Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Stel, that sounds amazing! But I can’t ask you to pay for it all.’

  Stella shrugged. ‘Well, I feel bad that I haven’t managed to take you abroad yet like I keep saying I’m going to, so this is my way of making it up to you. Besides, I’m interested to see if Mr Beagle is as fit in real life as he is in the pictures in those books of yours.’

  Dan Beagle represented everything Harri longed to be: adventurer, traveller, photographer, daredevil. He seemed to think nothing of heading off into uncharted territory for months on end, with only his camera for company. In a few short years, this young explorer had won the acclaim of the world’s press and the respect of his peers, redefining travel writing with his multi-award-winning books. What Harri loved the most about his work was the way he maintained his wide-eyed wonder at every new environment he discovered, whether it was virgin rainforest, inhospitable desert or treacherous frozen wasteland. Unlike the pale imitators who appeared in his wake, Dan seemed to understand and nurture an innate sense of childlike thrill at discovering new places in his world.

  In her wildest dreams, Harri believed she was capable of this type of travel – never taking a step for granted as she boldly advanced into the unknown. From the comfort of her cottage, she immersed herself in Dan’s words, letting him take her by the hand to lead her into countless magical places. As she soaked in every detail, it was as if he understood the travel ler imprisoned within her, the free spirit straining against her cautiousness, bidding her to break out: Welcome to my world, Harri. Come with me . . .

  Though she would never admit it to Stella, Harri harboured a hope that maybe, just maybe, Dan would look out into the seminar audience and see her sitting there. Instantly, he would stop talking, put his notes down on the lectern, step off the stage and walk towards her, bathed in the silver glow of a spotlight that charted his course down the hall. Reaching the end of her row, he would point straight at her.

  ‘You.’

  Harri would look around her, heart beating wildly, before bringing her wondering eyes back to his. He would smile and hold out his hand. ‘Yes, you, Harri. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Right now.’

  And she would rise, all eyes in the place fixed on her. His large, warm hand would gently take hers and they would stride purposefully out of the hall and into the great, wide world . . .

  It wasn’t a love thing; not necessarily. Yes, Dan was undeniably good-looking, with rugged features, sun-bleached hair and sea-green eyes, but it was more than that for Harri. What she longed for was to travel the world with someone who understood her completely.

  ‘Everybody needs a soul mate,’ Mrs Bincham observed next day, nodding sagely as she doled out squares of what appeared to be meringue-covered flapjack to the bemused staff of SLIT. ‘I mean, take me and my Geoff. I was working the tea round at Land Oak Steelworks and it was his first day. He complimented my Melting Moments and that was it – I just knew we were meant to be. Forty-three years later and we’m still as strong as ever. “Eth,” he says to me, “when I met you I met my match. There ay none like you, pet.” And he’s right. Like I said before, Harriet – once that Big F’s got you in its sights, there ay nothing you can do but go with the flow, if you know what I mean. Tsk! Go on, Thomas, it won’t kill you.’

  Tom paled and swallowed hard. ‘Right, Mrs B. Um, thanks.’ He eyed the flapjack slice cautiously then took a large bite.

  ‘There now, see? Wasn’t as much of a trauma as you thought, eh?’

  ‘Mmmwwfffhhh . . .’ Tom replied, his expression undulating between pleased, confused and disgusted.

  Harri giggled as she watched Mrs Bincham trundle away with her notorious Tupperware. ‘Enjoying your Lemon Meringue Flapjack, Tom?’

  He swallowed and shuddered. ‘It was a taste sensation. I think I need a lie down.’

  George rushed in, white-faced and visibly shaking. ‘Can you keep that woman and her ungodly concoctions away from me, please? The last time I ate something from that blasted box of hers I ended up on the Rennies for a week.’

  ‘She means well, George,’ Harri smiled as the front door opened and Nusrin appeared.

  ‘Is she still here?’ Nusrin whispered. George, Tom and Harri nodded and Nusrin pulled a face. ‘Right, if she asks, I can’t eat anything from Tupperware boxes, OK?’

  George frowned. ‘Why not?’

  Nus smirked as she sat back at her desk. ‘It’s against my religion.’

  ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ Tom moaned.

  ‘I don’t think saying your gran’s a Methodist counts,’ Harri replied, checking her watch. ‘Right, I’m going to go for lunch, if that’s OK?’

  George dismissed her with what he imagined to be an authoritative hand gesture. ‘Off you go, Harriet.’ Then he ruined the illusion of superiority by adding, ‘Don’t suppose you could take Mrs B with you?’

  Harri grabbed her bag and headed for the door. ‘Ooh, sorry, George. I think she’s still got a bit of cleaning left to do. See you in an hour.’

  George’s groan followed her all the way out to the High Street.

  Stone Yardley was a town, by rights, yet almost all of its residents still referred to it as ‘the village’. Essentially two long streets forming a cross, the main shopping area had managed to retain the air of a friendly market town, even though the more recent additions of housing developments had extended it far beyond its original sixteenth-century plan. Despite the development of Berryhall – one of Europe’s largest out-of-town shopping centres – only five miles up the road, most of the businesses in High Street and Market Street were still proudly trading thirty or forty years after their establishment. Local people jealously guarded their town and it was largely down to them that Stone Yardley remained a popular local shopping venue.

  Harri, like so many of Stone Yardley’s residents, had a great affection for her hometown. Whilst there were undeniably prettier places nearby – not least just over the neighbouring borders of Shropshire and Staffordshire – there was something homely and welcoming about its streets that set it apart from the faceless malls of Berryhall. There was a strong community spirit, meaning that it was often impossible to walk Stone Yardley’s streets without bumping into several people you knew.

  Today was no exception. As Harri left SLIT she met Lucy Allan, an old friend from school, Dave Simpson, who used to be one of her dad’s old cricket buddies, and Mrs Gertrude Walker, the indomitable octogenarian Chairwoman of Stone Yardley’s WI.

  ‘Ah, Harriet,’ she boomed, clasping a tweed-sleeved hand on Harri’s arm with surprising strength for someone of her considerable years, ‘I wonder if you’ve given any more thought to our invitation to come and address the ladies?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Harri answered carefully, ‘but I’m not sure what kind of travel would interest your members.’ She had visions of her presentation being reduced to a glorified advert for STD coaches.

  Gertrude’s eyes narrowed slightly and a wry smile began to play across her thin lips. ‘What kind of travel do you think the ladies would be interested to hear about?’

  Harri felt a slow blush creeping across her cheeks. There were times when being a redhead with porcelain-pale skin was a distinct disadvantage . . . ‘Um, well, British travel . . . erm . . . perhaps by coach?’

  Gertrude threw her head back and guffawed so loudly that people walking past were stopped in their tracks. ‘My dear, you have a very clichéd view of what Stone Yardley WI is all about! Believe me, the last thing our members want to hear about is having to be squeezed into luxury cattle trucks and herded about the countryside like a bunch of geriatrics. Some of us may appear old and frail but – take my word for it – many of our members have spent more time abroad during their retirement than they have spent in this village. I, for example, holidayed last in Malaysia, whilst Isobel Hannigan has just returned from a four-week safari in the Masai Mara.’

  Harri was aware that her jaw was making a valiant
bid for the pavement, but this revelation had frozen her to the spot. ‘Oh . . .’

  ‘So, I was thinking you could perhaps talk to us about the latest trend for adventure travel,’ Gertrude continued, ‘if you think we could bear the excitement, that is?’

  ‘I . . . er . . . yes, certainly . . .’

  ‘Excellent! Well, I shall put together a list of possible dates and ping them over to you. You are on email, are you not?’

  Harri suppressed a grin as she rummaged in her handbag. ‘Yes, I am. Here’s my card.’

  ‘Wonderful. Actually, come to think of it, I don’t suppose you’re on Facebook, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Excellent! I’ll look you up this evening. Email is so last year, don’t you think?’

  Harri was still giggling to herself when she reached Lavender’s, Stone Yardley’s family bakers. As usual, the lunch queue stretched almost out of the door, so she patiently joined the back of it, enjoying the warm June sun on her back as she checked her mobile for messages.

  Three texts were awaiting her attention. The first was from Auntie Rosemary, who still hadn’t mastered the art of changing case in her texts, meaning that all her messages gave the impression of someone shouting angrily at you.

  HI HARRIET ARE YOU COPING WITH THE LETTERS HOPE SO. TEA AT MINE IF YOU NEED A BREAK ANYTIME. REMEMBER GRANDMA DILLONS BDAY ON MONDAY. LUV AUNTIE R XX

  From the text it appeared that Auntie Rosemary must be allergic to any punctuation that wasn’t a full stop. ‘Oh, I do love you, Auntie Ro,’ Harri murmured, flicking to the second text, which turned out to be from Rob:

  Hey Red

  Missing you tons this week. Preston is a nightmare as usual. Will be all yours on Monday night tho – can’t wait baby

  R x

  Harri felt a surge of excitement. The thought of spending Monday night with Rob was wonderful, especially after all the time he had spent away recently.

  The last message was from a number she didn’t recognise. It was only when she opened it that a leaden sense of reality thudded through her, stealing her sunny mood:

  Hi Harri, hope you don’t mind me texting you but thought this was quicker than mail or email. Just wondered how you’re getting on with the replies for Alex? Obviously I know there’s a lot of them so no pressure, but it’s been a week and my editor’s getting a tad jumpy. Any chance you could set up first date a.s.a.p and let us know? Doesn’t have to be a keeper, just needs to happen sooner rather than later. Hope you’re well. Chloe x

  Groaning, Harri deleted the text and threw her phone into her bag. This was the last thing she needed to hear. Perhaps naïvely, she had assumed that after the feature in Juste Moi and receiving the mountain of replies, the ordeal would be over as far as Chloë and her overzealous editor were concerned.

  As she reached the counter Harri surveyed the golden pastries, sausage rolls, pies and toasted cheese and ham slices all lined up on the hot, glass shelves, and suddenly realised her appetite had vanished. Ordering some sausage rolls that she knew would ultimately end up easing Tom’s gastric pain after the onslaught of Mrs Bincham’s creation, she paid and went out into the bright sun of the High Street. Walking quickly past Wātea, she ducked down the narrow passageway that led to Reindeer Court, a small courtyard filled with boutique shops. Unlike the stalwart businesses on High Street and Market Street, the shops in Reindeer Court regularly changed hands – it was almost as if businesses came and went under the cover of darkness, hidden from Stone Yardley’s eyes.

  The changing face of the small courtyard fascinated Harri.

  At present, Reindeer Court offered two dress shops – one stocking cheap but cheerful copies of designer clothes that celebs du jour were sporting, the other a kooky dress exchange that had surprised everyone by remaining in business for three years and now held the honour of being the longest-serving business in the courtyard; Beadazzled, a bead shop, open for only six months but already much loved by Stone Yardley’s teenage goth contingent (which was considerably larger than Harri had realised); a hospice charity shop filled with aged china, battered furniture and an impressive selection of much loved if slightly tatty shoes arranged in its window; and, at the end of the courtyard, a tiny, yet immaculate kitchen equipment shop.

  Harri pushed open the green-painted door of Somethin’s Cookin’ and an old-fashioned brass bell heralded her arrival. It never ceased to amaze her just how many weird and wonderful kitchen gadgets were squeezed into the space. Bunches of herbs hung from pan racks suspended from the ceiling; wicker baskets lined the floors containing everything from china blackbird pie funnels to steel apple slicers and wind-up egg timers; whilst Shaker-style fabric aprons and brightly coloured oven gloves were draped on hooks at the end of the pine shelving units that held untold treasures, all of which were guaranteed to make your kitchen look like Nigella’s.

  As Harri approached the beechwood counter, Viv appeared from the minuscule stockroom that also served as a staffroom, cloakroom and kitchen.

  ‘Harri darling! What a surprise! Are you on lunch? How long have you got, sweetheart? Long enough for a cup of tea, surely? I’ll put the kettle on . . . One tick!’

  She disappeared again, before Harri could answer. After a few moments, Harri heard the sound of a kettle boiling, and a puff of steam came into the shop, closely followed by a flushed Viv brandishing a stripy tray laden with two mugs, a sugar bowl, large hand-painted teapot and a biscuit jar.

  No matter where she was or what she was doing, Viv always managed to look like a Country Life cliché – as if she should be accompanied by the caption: ‘Viv likes nothing better than pottering about on her verdant allotment after another successful day of trading at her bespoke kitchen store . . .’

  ‘I’ve got about half an hour,’ Harri said, in a brave attempt to answer at least one of Viv’s barrage of questions. Not that Viv was listening, of course.

  ‘Have a biscuit – go on! They’re fresh out of the Aga this morning.’

  Harri took a bite of the deliciously sweet syrupy cookie and shook her head. ‘You made these this morning?’

  Viv shrugged. ‘The chickens were up early and so was I. Besides, I couldn’t get back to sleep after I’d fed them, so I thought why not do a spot of baking? Don’t look so surprised, Harri, it’s not like there’s any great difficulty involved in making Golden Syrup Oaties.’

  ‘Only you could think of baking as an early morning activity, Viv.’

  Viv poured tea into two Denby mugs. ‘Farmer’s daughter, remember? It’s bred into you.’

  ‘So, how’s business today?’ Harri asked, taking one of the mugs and inhaling its inviting aroma.

  ‘Slow. But then Fridays usually are. I think it’s the hangover from the old half-day closing days. Stone Yardlians don’t move very quickly with the times.’

  Harri sipped her tea. ‘Tell me about it. I swear, some of our customers at SLIT would probably prefer it if we still offered holidays by hansom cab. Although I did just meet an octogenarian with a taste for adventure travel.’

  ‘Who on earth was that?’

  ‘Mrs Walker from the WI.’

  ‘That woman is fierce, Harri; you watch her. So, how are you getting on with all those lovely “Free to a Good Home” replies, eh?’

  Harri felt her heart plummeting again, and took a large gulp of tea. ‘I haven’t started yet. I was waiting for you, remember?’

  Viv’s mug banged down on the wood counter as incredulousness painted her face. ‘What do you mean, “haven’t started yet”? This is important, Harri – no, more than that – it’s vital to the future happiness of my beautiful son and, can I remind you, your absolute best male friend in the whole wide world? This is an emergency, Harri! Time is of the essence! When are you going to begin sorting them?’

  Realising that Viv was unlikely to offer help any time soon – and recalling Chloë’s thinly veiled panic in her text – Harri surrendered to the inevitable. ‘I’ll start tonight.’
r />   * * *

  Unusually for a Friday afternoon in the salubrious surroundings of SLIT, time seemed to pass at lightning speed. Harri tried to make every moment last, to put off the inevitability of the task ahead of her, but despite her best efforts, five thirty arrived like an irate customer, demanding her attention.

  ‘You off anywhere nice tonight?’ she asked Tom, hoping he would delay her with his usual long-winded descriptions of the various pub routes he and his equally spotty mates were planning to cover.

  But instead he went red and mumbled, ‘Mmmffh . . . gtta-date . . .’ before dashing out of the door.

  Harri smiled hopefully at Nusrin, but she was mid-text and merely lifted an elegant hand in reply as she followed Tom out.

  George appeared from his office, tie loosely hanging to one side and middle shirt button open, revealing a completely unwarranted glimpse of grey-white vest beneath. ‘Off you go then, Harriet.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to lock up, George?’ Panic was setting in. What was wrong with everyone today? Why choose this Friday to break the habits of a lifetime? George was usually long gone by now muttering something unconvincing about mountains of paperwork to do at home (the George Duffield code for ‘going for a pint at The Fleece’, the rowdiest of Stone Yardley’s three pubs).

  ‘Nah, you’re fine. Dave and the boys are meeting me here at seven, so there’s no point in going home. We’re heading for the bright lights of Birmingham tonight, on the prowl for lovely ladies!’ He brandished a blue and white striped plastic bag that could have only come from Jackson’s Chippy. ‘Got my gladrags in here, you see.’ He tapped the side of his nose and nodded sagely. ‘Preparation, Harriet. That’s what executive managers like myself are highly skilled in.’

  Resignedly, Harri picked up her bag. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it. Have a nice weekend.’

  ‘That’s if I can remember any of it,’ George called after her, swinging his hips in an alarmingly energetic impression of a rotund, balding forty-something strutting his funky stuff on the dancefloor. ‘When George Duffield parties, he parties like a pro!’