Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘No, of course not, absolutely not.’ I shook my head hard, to make sure I believed it. To my relief, I found I did. ‘But I don’t suppose I was much fun to live with.’

  The phone on my desk rang and I jumped, then summoned up one of the brave smiles that were becoming my speciality.

  Amelia tilted her head, drumming her fingernails on her desk. ‘Right. Well, I don’t care if you’re fun to live with or not. We’re still going shoe shopping.’

  ~~~

  Later that afternoon, Amelia was on the phone when the door opened and a woman in her late thirties came into the office. Tall and wiry, she had shortish, curly dark hair held back by a headband, and was dressed simply in chinos, striped shirt and loafers. She picked up the glossy Cambridgeshire property magazine and began scanning the photos in our Rental display.

  ‘Hello, can I help?’ I stood and came towards her, noticing her keen, bird-like dark eyes. I thought she reminded me of a raven, then decided no, a jackdaw: her overall look was cuter and without menace.

  ‘Hey there. I just arrived from Boston and I’m looking for somewhere to rent.’

  Her origin was no big shock. ‘Okay,’ I replied, ‘I can help with that. What kind of thing do you need?’

  We discussed her requirements briefly: small, outside the city, preferably with character. Not unlike my own hopes when I had arrived in Saffron Sweeting. But unlike me, her company was picking up the cost for the first six months. She named a figure which gave her plenty of options.

  ‘And you’re looking to move … when?’ I was busily taking notes.

  ‘As soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I arrived here Thursday and start work next Monday.’

  ‘And you’re in bio-tech?’

  Nancy – that was her name – blinked, a little surprised. I awarded myself only half points for such an easy guess.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have anything with a thatched roof?’ she asked. ‘They are so adorable.’

  I clicked my tongue, thinking hard. ‘Sorry, I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘Not unless you’re ready to buy. Thatched anything always goes fast, but especially the rentals.’

  ‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘Never mind, can you show me what you have?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I collected keys for a couple of older homes which I felt had some charm and murmured ‘See you in a bit’ to Amelia, who was by now pushing hard on her phone call. From the speed of the accompanying shoe twirling, I suspected an agreement was imminent.

  In the street, I pointed my car out to Nancy. ‘It’s that yellow one,’ I told her. ‘Some clients prefer to drive themselves, but you’re welcome to come with me.’

  ‘Yours is great.’ She climbed in without fear, once she’d remembered the passenger seat was on the left.

  ‘There’s only one option at the moment in this village,’ I told her, ‘and the other is in Dullingham, which is still pretty convenient for the Science Park. I assume you’re based at the Science Park?’

  She was. ‘At first,’ she said, ‘I schlepped around looking for a flat in downtown Cambridge, but I would still need a car to get to work and the parking was just awful. Plus, I was kind of freaked out by the swarms of kamikaze bikes weaving inches from my fender the whole time.’

  I wasn’t sure where ‘downtown’ Cambridge was, but the middle of the city certainly wasn’t the place for newly imported wrong-side-of-the-road drivers. For a moment, I considered an abrupt career change to offer driving lessons for American newbies. No, that was ridiculous, and my nerves probably couldn’t stand it either. Whatever colour my elusive parachute turned out to be, it wasn’t that.

  ~~~

  After just two hours, Nancy and I were friends. She had told me of her stout enthusiasm for the Royal Family, and I had shared that I had moved back to England following my marriage break-up. Unfortunately, our conversation had been more enjoyable than the viewings.

  The first cottage had been wonderful: sloped ceilings, beams everywhere and, in the kitchen, even a two-part stable door. The bedroom was large, although admittedly it lost a third of its space due to the acutely sloping ceiling. Outside, the cottage boasted an original coal chute and purple petunias.

  Nancy had loved it, but not the location. ‘I dunno about driving these narrow roads in winter,’ she mused.

  Sure enough, the death knell came for the Dullingham cottage when we encountered a distressed tractor during our return to Saffron Sweeting. It had got one wheel stuck in a ditch and was leaning ominously. After a minute of indecision, I squeezed the car past. Nancy and I both held our breath for fear that the unglamorous cargo of sugar beet might come raining down upon us.

  The second little house, near the river in Saffron Sweeting, had spadefuls of character but was unfurnished and impractical. Amelia would be hopping mad to learn it hadn’t been cleaned thoroughly, either. The dishes piled in the kitchen sink alerted Nancy to the lack of a dishwasher. This discovery led us on a general appliance hunt, which revealed an ancient twin-tub washing machine in an adjoining outhouse.

  ‘Oh boy,’ was Nancy’s reaction.

  ‘Mmm, not good,’ I agreed. ‘A girl needs her creature comforts.’

  The most direct route from this cottage back to the Hargraves office was through the ford. The village had a bridge, of course, but that was up near Mary Lou’s house. I thought Nancy might find it a novel way to end our tour. I hadn’t been through it before, but had watched other cars splash through easily. After the fine weather we’d been enjoying, the water seemed to be only about six inches deep.

  ‘I don’t know if you do this in the States,’ I said to her, ‘but in English villages, it’s still fairly common to be able to drive through a shallow river as the most efficient way to get where you’re going. We call them fords.’

  ‘No way!’ she laughed. ‘That’s totally nuts.’

  ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘I think it’s rather fun.’

  ‘Cool,’ Nancy said. ‘Let’s do it!’

  My mistake was to approach the ford and enter the water in second gear. We were just halfway across when I realised the little yellow car was struggling with our low speed. It seemed Mary Lou wasn’t the only one whose gearstick awareness was lacking. I tried to change down into first and promptly stalled.

  ‘Shit!’ I exclaimed, followed by ‘Excuse my French’ to my new client.

  ‘Jeez,’ said Nancy. ‘Will it start again, or are we screwed?’

  I tried the engine and was rewarded with indignant spluttering sounds, followed by a couple of gurgles.

  ‘Okay, no problem, not to worry,’ I said to Nancy, as much for my benefit as hers. I would deal with this calmly. ‘I’ll just give us a push.’

  ‘You’re gonna get your feet wet.’ Nancy grinned as she stated the obvious.

  I was already wriggling out of my maligned suede trainers. ‘Can you skooch over and take the wheel?’

  I opened the car door. It was well above the water level: this would be a piece of cake. Gingerly, I lowered myself down into the shallow river. The water was chilly, but not unpleasantly so, and under different circumstances would have been refreshing. It flowed happily around my calves, certainly not presenting any danger. I was standing on smooth stone, presumably laid on the river bed to stop cars sinking into the natural gravel or mud.

  Grateful none of the Saffron Sweeting ducks were present to observe my predicament, I held onto the car as I paddled carefully round to the back. Nancy wriggled over the gearstick, into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Do I need to steer?’ she called.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I replied. ‘Just hold it steady in case the water tries to take us.’

  With that, I placed both hands firmly on the yellow boot and pushed. Nothing happened. The small car was disproportionately heavy and there was resistance from the water.

  This will teach me to join a gym, I thought. I bent my knees further and pushed off hard with my feet.

  ‘Yay!’ cried Nancy, as the vehicle starte
d to move through the water.

  With gritted teeth, I tried to take advantage of the momentum. But as we inched closer to the river bank, the smooth stones became covered in weed, and without warning my bare feet swished out from under me. For a startled moment I was weightless, before I toppled sideways with a resounding splash. The soothing footbath became a frigid shock.

  ‘Bollocks,’ I gasped, sitting up in a hurry. ‘Sod!’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Nancy opened the driver’s door and looked back at me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine, sorry, fine!’ I scrambled to my feet, determined to make the best of it. And I was fine, apart from a bruised elbow and dripping clothes. I was wearing a short beige linen skirt and pale pink T-shirt, both now clinging to me. ‘Sorry,’ I called to her again. ‘All under control.’

  It was at this point I realised that the ducks might have been absent, but we had an audience nonetheless. Up on the road, above the bank we had almost reached, was a dark blue sports car. The driver, a man, was holding a mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I heard him say. Then he called out, ‘Are you ladies in a spot of bother?’

  Was he laughing? How long had he been there?

  I looked down at my wet clothes. Hell, my T-shirt had gone see-through. I was wearing a bra, of course, but still …

  ‘No, thanks, we’re doing great!’ Nancy shouted back cheerfully, before I could respond.

  Rats: some help would have been fantastic. Still, I shrugged and tried to look as though I cavorted in small rivers for fun.

  He was definitely laughing now. ‘Right, okay then, I’ll leave you to it.’

  And with a growling roar from the twin exhausts of his flashy car, he was gone.

  I tugged my sodden T-shirt down over my waistband, set my lips in a defiant grimace, and got back to pushing.

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time Nancy and I arrived back at the office, I was a little drier but shame-faced. Amelia, clearly disgusted by my appearance, but chirpy from closing a sale, shooed me out with both hands. ‘Nancy, we’ll keep our eyes open for you,’ she promised. ‘Perhaps you’d consider something a bit more modern too?’

  Nancy admitted that she would, then invited me to the pub for a restorative drink. Since we’d abandoned my car on the river bank to dry out, I decided I could afford to get mildly legless.

  ‘Sorry you took a swim,’ she said as we sat down in the garden, eyeing the sky for clouds. ‘But you were awesome.’

  ‘I didn’t feel very awesome.’ I opened a bag of prawn cocktail crisps to share.

  ‘And that guy who stopped! Too funny! Do you know who he was?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Didn’t really look at him. I was distracted.’ And I preferred not to think about the view he’d had of my bra. I nursed my Pimms moodily.

  ‘I know what I’m reminded of!’ Nancy declared suddenly. ‘It was just like that movie!’ She sniffed at the crisps before licking one cautiously.

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Which one was it … I know – Emma. Remember? Gwyneth Paltrow’s carriage got stuck in the river and the cute hero came to help.’

  Huh. I’d seen it. ‘Yeah, but he didn’t come to help, did he? He laughed and drove off.’ I tutted and wondered if it was too early to order dinner. I had surely earned dessert tonight.

  Nancy, however, took a sip of her wine and said pleasantly, ‘Am I being a jackass, showing up with my English fantasies? Thatched cottages and romantic heroes? You must be hacked off at yet another dumb American.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ I replied, my tone more friendly. The booze was making me feel better. ‘Anyway, our cottages might not be up to scratch, but I can promise you several guys in Saffron Sweeting look just like Ewan McGregor.’

  Good, she realised I was taking the mickey.

  ‘Technically,’ Nancy smiled now, ‘I have a guy lined up already.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Well, a man. He’s older. We’ve been seeing each other off and on for about six months.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Someone you work with?’

  ‘No … I met him at a conference. He’s a professor in genetics at Cambridge.’

  ‘Wow. Good for you!’ I admit it, I was impressed.

  ‘So, obviously, when the chance came to work here, I leaped at it.’

  ‘I bet he’s thrilled,’ I said encouragingly, wondering if it would damage my professional image to eat the fruit out of my glass.

  Nancy’s smile faltered. ‘I think so.’

  I looked at her with what I hoped was enquiring kindness.

  ‘It’s just that now I’m here, I’m not totally sure Elijah had factored me into his plans,’ she said eventually.

  I pondered this. Two careers, two continents: that was never going to be an easy puzzle.

  ‘Well, yes, it’s tough if you’re both successful in different countries,’ I agreed.

  She nodded.

  ‘I originally moved to California because of my husband’s job,’ I told her. ‘It was like being on holiday – vacation – for a while, but I didn’t settle until I got a work permit. And then we came unstuck nonetheless.’

  Nancy watched me.

  ‘Sorry if this sounds old-fashioned,’ I said, ‘but I’m beginning to think it’s really hard for two people to have different career paths and still stay in sync.’

  ‘Grace, that’s mighty depressing,’ she said in return. ‘I think Jane Austen would expect you to be more optimistic.’

  We laughed and I made an effort to lighten my tone. ‘Okay, don’t listen to me,’ I said, ‘I’m just a bit freshly bruised.’

  ~~~

  By the second of July, a few Stars and Stripes flags had started to appear outside Saffron Sweeting’s larger properties. Everyone assumed they were in support of the American tennis players at Wimbledon, and the pub was nearly the scene of an ugly confrontation when the world number one – an American player – dispensed with poor Bobbie Middleton in a fourth set tie break.

  Next day, yet more flags had appeared and were the cause of some muttering in the bakery. I had stopped by to pick up coffee for Amelia and me, as had become my habit each morning. The grumbles were led by Violet, the grumpy old woman from the post office.

  ‘We’re proud of our sportsmen too, but you don’t have to go shoving it down people’s throats,’ she was saying.

  I smelled the sweet, yeasty air and wondered if a flapjack was suitable breakfast food. Brian, the mild-mannered architect of my emerging gluten addiction, made diplomatic noises to Violet.

  ‘And isn’t it an affront to the Queen, to fly another nation’s flag on English soil?’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe it isn’t very tactful,’ Brian shrugged, ‘but it cheers the village up, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Poppycock,’ retorted Violet. ‘We don’t need cheering up – we’ve won Best Kept Village twice.’

  ‘Morning, Brian!’ I took the risk and interrupted, giving Violet a wide smile. ‘I expect the flags are for the Fourth of July, rather than the tennis,’ I added.

  Violet sniffed and put her cheque book back in her ample handbag.

  Her friend, a chubby woman with tightly permed hair, chimed in. ‘What, you mean Bastille day? Celebrating the guillotine – hmmph.’

  I caught Brian’s eye and swallowed a giggle. ‘Um, I think that’s France,’ I responded, adding, ‘Two coffees, please,’ to bring us back to business.

  ‘Well, wherever it was, I hope they’re not bringing their Republican ideas to Saffron Sweeting. We’re loyal to our monarch here.’ With a regal flounce, Violet tucked her handbag over her arm and exited the bakery, her friend trailing like a lady-in-waiting.

  I wasn’t sure of Brian’s allegiances, so I gave him a bland smile in response to his conspiratorial wink. It was a long time since a man had winked at me, but as I had met his gorgeous wife, who taught Pilates in the village hall, I assumed I was safe enough.

  ‘Anything to eat?�
�� Brian asked me. ‘French croissant, perhaps?’

  ‘Only if you’ll promise not to report me for treason.’

  He slid two plump golden croissants into a white paper bag and winked again. ‘On the house.’

  ~~~

  The following evening, the long summer shadows had faded to dark and I was yawningly thinking of going to bed when a sharp burst of terrifyingly loud bangs split the night in two. Gunfire in the sleepy safety of Saffron Sweeting was unthinkable, but the possibility of a gas explosion crossed my mind. Within seconds, the bangs were followed by hisses and fizzles and it dawned on me that our American cousins were celebrating Independence Day.

  I scampered upstairs and looked out of the bedroom window, but saw nothing. Undeterred, I tried the bathroom and found that by climbing on the toilet seat, I could enjoy a partial view of the display. I’ve always loved fireworks and wished I had known in advance. For an amateur display, both size and height were impressive and I guessed they had taken considerable planning and funds. There were several of my favourite kind: simple white stars shooting out from multiple centres.

  The hissing and fizzing from the direction of the village was loud, but not loud enough to drown out a sudden and insistent wail from close at hand. I froze and listened. Were the rats back? Was this some kind of mating call?

  Gingerly, I ventured back downstairs, wondering if I would witness an erotic rodent rumpus on the kitchen table. No, the room was still and just as I’d left it. Another wail, however, led me to the back door, which I opened just a crack.

  Instantly, a wet black nose pushed the door wider and a blur of black and white shot past me. Before I could let out my own surprised yelp, four determined paws and a long tail had disappeared into the living room.

  I followed at considerable speed and found my canine interloper had taken up residence in the middle of my sofa, where he was now panting with delight at his escape from the evils of the night. He was some kind of large spaniel, no longer a puppy, but still young. His legs and tail were beautifully feathered and his feet only slightly muddy. Improbably long ears framed a pair of melting brown eyes. He looked both smug on his sofa throne and a little beseeching, in case I turned out to be a cat person. Lucky for him, I’m not.