The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane

by Ellen Berry

  Roxanne hesitated. ‘We’ve been through all that, Dell. I’m not planning to drift around aimlessly. I can serve customers, keep the shop tidy, categorise new books …’

  ‘Oh, Frank and I tend to do all the categorising,’ Della said quickly.

  ‘Well, couldn’t I help?’

  ‘It is quite complicated,’ Della murmured, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  ‘What’s complicated about it?’

  ‘Just my categorising system.’

  Roxanne couldn’t help smiling at this. Categorising system? It was just cookbooks, not the entire catalogue of the British Library. ‘But you let Frank dabble with your “categorising system”,’ Roxanne teased, and Della laughed.

  ‘Only under my watchful eye and, even then, I double-check everything afterwards.’

  Roxanne chuckled, feeling grateful now to be here as Della drove slowly through the thriving market town. Understandably, the period leading up to and following their mother’s death had been difficult, their brother Jeff cranking up the discomfort with his perpetual criticisms and put-downs. However, right now, he was at home in Manchester – or, more likely, in the global bank headquarters where he worked – and it was just the two sisters together, a rare occurrence indeed. Roxanne finally allowed herself to believe that it might bring them closer, and hoped Della was genuinely happy that she was here, rather than feeling obligated to have her.

  Della turned on the car radio. They were out in open countryside now, surrounded by softly rolling hills.

  ‘So, how are things with Frank?’ Roxanne ventured.

  ‘Great,’ Della replied. ‘He’s … well, you know Frank. He’s lovely. He makes me very happy. I still fancy him like crazy and we’re best friends, if that doesn’t sound too disgustingly smug.’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t. I think it’s brilliant.’ Roxanne glanced at her. In fact, she hadn’t even needed to ask. Before the cookbook shop endeavour, when Della had still been married to philandering Mark, Roxanne had always thought her sister seemed rather put-upon. Lacklustre is the word she might have used: lacking in lustre. Nothing seemed to be lacking now, she noted. Della’s wavy chestnut hair shone – she was wearing it longer these days, and it suited her – and there was barely a line on her make-up-free face. At fifty-one, she could pass for a decade younger. Roxanne knew for a fact that her sister’s skincare routine consisted of soap, water and a brisk flannel rub; meanwhile Roxanne, who was frequently disappointed by the frankly outrageous promises spouted by premium skincare brands, had noticed recently how jaded her own face looked. She had to concede that country air might be more beneficial than anything that came out of a pot.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re happy,’ Roxanne added, ‘after everything you’ve been through.’ She paused. ‘Had much contact with Mark lately?’

  ‘No, thank God,’ Della said vehemently. ‘It would’ve been different if Sophie was still at home but, as it is, she sees me, she sees her dad – and she tells me little snippets about his lady-love …’ Della gave Roxanne a quick, amused look. ‘I know it’s naughty but she can’t resist.’

  ‘They’re still together, then?’

  ‘Yes, just about, although I get the impression that Mark hasn’t quite turned out to be the fabulous catch Polly thought he might be.’ Polly was the patient Mark had treated at his podiatry practice; a younger woman in expensively tailored dresses, and the reason for his countless lies and golfing alibis.

  Roxanne crooked a brow. ‘Oh, really? Why’s that?’

  ‘Reading between the lines, it was more exciting for her when he was just nipping round to see her whenever he got the chance. He wasn’t criticising her home decor then. He wasn’t suggesting that her cerise bedroom was rather tacky, or that she might have her yellow kitchen repainted in Farrow and Ball’s Skimming Stone.’

  The two sisters chuckled. ‘He always loved a neutral tone,’ Roxanne remarked, turning to Della. ‘So, d’you think you’ll move in with Frank? I mean, d’you ever talk about that?’

  ‘Well, he’s suggested I live with him and Eddie, but …’ She shrugged as they took the twisting lane that led them to Burley Bridge, nestling down in the valley. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rox. We love spending time together, but we each have our own thing, you know? Eddie’s only nine; Frank’s still in the midst of the dad thing. Becca’s away at college but she still needs her father when she’s home in the holidays. And then there’s his work. Being a self-employed architect isn’t the easiest thing. Sometimes it’s manic, and other times it’s scarily quiet.’

  ‘And you have your life too,’ Roxanne pointed out.

  Della nodded. ‘I do, yes, and I love being right in the village …’

  ‘In the thick of things.’

  Della smiled. ‘Yeah. In the heart of the thriving metropolis! No, seriously – it’s so handy being above the shop. Frank’s place is gorgeous but it is out in the wilds – and maybe I’m just keen to hang onto my independence, after what happened with Mark.’

  ‘That’s just natural,’ Roxanne conceded.

  Della looked at her. ‘I’m sorry about you and Sean, Rox. I know it must be really hard for you.’

  Roxanne exhaled. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to be sorry about. He called me yesterday and came over, and well …’ She shrugged. ‘All seems fine. Hopefully he’ll come up, spend some time with me here – if that’s okay with you,’ she added.

  ‘Er, yes, of course it is,’ Della said lightly, a trace of uncertainty in her voice.

  Roxanne glanced out of the window as the village came into view, deciding not to quiz Della on whether she might have a problem with Sean visiting. Perhaps any reservations were simply due to wanting as much time as possible together, just the two of them. Roxanne hoped so.

  Burley Bridge looked so pretty today, so quaintly old-fashioned and well-tended. Perhaps it took a lengthy period away from the place to fully appreciate it. Stone terraced cottages hugged the edge of the road that led to the centre. On this bright and breezy Tuesday afternoon – the last day in May – window boxes and hanging baskets were already bursting with blues, pinks, yellows. Roxanne’s horticultural experience amounted to caring for a small cactus, the only present she could recall Ned Tallow ever giving her, and which she later discovered he had shoplifted from a garden centre as a joke (at forty-three years old. What a hoot!).

  They turned into Rosemary Lane, the narrow street of shops and small businesses that formed the very heart of the village. Roxanne gazed out in wonder. Of course, it hadn’t always been as picturesque. The whole village looked brighter these days, as if it had been given a good hosing down. There were more people around than Roxanne ever remembered seeing – wandering in and out of the shops and gallery and giving the impression that they were visitors rather than locals. She spotted a couple of familiar villagers too; Nicola the hairdresser, and Len, the owner of the garage, whom her mother had once accused of putting the wrong sort of oil in her car, chatting on the forecourt. That was one thing that hadn’t changed. Len still dispensed petrol himself; if you stopped here for fuel you might be forgiven for thinking it was 1979. Irene Bagshott, who ran the general store and had been kind enough to take home-made chicken-and-leek pies to Roxanne and Della’s elderly mother, marched down the street laden with shopping and a huge bunch of cut flowers. Roxanne’s London friends would go crazy for this place – at least, in a weekend holiday-cottage sort of way.

  ‘Oh, there’s a new greengrocer’s,’ Roxanne remarked.

  ‘Yes, and it’s doing pretty well, I think. Remember when the only lettuce you could buy around here was iceberg?’

  ‘I do,’ she smiled. ‘Ooh, and that boutique’s so cute!’

  ‘I knew you’d spot that. Yes, they opened last month …’

  ‘There’s a bakery, too. That looks lovely …’

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Della agreed.

  ‘It really is. Like something out of a children’s book!’ She peered out at the homely-looking s
hop with its red-and-white striped awning and windows filled with cakes and jaunty bunting. Terracotta pots of geraniums were clustered around its entrance. A vintage bicycle, its front basket cascading with pink blooms, was propped – clearly just for decoration – against the wall.

  ‘He opened last year,’ Della explained, ‘but you probably didn’t even notice. It’s only recently that he’s had the sign painted and it’s looked this inviting. You must try their soda bread. It’s the best …’

  ‘Soda bread in Burley?’ Roxanne gasped.

  ‘Yes – and amazing focaccia and feta and black olive plaits. We’ve got it all here now,’ Della said with a trace of pride. ‘In fact, I think there’s a sourdough workshop happening soon. Maybe you’d like to go to that?’

  Roxanne spluttered. She would be no more likely to take up Morris dancing. ‘That’s not quite my thing, Dell.’

  ‘Well, there’s loads of other stuff going on in the village these days. A film club, belly dancing classes, book groups, a choir—’

  ‘Della …’

  ‘I’ve been having a look around,’ she added quickly, ‘to find out what’s happening, see if there’s anything you’d enjoy …’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m happy just to help you with the shop.’ Roxanne exhaled slowly, wishing Della wouldn’t regard her as she might a small child who needed to be kept occupied at all times. She could see Rosemary Cottage in the distance now, the house they grew up in, huddled down its single-track lane. It had been freshly white-washed, and the garden looked neatly tended. After their mother died, Della had overseen the sprucing up and selling of the house. Roxanne knew from Della that a young family had moved in, and that the house and garden were filled with children again. Roxanne hoped the atmosphere was somewhat happier than when she had been a young girl.

  ‘A sourdough workshop,’ Roxanne murmured with a smile. ‘Don’t tell me it’s gone all poncey around here. We don’t want things too posh, do we?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Della said firmly. ‘It’s still the same old Burley Bridge. But people do say my shop helped to revitalise things, and encouraged other people to try new things here …’

  ‘You’re incredible,’ Roxanne said, as Della pulled up in front of the bookshop. ‘You made all this happen. I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be crazy. I just gave things a little kick-start, that’s all.’

  ‘Come on, no need to be so modest. Look at what you’ve done here …’

  ‘I look at it every day,’ Della laughed as they climbed out of the car. She hauled Roxanne’s enormous suitcase from the boot, and the sisters stood side by side for a moment outside the shop.

  The sign, which read simply The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane, was hand-painted in gleaming gold against bright cobalt blue. The window of the shop next door, which would soon be part of Della’s emporium, was obscured by newspaper to conceal the activity happening within. However, the existing shop’s window was an utter delight. Silvery fairy lights twinkled, and tissue paper flowers were suspended on fine gold threads. The display of vintage cookbooks looked so enticing, it would lure in someone who wouldn’t even know a potato rosti if it hit them in the face.

  Roxanne glanced at Della, who was smiling at her and understanding, perhaps, how much she needed to be there. It wasn’t to learn to make bread, join a choir or take up belly dancing. It was just to be. Della opened the narrow door beside the shop, which led to a tiny hallway and the steep flight of stairs to the flat above.

  ‘C’mon, Rox,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s have some tea then you can tell me what’s really going on.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Roxanne tried to explain about Marsha’s new regime and the shock appointment of Tina. However, while she was clearly trying to be sympathetic, Della didn’t seem to grasp why this was so catastrophic.

  ‘Are the yoga classes free?’ she asked as they sat at her kitchen table with slices of perfectly moist apple cake and mugs of tea.

  ‘Yes, but that’s not the point.’ Roxanne caught herself before she could continue. Here she was, bemoaning a practice that was being offered to benefit her mental and physical wellbeing. How spoilt that sounded, Roxanne realised as she bent to stroke Stanley, Della’s mottled grey terrier who was curled up at her feet. ‘It’s more about what’s happening to the magazine,’ she added, explaining that her remit was no longer to produce beautiful shoots with top photographers. ‘She wants to fill the mag with stuff like “the fifty best knickers to hold your wobbly stomach in”.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that be quite … useful?’ Della ventured, sipping her tea.

  Oh, God, how to explain without sounding like a ridiculous fashion ponce? ‘It’s not really about usefulness. Magazines are more about luxury, a treat, and beautiful pictures …’

  ‘Are there really fifty types of stomach-flattening knickers?’ Della cut in.

  Roxanne looked at her sister and laughed. ‘There are probably more, actually.’

  ‘I could do with a pair …’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Dell. You look great. It’s good to see you looking so happy. Honestly – you’re actually glowing.’

  Della smiled. ‘I do love being back here, you know. When I was still in Heathfield, I never imagined I’d ever want to live somewhere like this – I mean any village, let alone the one we grew up in. But now it feels like just the right place to be.’

  Roxanne nodded, sensing a twinge of something. Regret, perhaps, that she had never quite managed to find a place where she truly belonged. Yes, she loved London, her local neighbourhood especially, but she had never felt truly at home anywhere. Her flat was just a place to sleep, really. Apart from the French wardrobe, and Isabelle downstairs, there was little to love about it. For most of her adult life she had waited patiently for the nesting instinct to kick in – to suddenly become excited about choosing cushions – but so far it hadn’t happened. On the other hand, Della clearly adored her little flat above the shop. The kitchen was cosy and homely, its shelves filled with mismatched crockery and brightly coloured storage jars. Vintage curtains, printed with a jaunty coffee pot design, hung at the window that overlooked the fields to the rear of the high street.

  ‘You will still have a job when you go back, won’t you?’ Della asked, frowning.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Roxanne replied. ‘I realise I’ll have to either accept that Tina’s my boss, and that my job is changing beyond all recognition – or try and find work somewhere else.’ She drained the last of her tea. ‘Oh – and they’re asking me to write a blog about my “summer in the country” for the digital edition of the mag.’

  Della smiled. ‘That sounds fun – as long as I’m not in it …’

  ‘Don’t worry. They just want pictures of me out in the rain, wading through dung or herding sheep, that kind of thing …’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Della said, laughing now as she got up and glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I’d better get down to the shop. I told Faye she could leave at four today.’

  ‘So you have some help these days?’ Roxanne was struck by how little she knew about the workings of her sister’s business.

  Della nodded. ‘Yes, Faye does a few hours a week, fitting around her college work and her other job in the pub. She’s a great girl – a friend of Sophie’s from school …’

  ‘And where’s Sophie now?’

  ‘In Vienna, just about to leave for Budapest – as far as I know. Dashing from city to city with no itinerary.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘I know. It’s terrifying.’ Della smirked. ‘And wonderful too. Oh, I’m just jealous really. It’s so tempting to jump on a train and tail them all through Europe, wreck their whole experience …’

  Roxanne laughed. ‘But, luckily for them, you have a shop to run. Anything I can do to help while you’re working?’

  ‘Oh, no – why don’t you just settle in and chill out? Watch some TV, run a bath if you like …’

  As if Roxanne wanted
to spend the rest of her afternoon in the flat alone. She had quite enough of that at home. ‘How about I take Stanley for a walk?’ she suggested.

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve only just got here, Rox.’

  ‘I’d love to, honestly,’ Roxanne said firmly. ‘I need a leg stretch after the journey and if you won’t let me help to categorise your books, then I’d better find some other way to make myself useful.’

  As Roxanne got up to pull on her jacket, Della wrapped her arms around her. ‘Oh, Rox. You’re worrying too much. Please, just relax and enjoy being here.’

  ‘I will, I promise.’ Roxanne pulled back and studied her sister’s face, taken aback by the surge of emotion that had welled up in her. However, she knew what had triggered it. Roxanne couldn’t remember any other time when Della had hugged her like that.

  If the shop looked impressive from the street, Roxanne found it even more delightful inside, and cookbooks weren’t even remotely her kind of thing. She had seen it before, of course, but on each visit there was always something new to admire: the framed artwork, created from old Parisian cafe menus, and Della’s younger customers’ crayoned pictures made into a montage hanging behind the till. Della had insisted on Roxanne popping in before she took Stanley out on his walk, and Roxanne could see why. The squashy velvet sofas and glowing lamps made it the kind of place you could easily while away an afternoon. It smelt wonderful, too: of coffee, but also of old books, of pages turned and pored over. A chalkboard announced the upcoming party, featuring a retro cocktail demonstration and tasting. Soft music was playing – one of those crackly jazz ladies, the kind Isabelle loved – and half a dozen customers were browsing the shelves.

  ‘It’ll be amazing when the extension’s ready,’ Faye was saying, after she and Roxanne were introduced, indicating the opening where a plastic curtain hung to conceal the work going on next door. ‘We’ll be able to do more events, readings, demos, that kind of thing. We manage now but it can be a bit of a squeeze if it’s a popular event.’