Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  I knew it wasn’t logical to expect everyone in the village to be friendly to strangers, and I was over-sensitive at the moment in any case. I tried not to let this old lady and her spy network influence my feelings about Saffron Sweeting. However, after such a chilly conversation, I drew comfort when I returned to my car, parked outside the tiny library a few yards along the High Street. According to the posted opening hours, it did indeed offer Wi-Fi, but not on a Tuesday afternoon, Thursday morning, or any time at all on Friday.

  ~~~

  If it hadn’t been for the glass of evil-tasting dandelion and burdock, I don’t think I’d have set foot over the threshold of Bury estate agency Miller & Mullet.

  I had driven across to the market town of Bury St Edmunds, appreciating with prodigal eyes the lush trees, narrow roads and tiny villages of my route. Once there, I had been snared by the formal quaintness and white-aproned waitresses of Harriet’s tearoom, where the promise of baked goods was too much to resist. A hot, buttery crumpet took me back to my mum’s warm kitchen, homework after school, bickering with Harry about the lyrics in Freddie Mercury songs, and wet socks. I’m not sure where the wet socks came from, but that was the image I got as I bit into the crumpet and dripped butter onto my plate.

  As for the drink, I wasn’t even sure I liked dandelion and burdock, but I was certain it wasn’t available at a San Francisco drive-through and I was determined to revel in all things English. Looking back, I believe it had fermented a little and instilled me with false confidence.

  As with Hargraves & Co in Saffron Sweeting, I was the only client in Miller & Mullet. However, while Amelia seemed to work on her own, here were three young men who looked barely old enough to hold driving licences, wearing carbon copy shiny suits and predatory smiles. One of them leaped to his feet and crossed the electric blue carpet to shake my hand vigorously.

  ‘Hello, I’m Darren, how can I exceed your property expectations today?’

  Ouch. Clearly, he had just come back from sales training. I withdrew my hand and put it out of his reach.

  ‘Well, I’m looking for somewhere to rent. Somewhere small.’ I glanced at his companions who seemed nonchalant, but had the air of being ready to move in if Darren mucked things up.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘How many bedrooms?’

  ‘Oh, just one, I think.’

  ‘Excellent, let me show you some options. I think you’ll like these.’ Darren bounded across the room to a sagging filing cabinet, from which he pulled a stack of property details. ‘Sit down, sit down, let’s see what we have.’

  I quickly ruled out three houses which were too expensive, two dismal flats, and a caravan. This left a tiny box, which he proudly told me was a ‘railway cottage’ and a granny annexe, apparently located in ‘Bury’s finest avenue’.

  ‘Let’s go and see your new home!’ He was on his feet, nodding encouragingly and jangling car keys.

  Darren drove carelessly, but not dangerously enough for me to abandon our mission. He also used the word excellent at every opportunity, including for the damp, unfurnished ‘railway cottage’ which boasted views of both the tracks and a dual carriageway. In its pint-sized sitting room, I felt I could reach out and touch opposite walls simultaneously. Meanwhile, the kitchen was a grimy slum with an ancient boiler and electric sockets which looked like you should wear rubber boots to operate them.

  Darren bounded upstairs to the excellent bedroom and I trudged behind. I wasn’t sure there was room for a double bed in the space, and although the Victorian fireplace was a nice feature, it was also the only source of heat. With several thousand pounds and lots of imagination, the room could become a cosy nest, but in the short term, I would rather sleep in a tent.

  In the bathroom, with cracked white bath, high level flush toilet and worryingly bouncy floorboards, I watched a black, hairy spider trying to hide in the overflow of the sink.

  Darren, however, was beaming. ‘Well,’ he enquired, ‘can you picture its potential?’

  Yes: I pictured the bath, with me in it, crashing through the rotten floor to the kitchen below. Instead of asking him if the house came with free life insurance, I gave a polite smile. ‘Of course it has great potential, for a buyer. But for a rental, I was hoping for something more welcoming.’

  Darren nodded, undeterred. ‘Ah, you should see York Road, then. Beautiful, very homely. Excellent avenue, very exclusive.’

  I wondered where he lived, and decided it was probably with his parents in a post-war semi, somewhere on the edge of town.

  We left the railway arachnids to their own entertainment and made the short journey to a suburban, tree-lined avenue dotted with detached houses. I noticed that the residents were in no hurry to take down their ‘Vote Conservative’ posters, even though the elections had been last month. We walked up the driveway of a mock-Tudor house, with diamond-patterned double glazing and clashing pink roses in the flower beds. Darren then led the way along a narrow path to the side of the garage.

  ‘The grandmother died quite recently, so the owners are renting the flat out,’ he explained, opening a narrow front door. ‘He’s a dentist, they’re a lovely couple.’

  I tried to look impressed, but stalled as the smell of old lady hit me. It was part cabbage, part lavender and, I’m sorry to say, part incontinence. The studio room was a good size, but the air, combined with floral wallpaper, swirly brown carpet and pink velvet curtains, made me feel instantly nauseous. The furniture was obviously the old lady’s and I winced at the thought of sleeping in her bed.

  By the time Darren tried to show me the excellent kitchenette and bathroom, I had abandoned being polite.

  His smile faltered. ‘It’s a beautiful street, very safe, very quiet.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough. Thank you anyway.’

  On the way back to his office, Darren talked cheerfully about the possibility of sharing with other ‘young professionals’. I didn’t say much, partly because I was so disheartened by the options I’d just viewed and partly because I was too scared to talk. I was worried that if I opened my mouth, the dandelion and burdock would make a bid for freedom. Darren probably wouldn’t think it was excellent if I threw up all over his company car.

  CHAPTER 6

  Next morning, the dandelion nausea had subsided, but was replaced with a different headache: increasing disappointment over my marriage and fear for the future. Realising I could either stagnate sorrowfully in the lounge at Oak House and be glared at by the tortoiseshell cat, or make an effort to pull back from the brink of despondency, I lugged myself into Cambridge for sightseeing.

  Locals complain about the parking, the lunatic cyclists, and the shortage of affordable housing – amen to that last one. Visitors to Cambridge, on the other hand, are unanimously bowled over by eight hundred years of history and stunning architecture, packed tighter than a Tetris grid.

  As a teenager in the city, with my mind on lipstick, exams and shopping, I had failed to appreciate it, but now I paused at every corner to drink in a new vista. Camera in hand, I wandered past the touristy shops on King’s Parade, down Silver Street to the throng at the Mill Pond, and then north along the Backs. The gentle exercise, mild June air and centuries-old postcard views calmed me and renewed my optimism.

  Pausing on Garret Hostel bridge, I watched the punts glide down the river past Clare College and Trinity Hall. Some were professionally chauffeured, expertly steered by attractive male students, no doubt hoping for large tips. These guys made it look effortless: they had perfected the art of steering by leaving the pole in the water at the end of each stroke. They also knew the dangerous parts of the river, that is, the bits with mud which could hold the pole hostage unless it was given a sharp twist before being pulled up.

  Other punts, however, were self-propelled by tourists who had clearly never set foot in such an odd flat-bottomed boat before. These were making chaotic progress, the punter wobbling madly as he or she tried to balance on the rea
r platform, with absolutely no control over direction. I saw one lose his pole, causing much hilarity amongst his group. The emergency paddle was found and they manoeuvred the twenty-foot-long boat back upstream to retrieve the defiant pole from the mud.

  The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. Yes, I was wobbling, direction-less and probably going against the flow. But at least I was afloat. I had a little money and a few friends, and enough skills to muddle through. I might not be gliding elegantly, but I could keep paddling. It would take more than an unfaithful husband to sink me.

  ~~~

  My soul and spirit were further boosted when I stumbled upon an elegant cafe, housed in a church nave in Trinity Street. After lunch, I phoned Jem.

  ‘Grace! Where are you? How are you?’ she asked in one breath.

  I filled her in: I had indeed made my way to Saffron Sweeting and was hoping to stay for a while.

  ‘Are you sure you want to be stuck in a small village?’ she asked. ‘I feel bad about steering you there – I had too much to drink the other night.’

  ‘I think it’s okay,’ I replied. ‘I like that it’s quiet. And the bakery’s great.’

  The welcome I’d received from Brian, the baker, had certainly been warmer than in the post office.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to get work in London?’ Jem asked. ‘And I’d see you more often.’

  ‘It’s only an hour on the train,’ I smiled. ‘But if I can’t find somewhere to stay, I’ll rethink.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Okay, I guess. I spoke to James – he was on the brink of coming over here but I persuaded him not to.’

  ‘Wow. Interesting, that he was going to drop everything and follow you.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I do. Things can’t be all cosy with the other woman, if he was on his way here.’

  ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t thought about his motives for coming to England.

  ‘Grace …’ Jem said, ‘I’m behind you, whatever you do, but, well, do you think maybe you were a bit hasty? You and James have such a lot of history; shouldn’t you at least talk to him?’

  I didn’t want to think of our history: fourteen years, two countries, multiple jobs. Thirteen Valentine’s Days, a dozen summer holidays, hundreds of Sunday mornings. Two written-off cars (me), one broken arm (also me), one broken marriage vow (him).

  I swallowed. ‘I can’t. I just can’t deal with seeing him.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, after a pause. ‘That’s understandable. What about your mum and dad? Have you told them?’

  ‘No … but I’ll visit them soon. They think I’m with you, by the way.’

  ‘Right, no problem, I won’t say anything. But promise you’ll come and see me,’ she said. ‘I could do with some adult conversation.’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll do afternoon tea soon.’

  ~~~

  I didn’t expect Amelia to remember me as I pushed open the bottle-green door of Hargraves & Co and stepped down into the office, but to her credit, she did.

  ‘Hello there,’ she called from behind a mountain of papers. ‘I’ve been keeping a look out, but I haven’t found anything for you.’

  Today, she was wearing a neat pencil skirt and an amazing floral silk blouse which made her hair look as shiny as a racehorse. I made a mental note to find a good hairdresser, and soon.

  ‘Oh, well, that was kind,’ I replied. ‘I realise I’m asking a lot, to get something cheap and short-term. I just looked at some awful places in Bury.’

  ‘It’s not easy for renters at the moment, darling. Demand is so strong, you’re getting slim pickings.’

  ‘You’re certainly busy,’ I smiled at her, thinking I should get out of the way and let her do some work.

  ‘Yes, totally hectic and I love it, but sometimes I’d give anything to stop for a cup of coffee.’ She started stapling and stuffing house details into green Hargraves presentation folders. ‘And between you and me, some of the American clients can be so critical … They just don’t understand that houses are different here.’

  I spotted a prominent listing displayed next to the door. The asking price was close to two million pounds. ‘That’s gorgeous,’ I said, taking note of the sweeping driveway, conservatory and even a small stable block. There was a glossy, dark creeper on the outside of the house, giving it the kind of stately look which takes decades to achieve.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it,’ she agreed. ‘But unfortunately it only has two bathrooms and the heating needs an exorcist. My clients aren’t thrilled by cold baths, it seems.’ Once again, her shoe made restless circles in the air.

  My gaze was still on the glossy photos on the wall. Even without that kind of money, I would have enjoyed a good nose around any of the houses. For me, trying on real estate was far more exciting than trying on clothes.

  The phone rang and Amelia lunged to answer it, scattering fliers on the floor as she did so. I picked up the ones I could reach, before deciding to leave her in peace.

  Retreating quietly from the office, I crossed the street to the bakery. It was half past three and I had to wait behind a couple of mothers with young children in tow, presumably buying after-school treats. As they squeezed around me with their bags of goodies, I asked Brian for a hot chocolate and then remembered what Amelia had said about coffee. On impulse, I added a latte and a couple of Bakewell tarts to my order.

  Hands full, I returned to the estate agency. A middle-aged couple were now seated by Amelia’s desk, details of several houses spread in front of them.

  ‘To be real honest,’ I heard the man say, ‘we weren’t blown away by anything we saw yesterday.’ His accent was definitely west of Cornwall. Three or four thousand miles west.

  ‘The rooms were kind of poky,’ his wife added.

  ‘Well, the house on Damson Lane is listed. It’s two hundred years old,’ Amelia smiled at them. She spied me hovering near the door and I gestured to the coffee as best I could, as the hot chocolate started to burn my other hand.

  Her eyes widened. ‘For me? You sweetie, thank you!’

  I approached her desk and excused myself to her clients as I leaned across with the drink and pastry. The man was tanned and looked like he had outdoor hobbies – tennis or golf, perhaps. His wife had been careful not to catch as much sun, but her hair was tastefully streaked with blonde highlights and her manicure was immaculate. I imagined she spent a fair amount of time lunching at their country club.

  ‘Well, sure it’s listed,’ she said. ‘It’s for sale, isn’t it?’

  Amelia looked quizzical and sipped her coffee.

  ‘Excuse my overhearing,’ I ventured. ‘Amelia didn’t mean it’s for sale. In England, a listed property means it’s protected for historical value and interest. It can make approvals for alterations hard, but you’re rewarded with living somewhere with centuries of character.’

  Mrs Country Club tilted her head to one side. ‘Oh, really?’ she licked her lips and glanced at her husband. ‘You mean, like some famous historical figure could have lived there?’

  Amelia caught on fast. ‘Well, in this case, we don’t know,’ she said, ‘but being so close to Cambridge, kings and princes have certainly roamed these parts.’ Did she wink at me?

  The husband was studying the house details again. ‘Why does it say the bedrooms are on the first floor?’ He pointed at the paper. ‘They weren’t. They were all upstairs. That’s just misleading. You’re supposed to check your facts when you’re selling houses.’

  There was a pause; Amelia seemed taken aback.

  I felt the sugary courage of my hot chocolate. ‘Pardon me again,’ I ventured, talking to Amelia. ‘In the US, the first floor always means the ground floor.’ I looked at Mr & Mrs Country Club now. ‘That’s just a British quirk,’ I said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid we count a little differently. By first, we mean second.’

  The husband looked from me to Amelia, and back again. ‘Do you work here?’

  I sta
rted to say No, of course not, but Amelia was quicker.

  ‘This is Grace,’ she said smoothly. ‘She’s British but lived in the States for several years. My clients adore her.’

  Her what? Adore who?

  Mrs Country Club looked at me doubtfully, but her husband was already nodding.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps we should go take another look at this place. And I’d like for Grace to accompany us this time.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Amelia beamed. ‘Would you like to go now?’

  ~~~

  Their real names were Ted and Betsy and they were from Thousand Oaks, outside Los Angeles. He was Vice President of something unintelligible for one of the bio-tech companies and they were expecting to be in England for at least five years. Betsy refused to rent for that long and since money wasn’t a primary constraint, they planned to buy a house.

  I had tried to take Amelia to one side to ask her what on earth was going on, but she had disappeared for all of twenty seconds into the back room, returning with a set of keys. She handed these to me cheerily, before bundling me and her American clients out of the front door. Before I could blink, I found myself in the back of Ted’s vast beige car, complete with delicious smelling leather seats. I hoped my shoes were clean.

  I had no idea where our intended property was, but fortunately Betsy had a good memory and directed Ted up past the church to Damson Lane. The car crunched on the gravel driveway and I slid from my seat to find myself in front of the house I had been admiring in the photo. It was even more charming in reality.

  ‘Wow.’ I stood stock still and drank in the facade with its mellow bricks, the colour of ripe wheat. The house wasn’t huge but it had majestic presence. It had either been the manor house or home to a wealthy farmer. The trunk of the ancient Virginia creeper was as big as a small tree. Being a little outside the village, there was total peace and the only sound came from a few birds singing in the hedgerow.