Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘You wait until he wakes up,’ she replied ominously. ‘His screams could bring down the government.’

  After my long flight, seeing Jem spring from her car was the boost I needed. I knew she wasn’t finding motherhood easy, but her spirit was clearly alive and well. One of the reasons I adore Jem is her optimism, which, frankly, I lack.

  ‘I bet you’re tired so we’ll go straight home. Okay?’ She still had one eye on the nearest policeman and gave him a coy wave.

  ‘Perfect. Thanks for coming – the Tube might have been the end of me.’

  Every time I arrive back in London, I wonder what kind of impression England makes on new visitors. From the air, the countryside looks so green and peaceful, with its patchwork of hedges, fields and winding rivers. Then, you come down to earth with a bump amidst the bedlam of Heathrow Airport. Today, we had performed nauseating circles above Essex waiting to land, then lurked for twenty minutes on a taxiway until another aircraft departed and made room for us to park. When released from our tin-can prison, there was a hike of about a mile through the terminal building. My reward at passport control was a scrum similar to the first day of the Harrods sale, only without the designer goodies. By some miracle, I was reunited with my suitcase and thanked the baggage gods that, unlike last time, my underwear had not spilled over the reclaim belt in a Lycra impression of road kill.

  ‘Nope, won’t fit.’ Jem was defeated in her attempts to shoehorn my bag into the small boot, but got away with stashing it on the back seat beside the sleeping tyrant. And then we were off, Jem piloting the Mini fearlessly through the airport maze. She seemed able to carry on a conversation directed at me, the baby and London’s aggressive drivers in equal measures.

  ‘How was the flight? Did you sleep?’ she asked, making an X-rated gesture at a double-decker bus.

  ‘A bit.’

  I was looking out of the window. Even at the best of times, I found coming back to London after being in the US a bit of a shock. Everything looked incredibly familiar and yet surreal, like watching a favourite TV show for ages, then finally getting to visit the set. We were on the wrong side of the road, of course, traffic was brutal, and hazards like zebra crossings, mini roundabouts and speed cameras littered our path. Even though it was June, definitely one of the best times to visit Britain, the sky was gloomy and so were the faces I saw on the streets. My mood was equally low. I had left my husband and bundled myself onto a plane without any clear idea of what to do next. Now, I was technically home, but it didn’t feel like it.

  ‘Your hair’s longer. Suits you. Damn, who put that camera there?’ She had just steered the Mini up a bus lane in Hounslow and probably had her number plate snapped.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I knew she was just being kind. Jem is one quarter Pakistani and has the most beautiful, sleek dark hair I’ve ever seen. Mine, on the other hand, is mousy and goes limp at the first sign of trouble. If Jem had noticed my red eyes too, she didn’t say anything. Normally hazel, they’re my favourite feature, but lack of sleep and more or less constant sobbing had left them puffy and dull.

  I felt grubby, too, from the long overnight flight, where I’d folded myself into the window seat and tried to avoid all conversation with the older couple next to me. I don’t know if they were curious that I’d cried for an hour after we left San Francisco, and then some more as we flew over the Houses of Parliament and up the Thames to Richmond, but they hadn’t pried.

  As for Jem, I had emailed her with just a little of what had happened and, bless her, she stuck to small talk as we drove to the flat she and my brother owned in Ealing. She entertained me with Sebastian’s little ways, including his liking of outings by car, bus or train. Only when still was he prone to vigorous exercising of his lungs.

  ‘And Harry’s fine, just very busy at work,’ Jem said, as the houses lining our route changed from totally depressing to only slightly grungy. I couldn’t help mentally comparing the grey streets and kebab shops with the sunny tree-lined avenues of Menlo Park.

  ‘He’s in Aberdeen for a few days,’ she continued. ‘I should be irritated at him leaving me with Seb but really, I haven’t got a leg to stand on. We’re reliant on his income now.’

  I nodded. She was on maternity leave from her job in human resources and I knew she was wondering whether to go back to work at all.

  ~~~

  How could this worn, sagging sofa be so comfortable? I must have dozed off for a few minutes as I woke to find Jem placing mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs in front of us. I doubt she intended it as a gesture of sisterhood and solidarity, but for me it was the first sign of hope in several days. I couldn’t actually remember when I had last eaten.

  My brother and Jem had managed to scramble onto the London property ladder with a top-floor Edwardian flat. Although small and not furnished in the latest style, it had a bay-windowed lounge and other original features which would trigger heart palpitations in most Californian designers. It smelled of pine floors and clean washing. I was glad to be there.

  Jem slurped her tea slightly and planted her feet in their striped socks on the coffee table.

  ‘Well then,’ she said, tilting her head in my direction and frowning. ‘Want to spill the beans?’

  Tongue-tied, I nibbled on my biscuit and wondered if dunking it would cause it to disintegrate. Jem knew me well enough to keep quiet and wait.

  ‘One minute we seemed fine …’ I said awkwardly, ‘and the next I found out he’s in love with someone else.’

  ‘And she’s someone he works with?’ Jem pursed her lips and I suspected she was choosing her words carefully. She’d known James almost as long as she’d known me and had always liked him. We sometimes compared notes on our husbands and although I knew my brother won for charisma and romantic gestures, there was a thoughtfulness about James that was hard to beat. His everyday willingness to do the washing up and put laundry away – things that were invisible to Harry unless Jem nagged him – had meant more to me than Friday night flowers.

  ‘Not only does he work with her,’ I swallowed and bit my lip, ‘but she was basically my only good decorating client. I was doing her bedroom.’

  ‘Wow. That’s horrible. What can she have been thinking?’

  ‘I’m more gutted by what James was thinking.’ The chocolate biscuits were disappearing remarkably fast. Surely I hadn’t eaten all those? Regardless, I took another: this was a crisis and everyone knows you don’t count calories in the middle of a crisis. ‘It’s just so humiliating. I’m pretty sure they were doing it in that bedroom. I was working so hard to make it beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, Grace, I’m sorry,’ Jem said.

  I could tell she was upset on my behalf and I loved her for that. Without doubt, she’s the non-existent sister I would have liked as a teenager. Only now, it’s better, because we share gossip and nail varnish without stealing each other’s boyfriends and losing borrowed shoes at parties.

  ‘Were there … other problems?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I chewed my lip. ‘We’ve definitely been less patient with each other, recently. Less affectionate. Maybe I wasn’t making enough effort. Huh. Easy to be wise now.’

  ‘It’s rough on your relationship, when you’re both running on the hamster wheel.’ Jem gave me a worried smile.

  ‘And seeing him with – her –’ I gulped, ‘makes me think I’ve really let myself go.’

  ‘Tosh,’ said my sister-in-law immediately.

  But Jem hadn’t met the other woman and I was busy comparing myself unfavourably. At five feet four, I would never be willowy like Rebecca, and although I’d lost weight recently, none of it seemed to have gone from around my hips. Having always been more interested in home accessories than fashion, I had to admit that in the last couple of years my wardrobe had become especially boring. I lived in black jeans and my shoes were all practical, with nothing even half as sexy as the sandals Rebecca had been wearing on the fateful purple paint day. Combine all this w
ith limp hair and a totally deflated ego, and I knew I wasn’t exactly alluring to come home to.

  ‘You haven’t let yourself go.’ Jem shook her head fiercely. ‘And even if you had, I don’t think James would cheat just because of that. You two were a team.’

  I wriggled my shoulders in the hope that the stubborn knots caused by tension and cattle-class travel would melt. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I mucked up somewhere.’

  ‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

  ‘I dunno. I really don’t know.’ I sighed. ‘I told James I wanted to spend time alone in England and think things through. Frankly, I was working so hard and the business was in such a mess, I’d love to just have a break.’

  ‘You walked away from your design work too?’ Jem seemed surprised.

  ‘I asked another designer to finish off a couple of things for me. But I literally had almost no clients so there wasn’t much to hand over.’ If I was honest, one reason the thing with Rebecca hurt so much was because she’d walloped me not just as a wife but as a professional too. She’d been the only glimmer that clients liked my work and that my business could succeed.

  ‘And, um, where will you stay?’ Jem wasn’t saying what she meant. Three adults and a baby in a flat this size would be impossible. She and Harry didn’t have space for a dishwasher and Sebastian’s room was smaller than the walk-in closet I’d taken for granted in California. There was no dining room or even a dining table, and the sofa bed was the only option for guests.

  ‘Don’t worry, not here. At least, not after tonight.’

  ‘So you’ll go to your parents?’

  This made me screw up my nose. ‘Yikes, I don’t think that would work.’

  I have a cautiously affectionate relationship with my family and I know they love me from top to toe. But we never discuss tricky issues or emotional stuff. I hadn’t even told them I was flying back, let alone what had happened with James. And, since retiring, my parents had developed some quirky habits that would drive me round the twist.

  ‘In any case,’ I added, ‘there’s something so predictable about women running home to their mothers.’ I gave a small smile. ‘I’d rather avoid becoming a total cliché.’

  Jem looked at her watch and got to her feet reluctantly. ‘I need to give Seb his feed. The bottle steriliser is broken so that’s a whole extra hassle.’

  I followed her through to the postage stamp kitchen, which, due to the influx of baby paraphernalia, now seemed even more cramped than before.

  ‘So where, then?’ She returned to our previous topic as she juggled bottles and gadgets in the microwave. I hadn’t been around babies much and James and I had talked in only vague terms about a family of our own. Sebastian hadn’t been any trouble so far, but the amount of kit he required looked pretty daunting.

  ‘Dunno.’ I shrugged. ‘I just want to go somewhere very quiet, very English, and hide for a while. The Cotswolds, maybe?’ I fancied the poetic imagery of heartbreak under a thatched roof, perhaps including country pursuits like long misty walks and picking flowers. To be totally upfront, the scenes inside my head bore a distinct resemblance to a Jane Austen novel.

  ‘The Cotswolds are pretty. Would cost you an arm and a leg, though.’ Jem was now doing something with powdered baby milk. Breast-feeding had not gone well for her and for sanity’s sake, she’d eventually given up. ‘And presumably, your mum and dad are going to want to see you.’

  ‘True.’ I put the kettle on, thinking another cup of tea might keep me awake until we ate dinner. ‘But I can hardly pick Norfolk and not stay with them. They’d be hurt.’

  Meanwhile, sounds like a mewing kitten were reaching the kitchen. I was about to ask if they’d adopted a cat, when I realised I was hearing the first stirrings of a hungry baby.

  ‘And I’d be hurt ’cause it wouldn’t be so easy to meet up for calorific treats.’ She squeezed my arm. We’d missed each other and our afternoon tea ritual while I’d been in San Francisco. Earl Grey with our husbands just couldn’t compete with dainty cucumber sandwiches, or scones topped with jam and cream, and girl talk. ‘So that’s easy,’ she continued. ‘Just find a hotel halfway between here and Norfolk.’

  The mewing kitten had turned into a screeching hyena. Jem scooped up some baby gear and headed out of the kitchen.

  ~~~

  Later, after we’d microwaved a Tesco’s lasagne and I had unwisely downed my share of a bottle from Harry’s wine collection, I asked for a map. This sparked a hunt down the sides of the bookcases, during which we found a baby rattle and a dusty relic that had started life as a sock. Eventually, we unearthed an out-of-date road atlas. It seemed the straight line from my parent’s home to Ealing ran just east of Cambridge.

  ‘There you go.’ Jem stabbed an unsteady finger at the page. ‘That’s halfway. Go and lick your wounds there.’

  ‘Where?’ I hoped it was only jet lag that was making the map so fuzzy.

  ‘I dunno, it’s upside down. Under my finger.’ We had clearly overdone the Pinot Noir as both of us were struggling with the small font.

  ‘Saffron Sheeping?’ I asked.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted a load of smelly sheep in my scenic Jane Austen fields. But the area around Cambridge was worth considering: we’d lived in the city when I was young and I remembered it was pleasant enough. Presumably, it was also less costly for visitors than the picture-perfect Cotswolds.

  ‘No, wait, it’s Saffron Sleeping.’ She peered at it and I’m sure her eyes crossed slightly.

  ‘That sounds better. Maybe if I sleep for long enough, I’ll wake up and find this is all a horrible dream.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘And I can bring Seb up there to visit. He might learn how to go through the night without terrorising me every three hours. We should Google it, see what it’s like.’

  We failed completely to find Saffron Sleeping on the internet and I assumed that was the end of the idea. Jem, however, consulted the map again, which took a couple of minutes as she still had it the wrong way up and began her quest in Cornwall. ‘Hah!’ she announced. ‘It’s not Sleeping, it’s Sweeting!’

  ‘What?’ I was digging through my suitcase, wondering if my frenzied packing had included anything that could pass as pyjamas. It was a good job Harry was away, as it seemed I might have to sleep in an Alcatraz T-shirt and my knickers.

  ‘We had it wrong, it’s Saffron Sweeting. Well, that’s an excellent omen,’ she declared.

  One thing I find amusing about Jem is her belief in omens, horoscopes and reading tea leaves. ‘It is?’ I yawned back, starting to arrange pillows on the sofa.

  ‘Grace, it’s perfect! It’s a village named after sugar. Definitely give it a try. After all,’ she beamed at me, ‘how bad can it be?’

  CHAPTER 3

  It’s a good thing Jem was no longer breast-feeding, as our red wine consumption that evening would probably have got Sebastian drunk too.

  However, by ten the next morning, we were only slightly hung-over as she drove me to a local car rental office. Squeezed between a launderette and a branch of Barclays bank, they appeared to have just three cars outside. Sure enough, I got the midget-sized jaunty yellow one. Never mind: it would use less petrol and inflict less collateral damage whenever I tried to park it.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Jem looked anxiously at my pale face as I heaved my suitcase from her Mini.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ I tried to keep my voice brave and normal. ‘Seeing you has helped no end.’ I wasn’t generous enough to include Sebastian in this compliment. He was, of course, now sleeping angelically in his car seat, recovering from his nocturnal wailing which had roused Jem multiple times. I had been glad of my freebie airline earplugs and had stayed welded to the sofa bed.

  ‘I’m still not quite sure what the plan is,’ Jem said, as we made a cursory attempt to check my car for scratches.

  Our tipsy map reading of the night before had degenerated into finding English villages with silly names. We’d started with Six
Mile Bottom and progressed via Ugley to Piddletrenthide.

  ‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘Bacon End was tempting, but on balance I think Saffron Sweeting just has the edge.’

  ‘Really? You’re actually heading for a place you’ve never been? I was just mucking around last night, you know.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m pulling your leg. I think I’ll drive up through Cambridgeshire on the quieter roads, and maybe stop for a look at some of the villages. If they’re all horrible, I’ll swallow my pride and call my mother.’

  Jem handed me last night’s road atlas and a Kit Kat. ‘Okay, well, phone me, wherever you decide. And let me know when you’re ready to meet for afternoon tea.’

  ‘Absolutely. Say hi to Harry.’ I leaned into her car and gave Seb a parting wave. Jem gave me another of her big hugs and I squeezed her back in silent thanks.

  ~~~

  I don’t believe in fate, or omens, but I admit that sometimes life moves in mysterious ways. Despite our antics of the previous evening, I had no intention of spending the night anywhere with a wacky name. Things didn’t quite work out like that, though.

  The London skies had been smoggy and oppressive, but as I turned off the M25 to head north, the sun came out and I could appreciate the green countryside. At Bishops Stortford, I left the motorway and continued on the old Cambridge road. The gentle winding from village to village was a soothing change of pace. Uneven hedges and lush fields lined the road, a few rabbits were playing on the verge, and I passed handmade signs including Pick Your Own Strawberries and Village Fête Saturday.

  By the time I reached Saffron Walden, I was ready for a break and some elevenses. I already knew the bustling market town was named from growing the saffron crocus, which yielded an expensive yellow dye. In our research the previous night, Jem and I had learned that Saffron Walden’s success had overshadowed Saffron Sweeting’s earlier fame. By the seventeenth century, the newcomer was dominant while Saffron Sweeting languished. I’m pretty sure yellow dye is no longer a big part of Saffron Walden’s economy, but it still enjoys a cheerful affluence.