by Clare Ashton
She took another hungrier bite and a little of the syrup ran from her lips. She laughed and wiped away the sweet liquid with her finger. “This is a bit good. What’s next?”
Rosalyn picked up the brownie with less reticence and nibbled hungrily at its corner. “Oh, that’s good too.” Her appreciation was losing its decorum and becoming more sensual with every bite.
The brownie was a favourite of Poppy’s, a borrowed recipe upon which she’d improved – the right dark chocolate chosen from many a tasting session and picked to complement the orange oils. As the rich cake warmed on the tongue, the citrus and chocolate vapours would fill and thrill the senses. And while the scent still delighted, the delicate texture melted in the mouth and slipped over the tongue with a sweet caress.
Rosalyn closed her eyes as if to relish every one of the sensations.
“That is sinfully good,” she murmured, a sated expression on her face that made Poppy stir in places she thought she’d quelled.
Rosalyn blinked and stared at Poppy with dark eyes. “That delights more than the taste buds,” she said, and Poppy’s delight did indeed extend further.
“And this,” Rosalyn continued, not moving her gaze from Poppy.
She held the delicate honey and lavender cake to her lips and slowly licked at the icing. But her flirtation stalled and she considered the cake anew.
“Now this is special.” Rosalyn took a slow savouring bite of the cake and looked as if she appreciated every sweet crumb.
“That’s like a cake baked by a loving grandmother on your school holidays. I can almost smell the fresh aroma in the kitchen air. I can picture eating it outside in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers and butterflies.” Her smile was uncomplicated happiness. “This one’s my heaven.”
Poppy blushed. “It’s a recipe I developed.”
Rosalyn beamed at Poppy with evident admiration. “It’s very good Ms Jenkins. Very, very good.”
Rosalyn brushed the crumbs into the centre of the plate and licked at her honeyed fingers. “Do these sell well? These taster plates?”
“Actually, we don’t do taster plates, but I thought you’d like to sample our range.”
“You guessed right. I think you should carry on the concept.”
Poppy shrugged. “I might. But to be honest, it’s the plain chocolate muffins and blueberry buns that sell when the kids come in after school. And then it’s the local specialties, Welsh cakes and Bara Brith. But I enjoy my experiments and Derek likes the challenge too.”
Rosalyn frowned and sat back. “And your main courses? Breakfast, lunches? How do they do?”
“Not bad. Again we offer a small range – something traditional and easy to sell, and a dish or two that’s more adventurous with Mediterranean, North African or Middle Eastern cuisine.”
“Why that influence?” Rosalyn asked, intrigue sparkling in her eyes.
“It’s from my holidays at university. I taught English in southern Spain during the summer. I worked for two months, living with a Moroccan family in Seville, then travelled with a friend for another month. I think the food is a fusion between that family’s cooking and my mum’s.”
Rosalyn’s face beamed. “And do you think the main meals are comparable to these wonderful cakes?”
“I think so.” Poppy hoped she wasn’t straying too far from modesty.
Rosalyn stared at her, thoughtful. “You have a very nice set up – characterful café and intriguing cuisine beautifully executed. You could do very well. Anywhere other than here.”
Poppy laughed. “I need it to work in Wells though.”
“Oh, Poppy.” Rosalyn tutted with exasperation.
“What?”
“It’s so frustrating to see you here.”
“Why?”
“You’re such a bright woman, you could have done anything.” Poppy was going to interject, but Rosalyn shook her head. “And you’ve found something else you’re brilliant at. But. You’re here,” she glanced around the empty café, “going underappreciated. Imagine how well you’d do somewhere like Bath, Oxford, even Shrewsbury.”
Poppy smiled. “But I want to be near Mum and Pip.”
Rosalyn looked at her intently as if trying to comprehend. “But is this all you want? Is this your ambition for your café and wonderful food?”
Poppy didn’t dismiss her, and she gave Rosalyn’s question serious thought. “Well, I suppose I assumed that, if it ever did succeed, we could open another café nearby, perhaps do some catering work – events and such.”
Rosalyn’s interest was piqued. “That’s what you want? Is that your dream?”
“I do daydream about it, but that’s all. I don’t want to move away or be consumed by it. I want time to see Pip grow, even though she’s an irritating little sister. I want to watch her turn into who she’s going to be.”
“But can you get by like this?”
“Yes. Most of time,” Poppy admitted.
“Hmm,” was all Rosalyn said. She rubbed her long fingers and palms together and stared out of the window. “Is it me, or is Wells quieter than it used to be? It’s always been a sleepy village, but weren’t there more tourists when we were little? I remember visitors.”
Poppy nodded. “I think so. Luck hasn’t smiled on Wells of late.”
“No-one’s been near the castle since I’ve been back. And didn’t Wells used to host the Montgomeryshire show?”
“That always goes to Welshpool these days.”
“But it did used to?”
“Yes, it was held halfway between the two.”
“What happened?”
Poppy sighed. “I don’t know. Things seem to gravitate to Welshpool these days. Businesses don’t win grants, planning permission is more elusive. The council gives reasons like ruining the historic centre, but they’re not interested in pushing it as a tourist destination.” She shrugged. “Mrs Morgan Morgan says her friends’ bed-and-breakfast bookings are always down on the year before and we couldn’t keep the shop without the café sharing the building.”
“Do you realise Wells doesn’t have a website?”
Poppy was surprised Rosalyn had taken enough interest to attempt to find one. “I think someone tried, but couldn’t maintain it.”
Rosalyn’s frown deepened. “And do you advertise or put on offers to tempt new customers?”
“Yes. And no,” Poppy stuttered. “We’ve tried the County Times, but it’s always been ineffective, either through my mistakes or theirs.”
“Really,” Rosalyn said, as if confirming her own opinion rather than asking for Poppy’s. She stared outside, her thoughts turned inwards.
Poppy followed her gaze and took in the beautiful evening view. The sky was a cloudless cerulean and the square a warm terracotta in the evening light. The town hall clock chimed, its deep sonorous ringing as comforting to Poppy as the babbling river at the end of the square. It was only when it reached six that its primary purpose filtered through to Poppy’s higher brain functioning.
“I’m so sorry.” She stood up. “It’s six o’clock. I have to go. There’s a meeting at the town hall I don’t want to miss.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Rosalyn said, and she gathered up her notes and bag.
“It was very nice talking to you.” Poppy was surprised. She wasn’t uttering an empty compliment. She had genuinely enjoyed Rosalyn’s company.
“You too,” Rosalyn said, a smile brightening her face. “Very much.”
They gazed at each other, glowing with the pleasure of the encounter. There was no artifice to Rosalyn’s expression. The layers of protection and demeanour of other personas were gone, and it was Rosie who grinned at her with an intelligent smile full of admiration and impishness.
Poppy giggled. For a moment, it was if she stood with her teenage friend, wondering what they’d be when they grew up. They looked funny with their adult creases, important clothes, beleaguered air of responsibility and wear of experience – as if they were play
ing grownups. The familiar bond and warmth between them was palpable and Poppy almost reached across to touch her.
“I erm,” Rosalyn whispered. “We should… Would you like…?”
“Yes?”
“I would like to see, if you want that is, I was wondering,” Rosalyn quietly stalled, but then said, “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She put her hand to her forehead. “What was I thinking? I haven’t paid.”
“You can’t pay.” Poppy laughed. “That was on the house.”
“Of course I’ll pay,” she said and reached across and took her hand.
The sensation was surreal and pleasurable. Poppy wasn’t used to holding another adult’s hand. She’d been single for so long and was more accustomed to her parental grip on Pip’s smaller fingers.
Rosalyn’s fingers were firm, but thrilling and soft. She instinctively clasped Rosalyn’s hand, wanting to convey her reassurance but also wanting to savour her touch a few moments longer.
“You mustn’t pay,” Poppy said. “I joined you for coffee and a sample of our cakes. There’s no charge for that.”
“You’ll never be rich Poppy Jenkins. You’re too generous to take advantage.” Rosalyn looked at their entwined hands and held Poppy tighter. “But I will recommend your café and hope to send more customers your way.”
Their business concluded, they no longer had an excuse to remain entwined. Poppy relaxed her hand and, with regret, let it drop.
“Time to go,” she said.
Rosalyn nodded, but lingered still.
When Poppy didn’t move Rosalyn suggested, “Are you getting a coat? I’ll wait for you.”
Poppy was confused. “Are you parked outside or by the town hall?”
“No, I walked, but I’m going your way.”
“To the town hall?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s nothing on this evening, apart from the meeting.”
“I know.” Rosalyn looked amused.
“You’re going to Cerys’ meeting?”
“Yes.”
“About a craft and food fair?”
“Yes.”
“A tiny craft and food fair in Wells?”
Rosalyn laughed. “The very same.”
“Oh.” And Poppy stood with her mouth retaining the shape of bewilderment.
Would Rosalyn ever stop surprising her?
Chapter 17.
Rosalyn accompanied Poppy through the grand double-doors of the Georgian town hall. The assembly room had been built to house a modest ball and the parquet flooring was kept immaculate over the centuries with solicitous layers of polish.
There was a good turn-out. Cerys and a homely woman, Mari Ellis, sat behind a table at the front, and most of the fifty chairs were already occupied. People around the periphery chatted, including Alan Watkins and Dai. Even little Geraint, his grey head cowed over a notebook, sat at the front. There was a quiet chatter and liveliness about the room that gave Poppy hope.
“Noswaith dda, Poppy.” Mrs Morgan ambled past and smiled at them both.
“Good evening, Mrs Morgan,” Poppy replied.
People turned at their exchange and some, instead of resuming their own conversation, stopped and stared. There was a noticeable hush in the room and Poppy felt exposed even though she knew Rosalyn was the target.
There was good reason for the attention. To some she was an elegant stranger, her attire and manner marking her out. To others she was the wayward daughter from Rhiw Hall. Others still saw a surprise reunion of a pair of old friends. Everyone had a reason to stare, especially Nain, who frowned over her shoulder, her knitting needles ominously frozen in mid-air.
“I imagine you’ll want to sit with your family,” Rosalyn said, smiling. “I’m going to the front.”
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thank you. But although I find it perplexing why anyone might be intimidated by another human being, I will admit to being scared shitless of your nain.”
Poppy grinned. “She doesn’t move as fast as she used to. I don’t think she’s ever caught Pip around the calves with a wet tea towel.”
“She’s armed with her knitting needles though. I want a good few seconds head start when she’s wielding those.” She smiled at Poppy. “I’ll see you later.” And as Poppy watched her walk away, the warmth of Rosalyn’s company stayed with her. With her face flushed and spirits high, she almost bounced to the seats behind Nain.
“You all right there, Poppy bach?” Nain said. She peered over her glasses and suspicion dripped from her voice.
“I’m fine, Nain.” Poppy was cheerful and had no desire to hide it.
“All right. If you say so.” And Nain turned her head, rather like an owl watching for prey.
People took their seats and at the front Cerys made noises to begin. The chair next to Poppy scraped on the floor and the considerable presence of Dai filled the space beside her.
His face was a mixture of confusion and concern. “You all right, Poppy?”
“Yes, I was just saying to Nain how all right I was.”
“Are you sure? Did I see you walk in with Rosalyn?”
“My dear Dai, yes you did.”
“What did she want?” His face was still flummoxed.
“Nothing. She popped into the café for a chat.”
“What kind of chat?”
“A friendly one.” Poppy laughed. “She’s been very pleasant. Well, we had an argument this morning, but...” Poppy looked over to Rosalyn who wore an easy smile on her face. “We’ve cleared the air and she’s been great company.”
Dai grunted, far from convinced, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “Please be careful,” he muttered.
“It’s all right, Dai. It was a long time ago and I should give her another chance. She’s been very pleasant and we’ve laid some things to rest.”
“Hmm.” There was that deep rumble of suspicion again. “A leopard doesn’t change his spots does he? Or she. Just hides them when it suits.”
Poppy squeezed his arm. “I’m fine. Thank you, Dai.”
“All the same. Please be careful.” He sat back and crossed his arms on his powerful chest.
They faced the front where Cerys had begun speaking. The delicate woman clutched a sheet of paper in her bony fingers and was perched on tip-toes trying to make herself heard.
“Hold on there, Cerys,” a confident voice boomed. Alan Watkins waddled forward and dwarfed Cerys at the front.
“Can we have a little hush now? Miss Cerys Mathews wants to say a few words about her little craft fair. And that’s what we’ve come to hear isn’t it.”
With a murmur and shuffle the audience fell silent and Cerys crept from beneath Alan’s shadow.
“Thank you, Alan. That’s very kind.”
The great man took a seat at the table with Cerys’s colleague. He sat with legs spread, folds and lumps pressing alarmingly from his grey trousers, elbows wide and hands on his thighs. “Carry on, Cerys.”
If anything, the poor woman seemed more unnerved by Alan’s bulging presence at the table than anything else.
“Erm,” she addressed the audience in a timid whine, her notepaper shivering in her hands.
“Would you like me to say something on your behalf, Cerys?” Alan offered.
“No, you’re all right there. I’ll have a go, thank you Alan.” Cerys took a gasp of breath. “As you all know, Mari and I do a craft stall every summer on the square. It’s not much with my woollens and Mari’s pots, but it’s always a bit of fun. So I thought, why not expand it?”
“Found some more ladies, have you, who want to show their wares?”
“Well, not exactly. See, I was thinking, why not bring different types of people in? What about a food and craft fair? We all love a good cake don’t we? We could have a little baking competition to raise money for the village.”
“That sounds like a fabulous idea, Cerys. I think you’re just the right person to organise a cake stall.” Alan said it
with finality and he rose from his chair.
“Then I thought, we’ve got Poppy’s lovely café, haven’t we.” Cerys peered over the audience to catch Poppy’s eye. “If she’s still amenable, we could expand the café into the square for the day.”
Poppy nodded encouragement.
“Better pray for good weather,” Alan scoffed. The audience murmured in agreement. “You can bet on the Welsh weather to piss on Cerys’s fire.” A few male guffaws punched through the murmurs.
“And…” Cerys stared down at her notes. They had taken on a more violent tremor. Her face turned pale and her eyes searched the words in panic.
“Is that it then?” Alan stood with so much purpose that several in the audience also started to rise.
“Stop interrupting.”
Everyone froze. The confident and authoritative voice came from none other than Rosalyn Thorn.
Those who had moved sheepishly took their places again and even Alan sunk back into his seat.
“If we have come to hear Cerys speak, then perhaps we should all listen.” Rosalyn’s voice was crystal clear, the tone a perfect mix of command and suggestion. “Please carry on, Cerys. I think we’re all listening this time.”
Poppy could have sworn there was a glint of pleasure in Cerys’ eyes. Her shoulders relaxed and her tremors subsided, and she shot a proud smile towards Rosalyn.
“Thank you, Rosalyn. Right, to cut to the chase. There are many small businesses and hobbyists that could benefit from a fair and, as well as encouraging people to visit Wells, it provides locals with a fun day out. Like I was saying, we have Poppy’s café, my woollens, Mari’s pots, Emma Jenkins’ paintings. And that’s just the people here. We could have a children’s stall to make crafty things. And I see no reason not to include bigger businesses. We have Montgomery Ice Creams up the valley. They sell nationally. And Aberrhiw Cider’s very popular.”
“Now, I think we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves.” Alan coughed and stood up. “Cerys, those are proper businesses run by the big boys. They spend their money at major events, not little fairs in Wells.”
“Oh. Do you think so?” Cerys said, her confidence ebbing again. “But I was hoping it would generate more interest than usual.”