Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘I do.’ I peered at myself again while the surprise wore off. ‘I don’t know how to say this modestly, but I really do.’

  I wondered what James would think if he could see me, then reminded myself sternly that I shouldn’t care.

  ‘Excellent!’ Amelia clapped her hands fleetingly, like a girl forty years younger. ‘Well, that was fun. Now, come through to the kitchen and we’ll have a proper drink.’

  I settled myself at the island in her sleek and stylish kitchen, surreptitiously checking out my surroundings. I loved the black and white tiles behind her stove, but didn’t fancy keeping the inky granite counters free of smears. Then again, I suspected she rarely cooked.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Amelia said, bringing out a bottle of vodka, ‘we can look at your clothes. That still gives us late-night shopping on Wednesday if we have to get you something new.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said meekly, declining the booze. I was starting to feel this council meeting might not be the end of the world. Amelia had already made me prepare a set of reminder index cards to hold, in case my mind went totally blank.

  Amelia poured herself a generous splash of vodka, adding a thimbleful of orange juice for garnish. Then she perched on a stool at the island, sweeping a pile of paper to one side. I knew she worked hard, but had no idea she brought quite this much home with her.

  ‘What is all this stuff?’ I asked. ‘New listings?’

  ‘Most of it’s for an investment I’m considering. And some industry reading, which of course I always fall asleep before I get to. Oh, and the odd deal for a client.’

  I was impressed. My idea of an investment these days was a moth-eaten Union Jack flag.

  Amelia looked at me carefully. ‘Grace,’ she started, ‘I didn’t want to tell you this sooner because I thought you’d get in a tizz about it.’

  I sucked in my cheeks.

  ‘You know you tend to worry about things that might never happen,’ she continued, extracting some papers from the pile. ‘But it does look now as if it’s going through.’

  ‘What’s going through?’

  She passed me the papers and I saw they were from her scary solicitor friend. It took me a few moments to process the legal mumbo jumbo. I pushed them away from me with a sigh.

  ‘Well, that’s all I need.’ I ran my tongue around my teeth, remembering my beautiful lip gloss a fraction too late. Then, I added stoically, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ice cream?’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Amelia shook her head and reached for my hand.

  I don’t know whether she was apologising for her badly-stocked pantry with its dearth of frozen desserts, or for her imminent success in selling my cottage.

  CHAPTER 17

  Just as the parish council request had overshadowed my fight with Nancy, so the prospect of becoming homeless took my mind off the talk.

  I was surprised how rattled I was at the prospect of losing the cottage. After all, I’d lived there less than three months. But, ever since I was a kid, my surroundings had been important to me: around the age of thirteen, I remember begging my mum to change the wallpaper and bed linen in my room to a Laura Ashley print. And the recent small improvements I’d made to the cottage had made it feel like mine. It was the anchor point in my new life and I looked forward to coming home each night.

  I didn’t blame Amelia for not telling me sooner. She was right: I would have tortured myself with what-if scenarios. As it was, she’d told me the sale was still being negotiated and would take at least a month to become final. At that point, she promised to throw her considerable influence behind finding new digs for me.

  ‘Just go with the flow, Grace,’ she’d said. ‘It’ll all be fine.’

  ~~~

  September was delivering a shaky Indian summer and the evening of the parish council meeting was humid. When we arrived at the village hall, I was dismayed to see so many sweaty bodies crammed into the dark, musty space. Had they got the wrong night? Did they think this was the thrilling alternative of Neighbourhood Watch?

  I was wearing flowing silky trousers in a quiet shade of mushroom, purchased in John Lewis the day before. On my feet were bronze sandals with a chunky heel, loaned by Amelia to make me look taller but hopefully not in danger of ‘taking a tumble’. We’d also found a stretchy top in a green and cream print, slightly ruffled around the neckline. The ruffles had the surprising side effect of enhancing my chest size, and I’d been reluctant to wear it for a business meeting.

  Amelia, though, had brushed this objection aside. ‘Don’t be daft! You look fabulous and the colours bring out your eyes.’

  She had done my make-up again and so far I had kept my nervous teeth away from the lip gloss. In fact, my anxious molars had been greatly helped by a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc before we set out.

  So now, all I had to do was talk. Simple, right? I sat at the end of the front row and tried to listen as Brian introduced me. But my ears couldn’t process his words. My insides were churning like a butter factory and my tongue discovered that my mouth was as dry as plain toast. Did I have time to make it to the loo and throw up?

  I did not. To scattered applause from the audience and a cheerful poke in the ribs from Amelia, I stood, turned and faced a sea of expectant faces. In reality, there were probably only thirty people present, but in the little hall, I felt as if I were facing several hundred. There was no stage and no microphone, and I was grateful to my employer for her choice of shoes.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I began. I paused, coughed, and instantly forgot all I had planned to say. In a panic, I looked down at my first index card.

  ‘My name is Grace Palmer and I’ve just returned from four years in California. Nonetheless, England is my home and always will be.’

  ‘Speak up,’ someone hollered.

  I tried again. ‘I’m enormously grateful for the welcome given to me by the kind residents of Saffron Sweeting.’ That was louder and better. I swallowed and remembered to exhale. Risking a look at my tormentors, I discovered friendly faces amongst the mob. Brian was there, of course. Lorraine and Marjorie were sitting in the third row, as was Violet, although she looked more sceptical than supportive. Standing at the back, apparently a late arrival, was Peter. He waved at me and gave me his big grin. I smiled back and felt my jaw relax a little.

  ‘I’ve been asked to talk to you this evening because it seems a fresh perspective may be useful. I don’t have too much expertise in this area –’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Brian heckled cheerfully.

  ‘– but I’ll be happy to offer some suggestions on attracting new customers to your business.’

  I glanced at Amelia, who was nodding encouragingly, like a proud mother at a school nativity play.

  ‘It’s no secret that the population of Saffron Sweeting is growing,’ I continued. ‘And I think that’s a good thing. The opportunities from the newcomers from America are huge. However, with new customers come new expectations. I encourage you to consider adapting to these new demands. Go with this new tide and see where it takes you.’

  My own nervous tide was still swooshing around in my stomach, but it was more gentle now. And at least they were listening. ‘The topic you’ve given me is tricky to cover, without making sweeping generalisations.’ This had been my biggest fear: how to talk about both Yanks and Limeys without offending both groups horribly. I had agonised over the right choice of words. Words which had now deserted me.

  I thought about the little tables and umbrellas outside the bakery, and pressed on. ‘Some of the principles apply regardless of who you think your customers are. Some are more targeted at our cousins from across the Atlantic.’

  I caught Lorraine’s eye and she gave me a thumbs up. Violet was fanning herself but at least she hadn’t walked out. In fact, nobody had. I remembered my index cards and realised I had reached the meaty part of my talk. Right, Grace Palmer, here goes.

  Fifteen minutes later, as I sat down to enthusiastic applause,
I found I had been concentrating so hard on getting my message across, I had forgotten to worry about how they were receiving it.

  I had talked about the importance of personalising the product or service: ‘Spotted Dick shouldn’t always have to come with custard’. I had waxed lyrical on the need to be found easily online, along with the possibilities presented by social media. I had been passionate in my request that they listen to their customers: ‘Ask them what they think. Your average American is more forthcoming than your average Brit: I bet they’ll tell you. And when they do, thank them and tell them to Have a Nice Day!’

  And I had told them of my belief in beefing up their product or service: ‘Add some value. Give something for nothing. For the bakery, free refills seem to be working already. For the antiques store, it means free delivery. At the pub, give them a free glass of water.’ The landlord looked horrified. ‘Go on, I dare you,’ I’d insisted, my nerves, by this time, melting on the floor beside me. ‘But when you do improve your service or make it a little special, don’t forget to put your prices up.’ A murmur skittered through the room and I jumped on it. ‘These people have money. Forget competing on price: compete on value.’ It was hardly rocket science, but apparently it was a message they hadn’t heard before. I hoped the principle would hold as true in Saffron Sweeting as it did in Silicon Valley.

  For my parting shot, I had thrown out a challenge. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, members of the parish council, all these ideas are worthy of your attention and I hope they prove useful. But as a community, we must seize a short-term opportunity.’ A rustle ran along each row, which I hoped was the audience sitting up to take notice, rather than getting ready to lynch me. ‘In seven weeks’ time, it’s Halloween. If you have ever visited the States in October, you might be aware that this is huge.’

  Briefly, I had asked them to imagine American families spending their first autumn in Europe and their expectations of this ‘holiday’. I had stressed the good-natured, family-friendly aspects of Halloween, which were a million miles away from the teenage egg-throwing which took place in many of Britain’s suburbs. I had explained the importance of pumpkins, of costumes, of trick-or-treating and candy bowls. I had suggested a parade, a party, a pumpkin carving contest. I had challenged each business to come up with some reason for every little princess or pirate to visit their shop or office, with parents firmly in tow. In short, I’d begged, ‘Don’t let them wake up disappointed on the first of November.’

  ~~~

  The chairman of the council, who resembled an octogenarian Galapagos tortoise, thanked me and adjourned the meeting. This triggered much discussion and debate in the crowded, clammy hall. I was surrounded by my cluster of supporters, who were effusive in their praise. Amelia hugged me and said ‘Jolly good show. Nice sandals too.’

  Lorraine told me the plumber had already visited and that work would start next week. Even Kenneth from the library shook my hand. ‘Most intriguing,’ he said gallantly, then intercepted Violet as she headed for the exit. ‘What did you make of it, Violet? Intriguing, no?’

  I braced myself as Violet adjusted her handbag on her arm. Was she about to take a swing at me? However, she gave a tight smile and said, ‘Very interesting, Grace. Very interesting.’

  Kenneth nodded amiably, but the insult wasn’t lost on me. My mum uses that same adjective for my cooking.

  I was propelled the short distance to the pub, where I was teased mercilessly by everyone demanding a free glass of water. To my relief, they all seemed to be ordering real drinks too. With my trauma out of the way, I was enormously thirsty. I perched happily on a velvet-covered barstool, watching the game of darts in the far corner.

  ‘Do you give consultations?’ A man in a bow tie approached me hesitantly.

  ‘She does,’ Amelia interrupted, beaming. Then she named an hourly rate which would more than cover the cost of my new outfit.

  ‘Thank you,’ said bow-tie man. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ He wandered off.

  I nudged Amelia in the ribs and hissed, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sorry, darling, but you have to walk the talk. You just told them all to offer a quality service and charge accordingly.’ She drifted away, Pimms in hand.

  I pondered my glass of iced juice and conceded privately she might have a point. Brian breezed up to say hello and I thanked him for his introduction, even though I hadn’t internalised a word of it. Across the room, Peter was giving out fliers. Within a few minutes, he arrived at the bar and presented one to me with a flourish.

  ‘Your launch party!’ I was delighted to see he was going ahead with the idea.

  ‘Next month,’ he smiled. ‘Let’s hope the weather holds.’

  ‘May I have a few more? I’d like to put them out in the estate agency.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ He gave me a stack. ‘Bring me some of these infamous Americans and I’ll be your friend for life.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ The ice cubes in my glass clinked as I swirled it.

  ‘You gave a super talk, Grace.’ Peter waved to someone, then turned back to me. ‘Even my mother couldn’t find a bad word to say.’

  ‘Your mother?’ I was lost.

  ‘Yes. Mum. Violet. She runs the post office.’

  Uh-oh. I had no idea Peter was Violet’s son. He was so amiable, and she was so scratchy. My brain raced to remember whether I’d said anything bitchy about her.

  But before I could recall and apologise for any wayward remarks, a fair-haired man in a crisp blue shirt appeared beside Peter. I felt a jolt I couldn’t explain as I recognised Scott. Then, seeing him order them both a pint, it crossed my mind he might be competition for Giles.

  ‘Have you met Scott?’ Peter asked me. ‘Scott, this is Grace.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hello again.’ Not witty or original, but at least this time my clothes were dry and I wasn’t bidding on random houses.

  Scott passed one of the beers to Peter, then nodded and crinkled his blue eyes at me. ‘I enjoyed your talk,’ he said. ‘Very revealing.’

  How did he make that simple word sound so suggestive? And was he really checking out my appearance? If so, the ruffled stretchy top was to blame. This guy was certainly not competition for Giles. Incapable of saying anything remotely clever, I blushed and gazed at the ranks of inverted bottles behind the bar.

  ‘Scott lives in London.’ Peter came to the rescue. ‘But we’re old school friends.’

  ‘I do a lot of business in East Anglia,’ Scott added, navigating the foam on his beer with skill. ‘I like to harass Peter when I’m passing through. Sometimes, I let him win at golf too.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Peter said amiably. Then, not knowing Scott had already seen me with Amelia, added, ‘When Grace isn’t giving speeches, she works at the estate agency.’

  ‘And what is it you do?’ I recovered enough to ask Scott. Was it my imagination, or had he been staring more than he needed to? It had been such a long time since James and I had got together, I was rusty at reading the signs. But in any case, after my horrendous mistake with Peter, I was determined to assume a business demeanour with every new acquaintance, especially the good-looking ones.

  ‘I’m a property developer,’ he said.

  That explained why he’d been at the auction and knew Amelia. I wasn’t entirely sure what property developing was, but I had a feeling it meant buying up green-belt fields, evicting the cows and cramming in carbon copy houses. Cambridge residents were always hungry for new housing, despite then sitting bumper to bumper in traffic each morning to get into the city.

  ‘And we’re thrilled to see him circling around Saffron Sweeting,’ Peter said with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘That’s not much of a welcome, is it?’ Scott looked at me, eyes twinkling once again. As I had noted at the auction, the only flaw in his handsome face was a nose that wasn’t quite straight. I wondered whether he’d broken it, and if so, how. Perhaps a brawl with a love rival?

  I slurped the last o
f my juice inelegantly, but my throat was still parched. What was wrong with me? I decided it must be the happy outcome of my talk, hot on the heels of acute fear which had nearly asphyxiated me. A big mug of tea would calm me down. I looked for Fergus in the hope of persuading him to make me some Typhoo.

  My discomfort was alleviated by a blonde head bobbing through the throng. Marjorie greeted me like an old friend and we found her a stool. She was wearing a black jacket, black skinny jeans and spiky heels, which made me think of Olivia Newton-John’s final scene in Grease. Marjorie, of course, was considerably older and much rounder, but she rocked the look, even so.

  ‘Well, what a breath of fresh air you were,’ she enthused. ‘Got those old fuddy-duddies talking, I can tell you.’

  ‘In a good way, I hope?’ Scott asked.

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Marjorie noticed him now, looked away, and then sat up straighter. Involuntarily, she patted her hair. So, I wasn’t the only one affected by nice teeth and a suntan. ‘Things have been pretty dismal around here – someone has to shake the village up a bit.’

  ‘Well,’ said Scott, leaning closer to Marjorie, but looking straight past her towards me, ‘I can imagine Grace would shake them up very successfully.’

  That was it. I couldn’t sit there like an overheated lemon any longer. I fled to the cramped ladies’ loo, where I ran cold water on my wrists and prayed that my faulty thermostat would recalibrate. I leaned on the sink and breathed carefully as I examined my flushed reflection in the mirror.

  What an evening. I had faced one of my biggest fears and come out the other side. I had delivered my suggestions and sparked some positive discussion. And yet, I knew that of all the people in the village hall tonight, the one who had received the most vigorous shaking was me.

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘You’re awfully quiet this morning.’ Amelia had been on the phone since I arrived in the office, but now she peered at me over her mug.

  ‘Hmm? Sorry,’ I said. ‘Still recovering from last night.’ I had been pretending to update the Hargraves website while I mulled things over.