Having inched my appropriately saffron-coloured vehicle into a parking space, my first purchase was a new phone. My US cell phone always refused to work in England and, in any case, a different number would mean James couldn’t call. To be honest, I desperately wanted to know if he had tried to reach me, but I squashed that thought and headed for the tourist information office. There, I armed myself with Things to Do in East Anglia and some leaflets on local bed and breakfasts. These I took to a cafe, to ponder my next move.
‘What would you like, love?’ The waitress greeted me as she cleared my table of the debris from previous occupants.
I ordered a pot of tea and a sausage roll. The latter wasn’t strictly necessary, but the stress of my business had meant I’d skipped too many meals in recent months, and since discovering James’s affair I seemed to have lost my appetite completely. If I was going to keep morale up, I’d better eat. The tea came immediately, strong and hot. As she returned with my food, the waitress spotted the hotel information.
‘You’re visiting, then?’ She put down a fork wrapped in a paper napkin.
‘Yes …’ I wasn’t about to share my circumstances. ‘Just looking for a place to stay for a few days. Somewhere near Cambridge, maybe.’
‘Ah, you’re visiting the colleges. Lovely.’ She’d made an assumption, but it didn’t matter. ‘You might look at the Red Lion in Whittlesford. My friend runs it and it’s very good.’
‘Thanks.’ My attention was on the tempting sausage roll. Sure enough, moist, spicy sausage meat was wrapped in warm, golden pastry which was flaky on the outside but gooey on the inside. Heaven. The tea was also reviving my spirits. We Brits don’t really do therapy; we just put the kettle on. I turned my thoughts back to my pile of literature. There it was: a leaflet for the inn she’d mentioned.
The Red Lion was founded as a priory in the thirteenth century, I read. Rooms are comfortably furnished and often have character features such as low-level beams and wonky floors. Yes, they actually said ‘wonky’. Eight miles south of Cambridge, Whittlesford is a classic English village where cricket is played regularly on the green. The Red Lion offers a range of home-cooked food, but you may also enjoy the Tickell Arms and the Bees in the Wall.
Jem would definitely get a kick out of pub names like that. I studied the pictures and decided the Red Lion was perfect. I would call them from my car.
The man who answered their phone, however, had other ideas. ‘Sorry, we’re fully booked. There’s an air show at Duxford.’
‘Oh.’ Nerdy plane-spotters had trampled all over my cricket-gazing fantasy. I was deeply disappointed.
‘But I can recommend my cousin’s bed and breakfast. Oak House. She’s just a few miles outside Cambridge, on the way to Newmarket.’
‘Er, right.’ Did everyone in the English hospitality industry know each other?
‘She does a first class breakfast. I can give you her number.’
Well, I thought, for top notch bacon and eggs it might be worth a try, especially to delay facing the music with my parents. ‘What village is that?’
‘Saffron Sweeting. Do you know it?’
I didn’t need Jem here to proclaim that this coincidence was a huge omen.
‘No,’ I told him, ‘but I think I’m about to.’
~~~
It was just after lunch time when I drove into Saffron Sweeting, a little early for checking in, but I’d phoned ahead and been told to come on over. Oak House was a wide, cream-painted building, with pairs of latticed windows symmetrically placed each side of the front door. I couldn’t tell how old it was, but the front wall bulged a little and was restrained by cross-shaped wall ties. Moss covered the patchwork tiles of the roof, which sloped at a friendly angle over the eaves. As I got out of my car, I caught a summery, floral scent, possibly from the clematis which was climbing around the front door. To the side of the house was an impressive tree – undoubtedly the oak – and in the garden I glimpsed a handful of extremely plump chickens.
‘You made it! Come in, dear, come in!’
The owner of Oak House appeared to be in her mid fifties. She had shoulder-length grey hair pulled back by a wide band, and a rosy complexion. I thought it was highly promising that she was wearing an apron in the early afternoon.
‘Did you drive far? Your room’s all ready.’ She didn’t pause to allow me to say anything, so I lugged my suitcase into the large hall and looked around discreetly. The old house had a solid, comforting feel. A heavy wooden staircase was in front of me, and to one side a grandfather clock ticked solemnly. Through an open doorway, I could see a formal sitting room. From here, a tortoiseshell cat dashed across the black and white tiles of the hall, then disappeared. Best of all, my nostrils detected both furniture polish and baking cookies. This place certainly had reassuring potential for the next forty-eight hours.
‘I’m Lorraine,’ she beamed at me now, offering me the visitors’ book to sign.
‘Grace Palmer,’ I replied, although I think she already knew that from the phone call.
‘I’m glad you’re here, Grace. I hope you’ll have a wonderful stay with us.’
I was grateful she didn’t ask what brought me to the village. I needed to practise my explanation, before it was ready for general consumption.
Instead, she continued in a business-like manner, ‘What time would you like breakfast in the morning? Is between eight and nine all right?’
‘Fine, yes, thanks.’ I made a mental note to set my alarm clock, as jet lag was always worse for me the second night than the first.
‘Righty-ho. Lovely. Let’s go on up.’
By American standards, my room was not luxurious. The bed was a small double which sagged alarmingly when I sat on it, and there was no sign of a television or radio. The en-suite bathroom was absolutely minuscule: I had to squeeze around the door and then found it necessary to sit side-saddle on the toilet. However, the bedroom had a pretty view of a field behind the house and the decor wasn’t bad, especially if Lorraine had been aiming for a floral English look. I was pleased to discover a tin of home-made shortbread on the tea tray, which explained the enticing aroma downstairs.
Even more delightful was the basket of magazines in the corner, including copies of Ideal Home and Country Living. I had left California in too much of a hurry to bring any of my precious design magazines and I was already regretting it. Later, I would probably curl up in bed and mentally redecorate the room, weighing the merits of Laura Ashley compared with Cath Kidston.
For now, though, I decided a walk around the village would be a good plan. I had booked into Oak House for two nights without any idea what Saffron Sweeting looked like. This seemed a good time to find out.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Saffron Sweeting, though not postcard pretty, wouldn’t bring shame on any tourist brochure. As I walked from Oak House towards what looked like the village centre, I passed a number of attractive cottages and a few larger, detached homes, before coming to a crossroads by a small pond. Here, the village sign, depicting agricultural activity, was set proudly into a millstone. My arrival caused noisy excitement amongst the resident ducks, who made a fuss in anticipation of food. Some offended waddling and tail-shaking then followed, when it became apparent I had nothing to offer.
To my left, I spotted a medieval-looking church a short way up a slight hill, complete with yew trees at its gate. Most of Cambridgeshire is pancake flat, so a hill of any size is a big deal. I chose instead to carry on, past what I assumed was the vicarage, curiously located right next door to a pub, The Plough. Surprisingly, I found I was hungry again, but, like the ducks, I was out of luck, as the pub was closed for the hours between lunch and evening. I passed a couple of gorgeous pint-sized cottages, where pink hollyhocks bloomed beside stone front steps, but couldn’t see any sign of a cafe or food shop.
Despite the pleasantness of the street, the whole village seemed strangely quiet, with just the occasional cooing of a wood pigeon. Eit
her Saffron Sweeting was enjoying a Mediterranean-style siesta, or the economy was hurting. Spotting a woman walking her dog, I called out to her.
‘Excuse me – is there anywhere I can buy something to eat?’
She looked at her watch, as her golden Labrador came to greet me and shove its nose in unwelcome places.
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘the bakery should still be open.’ She gestured to a road on my right. ‘Otherwise, the post office is your only option.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, untangling myself from the Labrador’s lead and crossing the street briskly to turn in the direction she’d pointed. I’d never heard of post offices serving lunch before and wasn’t going to explore that suggestion today.
This new road yielded a small bank on the corner, which, from the sign advising all customers to use the Newmarket branch, seemed to be completely closed. Next to that was an adorable terracotta-coloured thatched cottage, declaring itself to be the Old Forge, and then a tiny estate agency. I peeked in the window just long enough to ascertain that prices here were as crazy as in the Bay Area, but presumably without the luxury of two-car garages and walk-in closets.
And then, opposite, I spied a brick shop with a big bay window and a faded Sweeting Bakery sign above the door. I wondered how a village this size, which clearly wasn’t thriving like Saffron Walden, could sustain such a business. Nonetheless, here it was and that was fine by me.
Five minutes later, I sank onto the bench by the duck pond, with a ham sandwich for me and a loaf of yesterday’s bread for the ducks. They showed their appreciation with a riot of quacking and flapping, during which the prettiest one narrowly missed pooping on my foot. I resisted the temptation to talk to them, noting the irony of my transformation from happily married Californian entrepreneur to crazy lady scoffing carbs and making friends with birds.
Suddenly, I felt really alone and questioned whether I was coming unhinged. Not wanting to be in the same room as James was one thing, but fleeing to a random English village was surely a little weird. In my shock and confusion over my husband’s affair, I had put my hands over my ears and galloped away from my problems. Now, I had temporarily stopped running, but the pain had pursued me and seemed to be settling itself firmly on my shoulders.
For the first time since discovering I was the third person on a bicycle made for two, I had an urge to hear my mother’s voice. I reached into my bag and pulled out my new phone.
‘637939.’ My father followed the old-fashioned convention of answering with their number.
‘Hi, dad, it’s me.’ My voice was far stronger than I felt.
‘Gracie! Hello, pet!’
‘How’s things?’ This was my standard greeting, whether five thousand miles away or fifty.
‘Oh, we’re grand. And you? It’s early, isn’t it?’ My dad has a mathematical mind and he was correct: it wasn’t yet seven in California. Or did he have an inkling that I was no longer in that time zone?
‘Well, um, yes, that’s why I’m phoning. Is mum around?’
‘Yes, hang on, I’ll get her. NOR-AH!’
I instinctively held the phone away from my ear before this shout, aimed at my mother whose hearing is much better than dad realises. He is getting pretty deaf himself and tends to assume everyone else needs a higher volume too. Likewise, I heard his barely concealed announcement that it was me on the phone.
‘Hello, poppet!’ My mother sounded her usual chirpy self.
I gulped, emotion welling up as the reality of the last five days infiltrated my armour of denial. I was determined not to start crying; or at least, not yet. I looked up instead at the horse chestnut tree which shaded the bench and tried to focus on the barely-formed little fruits.
‘Hi, mum.’ Good, my tone was reasonably steady.
‘Are you in England?’ She came straight to the point.
‘Yeah.’ The ducks were looking for second helpings, eyeing my barely touched sandwich. I took a long breath. ‘You know I’m here?’
‘Yes, love, we knew you were on your way. James phoned.’
I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Uh, did he?’
What had he told them? Surely not: I’m a lying scum bag who cheated on your daughter and she’s left me. They had been so thrilled when James and I got married, and as far as I was aware, they hadn’t changed their minds since.
‘That’s right. Yesterday. He asked if you’d arrived.’
Ouch. ‘Really?’ My mind was racing, trying to deal with a conversation that had more spin on it than a first serve at Wimbledon.
‘He said you were feeling a bit down and you thought England might cheer you up. Lovely idea, June’s such a nice month.’
My mouth was dry. ‘Was that all he said?’
‘Oh, and that he’s sorry he couldn’t come on the same flight as you, but he’s managed to finish things at work now. He said he’ll be arriving here the day after tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 4
I swear I hadn’t meant to kick that poor duck. I’m not an animal abuser or anything sinister. It’s just that I sprang to my feet when my mum dropped this bombshell, and I hadn’t realised a female duck was pecking about under the bench, hoping to find fallen morsels. She gave an outraged squawk, shook herself from beak to webbed feet, and huffed her way back to the safety of the pond. I kept an eye on her for a few minutes and am pretty sure no lasting damage was done.
I finished the conversation with my mum as quickly as I could, still not prepared to tell her the full story. Instead, I told a white lie and implied I was still in London. I hinted that I wanted a couple more days to catch up with Jem and Harry, plus time for some shopping, before I headed to sleepy Norfolk. Mum seemed to accept this, or, if she did smell a rat, she was diplomatic enough to say nothing. I knew I’d have to fill my parents in soon, but meantime I had a bigger problem on my hands: I desperately wanted to stop James coming.
I looked at my watch: still early in California, but it was hardly my problem if I woke him up. A kick in the gut reminded me he might not even be at home, but curled up instead in the purple love nest with Rebecca. With tears in my eyes, I punched out his number, only to hang up immediately as I realised I didn’t want him knowing how to reach me.
Sighing, I walked the few minutes back to the village and found a phone box near the post office. It was the traditional kind, red with little windows, which at one time had been sentenced to death by British Telecom. Clearly, this one had been spared. I squeezed inside, lined up a stack of coins, and took a deep breath.
‘It’s me,’ I said when James answered, hoping he wouldn’t have to ask who me was.
‘Grace! Hi!’
Did he sound pleased? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t sound especially sleepy, but nor did I get the sense I’d interrupted anything.
‘Um, how are you?’ James adjusted his voice to be more neutral.
‘I’m okay,’ I replied. A huge pause followed. I had absolutely no idea what to say next and in any case was fighting a lump the size of Windsor Castle in my throat.
‘I’m glad you called. I’ve been worried about you,’ he said.
You weren’t worried about me when you screwed Rebecca, I thought bitterly. Aloud, I managed a more dignified, ‘I told you, I just need some time to think.’
‘I spoke to your mum. I told her I’m coming over.’
‘I know. Please don’t.’
‘But Gruff, look, I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I need to talk to you.’
Did he realise he’d just called me by the pet name only he used?
We’d met in my first term at Durham, accidentally bumping trays in the canteen one evening. James seemed shy and his attempts at flirting were dismal, but Jem had taken one look at my blushing face and had moved away to sit with the girls of the college rowing team. During a drunken late-night philosophy session with friends, we’d created nicknames for each other based on characters in children’s books. Jemima was unlucky – she got lumbered with Puddle-Duck. I, apparently,
resembled a Gruffalo. Fourteen years later, James still called me the same thing, but he never embarrassed me with it in public.
‘We’re talking now, aren’t we?’ I fed the phone a few more fifty pence pieces.
‘Yes, but we haven’t … I mean I haven’t explained. I want to make it up to you.’
White-hot pain rushed into my head. I couldn’t believe he was treating his affair so lightly. ‘What? You can’t just make it up to me! You slept with someone else.’ I was gripping the phone so tightly, my fingers were cramping. ‘It’s not like forgetting a birthday or something.’
‘Please … I’m so sorry. I thought – well, if I came over, we could spend some time together and work this out.’
‘Smooth it over and forget it? Not likely,’ I snapped back. ‘Anyway, there’s no point in you coming. I’m not staying with mum and dad.’
‘Oh. You’re in London, then?’
‘No. I’m not telling you where I am. I want to be on my own for a bit.’ My voice was jerky from tears now. ‘Can’t you understand that?’
He seemed to consider this. ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘If you need space, I owe you that. But please, don’t shut me out. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll come.’
‘All right,’ I said. The phone started beeping for more money and since it had already gobbled half the daily output of the Royal Mint, I decided our conversation was over. Just as I hung up, I think I heard him say I love you, but I’m not sure.
~~~
When characters in books say they cried themselves to sleep, I am sceptical. That night, I drenched several tissues, gave myself the hiccups and emptied the complimentary tin of shortbread. Sleep, however, was certainly not on the agenda, at least not until long after the Saffron Sweeting church clock had chimed two.
Saving Saffron Sweeting Page 3