the wind that she’d woken up at this ungodly hour with the kowhai tree’s branches tapping at her bedroom window. Coal didn’t like it either, and she’d been tempted to put him out because he wouldn’t settle. Lucky for him, she was getting soft in her old age.
Sighing, she got up and wrapped herself in her dressing gown before padding through to the kitchen.
‘Alright, it’s coming,’ she told the mewling cat rubbing up against her legs. She fed him, then set about making herself a cup of tea, watching the swathes of pink emerging through the darkness from the kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil. It would be a nice day, she thought, if that blasted wind died off. As she’d passed by Isla’s bedroom on her way to the kitchen, she’d given the door a gentle nudge with her foot. It opened enough for her to see that the bed was unslept in. She hadn’t come home last night then. An eyebrow arched at the realization that she must have stayed at Callum’s. She was never sure, as she hovered there in the hall, whether she approved or disapproved.
Yes, yes, she knew Isla was a grown woman entitled to do as she pleased but as her grandmother, she still felt it was her duty to disapprove. As a seventy-something-year-old woman, however, nothing the youngsters got up to these days shocked her anymore. Actually, that wasn’t quite true she’d watched that show once out of curiosity, the one where those self-obsessed, dark-haired women spent all their time taking photographs of themselves. The Kardashians, that was them. The thought of the one with the big bottom being a role model for the young girls of today – now that had shocked her. What did upset her where Isla was concerned though, was that when it came to love she was getting it wrong again.
It was Isla and Ben who should be together. She’d seen it in the way they danced around each other emotionally these last months, both trying to act as though they had no feelings other than friendship for the other. Saralee was a wonderful girl whose talents were wasted in secretarial work, but she wasn’t the girl for Ben. The same could be said for Callum. He was a perfectly nice lad, but that didn’t mean he was the one for Isla. Neither couple seemed to be going anywhere. They were just meandering along, wasting time and when you got to Bridget’s time of life, you finally grasped how precious that time was.
Oh, she knew right enough that Isla had been young when she’d first stepped out with Ben. Some would say she’d done the right thing in leaving Bibury. Bridget hadn’t wanted to see her go but she’d understood her need. She’d escaped the small town and put her career first because she’d been far too young to settle down. Bridget could understand all this because she’d wanted a life of her own too until she met Charlie. After that, all she’d wanted was a life with him, but it wasn’t meant to be. And then there was poor Clara, so alive and in love with Tom and then she was gone, just like that, she thought, sitting down at the table with her cup of tea letting her mind drifted back.
1957
‘Bridget darling, you’ve a visitor.’ Her mother’s forced joviality drifted up the stairs and wound its way under the gap between Bridget’s bedroom door and the floorboards, making her cringe. It had not escaped Bridget’s notice that her mo
ther had adopted this tone in the last week or so. It was borne of desperation, she knew, but she couldn’t muster any sympathy. She had no room left inside her for that. Her mother’s reasoning, Bridget figured, was that if she kept up the jolly façade of everything being alright then sooner or later it would be. Well, she was wrong. From where Bridget was perched on the edge of her bed, a wraith against the floral bedspread, she could not fathom how things could ever be alright again.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. In her hand, she clutched the clipping she’d saved from the Bibury Times of her and Clara outside Barker’s Creek Hall on the night of the Valentine’s Day Dance. She’d been staring at it so hard and for so long that she no longer saw it. She didn’t need to; she’d never forget that night, it would be forever imprinted on her mind.
It was Saturday morning, and outside her bedroom window she became aware of a lawnmower droning, Mr Field next door always mowed his lawn on a Saturday morning unless it was wet. This was what Bridget was finding so hard to comprehend. She had finished her third week back at work, going through the motions and clearing her in-tray day after day. This was the fourth Saturday morning she had lived through since Clara’s funeral. The fourth Saturday that the day had stretched long and empty without Charlie and her friend to share it with. All around her, the business of life was marching on.
It seemed unbelievable somehow that despite what had happened, she still had a job that she went to Monday through to Friday. Mr Field was still mowing his lawn on a Saturday morning. The Milk Bar where she and Clara had whiled away so many Saturday afternoons was still opening. Spotty chin Jim was still frying chips. And yet Charlie was gone and had not sent her one single word to cling on to, and Clara was dead. How could that be? How could that have happened?
She hadn’t written to send word to Charlie of what had happened to poor, darling Clara. He didn’t deserve to know. Not if he could leave the way he had and not look back over his shoulder, not even once.
‘Bridget!’ Her mother’s voice was more insistent this time.
Bridget blinked, she’d better go down and see who it was that had called for her. She cast a cursory glance in the mirror on her dressing table. She was pale, but she was presentable. She’d have to do. She smoothed her skirt and opened her bedroom door.
From the top of the stairs, she couldn’t see who it was standing on the other side of their front door, her father’s authoritarian form and her mother’s nervous fluttering were blocking her view. For a second she floundered. The memory of Charlie standing there waiting for her the first night he had called hit her so hard she almost doubled over at its impact. She gripped the stair rail and paused, biting down hard on her lip to distract herself and as the pain registered and banished Charlie, she descended the stairs.
Her father moved aside, and Bridget saw Tom Collins standing there, his head slightly bowed in deference to her father as he twisted his cap around and around in his hands. He was nervous, she appreciated, feeling a pang, and he was hurting too. She saw it in his eyes as he looked past her parents at her. Clara’s loss didn’t belong to her family and friends alone; there was Tom too. Poor, poor Tom.
‘Look who’s come to see you Bridget dear; it’s Tom.’
Her mother must think that grief made you simple, Bridget thought, as she gave a small smile and said hello. She was suddenly filled with a desperate need to get away from her parents and her home and was grateful when Tom spoke up.
‘I wondered whether you might like to come for a walk with me?’
Her mother nodded encouragingly, and her father said that partaking of the fresh morning air would do her good. Both parents were eager for her to move on and put the goings on of the last while behind her.
So she’d gone, partly to escape them and partly to talk to someone who had loved Clara like she had.
One year later she married Tom, and Bridget Upton – who had once had a best friend she belly laughed with and a man called Charlie she had given her heart to – ceased to exist. She became Bridget Collins, and soon after that, she became a mother. She was a grown woman with children of her own and the girl she’d been was locked away in a compartment of her mind that she only unlocked and set free on the rarest of occasions. She’d loved Tom, and they’d weathered their storms, come full circle she felt, as he lay dying. Until he decided to unburden himself and reveal that their whole life together had been based on a lie. Then Charlie had begun to send his cards, and the memories had kept flooding back ever since taking her by surprise like a rogue spring tide.
Bridget started as Coal began kneading her lap. ‘Ooh, you’ve got sharp claws, cut that out,’ she chided giving him a gentle push. He jumped off and stalked out of the room, and she knew he’d probably go and take up residence on Isla’s bed, as was his morning routine.
A cat’s life was so uncomplicated, she thought. Ever since Rohan Sullivan’s visit she’d had this sense that things were going to change, that her life was about to get complicated. The morning light began to seep into the kitchen casting the room in a rosy pink glow. She should be feeling quietly proud at the way things were shaping up for the festival, she told herself. Not this fidgety unsettled feeling that something was about to happen.
Chapter 33
‘Christmas is nearly upon us, and we need to talk turkey, Isla. They cost over sixty dollars these days you know for a decent sized bird. It’d be nothing short of sacrilege to let your mother get her hands on it.’ Isla relayed what her gran had said to her the night before as she and Annie set about getting the food ready for the day’s trade. It was going to be busy; they’d taken lots of luncheon bookings for this last week before Christmas. Isla had thought she’d never get used to the crack of dawn starts when she’d first taken over the café, but now she didn’t even need to set her alarm. Of course, daylight savings helped. She hadn’t particularly relished heading across the road in the dark in the depths of winter.
Annie chuckled as she beat eggs for the quiche she was making. ‘Your poor mum, you and Bridget give her a hard time.’
‘Ah, she’s alright, it’s just our way. Besides Mum’s far too full of the joys of the Revlon Christmas Gift with Purchase promotion she’s got running to worry about a turkey. I did feel a bit sorry for her when Ryan said he wasn’t coming home for Christmas, though. He’s spending it with his girlfriend’s family in Sydney.’ Isla recalled how her mother’s orange face had turned red as she relayed the news to Isla. She’d brightened, or at least returned to her normal shade when Isla pointed out that Ryan wanting to spend Christmas with his girlfriend meant her philandering brother must be serious about her. She could tell by the look on her mum’s face that she’d drifted off into a mother of the groom fantasy at this news.
‘So who is doing the turkey then?’
‘Gran is. I’m on roast potatoes, salads and veggies, Mum’s on dessert and Dad’s on booze. Everybody’s happy, apart from Dad. He’s fine with the booze bit, but he’s been roped in for the self–tanning demonstration Mum’s doing in-store this week. I don’t know.’ Isla shook her head. ‘I would have thought one Oompa-Loompa in the family was enough.’
‘Stop being horrid,’ Annie said giggling. ‘Hey, did you get the tree decorated last night?’
‘Yep, Dad dropped it in as promised and Gran and I spent the evening decorating it. It smells gorgeous. It always feels like Christmas to me once the tree’s up and the house smells of pine. Right, these are ready to go in.’ Isla lifted the tray of Christmas mince pies up and carried them over to the oven.
‘What about Callum, what’s he doing for the day?’
‘He’s having breakfast with me and then heading off to Christchurch for a family lunch. And he did invite me,’ she said in response to Annie’s raised eyebrow. ‘But I haven’t had Christmas with my family in years. I’m looking forward to a good old Kiwi summer Christmas. What about you and Kris? You’re going to your parents, still aren’t you?’
‘Y
eah, we’ll stay over on Christmas Eve and come back on Boxing Day. I’m going to make Kataifi for breakfast. It’s Kris’ favourite. You make it with shredded filo pastry, almonds and cinnamon. Mum’s doing lamb in a nod to Kris being Greek which is sweet of her. I have to say though, I’m green-eyed over Carl and David heading off to Hawaii for the silly season. Although, when I spoke to Carl last he was threatening to pull the pin on the whole trip if David doesn’t buy appropriate swimwear. He says Speedos are just not on.’
Isla had to agree even if David would cut a fine figure of a man in them. ‘While we’ve got a sec, I’ve got something for you.’
Annie looked at her friend expectantly as she rummaged in her handbag and produced a couple of sheets of paper. ‘What’s that?’
‘See for yourself.’ Isla handed her the papers with a smile and watched in delight as Annie’s face broke into a big grin followed by a squeal.
‘Flights to Queenstown and three nights at the Millennium Hotel! Oh, Isla I can’t take this.’
‘Yes, you can. You more than deserve it because I couldn’t have taken this place on without you and Kris deserves it for all the hours he never sees you while you’re busy toiling away here.’
Annie threw her arms around her friend.
The countdown to Christmas was a blur of functions, but Isla had enjoyed the festive bustling vibe even if she’d just about been on her knees by the time Christmas Day rolled around. Today, Boxing Day had dawned hot, without a cloud in the panorama of blue sky, and with the café shut she was going to lie in the sun and relax. Boxing Day was a day for doing nothing. Christmas Day had been a scorcher too, Isla thought, flapping her towel and spreading it out on the grass. It had been strange at first having Christmas dinner on her parent’s deck under a sun umbrella after all those years in the UK, but the day had been lovely and the turkey had not been dry.
She smiled, flopping down on the towel, remembering her dad sitting across the table from her with an orange paper crown on his head from his Christmas cracker. It clashed dreadfully with his bronzed skin and made him look a little like the Wizard of Oz in the Judy Garland version. ‘Loving the man tan Dad.’ Isla hadn’t been able to help herself, and Bridget had only encouraged her by sniggering.
Sweet Home Summer Page 25