Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  Roused rudely by my alarm clock, I wondered how on earth I could face Lorraine’s famous breakfast. However, I reckoned without the assistance of the tiny shower, which was pleasantly hot for the first four minutes and then turned abruptly icy while I still had conditioner in my hair. I emerged brutally lucid, realising why some eighty-year-olds are so fanatical about swimming in the sea daily. My thoughts were clearer, my skin was glowing and my appetite wasn’t too shabby, either.

  Lorraine was upbeat as she brought me some orange juice and an enormous pot of tea. I mused that being a morning person is part of the job description, if you run a bed and breakfast.

  ‘Good morning, Grace! Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, lovely, thank you,’ I lied tactfully. I also avoided mentioning my cold shower. Not the assertive choice, but, in common with many English friends, a hotel has to be absolutely terrible before I consider complaining.

  ‘It’s a lovely day for sightseeing.’ Lorraine delivered toast in a silver rack and a dish of glossy marmalade.

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ I agreed lamely. I wasn’t in the mood for floating past Cambridge colleges in a punt.

  By the time Lorraine brought a flowered china plate boasting a pair of fried eggs, some bacon and even a famous Newmarket sausage, I had decided the risk of going to my parents was too great. I was still nervous James might turn up, and I dreaded that kind of showdown. Here in Saffron Sweeting, I felt anonymously safe. The village was quiet and attractive, and would make a restful hiding place while I attempted to get my thoughts together.

  I dipped the sausage in the egg yolk and watched with satisfaction as it oozed all over my plate. At this rate, the weight I’d lost recently would go back on fast. I’d better give some thought to taking up jogging again. Not today, of course, but soon.

  It seemed I was the only guest at Oak House that morning and Lorraine made a couple of other cheerful comments which were possibly intended to engage me in conversation. To discourage her, I picked up a National Trust handbook and pretended to browse as I ate.

  In reality, though, I was trying to come up with a plan that went beyond visiting historic houses and their accompanying gift shops. After my conversation with James yesterday, I realised I had no strategy at all. I was completely adrift, looking at a blank sheet of paper representing the rest of my life. I was terrified: never before had I faced so many choices all at once. Sorting out my future might take more than a few days and a couple of cream teas.

  My American bank account was empty, but I still had some meagre savings in England. If I was careful, I probably had enough funds to take several weeks off, but it would certainly help if I wasn’t paying for bed and breakfast each night. And I had no great desire to stay at Oak House indefinitely, listening to the grandfather clock ticking my life away. Even if I didn’t know which road to take, I couldn’t just sit and do nothing.

  Before this sliver of courage could desert me, I got to my feet and thanked Lorraine for breakfast. Squaring my shoulders, I went upstairs to grab my handbag.

  ~~~

  Normally, I wouldn’t pass a bakery without going in to lend my support to a small business. However, even after walking into Saffron Sweeting, I was still so full of breakfast that I wondered if I’d ever eat again. So I crossed the road instead to the little estate agency, announced as Hargraves & Co by dark green swirly lettering. All the houses in the window seemed to be large, expensive and for sale, not rent.

  Nonetheless, I ventured inside, causing the bell attached to the door to clang loudly as I stepped down into the bright but narrow office. It was barely more than ten feet wide, although it stretched back quite a way, and three desks were huddled into the space. Only one of these desks was occupied, by a chic auburn-haired woman who was currently on the phone. She waved a hand at me without making eye contact; hesitantly, I took a seat.

  ‘No, darling, I don’t think they will,’ she said into the phone, which was tucked under her chin so she could work her keyboard at the same time. ‘They told me six eighty is as high as they can go. I don’t think seven hundred is at all reasonable, especially given this economy.’

  I eyed the large colour photograph of the featured listing on the wall next to me. It looked like a converted barn, complete with triple garage and a paddock. The asking price was well into seven figures. It was stunning, but I suspected those lofty rooms would get lonely without a massive family to fill the space.

  ‘Their mortgage is in place – I think you should consider the offer very seriously.’

  Another phone began to ring and she frowned at it. All three desks were piled high with papers.

  ‘Okay, yes, just let me know, darling. But don’t think for too long.’ She had picked up her smartphone and her fingers were flying at the speed of a concert violinist. ‘Yes, all right, I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  The other phone stopped ringing, but began again immediately.

  ‘Sorry to keep you.’ The estate agent flashed me a smile which lasted a tenth of a second, before propelling herself across the room on her wheeled chair to answer it. As she did so, I got a glimpse of a short skirt, shapely legs and an impressive pair of leopard print heels.

  Another brief conversation followed, which of course I could hear. The caller seemed to have approval to spend four thousand a month, as long as the place was fully furnished and ready immediately.

  ‘Right, super,’ the agent finished up, twirling her shoe on the end of her foot. ‘Yes, absolutely, Saturday is fine. Let me know what time.’

  Finally, she stood and came towards me. She was older than me, maybe by ten years. Above the long legs were ample but undeniably attractive curves. ‘Hello, I’m Amelia Hargraves. How can I help?’ She held out her right hand, adorned with a large cocktail ring, to shake mine briskly.

  ‘Hi.’ I felt like an irritant in her busy morning, where time was presumably money. For such a sleepy village, this had come as a surprise. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you have anything for short-term rental?’

  ‘What type of property did you have in mind?’ Amelia returned to her desk and consulted her computer screen.

  ‘Er, small, just for one person. And just for a few months,’ I said.

  Her phone buzzed and she consulted it before turning back to me. ‘Well,’ she shook her head, ‘there isn’t much – most of the places I have are family homes. I do have a cottage in Bottisham, though.’

  She thumbed through a file and passed me a flier. The photo showed a depressing looking brown house, with a car resting on bricks in the front garden.

  Amelia was apparently good at reading faces and I’m sure mine had fallen.

  ‘Do you want to be in Cambridge itself, or out here?’ She was searching through another file.

  ‘Out here, preferably,’ I replied.

  ‘Good – competition is fierce in Cambridge for short-term rentals, even though it’s summer.’ She pushed a wavy auburn strand behind her ear. Even if the colour had received considerable help from her hairdresser, it suited her beautifully. My own was dull and lifeless in comparison.

  ‘Here’s a garden flat in Newmarket. You’d have racehorses going past each morning, on their way to training.’

  That sounded fun and the picture looked much better. Regrettably, the monthly rent was so high that I would be better off staying at Oak House.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think my budget can go quite that far,’ I apologised.

  It seemed the implications of leaving my husband were going to be economic, as well as emotional. I hadn’t expected accommodation to be so scarce. Saffron Sweeting obviously wasn’t bustling with activity, so who, apart from fleeing wives like me, was so keen to live here?

  Amelia gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re not on a relocation package, then?’

  ‘No.’ That was an odd question. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just thought I’d check. Most of the people arriving in the village are being transferred by their employers.’ The phon
e on her desk rang but she ignored it. ‘You realise we’re only five miles from the Science Park?’ Her tone was matter-of-fact.

  ‘Oh, right.’ I had heard of the Cambridge Science Park but didn’t know much about it, other than it being an out-of-town location for technology companies.

  ‘Yes, three American bio-tech firms moved in this spring. Cambridge is the hot place now for genetics and all that. They’re bringing a lot of staff over.’

  This explained why she was so busy and the high prices of the houses in the window. Perhaps I would have been better off in the postcard-perfect Cotswolds, after all.

  ‘That’s ironic. I’ve just come from America, but I’m not a gene scientist.’ I gave a small smile.

  She shrugged and turned her attention back to her computer.

  ‘Actually, I just left my husband,’ I blurted. So much for keeping a low profile.

  Amelia’s carefully groomed eyebrows shot up, and now I had her full attention. ‘Oh, you poor darling.’ She tutted and shook her head. ‘That explains why you look so shell-shocked.’

  ‘Do I?’ I knew I wasn’t exactly radiant, but jet lag could be blamed for that, surely.

  ‘I’m afraid you do. I was the same, all through my divorce,’ she added carelessly, as if a divorce was as troublesome as a pair of too-tight shoes. She looked at me again, and her expression softened. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’m not promising anything, but I’ll keep my ears open for you. Take my card and call me in a couple of days, all right?’

  ~~~

  I had just passed the duck pond on my way back to Oak House, when I heard a squeal of brakes. I turned around in time to see a large red estate car come hurtling down the hill from the church, and there was a horrible crunch of gears as it failed to make the left turn at the crossroads. I winced as it shot straight across the road instead, only to hit the wooden bench with a splintering bang. This was probably the only thing that prevented the car from ending up in the water with the ducks, which rose up as one in an almighty flap.

  I jogged the fifty yards back to the scene – there, that counted as my exercise for the day – and saw two little boys looking out of the car’s rear window with wide-eyed expressions of glee.

  ‘Mommy!’ one of them cried out. ‘What did you do? Dad’s gonna be so mad!’

  A blonde woman clambered shakily out of the driver’s seat, crying but apparently unhurt.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ she wailed. ‘Which jerk came up with the idea of a stick shift?’

  I detected a definite American accent.

  She thumped the bonnet – now crumpled and hissing steam – with her hand. ‘Can’t they even make a car that works in this frickin country?’

  CHAPTER 5

  They say that misery loves company and, sure enough, it cheered me up to talk to Mary Lou while we waited for the breakdown service to come from Newmarket. Neither she nor her boys were hurt, but her pride was as dented as the car and she seemed to think this was yet another way that England was conspiring to challenge her. The family had been here only six weeks and initial excitement had given way to confusion and homesickness for Pennsylvania. I realised that although I was feeling adrift and confused, at least I hadn’t wrapped my little car around a village bench.

  ‘I had awful trouble with the gears when I was learning to drive,’ I offered in support.

  ‘Automatics are the sign of a civilised society,’ she grumbled. ‘Randy, quit hassling that duck!’

  The younger boy seemed intent on bullying the waterfowl. Of course, with a name like that, if he was attending an English school, he was probably receiving similar grief from the other kids. The elder, quieter boy had his nose in an iPad.

  ‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’ I offered. ‘I have a car at the bed and breakfast, just up there.’

  She sighed. ‘Thanks, that would be great. We were heading home anyways.’

  I walked back to Oak House to get my car. When I returned to the duck pond, the breakdown crew had arrived and their unhurried efforts were being supervised by a small crowd, including an elderly man with a walking cane, a woman on horseback and the village postman.

  After the sorry-looking tangle of red metal had been loaded and driven away, Mary Lou gave me directions to her house, just beyond the far edge of Saffron Sweeting. As we drove through the village, I realised I hadn’t yet explored this far. On the right, we passed a huge, low building with a decaying roof. This, presumably, was the malt house which Jem and I had read about.

  According to our internet research, nobody is sure how the village got the Sweeting part of its name, but one theory is that steeping, part of the malting process, got changed accidentally over time. Many villages had a malt house in the eighteenth century, supplying the needs of local publicans and home brewers. The Saffron Sweeting malt house looked as if it had received little attention since then. It had a forlorn air, which was a shame as its solemn architecture was appealing.

  ‘So, the boys aren’t in school?’ I hoped I wasn’t being too nosy.

  ‘It didn’t seem worth it, with just a few weeks before school gets out here. I’ve been trying to give them classes at home. But they’re going in September, for sure … if I don’t strangle one of them before that.’

  ‘Have you made plans for sightseeing during the summer?’

  ‘We sure have. We’ve been to London, which they loved. We’re going to Oxford and Bath next week. Then there’s Ireland – yeah, and Paris and Amsterdam, for sure. And Italy. I gotta see Florence.’

  I blinked as she rattled off these destinations, remembering that by American standards, the distances in Europe are tiny. And if they were only going to be here for a limited time, it did make sense to see as much as possible.

  ‘Right here,’ she announced. ‘On the left.’

  Despite the confusing instruction, I got the right house: beautiful brick, with a dark red door. It had a genteel character and a weather vane perched on the roof. There was even a dovecote in the front garden, although I didn’t see any sign of occupants – probably a blessing, with Randy around.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘This is gorgeous.’

  ‘I guess,’ Mary Lou sighed. ‘But it’s only got one and a half bathrooms and I hate sharing with the boys. I miss my mud room and media room too. And the closet space sucks.’

  I could imagine the acres of space she had enjoyed in Pennsylvania, and had to admit that an extra bathroom was the thing I had loved most about my California apartment.

  ‘Okay, guys, say thanks to Grace.’ The three of them climbed out of the car. As they did so, I saw net curtains twitch at the cottage opposite.

  ‘I hope your husband isn’t too cross about the accident,’ I offered.

  ‘He won’t freak out. He has too much going on at work.’ She shrugged. ‘So, Grace, where are you headed now?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure. I only arrived a couple of days ago. I might go and explore a bit.’

  ‘We appreciate the ride.’ She picked up Randy’s jumper, which he’d dropped carelessly. ‘Hey, lots of the wives meet Tuesday lunchtimes at the pub. There’s not much else to do here. You’re welcome to join us.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d like that.’

  As I drove away, the irony wasn’t lost on me. The first friend I’d made in Saffron Sweeting was an American.

  ~~~

  Taking a drive around the local area did indeed seem like a good plan. I could keep my eyes open for places to rent which Amelia Hargraves might not know about.

  I wasn’t hungry for lunch, but I drove back into the village and walked around. Mary Lou was right – the only shops were the estate agency, the bakery, and the combined post office and general store. I stopped at the bakery for a hot chocolate before venturing to the post office, hoping to buy a map of the area.

  A bell tinkled, announcing my presence as I stepped over the awkward doorstep and down into the shop. All the buildings in Saffron Sweeting seemed to be lower than the street and I wondered whethe
r the village ever flooded. If so, the ducks would have the last laugh.

  ‘Afternoon,’ came a rough female voice from the back of the store.

  ‘Hello.’ I headed for the display of newspapers and magazines, in the hope that maps would live there too. Having a choice of one meant my quest took no time at all, and I turned to see the elderly shopkeeper watching me closely. I added some salt and vinegar crisps and a carton of Ribena to my selection while she waited to serve me, fingers tapping gently on the counter. There was no one else in the shop.

  ‘Staying at Oak House?’ she asked, peering through bi-focal glasses to ring my purchases up on an old-fashioned till. Her hands were swollen, presumably from arthritis.

  ‘Er, yes,’ I replied, taken aback that she knew this, but then realised that this was a reasonable assumption.

  ‘American?’ she sniffed.

  Goodness, had my accent changed that much in four years? I’d barely said two words. Then I remembered Amelia telling me about other newcomers from across the Atlantic.

  ‘No, um, just visiting Cambridge,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Four eighty-eight, please.’

  I paid her and made the mistake of trying to further our conversation. ‘I’m glad you were open. I thought it might be half-day closing.’ I knew for a fact that some English villages still picked one afternoon per week to close at lunchtime, to make up for working on Saturdays.

  She folded her arms and looked at me severely. ‘We’re not dinosaurs here, you know. I’m open every day except Sunday. And the library has broadband internet, if you want it.’

  ‘Great … thanks.’ I turned to go.

  ‘And one more thing, young lady.’

  That didn’t sound good. My mum called me young lady when I was in trouble. I turned back guiltily.

  ‘You can tell your friend she’ll have to pay for that bench,’ the shopkeeper said sternly. ‘Saffron Sweeting won’t tolerate joyriders.’

  I realised she must mean Mary Lou. That news had certainly travelled fast, although ‘joyrider’ seemed a bit strong to describe someone who hadn’t quite found second gear in time. But I just nodded meekly and made a tactical retreat from her shop.