Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  Unimpressed, Mungo flopped down in front of the kitchen sink, from where he kept an eye on my dinner preparations. I had just punctured the film on some frozen macaroni cheese when a sudden thought formed in my head. My contented bubble deflated as surely as if someone had stuck a fork in me too. By offering to send my stuff, James was accepting that I wasn’t coming back.

  ‘Mungo,’ I sighed, ‘go and fetch a corkscrew. We’re going to need some wine.’

  ~~~

  A couple of days later, Amelia started to pack up earlier than usual. ‘Well, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.’ She looked decidedly cheerful.

  I looked at her in puzzlement. I was re-sizing photos to use on our website and was boggle-eyed from concentrating.

  ‘Hargraves is sponsoring the pub quiz,’ she explained. ‘That means I have to show up, schmooze and present prizes. And probably buy a few rounds of drinks too.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Bother, I’d stretched that house so much it looked like a dachshund’s kennel.

  ‘You should come,’ she said. ‘Do you good to expand your social life.’

  ‘I have a social life,’ I replied defensively. ‘My best friend’s in London and I went for a drink with Nancy the other evening.’ What did she want me to do, go clubbing every night?

  ‘And the rest of the time you sit in that cottage and feel sorry for yourself, darling. Reading romance novels and talking to that dog, I expect.’

  Was it that obvious? I had felt especially listless since the call with James. ‘I like the cottage.’ My tone was sulky now.

  ‘Great, so it’ll still be there when you get back from the quiz tonight.’

  ‘Oh, Amelia, I dunno …’

  ‘Relax, will you? It’s not Mastermind.’

  ~~~

  Naturally, the first five minutes were the worst. My awkwardness on arriving at The Plough subsided when I found myself randomly allocated to a team by Amelia. She plonked me down on a little round stool with a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and a pencil in the other.

  ‘This is Grace,’ Amelia introduced me. ‘She lived in California so she should be a big asset.’

  My teammates introduced themselves.

  ‘Hello, Grace. I’m Marjorie. I used to work in the bank before it closed; now I do a spot of cleaning for Lorraine. You know Lorraine, at the bed and breakfast? And this is my son, Eddie. He’s home from college for the summer, aren’t you, Eddie?’

  I could see the family resemblance: both mother and son were round of face and body, with curly blond hair and freckles. Eddie nodded at me obligingly. As the evening progressed, I learned he was a young man of few words, probably because Marjorie supplied them all.

  A dark-skinned man in his late fifties shook my hand. ‘I’m Kenneth; pleasure to meet you.’ With great care, he placed not one, but two sharpened pencils and a little notepad on the table.

  ‘Kenneth runs the Sweeting Library. Takes our pub quizzes quite seriously.’ Marjorie looked nervously in Kenneth’s direction.

  Oh dear, I thought, the last thing I need is somebody getting ants in his pants over each wrong answer.

  ‘And I’m Peter. Hi, Grace, glad you’re joining us.’

  ‘Hi.’ I took a quick look – forties, slim, attractive. Hair a bit too long, dark red sweater, probably cashmere. I had a soft spot for cashmere. ‘What do you do?’ I asked him.

  ‘I own the antiques store, the barn, on the main road to Waterbeach.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think I know. I’ve been meaning to come and look round.’ Clearly, I hadn’t yet fully explored the attractions of Saffron Sweeting. I wondered if Amelia had chosen this team for me randomly, after all.

  ‘You like antiques?’ he smiled.

  ‘Very much – but I’m not at all knowledgeable,’ I replied truthfully.

  After a pause, Kenneth said, ‘I suppose we have to see the funny side of Amelia sponsoring a drinking event.’

  Peter gave a tight smile and shrugged. ‘She’s fine now.’

  What did that mean? I waited for Kenneth to say more, but he just sniffed and made himself busy rolling the pencils under his fingers.

  Marjorie, however, caught my eye and leaned closer. ‘Amelia was a bit too fond of the bottle at one stage,’ she whispered loudly. ‘Almost got done for drink driving several winters back.’

  Peter frowned at Marjorie. ‘It was Valentine’s Day. Just after her divorce was final.’

  I nodded. I could well imagine a bleak February evening, her marriage cold in its coffin, and Amelia’s desperate need for oblivion. But I wasn’t going to sit here and gossip about my employer. By any measure, she’d been really kind to me.

  Seeking a change of subject, I looked around the pub. There were six teams assembled, with four or five people in each. Fergus, the pub landlord, looked delighted to have so many patrons on a Wednesday night. I saw Brian the baker in the far corner, and Nancy appeared to be on his team too. Making up another team, I saw Violet and her two women friends, plus a man who I think was the village postman.

  ‘I know a few of the faces, but not many,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been here a couple of months.’

  ‘Not many newcomers are here,’ Marjorie said. ‘It’s basically word of mouth to be invited.’

  ‘They probably wouldn’t feel very welcome.’ Peter caught her eye. Then he said to me, ‘It takes a while to be accepted around here.’

  I couldn’t tell whether he was making a general observation, or trying to warn me, but it didn’t matter as I’d mostly shrugged off Violet’s iciness. I looked again at Nancy’s group, but they showed no signs of resentment towards her.

  ‘The pop culture questions and modern history are usually British focused,’ Kenneth chimed in earnestly. ‘Although heaven knows why we have a pop section. Some international politics wouldn’t go amiss.’ He adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles.

  We were a strong team. Kenneth, of course, knew a lot about a lot. Marjorie had apparently become a fan of daytime television since the bank made her redundant. And Peter showed deep knowledge of the arts and English history. I filled in where I could, with the capital of Idaho and the number of Elizabeth Bennet’s sisters, but I wasn’t needed much. That suited me: I was happy to keep quiet unless my team was stuck. Besides, I didn’t want to draw Kenneth’s wrath for getting Eric Clapton’s star sign wrong.

  Our weak area was science and technology. Judging by the groans that greeted these questions, this was a failing the other teams shared. By contrast, as the only person in the room with a biology PhD, Nancy was much celebrated by her accomplices.

  The quiz was boisterous but light-hearted. I was surprised to discover how the clock had advanced while we had been busy drinking, thinking and munching Twiglets. Fifty questions resulted in a tie between Nancy’s team and a group of Cambridge graduate students who had infiltrated the event. Unhappily for them, the tie-breaker was to name all the US presidents who had died in office. The Cambridge grads put up a good fight, but floundered after the three juiciest assassinations and FDR. As Nancy told me later, ‘I’ve always been a sponge for facts like that. We had those names drilled into us in grade school.’ She aced the question and Amelia presented Marks and Spencer vouchers to Nancy and her exuberant teammates.

  As the quiz participants dispersed, I heard Marjorie debating with Eddie which of them had had less to drink. I too was wondering whether I was under the limit to drive home. Then she turned to me to say goodbye.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Grace. Lorraine told me she’s looking forward to making the changes you recommended.’

  Peter overheard this. ‘Aha!’ His expression became animated and he turned to me. ‘The penny’s just dropped – that was you?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘It makes perfect sense now. Good for you.’

  I still felt shy about the advice I had given Lorraine. In the hope of escaping the conversation tactfully, I joined Nancy at the bar. But it seemed th
e topic was a hard one to shake off.

  ‘How was your visit to the bed and breakfast?’ she asked immediately.

  I told Nancy a little about my morning at Oak House and how much I’d enjoyed it.

  ‘I undercharged her, of course. I was so surprised to be offered money at all; I thought I was simply doing a neighbourly favour.’

  Nancy laughed and tore open a pub-sized bag of peanuts.

  ‘Amelia was cross with me,’ I continued. ‘She huffed and puffed and gave me a lecture on valuing myself.’

  ‘I read something about women having a hard time talking about money.’ Nancy munched on her nuts.

  ‘It was just such a shock. I’d enjoyed the morning and then she wanted to pay me for it.’

  ‘Grace, that’s how work is supposed to be. Enjoyable, I mean, and doing what you’re good at, for money.’

  It didn’t sound so bizarre when Nancy said it. Why did it feel so strange to me, then?

  ‘Talking of work,’ I said, ‘you were impressive tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ she laughed. ‘Too bad none of my countrymen are here – that would have been much fairer.’

  ‘Apparently, they weren’t invited.’ I was only half joking.

  ‘Are you driving home?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Whoops, can you tell I’m squiffy?’ I giggled. ‘No, I’ll leave the car here and walk.’

  ‘I can drive you,’ she said. ‘I only had a glass.’

  Nancy shifted her gaze to my left shoulder and smiled politely. I realised Peter had joined us at the bar and introduced them. Thankfully, I wasn’t so tipsy that I couldn’t remember his name. Nancy gave him a quick once-over, taking in his floppy brown hair and friendly face. He wasn’t quite the local Ewan McGregor I had joked about, but he wasn’t bad at all.

  ‘Do either of you ladies need a lift home?’ he asked us.

  ‘No thanks, I think we’re good,’ Nancy replied.

  ‘Well, in that case, I’ll wish you a pleasant evening.’ He turned from us before apparently remembering something. ‘Er, sorry.’ He swallowed. ‘Grace, could I trouble you for your phone number?’

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Really? I always thought he was gay.’

  I blinked slowly and stared at Amelia. Whether or not she liked a drink, she was far more alert than me this morning.

  ‘Sorry?’ My grey matter struggled to catch up.

  ‘Peter. I thought he had a boyfriend. Partner. Whatever.’

  Oh, shoot me, now.

  Nancy had driven me home, affirmed that she found Peter attractive, and airily dismissed my protests that it was far too early to think about going out with someone.

  ‘Grace, honey, you’re not getting engaged to him. He’s cute. See what happens.’

  ‘It’s just so unexpected,’ I’d said.

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be,’ she’d laughed at me. ‘You’re not going to be a nun for the rest of your life, are you?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘Well, cross that off your list, babe. Did I mention he’s cute?’

  I’d thanked Nancy for the lift and made an unsteady beeline for bed. I’d fallen asleep in mere seconds – all that wine – but then found myself wide awake at 3 a.m., thinking about the evening and Peter asking me out. Shocked, flattered and confused, I kneaded the questions around in my mind.

  Did I like him? Was I ready to start seeing someone? What were the norms of dating these days? Was he too old for me? What would James think? Why did I care what James would think? What would my mother think? That last one was the most disturbing of all.

  In short, I’d worked myself up into a tangled mess of sheets, pillows and self-reflection. By the time the sparrows and blackbirds started trilling outside my window, I was muzzy-headed and irritated with myself. Possibly just a little hung-over too.

  Realising I had once again fallen victim to nocturnal over-thinking, I’d taken a chilly shower, applied extra under-eye concealer and affected a breezy air as I arrived in the office with two large coffees. Slicing open the envelopes of our morning post, I’d told Amelia about Peter chatting me up.

  Now, her words sunk in. I wanted to crawl under my desk and throw up, not necessarily in that order.

  ‘I think they run the antiques shop together. Partners in both senses,’ Amelia continued.

  ‘Blimey,’ I groaned. ‘I – am – so – embarrassed.’

  ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit green, darling.’ She was looking at me with great amusement.

  ‘How could I –?’ I gulped and shook my head. ‘Thank God you told me!’ I put my forehead in my hands.

  ‘Look, you weren’t to know.’ Amelia got up from her desk to perch side-saddle on mine. ‘Easy mistake to make.’

  ‘I can’t believe I was daft enough to think he fancied me,’ I said, followed quickly by, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone. But why shouldn’t men fancy you? You’re lovely.’ Amelia nudged the letter opener out of my reach.

  Mortified, but not actually suicidal, I shook my head mutely.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ she insisted. ‘I’m pretty sure Brian has a crush on you, for starters.’

  ‘Brian? He’s married,’ I countered.

  Amelia snorted indelicately. ‘Oh, and that stops them, does it?’

  Ouch. There was a short silence before I said quietly, ‘Low blow.’

  ‘Sorry, Grace, that wasn’t very sporting of me. But really … which world do you live in?’ She hopped off my desk and started to change the toner in the printer.

  ‘Yeah, okay. I get it. As for Peter, I’m still absolutely humiliated.’

  ‘At least you didn’t dress up sexy and throw yourself at him.’

  ‘True.’ That would have been too much to live down.

  ‘Look on the bright side. Now you can spend all day wondering what it is he wants.’

  ~~~

  In fact, I had to wait almost a week for the ironic truth. It was a perfect August evening when I parked the white Beetle outside Peter’s antiques barn, but I was focused on business, not pleasure. His eagerness to see me again had been based on recommendations from Brian and Lorraine. Apparently, it was common industry knowledge that Americans loved to buy antiques, and Peter couldn’t understand why his sales weren’t stronger.

  ‘Here you are! Thanks for coming!’ Peter came out of the barn to greet me.

  I had some difficulty meeting his eye, but reminded myself that if Amelia and Nancy could be trusted, only the three of us knew of my slip-up. James used to tease me that my gaydar was terrible, but compared to some of the interior designers I had met in San Francisco, Peter was anything but camp. Warm and kind, yes, but not camp. He led me inside the barn, where another man was just leaving.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I’m toddling off.’

  ‘Grace, this is Giles, my co-owner,’ Peter said.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Giles shook my hand. ‘Peter’s over the moon that you’re here.’

  Okay, my gaydar was working just fine now. It wasn’t the patterned pink and grey sweater Giles was sporting, nor was it his tastefully trimmed moustache or the lilt in his voice: it was the sum of these details and many more. Grace Palmer, I thought, you nearly made a five-star idiot of yourself.

  We said goodnight to Giles and I looked around the barn. While my eyes adjusted to the dim light, my nose explored instead. I inhaled a wonderful blend of beeswax, mahogany and history. There were under-notes of camphor and leather. I breathed deeply and contentedly.

  ‘Oh, there are some stories here,’ I said, once I could see the array of treasures.

  Amongst the large furniture were dozens of smaller items, all begging to be touched. My first glance found a pile of patchwork quilts, a wine crate full of printing blocks, and agricultural tools sitting next to ancient, cracked suitcases. Open drawers revealed bundles of postcards and silver spoons tied with black ribbon. On the floor were cloudy gla
ss chemistry jars and a worn but dignified rocking horse. Looking up, I found vintage bunting and even a garden gate hanging from a beam.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ I said longingly. ‘I could take most of it home with me, right now.’

  Peter smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it. Giles and I buy what takes our fancy, and we hope for the best.’

  ‘And … it isn’t going all that well?’

  ‘No. Not considering our local market and what others in the industry are saying.’ He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. I tried to forget how inappropriately I’d been thinking about that jaw just the other night.

  ‘We thought maybe it’s too untidy,’ he suggested. ‘Too random?’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t think that’s the trouble.’ I shook my head. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I assume most of your customers are browsing for things they like, not things they need?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘I’m thinking it’s more likely to be your marketing.’

  ‘Ah, right, yes. We did advertise in the post office window – is that what you mean?’

  Be tactful, Grace. ‘I think we can do better than that.’

  An hour later, we had brainstormed a dozen ways for Peter and Giles to generate more interest. Their website was uninspiring, but Peter said they simply didn’t have the skills or money to keep it up to date. Instead, we decided they would create a page on Facebook, and promote ‘new’ items with photos. They were going to have a cheese and wine party at the barn, inviting the whole village. And they would start offering free in-home consultations.

  ‘I don’t think the Brits do this as much, but Americans seem to like expert advice,’ I told him. ‘Everything from their taxes to where to hang their art. So don’t be shy in telling your Yankee customers what they need.’

  ‘Really? How interesting.’ He smiled at me. ‘And when we’re rushed off our feet, we’ll hire you to do that part for us.’

  He was kidding, I assumed.

  ‘You’ll need a photo album full of example pieces for the consultations,’ I told him. ‘To show people what you’re suggesting. Not everyone knows their Queen Anne from their elbow. Start tearing pictures out of magazines too: anything that might inspire people.’