The idea for the statue had come to her after spotting a picture in one of Mary’s glossy women’s magazines that she was fond of leaving lying about. Perhaps there was something to be said for light reading, after all, she’d mused. The idea for the festival had been born out of her Ireland Today magazine and now this. Her eyes settled on the photograph of Copenhagen’s Little Mermaid Statue. She’d torn the page from the magazine, not bothering to read the accompanying article on the delights of Denmark, before broaching her plan with the rest of the hall’s committee members with trepidation.
What did they think of the idea of having a small bronze statue commissioned? Their statue would be of a young girl in the rock’n’roll attire of her day, Bridget could already see it in her mind’s eye. A bronze girl with a ponytail whose gaze would forever be on the hall where she’d spent the best night of her short life. There was even a boulder upon which she could be affixed, by the path near the entrance to the hall. It would be a tribute to one of the town’s own who was taken too soon, she told them, before explaining how Clara had died.
She had fully expected an argument as to how else the considerable sum involved could be better put to use. None of them knew what lay behind this need of Bridget’s to have her friend remembered before it was too late and there was no one who’d known her left to do so. It was her way of atoning for something she could never make right. To her amazement, it was Margaret who had stood up and backed her by saying she thought it was a good way to showcase local talent.
‘Ian Fowler’s getting a bit of a reputation in artistic circles. And my Melanie – she’s high up in banking, you know – well, she was saying just the other day that his name came up at a function she was at. He’s a talent to be reckoned with, Melanie says.’
If Bridget weren’t so desperate for the hall to give her statue the go ahead, she would have smirked at the about turn of opinion. Ian Fowler had a foundry he had built himself at the bottom of his garden and until his pieces had begun to take off, and in recent times sell for a pretty penny, most of the locals had him pegged as a bit of an artistic eccentric. Now he was someone to know if you were of a name-dropping disposition which Margaret was.
Margaret had ignored the muttering that, yes Melanie who was in banking, would know of his work because you would need a bank loan to commission him to get out of bed these days. ‘Think of the publicity,’ she’d declared loudly and passionately over the dissent. ‘The festival, the unveiling of the statue and the touching story behind it, not to mention the fact it has been commissioned by a famous artist. The paparazzi will love it.’
Margaret may have been getting carried away but her enthusiasm was infectious and the vote to commission the statue was passed with a unanimous show of hands. Bridget had treated Margaret to coffee and cake at Nectar as a thank you for her support after the meeting. The cake she’d chosen had a sprinkling of toasted pumpkin seeds on the top, and as much as it pained her to admit it, they were growing on her. She was quite partial to their quinoa and kumara salad too, who would have thought? Annie and Isla had proven themselves to be marvellous wee cooks.
Now, Bridget got up and placed the phone back in the charger wincing at the sharp pain in her hip before saying out loud to the empty kitchen. ‘I hope we do you proud, Clara.’ She felt the hot sting of tears rush to her eyes. She was getting sentimental in her old age, a cup of tea was what she needed. As she looked out the kitchen window over the top of Isla’s and Saralee’s heads, beyond her back garden to the bush clad hills, she recalled the shock the town had been in in the aftermath of Clara’s death.
It was as though an insidious and oppressive grey smog had descended and settled for months over Bibury. It crept into everyone’s day-to-day lives, sneaking in through the cracks, a constant reminder that no one was immortal. They were all living on borrowed time. A young person passing on like that, unnaturally, did damage to a town the size of Bibury. It ruptured the sense of immunity to awful goings-on that those living in a small community took as their right. It should be in the small print of the rates paid quarterly to the council for the privilege of owning your home: Nothing bad will ever happen in this small town.
Bridget turned away from the window and flicked the switch on the kettle before setting about making a pot of tea. She hoped that by holding this festival and the dance in Clara’s memory, she was ensuring that something good was going to happen in her small town.
Chapter 35
January was hot, and Isla was bothered. She was single and Ben was single, and this knowledge was going around and around in her head like a merry-go-round that she couldn’t stop and get off from.
‘Isla, get the pies in the oven.’ Annie hollered from the front of house, shaking her head and apologizing to Jim Bishop for nearly deafening him as he drained his glass and got up to go.
‘She was always a bit of a dreamer, that one,’ he said with a smile and cheerio. The Principal had taken to popping in most days for an iced coffee and chat. He was lonely, Isla and Annie had surmised. The school holidays had dragged on for him.
In the kitchen, Isla cursed. She’d over beaten the cream because she’d been daydreaming of ways she could ask Ben out without seeming too obvious about it. As a result of this, she’d forgotten to get the pies in the oven. They wouldn’t be ready in time for the lunchtime rush at this rate. She knew she was driving poor Annie to distraction with her absent-mindedness.
‘Sorry, I know I’m hopeless, but he’s all I can think about twenty-four seven,’ she told Annie as she appeared in the kitchen to check her instructions were being followed.
‘It’s called love, and it’s high time you did something about it.’ Annie muttered, hearing the door jangle and going out to serve whoever it was that had just come in. Isla heard Saralee’s familiar voice and ensuring she’d switched the oven on; she popped her head around the door to say hi.
‘How’re you Isla?’
‘Great and you?’
‘Yeah, good thanks. School’s back Monday,’ she said flashing her dimples. ‘I thought I’d be organized for once and head in to check the school’s email and clear the answer phone. It will be mad enough first day back without having a big backlog of messages to deal with as well. I need one of Annie’s flat whites to go first. A shot of motivation, you know.’
‘You’re the most organized woman I know, Saralee. I mean look at the way you’ve handled Project Matchmaker.’ It was true, Isla thought. All the renovations on the hall were finished, the working bee too was a huge success, and it was all down to Saralee. The Barker’s Creek Hall had passed muster with the council and was good to go. ‘Gran sings your praises constantly.’
‘I’m organized when it comes to some things, and that’s been loads of fun. I can’t wait for the big day, not long to go now! Fifteen days and counting.’
Isla noticed as Saralee left that she’d bought two takeaway coffees and guessed the other was for Callum. There were no hard feelings on her part for either of them. They were a perfect match, she thought, leaving Annie to serve young Ellie from the Four Square. Beau from the butcher’s was standing behind her feigning interest in the food cabinet. She headed back to the kitchen. There was a stack of dishes she could load in the dishwasher.
Her mum and dad were the ones taking her split from Callum the hardest. She’d told her dad to stop being so melodramatic when his response to the news was to tell her he felt like he’d just lost a son. Her mother too had gotten up from her seat and made a show of tossing her copy of New Zealand Bride in the bin. Annie had thought it hilarious when Isla relayed this to her, telling her about the time she’d gotten engaged.
‘Really? You never told me that before.’
‘Not much to tell. I think I liked the idea of the dress and the big day, but I had the wrong man. We both saw sense though, and the last I heard, Tony’s settled down with someone far more suitable. Carl couldn’t stand him; he used to call him Testosterone Tones.’
Isla sm
iled at that, typical Carl. Now, scraping off a plate into the food scraps bin they kept for Jed Brown’s pigs, she felt slightly sick as the realization that her gran’s ex, Charlie Callahan, could show up any day now hit her. Oh, she hoped she’d done the right thing. It could all so very easily blow up in her face.
‘Isla, I can smell burning!’
Oh crap, the pies! She picked up the oven gloves and raced over to the oven – it was on grill.
As it happened, it was five days later when the opportunity to ask Ben out presented itself. It was all thanks to Delilah. She’d bunny-hopped her way down High Street and into the garage and Ben had downed tools to check under her bonnet, while Isla sat in her car. He’d proclaimed a few minutes later that it was nothing more serious than the spark plugs and he could replace them for her there and then.
He was true to his word and with Delilah’s engine purring once more, Isla leaned her head out the window to ask what she owed him. He wouldn’t accept any money from her waving the idea away with the suggestion that a sausage roll here and there would suffice. Isla had found herself saying, ‘well, if you won’t let me pay then at least let me cook you dinner tonight over at Nectar – and I think I can stretch to a few courses more than a sausage roll.’
Ben hesitated a beat, and her heart had lurched at the possibility he might say no, but he wiped his hands on a rag and grinned. ‘You’re on.’
She’d been walking on hot coals for the rest of the day. Annie had sent her home early to get ready saying she was no use to her in this state. She’d pushed her out the door making her promise to text an update the moment she got home from her date – if, in fact, she got home! Isla worked the menu out in her head as she set about putting her makeup on. She’d keep it simple but tasty. She was thinking bruschetta for an entrée. Her dad had brought in the first of his cherry tomatoes that very morning, and the basil on Nectar’s kitchen windowsill was doing nicely. Jamie Oliver’s Spring Chicken pie would prove not too heavy a main with its scrunched filo pastry topping, and she had all the ingredients she’d need for it. And the salted caramel cheesecake, Annie had whipped up for tomorrow would suffice for dessert. Perfect! She did not want to spend the evening slaving in the kitchen!
Isla had moved on to her hair by the time she had the courses sorted, and she tossed her hair straighteners aside in frustration. Her hair was misbehaving despite her just having sizzled it within an inch of its life, and nothing in her wardrobe was right. She took a deep breath and decided she’d just have to wear her hair up. As for what to wear, well the bed was strewn with just about everything housed in her wardrobe. She’d do what she always did when she didn’t know what to wear, and that was go with the first outfit she’d tried on.
Right she thought a few ticks later – time to tackle her hair once more. At that moment Cole scampered into her room and ascended her leg as though she were a tree. She yelped and spying the thread he’d managed to pull in her white cotton pants, cursed loudly. She was not happy.
‘What on earth’s going on with you madam?’ Bridget poked her head around the bedroom door as a black fur ball shot past her and skidded down the hallway. She’d left the six o’clock news to investigate, galvanized into action by hearing the shriek of a word she would not have used in her house.
‘I’ve invited Ben to dinner at Nectar tonight.’
Bridget’s mouth formed a round ‘O’. The news that her granddaughter had a dinner date with Ben was enough for her to let the foul language slide. ‘That’s very progressive of you.’
Isla scowled. ‘My hair’s all wrong, and the bloody cat just did this to my pants.’ She pointed to the rogue thread.
‘Isla, calm down. There’s nothing your old Gran can’t fix, you know that. Get out of those pants and give them to me. I’ll have them sorted as good as new in a jiffy while you get on with doing whatever it is you’re trying to do to your hair.’
Isla did as she was told.
True to her word, five minutes later Bridget reappeared in the bedroom with the white pants. She decided to turn a blind eye to the bomb site that was her granddaughter’s bed as she handed them to Isla for the once over.
‘Oh thanks, Gran – you’re a super star,’ she said, inspecting the pants and finding no flaw.
‘You’re welcome. Your hair looks lovely up, by the way, you should tie it back more often. Enjoy your night dear.’ Bridget’s fingers were crossed behind her back.
The evening was going well, Isla thought, eyeing Ben as he tucked into the pie she’d just served up. The conversation between them as they’d laughed over shared memories, careful to skirt around those with intimate connotations, was easy. It flowed the way it did when you were in the company of someone you knew well. Ben hadn’t changed she thought, but she had. She’d done a lot of growing up in the last decade.
‘Man, you can cook Isla,’ he mumbled. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ she smiled over the top of the flickering candle at him before forking up a mouthful herself. It was tasty she thought, wiping stray pastry crumbs from her lips.
Ben turned the conversation to that of the impending festival and when he mentioned Bridget’s name Isla felt a stab of guilt.
‘Ben, I did something I’m not sure I should have.’
‘Oh?’ He placed his knife and fork down on his plate and leaned back in his chair, picking up his glass of beer. ‘Come on then, ‘fess up.’
She told him about finding the Valentine’s Day cards and how Bridget thought Charlie hadn’t kept his promise to write to her when he left Bibury. ‘Somewhere along the line the letters got lost, and then when Gran’s friend Clara died, she turned to Granddad for comfort. And well, they fell in love, you know the rest. The thing is though, I rang Charlie and told him Gran never got his cards.’
‘Even though, Bridget specifically told you she didn’t want any contact with him?’
Isla nodded, she didn’t like the tone of Ben’s voice, and she hadn’t told him the worst of it yet.
‘And I invited him to the Matchmaker Festival,’ she blurted.
‘What did he say to that?’ Ben frowned.
‘He’s coming,’ she rushed on explaining her actions. ‘I liked him, Ben. If you’d heard him talk about Gran and the way he felt about her, you’d have felt really sad for him too at how things worked out. If nothing else it’ll give him a sense of closure where she’s concerned. I think that’s important when you get to their time of life don’t you?’
He shook his head.
‘What?’ she asked starting to feel annoyed by his obvious disapproval.
‘You know nothing about him, that’s what.’
‘I trust his motives. He sounded lovely over the phone,’ she defended herself. Why was he being so difficult? She wished she hadn’t started this conversation now but she’d wanted to confide in someone who knew her and Bridget well.
‘I just don’t think Bridget will thank you for interfering that’s all. It wasn’t your business to go behind her back like that.’
Isla felt the shift in the atmosphere and knew this was not going to end well.
‘You don’t have to say it like that. I was only trying to help.’
‘No, you weren’t Isla. You didn’t think it through. You just went ahead and did what you wanted to do, and that’s typical.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’ He held his hands up.
Isla wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Well, you did say it. And I take it what you mean is that you’re still pissed at me for leaving Bibury twelve bloody years ago. For goodness’ sake, Ben grow up. It was years ago, we were kids.’
‘I didn’t say that, but alright then, you could’ve handled things better back then. You bloody well hurt me Isla. And you could’ve handled this situation you’ve created for your gran better too. Think about how your actions are affecting others for once in your life, Isla it’s not that hard.’
‘You used to ignore me whenever you came back. How do you think that made me feel?’
‘Only because breaking up hurt me as much as it hurt you. I had to make a clean break with you. I couldn’t handle seeing you but not being with you,’ her voice went up a notch.
‘Then why the hell did you break up with me in the first place!’ he yelled back.
‘I wanted a bigger life than Bibury, and I was terrified I’d never leave if I stayed with you,’ Isla’s voice cracked.
‘Ah right I see, I’ve just been wasting away in this little hick town living my little life. Is that it?’
‘You’re putting words in my mouth.’
He banged his beer down on the table. ‘Look I don’t know how we got here, but I’ve had a long day. I think it’s time I went home.’ He pushed his seat back and shrugged into his jacket muttering thanks for dinner. She heard the door bang shut behind him with a finality as she sat at the table with her head in her hands. It wasn’t until she heard his truck drive off with a roar that she looked up. Her eyes settled on the space he’d filled a few minutes earlier, and she whispered the words she should have said to him a long time ago. ‘I’m sorry.’
Isla got up from the table after an age. She eyed the half-eaten plates and knew she couldn’t face clearing up tonight. She’d come in early in the morning and sort it out. Nor could she face the inquisition from Gran, not yet. She needed to clear her head. She felt around in her pocket, her hand closing over her keys. Perhaps a drive would help her gain some perspective on what had just unfolded.
Sweet Home Summer Page 27