by Kate Hewitt
“It is my job, isn’t it?” Esther answered, trying to sound light, and almost managing it. She opened the fridge. “What should we have? Broccoli or brussels sprouts?”
“You choose, darling.”
Her mother sounded so pathetically pleased that Esther was finally taking an interest in anything other than her own navel that Esther winced with remorse. “Broccoli, it is.” She took out the head of broccoli from the fridge and starting chopping it into florets while her mum moved about and Anna came in to put the Yorkshire puddings into the oven.
Rachel came in soon after to check on the roast potatoes, which had always been her brief, and Esther could hear Roger’s tones of jovial bonhomie from the hall, along with the murmuring replies of Dan and Simon. His job was to pour the sherry, something he did with both alacrity and enthusiasm.
There was a chaotic symmetry to the women’s movements around the kitchen, dancing and dodging out of the way, holding hot pans aloft as they stepped over Charlie, who stubbornly insisted on remaining prostrate in front of the Aga despite the activity all around him. Mouthwatering smells wafted through the kitchen and the whole house, of sizzling roast pork and the sweet scent of applesauce.
As Esther put the broccoli on to boil, timing it perfectly with the Yorkshires needing ten minutes to go, Roger came in, holding high the familiar indigo bottle of Bristol Cream. “Pre-dinner sherry, anyone?”
Everyone chorused yes and Esther leaned against the counter, watching her father pour, a benevolent smile on his face. She found her own gaze moving around the room restlessly, and, with a jolt, she realized who she was looking for, lounging in the corner, giving her a slow smile across the steamy haze of a busy kitchen. But of course Will wasn’t there, and maybe never would be again, a possibility which sent something close to terror lurching through her. Will belonged here, even if he didn’t belong with her. It was a tangle, impossible thought.
It was almost as if her father was attuned to what she was thinking because he gave her a compassionate smile as he handed her a thimble’s worth of sherry. “Will’s more of a bitter man, isn’t he?”
“You know he is, Dad.” Esther murmured her thanks as she took a sip of the sweet sherry.
“How is he?” Ruth asked quietly. “How’s he managing on the farm?”
“Fine, I think.” With an uncomfortable lurch Esther realized how many relationships she’d unintentionally severed when she’d walked out of Will’s house several weeks ago. As their only son-in-law, Will had always got on well with her parents, and sometimes Esther wondered if he felt a little bit like the son they’d lost, come home again. Did they miss him as much as she did?
But of course she couldn’t let herself miss him. It was too late for that. Far, far too late, thanks to everything she’d done and said.
“I think it’s all ready,” Ruth announced brightly, and the next few minutes were spent rushing serving dishes to the table while Roger made a big production of carving the pork, all in the hope of things being at least mostly lukewarm by the time they said grace.
They sat around the table, joining hands as her parents had insisted ever since Esther and her siblings were small, suffering through the childhood years of squirming and insisting the person next to them had wiped their nose on their hand, which they very well might have done.
Roger took a moment, their hands all linked, to gaze around the table, managing to seem both solemn and smiling. Esther’s throat caught and she tried to return his look steadily, not wanting to betray how raw she still felt about everything. How fragile. “For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful.”
“Amen,” everyone chorused, Esther murmuring the word, and then Ruth started passing dishes around as people loaded up their plates. It was all so convivial and cheerful, and it made Esther feel both happy and sad. She’d taken these dinners for granted for a long time. In fact, if she was brutally honest, which she usually was, she’d found them a bit tedious at times; her father’s bonhomie the tiniest bit grating, her mother’s concerned kindliness a little much. Esther was such a cow sometimes, thinking that way. She hated it about herself, hated it with a vicious passion, and yet she didn’t know how to change.
“So Esther was telling me a little bit about the community garden project,” Simon said as he placed a perfectly golden and puffy Yorkshire pudding on his plate. “Sounds interesting.”
“Subject to your approval, of course,” Roger returned, in a tone that suggested he knew this would not be in question.
“You know I’m behind anything that gets the community on church land,” Simon joked. “Of course, through the doors would be even better!”
“Wouldn’t it just.”
Esther tried not to squirm as she considered her lack of attendance over the last twelve years, save for the high holidays.
“So tell us about it, Esther,” Simon invited, and she shrugged, uneasy and uncertain, and so unlike her old self, the self she’d carefully constructed over the years which seemed to be falling apart a little more every day.
“I think I’ve told you the gist. I’m not sure there’s much more.”
“Will you apply for grants from the council, that sort of thing?”
“I need to look into it, but, yes, I should think so…”
“And what about getting people involved?” Simon continued, looking decidedly interested. “How do you plan to drum up interest?”
“Umm…” Esther stared at him helplessly.
Her old self, the one who had been married and certain about everything, would have given him a smart and perhaps terse answer, so sure of what she would do, how she would do it, and how she would succeed. But somehow, in the last few weeks and months, that certain Esther had disappeared. Esther had no idea if she’d find her again… or if she even wanted to. She wasn’t sure she’d liked her all that much, really. But who on earth was she supposed to be instead?
“I have an idea,” Roger chimed in. “Why don’t you come to the coffee morning this Wednesday and do a little presentation?”
Esther goggled at him. “A presentation?”
“Why not? You could knock one up on your laptop in your sleep.”
“For the ten steps to joining our new environmental scheme, perhaps,” Esther returned a little tartly. “But I’ve barely thought about this, Dad.”
“You’ve been out in the garden a fair bit,” Roger returned reasonably.
“Yes, but…” Going out in the garden had more about clearing her head, or perhaps filling it, than anything else. It had been a much-needed escape from thinking about Will, and the baby-that-wasn’t, and everything that had gone wrong with her life. It had kept her from thinking about the emptiness she felt in the heart of herself, an emptiness she was afraid to examine too closely, or even at all.
“And,” Roger continued in the same, reasonable tone, “you have till Wednesday to work something up. Ten a.m. it starts. How about you give a little talk at half past?”
Her father was a master at this sort of thing. How many times in church had Esther overheard her father jovially inviting someone to teach Sunday School or serve as a sidesman, gently ignoring their blustering attempts to put him off, and pencilling them in before they’d managed a proper answer? She knew better than to protest, and, in any case, the garden gave her a purpose when she badly needed one. Taking the next step, however intimidating it felt, was logical.
The conversation drifted on to Rachel and Dan’s wedding, and the planned trip to Manchester in a few weeks to try on bridesmaid dresses.
Anna and Ruth rose to clear plates, and Simon and Dan started to help as Esther went to get the custard for the apple crumble.
Later, as she helped her mother and sisters in the kitchen, her father having retreated to his study, she wondered what she would say to the friendly pensioners who made up ninety percent of coffee morning attendees. Would they really be interested in a community garden? And if they were, what if it became a huge mess, lik
e anything in a village did, with too many people wanting different things, and even more people trying to be in charge?
Esther had never been a people person, not like her parents or Rachel. She wouldn’t know how to handle something like that. Logistics she could manage, but people? Feelings? She’d done a pretty poor job so far.
And yet… Esther hung the damp dish towel over the Aga rail as Ruth switched on the kettle, the dishes done, the vicarage easing into the relaxed warmth of a Sunday afternoon.
She wanted to do this, scared as she was. At least part of her did. Part of her recognized the need for a change, for a chance. And maybe, just maybe, this could be it.
Chapter Ten
Esther poked her head around the door of the church hall, blinking in the steamy fug of a room filled with people and boiling kettles. The excited chatter of about three dozen people seemed to fall to a buzzy hum as everyone caught sight of Esther. Recalcitrant vicar’s daughter, suddenly appearing at a church function. Wonders were not ceasing, it seemed. The Red Sea had just peeled back its waters yet again.
“Esther!” Mary Bell, a comfortable woman with a wide smile and a tight grey perm beckoned her over to a table laden with homemade cakes. “What can I get you? Black Forest, Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle, coffee walnut…”
“Oh, wow.” Esther gazed down at the display of cakes. “They all look delicious.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a coffee morning. As a child, she’d always gone across during half-terms and holidays, mainly for the free cake. Donations of a pound fifty were requested but as the vicar’s children they’d always had a free pass. And the cakes were delicious. But it had been many years, at least fifteen, since she’d even been in this hall, never mind at a coffee morning. It felt odd to be back, amidst the familiar and strangely comforting scents of wet coats, instant coffee, and a faint, lingering aroma of sweaty socks, no doubt from the nights the Cubs used the hall.
“Well?” Mary smiled at her, and Esther thought she detected a trace of sympathy in the elderly woman’s crinkled eyes. She knew about Will, of course. Nothing stayed private in Thornthwaite, especially when your father was the vicar. Everyone in this room probably knew, and she was meant to talk to them all in twenty minutes.
“I’ll have the coffee walnut,” Esther said finally, the words coming out in something almost like a gasp. The space between her shoulder blades prickled and her palms felt clammy. There might have only been thirty or forty people in the hall, but she felt as if a thousand eyes were boring into her back.
Mary handed her a generous slice on a small plate with a paper napkin. “It’s nice to see you, Esther,” she said warmly.
“Thanks,” Esther murmured, and then, bracing herself, turned to face the crowd. No one was actually looking at her, but it felt as if they were. She felt as if the crowded aisle between the folding tables and chairs was a catwalk, and she was in the spotlight. Slowly she inched her way down it, dodging knitting bags and coats draped over chairs, to finally squeeze into an empty space at the end of a long table.
She put her cake down and glanced up at the tableful of pensioners, most of them having stopped their animated conversation to inspect her, some, she realized with a sinking sensation, in a not altogether friendly fashion.
“Er… hello,” she said, trying for a smile. Everyone knew her, had seen her in nappies, with braces, with pimples, when she’d gone through an unfortunate Goth phase in uni. They’d watched her grow up, and she barely knew their names. In fact, she didn’t know their names. The realization was humbling as well as a bit shaming.
“How are you getting on then, Esther?” asked a woman with beady eyes and a brisk look to her. “Still working all hours for the environment?”
“Just the usual nine to five, really.” Esther couldn’t tell if the woman had sounded sniffy or merely abrupt. She crumbled a bit of cake with the tines of her fork.
“And how’s that husband of yours? Bringing the lambs in?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Eyes around the table narrowed. “You think so?” repeated the woman who Esther was desperately trying to place.
Churchgoer? Or just someone around the village? That was the trouble; everyone knew her, and she definitely didn’t know everyone.
“I mean, I’m sure he is,” Esther returned, her voice turning a touch too strident. She felt as she did when she walked into the sea and the sandy bottom suddenly gave way, leaving her flailing. Coughing and choking too, if she’d inhaled a mouthful of salt water.
And then she did inhale, not salt water but cake, having popped a bite into her mouth to forestall having to answer any more questions, and then promptly starting to choke, because it seemed she wasn’t capable of anything anymore.
Someone went to fetch a glass of water while a kindly woman with milky eyes and a vague smile patted her on the back and Esther sprayed the table with coffee-walnut crumbs.
“Sorry about that,” she gasped out a few minutes later when she’d taken a couple sips of water and managed, with quite a lot of effort, to get her coughing fit under control. “Sorry,” she said again. Thankfully most of the table had resumed their earlier conversations, leaving only the beady-eyed woman staring her down across ten feet of fake wood.
“You’re living at the vicarage now, then?”
Conversations that had just started up went silent. Esther fought the urge to say something rude, or worse, to cry. “Yes,” she said, dabbing at cake crumbs with the tip of her finger. “I am. For a little bit.”
The door to the hall opened and her father appeared on a gust of wind, his cheeks reddened by cold, his manner as jovial as ever. His arrival thankfully distracted Beady Eyes from continuing her determined inquisition, and Esther was sorely tempted to slope off, never mind her planned little announcement. She’d spent all yesterday evening toying with a slick Power Point presentation only to realize how ridiculous it was. Thornthwaite coffee mornings didn’t do Power Point. Most of the people sipping tea and nibbling cake probably didn’t even have email.
“Ah, there she is!” Her father’s voice boomed across the room and Esther tried not to squirm. “Friends, my lovely daughter Esther has a little announcement to make. I hope you’ll give her your full attention.”
Roger sent her a look full of affection and love, his smile beaming full-watt encouragement, so much so Esther couldn’t actually blame him for putting her in the spotlight so precipitously, as much as she wanted to.
Her father raised his eyebrows. “Esther?”
“Right.” She cleared her throat, her heart starting to thud. This shouldn’t be so nerve-wracking. She’d given talks to colleagues, waxed on and on for farmers. She was a confident, forthright person. At least, she used to be. Now she didn’t know who she was anymore, and everyone was waiting for her to speak. “So, umm…”
“Speak up!” This from a gruff old man with his flat cap pulled down low, his arms folded across his chest.
“Why don’t you come to the front, dear?” Mary Bell suggested, and with a quick nod and a gulp Esther made her way forward. The room was completely silent, save for the low-grade hiss of the kettle and the occasional creak of a chair.
“Okay,” Esther murmured, and once again she edged her way between the tables to the front of the room. Turned around. Took a breath. And her mind went blank.
It had never happened to her before; it was as if someone had pressed delete in her brain. Nothing remained. She, Esther Langley, confident, self-assured, strident woman, was left gaping and speechless.
“Well, then?” someone barked, and this was followed by a theatrical whisper.
“Oh, hush up, Frank, and let the girl have a moment.”
“Esther?” Her father’s voice was gentle and full of concern. “Love?”
The tenderness in his voice somehow managed to kick-start her brain. Sort of.
“Right. Garden.” She blurted the two words while everyone looked on, bemused. “That is, I’m t
hinking of starting a community garden, available to everyone, managed by everyone.” She took a deep breath as her stuttering heart rate started to even out. “For everyone.” She blinked the sea of faces into focus and saw that, for the most part, everyone was looking at her with friendly interest, their smiles as encouraging as her father’s.
Heartened, Esther continued, her voice growing in strength and conviction. She could do this. She was doing it. And so carefully, her voice growing stronger, she outlined her plan, admitting the parts she didn’t know, trying her best to paint a vision of a beautiful, welcoming space for the people of Thornthwaite, and definitely avoiding the mocking little voice in the back of her head that hissed at her to pipe down, because she had no idea what she was doing.
“That was wonderful, darling,” Roger said once she’d finished and left a sheet for people who were interested in knowing more to sign.
“Thanks, Dad.” Esther let out a shaky laugh; now that it was over she was feeling the post-adrenalin rush and a bit ridiculous for it. It wasn’t as if she’d given a speech to hundreds of people. She’d made an announcement to the Thornthwaite coffee morning, for goodness’ sake, about thirty pensioners, most of whom had seen her wet her pants in church when she’d been four years old. “I don’t know why I was so nervous.”
“You’ve had a knock,” Roger said quietly. “Perhaps a few. It can make things like this feel like scaling Mount Everest.”
“I know, but…” For a second Esther wanted to tell him how lost she felt, as if she didn’t know herself anymore. She wanted to explain that it was this alarming emptiness at the heart of herself that had made her leave Will, but she didn’t know if that even made sense. Nothing did. “Thanks, Dad,” she said instead, and he smiled and squeezed her shoulder.
A few moments later, just as Esther was hoping to make her escape, she was accosted by the youngest person in the room, save for herself. It took her a moment to place the face—dark hair, dimples. Mark Taylor, the music teacher.