by Ellen Berry
‘It’s looking wonderful, though,’ Roxanne enthused, scanning the different sections of books – parties, picnics, preserving – while Stanley pottered about at her side. Another customer had just come in and was quizzing Della about a particular book he was looking for.
‘I think it’s the first book ever published about rustic fermented breads,’ he explained.
‘Yes, I do know of it. I can picture the cover, black and red, drawing of a lady with a mixing bowl …’
‘That’s the one!’
Roxanne smiled, impressed by her sister’s passion for her specialist subject. The customer was a tall, slim man, with small wire-rimmed spectacles and neatly trimmed dark hair flecked with silvery grey. He had a soft southern accent, was wearing black jeans and a plain grey T-shirt, and looked in his late forties, at a guess. Roxanne wondered if the book was for him, or a present for someone, and indeed, what a fermented bread might be – did it have beer in it? It still amazed her how keen people could be about cooking when there were shops, delis and restaurants, all staffed by fully-trained people who could sell you delicious things to eat, without you having to stress yourself.
Della was checking the relevant shelf. ‘Ah, sorry – I was pretty sure we had a copy in stock. I guess you’ve looked online?’
‘Yep, no luck …’
‘I’m due to pick up some new collections soon. I’ll keep a careful lookout, if you like?’
‘That would be fantastic,’ the man said enthusiastically, looking around the shop now. ‘I loved that Almanac of Grains you found me last week.’
‘Oh yes, that’s unputdownable …’
Roxanne’s mouth twitched as she imagined Serena and Kate – or, in fact, Sean – listening in on this, and she had to turn away to hide her amusement.
‘I might just have a little browse now,’ the man added. ‘I’ve left Jude in charge of the shop and he should be able to cope without me.’
‘Browse away,’ Della said warmly. ‘D’you fancy a coffee while you’re looking, Michael? Faye’s just made a pot …’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
Della turned to pour a cup from the percolator that sat behind the counter. ‘Rox, would you like one too?’
‘No thanks, I’m heading off in a second—’
‘This is my sister, Roxanne,’ Della told the Grain Almanac man. ‘She’s just arrived from London – she’s staying with me for a few weeks.’ She turned to Roxanne. ‘Michael owns the new bakery down the road. He runs it single-handedly—’
‘My son and daughter help,’ he said quickly. ‘I can’t take all the credit …’
‘Oh, I saw it when I arrived,’ Roxanne enthused. ‘It’s beautiful. It’s about time we had decent bread around here …’
‘Well, do pop in sometime,’ he said with a smile.
Roxanne noticed his striking light blue eyes as he accepted the mug of coffee from Della. ‘I will,’ she replied.
‘Roxanne might be interested in your sourdough workshop,’ Della added with a sly grin.
‘Really? Oh, that’s great!’
‘Erm, I have to say I’m not really a baker …’ The emergency services tend to be involved …
‘Don’t worry,’ Michael said warmly, selecting a book from the shelf. ‘No prior experience required.’
Roxanne’s expression set as Stanley whined and strained for the door. ‘Um, hopefully I’ll make it along, then. But we’d better get going …’
‘Enjoy your walk,’ Michael said, adding, ‘I think it might rain, though. Don’t you have a coat?’
Roxanne couldn’t help smiling as she glanced down at her fine-knit cardi and knee-length cotton skirt. Although she had brought a couple of perfectly serviceable jackets, the sun was shining and she really didn’t require guidance on how to dress herself. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘It’s such a beautiful afternoon.’
Della glanced out of the window and frowned. ‘The sky’s looking darker now, Rox. I’d definitely put on something waterproof if I were you.’
‘Honestly, Dell, I’ll be—’
‘I’d take an umbrella at least,’ Michael cut in, apparently fascinated now by her silver leather ballet flats.
‘You’re not wearing those, are you?’ Della exclaimed, also staring at Roxanne’s feet, as if she was wearing ridiculous clown shoes. Her unremarkable footwear had become quite the spectacle – but then, nothing much happened in Burley Bridge.
‘Yes, it looks like I am,’ Roxanne laughed, ‘but don’t worry – I have my phone, and if I’m not back by midnight you have my permission to send out a search party.’ She caught Michael’s eye, and he grinned.
‘Don’t you have some wellies she could wear, Della?’ Faye called out. Now even the teenager present was concerned about her attire!
‘Yes, I do. Rox – go back upstairs and change,’ Della commanded. ‘They’re sitting in the hallway. Take the red ones, not the green – they’re Frank’s …’
Roxanne looked around at all these people who were gazing at her, seemingly of the opinion that her delicate London skin might dissolve at the first contact with moisture (and anyway, it definitely wasn’t going to rain). ‘I’ll wear them next time,’ Roxanne said, to appease her sister.
‘And I have waterproof trousers,’ Della added. ‘They’ll fit you fine. They’re in that trunk in the hallway.’
‘That’s really kind of you, but no. I’m only going for a little walk, not traversing the Siberian tundra on a dog-sled.’
Michael spluttered into his coffee. ‘All the same, don’t forget your whistle and torch,’ he added with a smile.
Roxanne laughed and patted her small leather shoulder bag, which was probably equally unsuitable for country walking – should she have an enormous backpack, like a Sherpa? – and contained nothing but her mobile, purse and Stanley’s poo bags. ‘All present and correct,’ she said.
‘I thought we’d have dinner in the pub tonight,’ Della added, her voice softening.
‘I’ll look forward to that – if I make it back alive.’ Roxanne turned to Faye with a chuckle. ‘So this is what it’s going to be like, Faye. Della’s reverted to big sisterly mode. I’ve offered to help with categorising new stock but she’s obviously worried that I might put a fondue book into the entertaining section instead of on the party food shelf.’
Faye laughed as, with Stanley whining and rapidly losing patience now, Roxanne allowed him to pull her towards the door.
‘I’d put fondues in the retro section,’ Michael remarked as she left the shop.
It was a relief to escape, which didn’t bode well for Roxanne’s entire summer here; she had been back in Burley for less than two hours. However, she was determined to remain positive. She strolled through the village, deciding now that she would force Della to let her help out in the shop, now she had been reminded how alluring it was. The idea of whiling away pleasant afternoons with mellow jazz playing was becoming more attractive by the minute. For one thing, Della kept the shop cosy and now Roxanne was rather chilly, being jacketless on what had turned into a blustery afternoon.
She stopped outside the bakery. So this belonged to Michael, who appeared to be a fan of umbrellas (Roxanne couldn’t abide them. Poky, dripping and frequently flipping inside out – wasn’t it time a more dignified alternative was invented?). She looked up at the sign which, like the bookshop’s, was hand-painted, as seemed to be the style around here these days. The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane. Hmm. A slight copy of Della’s, perhaps, but then, this was Rosemary Lane, and it had a welcoming ring to it.
Roxanne glanced in and saw that the shop was being manned by a tall and skinny young man – presumably Michael’s son – who was sweeping the floor in front of the counter. Now shivering a little, she did fancy a coffee, but at 5 p.m. the place was clearly about to close. Looping Stanley’s lead around the metal hook embedded into the stone wall, Della decided to try her luck, and stepped in. ‘Hi, could you possibly
do me a takeaway coffee?’
The young man peered at her through shaggy dark hair that was dangling into his blue eyes. ‘A coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’ She eyed the perfectly serviceable-looking coffee machine behind him, along from the wicker baskets containing a small selection of remaining loaves.
‘Uh, sure. What would you like?’
‘Could you do me an Americano?’
Now he, too, was staring down at her silver leather ballet flats, before muttering something unintelligible and setting the machine into action. ‘That’s a pound, please,’ he said, handing the carton to her.
‘Is that all?’ she exclaimed, then caught herself. Was this what Della had meant by ‘acting all Londony’? Yet her morning coffee from the kiosk near work cost nearly three times as much and, as she discovered as she left the shop and took her first taste, this was even better.
Roxanne sipped it as she and an excitable Stanley made their way along the lane. Clearly knowing the way, he tugged her towards the unmade track that led out of the village and up into the hills, where there was only the occasional farmhouse or cottage.
Roxanne finished her coffee, dropping the carton into the last litter bin before they left the village behind. She didn’t hold with the ‘no coffee after noon’ rule that so many of her colleagues abided by. Caffeine was her fuel, and discovering that the new bakery did takeaways suggested that she would be able to survive here after all.
However, she would have to come up with a strategy to stop Della from bombarding her with suggestions for activities to fill her time (what was the etiquette about not attending a sourdough workshop you’d been invited to? Roxanne wondered). At least there was Stanley to take out. He was certainly delighted to be out in the wilds now, his little body quivering with excitement at the sights and smells around him. Roxanne had always been fond of dogs and begged for one of her own as a child, but her mother wouldn’t allow it. Too demanding and needy, Kitty had always insisted, making them sound like the sort of boyfriend one would do well to avoid. In London, of course, with Roxanne living in a tiny flat and being out at work all day, it was out of the question.
She climbed the path that would take her steeply up into the hills, stopping now and again to look back and take in the dramatic scoop of the valley and the village nestling in its folds. It was beautiful here – all soft, mellow contours as far as the eye could see. The pockets of woodland looked from here like the tiny lichen-like trees Jeff used to stick on the terrain for his model railway when they were children.
Roxanne breathed in deeply. Already, the stresses of recent events had all but faded away. Locking herself out of her flat, the post-party row with Sean and being reprimanded by a child in a fireman’s uniform now seemed like distant memories. Even her angst over Marsha and Tina had given way to a ‘let’s just see what happens’ approach. No point in fretting constantly – and anyway, wasn’t the whole point of coming up here to have a proper break from all of that?
At least here, the only thing she was likely to be hassled for was her refusal to dress like a North Sea fisherman. Perhaps next time, just to appease the entire population of Burley Bridge, she would deign to wear wellies, as it was becoming pretty muddy underfoot – although she might have to buy her own. She had glimpsed Della’s glittery red ones in the hallway and wasn’t sure she could go there quite yet. A nice smart pair of Hunters could act as her gateway wellies, easing her gently into the realm of wet weather attire; she could even write about them for her ‘fashion director stranded in the country’ blog. If she was to return to work on good terms with Marsha, she would have to find something to write about.
Without her properly noticing, an hour had passed, and she and Stanley were now at the top of the hill. Her mobile rang. Expecting Della to be checking up on her welfare, Roxanne pulled it from her bag.
‘Sean! Hi, darling.’
‘Hey, babe, how’s it going?’
Her heart seemed to soar at the sound of his voice. She perched on a rather wobbly drystone wall, overcome by a surge of missing him. ‘Well, so far I’ve had Della, her assistant and customer all convinced I’m improperly dressed for the weather conditions – but apart from that, it’s all good.’
Sean chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re wearing those black heels from brandy snap night?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘So, where are you now?’
‘Out on a walk,’ she said with a trace of pride. ‘I’m with Stanley – remember I showed you pictures of Dell’s little rescue dog?’
‘Oh, yeah. So, what are you wearing?’
‘I’m wearing entirely appropriate clothing for the geographical conditions,’ she replied with a smile.
He chuckled, and she could picture his beautiful green eyes crinkling. ‘Liar.’
‘I am! Of course I am. I did grow up here, you know. I do know what the countryside’s like – unlike some people …’
‘Hey, I do visit the countryside now and again, I’ll have you know.’
‘Like, when?’ she teased him.
‘I shot that wedding dress story for Modern Brides on Hampstead Heath the other week.’
‘Hampstead Heath’s not the country,’ she retorted. ‘It’s NW3 …’
‘It might as well be. It’s grassy and muddy and at certain points you can hardly see London at all. Louie was worried I might have a panic attack.’
‘Yes, but it’s still in London, darling …’
‘And remember we did that winter tartans shoot together on Clapham Common?’
‘You can’t say Clapham Common’s the country either. You’re insane!’
They were laughing now, and she gazed across the vast expanse of unspoilt beauty, wishing he was here to see it too.
‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘I’m wearing my pale pink cashmere cardi with a camisole underneath, and my navy cotton skirt, and I’m fine.’
‘Hmm. Well, be careful out there. Don’t try to climb any electrified fences, and remember livestock can get territorial and charge you.’
She chuckled. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. You’ve obviously been watching Countryfile.’
‘Happy to help.’
Roxanne smiled. ‘So, how was your shoot today?’
‘Great. All warm and toasty in the studio, thanks. In fact, my client’s still here – I’d better finish up …’
‘I’ll let you go, then.’ Something twisted in her. Why wasn’t he desperate to set up a date to come up and see her?
‘Have a fun evening,’ he added. ‘Hitting the bright lights tonight, are you?’
‘Thanks. Actually, we’re going for dinner in the Red Lion. It’s such a cosy, old-fashioned pub. You’d love it.’ She paused and chewed at a fingernail. ‘You know you’re welcome here any time, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course—’
‘Della has room. Or we could take a little trip somewhere, find a snug hotel to stay in for a night or two …’
She sensed his hesitation. ‘I’ll see how things go, okay?’
What did that mean? Stanley pulled on the lead, and she glanced down. ‘Yes, all right – but if you’re nervous about the rural aspect, I’m sure there’s a crash course in survival skills you could take.’ A splash of rain landed on her face. The sky had darkened dramatically, as if suddenly flooded with murky grey ink.
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Sorry, darling, really gotta dash—’
‘Okay. Bye, honey,’ she said, before slipping her phone back into her bag just as the heavens opened and good old Yorkshire rain began to fall.
Chapter Fourteen
As she tramped down the hill towards the village, it struck Roxanne that this was happening too often, this finding herself out in the rain, improperly dressed, as if she had missed one of the fundamental lessons of being a grown-up (i.e., the one entitled Always Take a Coat). But the night of Sean’s party hadn’t been anything like this. London rain rarely was; in fact, she couldn’t remember a downpour this
heavy, this wetting, in years. Within seconds she was drenched, with no hope of shelter and no alternative but to hurry back to Della’s with Stanley trotting along beside her, rather sulkily, it seemed to Roxanne.
‘I’m in for a right old lecture,’ she told him gravely, ‘for not wearing the red wellies.’ She looked down at him. Her first day here and already she was talking to a terrier. Actually, that didn’t seem so bad. At home, in the absence of pets, she had sometimes found herself chatting to that stolen cactus.
‘Oh dear, looks like you’ve been caught out!’ a voice called out to her. Roxanne glanced round to see a figure almost entirely shrouded in a padded moss green jacket, their face hidden deep inside the funnel of an enormous hood, stomping out of the woodland towards her. An ancient chocolate Labrador lumbered along at their side.
‘Yes, I sort of misjudged it a bit,’ Roxanne replied, something of an understatement as her hair was plastered to her head and rivulets were running down her cheeks. It was even raining into her eyes, requiring an awful lot of dabbing with her wet cardigan sleeve, as if she were crying.
‘I heard you were coming, Roxanne. Lovely to see you back here.’
Pushing her hair from her face, Roxanne realised it was Irene Bagshott, a hardy woman who was still referred to around Burley Bridge as ‘the postmistress’. Normally Roxanne would be happy to stop and chat, but right now, with her freezing, sock-less feet slithering in her silver leather ballet flats, she was just desperate to hurry back to Della’s. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’
‘Not right now, though, eh?’ Irene boomed. ‘Imagine, coming out in this weather without a coat! What were you thinking?’
Roxanne forced a joyless smile as they started to make their way back down the path together. ‘Yes, I know. Aren’t I an idiot? They shouldn’t let me out!’
Irene guffawed. ‘Not used to our weather, are you?’ she added, as if Roxanne were more accustomed to Caribbean climes. ‘You’ve been down south too long, going to all your parties …’
Roxanne laughed tightly as Sean’s party flashed into her mind. Bad dancing, drunkenness and belly-bloating rice: what a success that had been.