Mungo, as his collar told me he was called, was now considerably calmer and rested his head contentedly on his front paws. I perched beside him and patted his glossy coat while I wondered if it was too late to phone the number on his tag. No, I decided, his owners were probably crazy with worry. I located my mobile phone and dialled.
‘Thank you for calling Saffron Sweeting post office,’ the message greeted me.
My wail was as anguished as Mungo’s original barking. My spare hand flew to my mouth.
‘We are open from nine to six, Monday to Saturday. Please leave a message …’
My intended cheerful announcement of Mungo’s whereabouts deserted me and I hung up, looking at him in horror. The stupid mutt had the audacity to wag his tail.
‘You can’t be,’ I told him sternly, shaking my head in disbelief and foreboding. ‘You can’t be Violet’s dog.’
But he was, and I was now an accomplice in his escape.
CHAPTER 11
Of course, I was being over-dramatic. With the clarity of thought which often seems to come with a new morning, I concluded I was unlikely to be thrown into prison for harbouring Mungo for a single night.
After I’d turned out all the downstairs lights, he had trotted happily up the stairs behind me, and stationed himself on the landing to oversee me brushing my teeth. We then had a battle of wills when he’d made preparations to spring into bed beside me.
‘No way,’ I had told him. ‘I’m not that desperate for male company just yet.’
Despite the soppy eyes which greeted this refusal, I stayed firm, and he circled the room a couple of times before settling for the thin cotton rug beside my bed. There, he had snored happily for most of the night.
When I arrived groggily in the kitchen next morning, Mungo was stationed by the back door, gazing at the handle. A small ‘woof’ and a swish of his tail made his request crystal clear. I opened the door, and instantly he was gone.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘either I’m conveniently off the hook, or in even bigger trouble when he gets squished on the road between here and the post office.’ But short of sprinting after him in my nightie – which was not going to happen, for reasons of both decency and fitness – there wasn’t much I could do. I took a calm, capable breath and put the kettle on.
~~~
I was in the habit anyway of calling at the bakery on my way to Hargraves & Co, but that morning I was hopeful of hearing more about last night’s fireworks.
My eagerness for gossip was rewarded when I pushed open the glass-paned door and found two oldish women deep in discussion. I suspected they played bingo with Violet in the village hall on Tuesday nights. It soon became clear they were not debating the merits of granary versus wholegrain.
‘Independence is all very well, but they don’t have to rub our noses in it,’ said the taller one in the blue showerproof coat.
‘Yes, if they’re so proud of their country, I don’t know why they’re camped out in ours,’ replied her friend with the jaunty golf umbrella.
I winced; I happened to admire American national pride. It contrasted nicely with the British tendency to grumble about everything from the government to the weather.
Brian felt compelled to chime in. ‘Well, ladies, taxation without representation was a daft idea on our part, you know.’
Tall blue coat looked down her nose at him, not really understanding the reference, but refusing to be sidetracked. ‘As for the fireworks, I’m sure they broke at least three by-laws. My husband’s on the council: something will have to be said.’
‘Ooh, I know!’ Her friend seized the topic. ‘Fireworks belong in November. Decent folk were already asleep last night when that dreadful racket began. We get up early in these parts.’
I thought to myself that the only truly dreadful racquet of recent days had been Bobbie Middleton’s, but resisted the urge to say so. As far as I was concerned, the more fireworks the merrier. Watching them light up the San Francisco Bay each Fourth of July had been one of the highlights of my time in the States.
‘Violet said her poor dog was so terrified, he bolted into the night,’ added tall blue coat. ‘Disappeared completely. Didn’t come home until this morning.’
I let out a silent sigh of relief and my shoulders dropped an inch. Mungo had made it back safely.
Golf umbrella seemed ready to say something more, but we were interrupted as the door flew open with a crash and a child-missile hurtled into the shop. I recognised Randy from his behaviour as much as his looks: sure enough, he was followed by Mary Lou, another woman and finally, trailing, Randy’s elder brother.
The little shop was now full and the two Sweeting natives wasted no time in gathering themselves and their bread. They departed with noses high, sparing just a couple of stiff nods and a curt ‘Good morning’ for the newcomers. I used the intervening few seconds to ask Brian for my usual two coffees.
‘Hello again,’ I smiled at Mary Lou. ‘How’s the car?’
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘don’t ask. It’s determined to mock me.’ Then, to Brian, ‘I’ll get a large coffee, please. No Randy, you may not have a doughnut.’
Her friend asked for the same and then yawned as she said, to no one in particular, ‘I could sure use some caffeine this morning. The kids were too excited to sleep.’
I looked around for more children. Perhaps they were tied up outside, like dogs?
‘They’re in school,’ Mary Lou said to me, ‘where mine should be.’
‘I enjoyed what I saw of the fireworks,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I wish I’d been there.’
‘We had quite a crowd,’ said Mary Lou’s friend.
‘Where were they held?’ I asked.
‘The field next to that deserted barn. The sad-looking one,’ said Mary Lou.
‘The malt house,’ said Brian. He had poured a total of four coffees and set them on the counter.
‘Such a pity, history just falling apart.’ Mary Lou paid for her drinks. ‘Do you have any sweetener by chance? Randy, stop that.’
Brian searched behind the counter and came up with a couple of dog-eared sachets. ‘It’s been like that for a while,’ he said. ‘The village doesn’t have the funds to restore it.’
‘Well, too bad,’ said the friend. ‘England has so much awesome architecture. Mary Lou, are we still heading to Waitrose in Newmarket?’
Mary Lou grabbed hold of Randy by his shirt collar. ‘Don’t forget to join us, Tuesdays at the pub,’ she called to me, as the four of them jostled their way out of the bakery.
Brian sighed. ‘I wish the village was a bit friendlier to them,’ he said.
‘Well, her boy is a bit of a tearaway,’ I replied in polite understatement.
‘No, I mean all the new families. The Sweeting shops are struggling and it would be so nice if they shopped here rather than in Newmarket.’
‘Things aren’t so bad, surely?’
He looked down at the floor. ‘They’re not good, Grace. So many people just get in their car and go to Tesco’s or Sainsbury’s for everything. Violet would never tell you this, but she’s been threatened with closure at least twice.’
Poor Brian. ‘Sorry to hear it.’ I eyed the sausage rolls and decided I would play my part in supporting the local economy. ‘Amelia’s so frantically busy, I thought things must be going well.’
‘We like Amelia … but she’s the exception that proves the rule around here. And she’s pretty determined when she has to be.’
What did that mean? Had Amelia trodden on some toes in the village?
‘Speaking for myself,’ he continued, ‘business rates just keep going up and the insurance is horrendous. Apparently, other bakers keep getting sued for allergies.’ He furrowed his brow.
I asked for the sausage rolls and as he put them in a bag, Brian said, ‘I wonder what would keep the gaggle of mums in the village, rather than going to Newmarket.’
‘You could try free refills,’ I joked.
‘Come a
gain?’ He looked surprised.
‘Er, I meant that coffee shops in the States often give a second cup for free.’
‘Do they really? Good heavens.’
‘It encourages people to hang around. And buy something to eat, of course. You’d probably need to put up the price of the first cup, though.’
Brian looked thoughtful. ‘What else?’ He fixed his gaze on me.
Oh dear, what had I started with my big mouth?
‘Oh, gosh, well, you know,’ I stalled. Whatever I said next would probably offend him.
‘Yes?’ He wasn’t letting me off the hook.
Right then, in for a penny and all that. ‘Well, Mary Lou wanted sweetener, so you should have some of that available. Maybe over there, so people can help themselves.’ I gestured towards the door. ‘And could you offer an alternative to milk? Soy, perhaps?’
‘Soy … soy …’ he rolled the words around a little. ‘Allergies again.’
I looked at my watch and realised that Amelia would not be amused if I showed up late with cold coffee. It was time to make a diplomatic retreat.
‘And how about a couple of tables outside? Umbrellas? Cushions, even? That would be nice.’
I fled before he could tell me to take a running jump.
~~~
It was too good to last. For the first time that I could remember, the fine weather held right the way through Wimbledon, instead of turning disgusting for the second week. But almost as soon as the last trophy had been presented, the wind swung around to the north and things turned filthy. Every day brought heavy clouds and dark downpours and The Plough switched its special offer from strawberries to soup.
I tried to stay positive and, not having seen rain in California since April, declared I was grateful for the onset of wet weather. I found some polka-dot wellies in Marks and Spencer and gamely planted a bucket under the leaking roof in my bedroom. The wistful side of me, however, took melancholy delight in gazing out of the misty cottage windows, as fat raindrops trickled down the panes.
Unfortunately, no Willoughby appeared to console my Marianne Dashwood sensibilities and I began to wonder whether forbidding James from coming to see me had been such a clever move. Despite outward assertions that my marriage was over, I wasn’t quite ready to wish James and Rebecca a long or happy life together.
~~~
‘I wanted a stove, not a space ship.’ Nancy was peering at the oven in the kitchen of the little house we were viewing.
Since we hadn’t found her somewhere to live the last time, we were out again looking at properties, despite the ugly weather. This time, the houses were modern, with unthinkable conveniences like microwaves and tumble dryers.
As I joined her to examine the oven, I realised that the control symbols were completely different from those used in the States.
‘Well, even so, I think this is the one. It’s in great condition.’ She stood up, apparently satisfied that this house met her needs.
‘You like it?’ I was surprised.
We were in a modern cul-de-sac, on the edge of Saffron Sweeting. The chalet bungalow with its smooth cream-painted walls and double glazing wasn’t what she’d initially specified at all. But I could see that a kitchen that didn’t threaten carbon monoxide poisoning was a plus.
‘One thing I’ve learned is that when I’m wrong, it’s best just to forget it and move on. Dwelling on stuff rarely helps.’ She looked around contentedly. ‘If I’d been stubborn about Hollywood’s idea of an English cottage, I’d be washing my panties in the sink for the next year.’
CHAPTER 12
‘I love him to bits, but it’s so blissful being able to go to the loo without a nappy bag.’
A few days later, Jem and I met for tea at our favourite London hotel. I don’t know which of us was more excited. She had splashed out on a babysitter, and was relishing the freedom of being able to navigate Tube station steps, go upstairs on a London bus, and even go to the toilet without squeezing self, baby and nappy bag around impossibly tight corners.
I, on the other hand, had missed both her and the English tea experience desperately. Naturally, I had been to cute and cosy Lovejoys in San Francisco and even dabbled with the splendour of the Palace Hotel, but I had lacked a tea soulmate in the States. James, to my eternal frustration, didn’t see the point of eating between meals. He had tolerated our infrequent tea outings with the same expression I wore for Giants baseball games. And, to be blunt, a scone in San Francisco just didn’t taste the same as one served in Piccadilly.
Jem and I had spent some time on the phone in an excited discussion of which tea venue was worthy of this special occasion. The Ritz was ruled out quickly, for being too glitzy and ostentatious. Fortnums, I speculated, would be full of tourists and hence disqualified for that reason alone. We both liked the Dorchester, but our long-time favourite was the little-known Dukes Hotel, hidden away in a tiny street next to Green Park. Small and friendly, we loved that it was classy, but not so intimidating that you couldn’t undo the button of your jeans if the generous portions of sandwiches and pastries required it.
Apart from a couple of French ladies, we had the serene pale blue Drawing Room to ourselves. We were working our way steadily from top to bottom of the tiered cake plate, while tipping limitless quantities of loose-leaf tea down our throats.
Over delicate sandwiches of mature Somerset cheddar and tomato, cushioned between squishy white bread, we discussed my brother’s well-being, which didn’t take long, and Jem’s career concerns, which were more troubling.
‘So many women in the world don’t have careers, I’m lucky to have a choice,’ she said. ‘Thing is, I can’t imagine getting my act together enough to go back to work, but staying home with Seb for the next five years scares me witless too.’ She looked torn. ‘I feel like I should be contributing to society.’
‘You are contributing, you’re raising Seb.’ I wasn’t qualified to advise her, but I had seen enough of life with a baby to know that getting everyone fed, dressed and out of the door by eight each morning would be a mental and physical miracle.
‘Could you do something part-time, maybe?’ I asked.
‘I guess,’ she sighed. ‘I suppose I could go back on that basis, if I make a strong case.’ She dabbed with her fingertip at the stray pieces of grated cheese on her plate, before licking them off thoughtfully. ‘But I’m not sure it’s fair on my team, if I’m always disappearing when Seb’s ill.’
‘What does Harry think?’ I asked.
‘We haven’t talked about it properly. I suspect he thinks I should go back to work.’
‘For the money?’
‘Well, the money would be nice, but more for my sanity, actually.’
‘But he hasn’t said so?’
She shook her head and eyed up our tower of treats. The middle tier beckoned with toasted teacakes and plump sultana scones.
‘Some evenings, I have absolutely no conversation to offer, except the number of times Seb puked, or how loudly he screamed. I’m not very brilliant company.’
‘Well, in my humble opinion, you should discuss it with Harry. But I don’t think your first concern should be how brilliant your company is. Do what’s best for you and Seb.’ I followed her gaze to the scones.
‘Fair point.’ Jem nodded, then perked up as she asked, ‘Do you think we can justify the clotted cream and jam?’
‘Oh, absolutely. Well, it’s rude not to, right?’ I sat up a little straighter and poured some more tea for us, being careful with the hot handle of the silver teapot. For once, I remembered to use the strainer too, so I didn’t fill our cups with soggy tea leaves.
Jem sipped her Darjeeling and leaned back on the plush silk sofa. Then she said kindly, ‘You’re looking brighter, my friend.’
‘Am I? Oh.’ For the first time in ages my jeans felt tight, which hardly seemed a good thing.
‘Well, for starters, I can’t get over your hair.’
‘Oh. Thanks. Amelia sent
me to her hairdresser in Cambridge.’
The terrifying Jean-Claude had bullied me into an angled bob and some lovely ash-blonde highlights. He knew his stuff: I felt lighter and swooshier as a result. Right there, in his twirling leather chair, I’d promised myself I’d go back regularly.
‘And you seem more … peaceful. I’m thinking that’s a good sign.’
Now Jem mentioned it, I realised I had been sleeping much better. My skin looked healthier too.
‘You know,’ I said, ‘the last few nights have been easier. Most mornings, I still wake up and calculate the time in California and wonder what he might be doing. But at least I’m no longer spending half the night thinking the same thing.’
‘So, you’re feeling a tad better?’
I chewed my scone while I contemplated this. ‘The initial shock has worn off. It’s sinking in now: what happened and that my marriage is over.’ I swallowed. I’m not sure I’d said those words out loud yet. Tears gathered at the back of my eyes like ballet dancers backstage, but to my relief they dispersed without fuss. I exhaled.
Jem said nothing, but touched my arm lightly and waited.
‘And then I upended my life by fleeing here,’ I continued. ‘That was probably a bit crazy.’
‘No, you did what you had to do.’
‘As for the future, I’ve absolutely no clue,’ I said. ‘But I like the interim solution just fine. For somewhere to tread water and work out what comes next, I did okay.’
‘I’m dying to see Saffron Sweeting. We’ll come and visit you next time.’
The waiter brought yet more tea and asked if we wanted anything else. Only the delicate pastries on the bottom tier awaited our attention.
‘That was amazing, better than a spa day. I’m in scone-shaped bliss,’ Jem told him.
‘Thank you, madam,’ came the discreet reply.
‘Do you think they’ll mind if we take a quick nap?’ I asked longingly, after we’d made valiant attempts to polish off the mini chocolate eclairs and teeny individual portions of apple crumble.
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