My brain had a lot to process, but it was moving through the preceding day’s events slowly, like an elderly visitor to an art gallery. I was so relieved the talk was over. But if it was helpful to the village, then good. Maybe someone would run with the idea of Halloween festivities. And if we discovered butternut squash soup on the menu at The Plough, even better.
As for Scott, I had learned my lesson with Peter. I wasn’t going to leap to conclusions: probably, he’d been flirting harmlessly. And even if he had intended more, it was still way too early for me to contemplate a new relationship.
Yesterday had been one of those strange days that occasionally punctuate life, but serve only as the spice, not the main dish. I had done enough pondering recently. From now on, I was going to live in the moment and focus on my work.
‘Argh, I completely forgot!’ I tapped myself on the forehead with my knuckle.
‘What?’ Amelia looked up. She’d been reviewing the August accounts and seemed to welcome a distraction.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you since I visited Peter’s barn.’ I saved my web edits and turned to her. ‘I was thinking, it would help the village if we put together a pack for new house buyers, with information on the local shops and services.’
Amelia put her head on one side. ‘A welcome pack, you mean?’
‘Yes. We could include some special offers, maybe.’
‘Hmm. And Peter wants to be part of that?’
‘I didn’t ask him directly. I wanted to talk to you first. But I think he would, yes.’
‘How much do you think he’d pay?’ She fiddled with her calculator, turning it in circles that echoed the twirling of her shoe.
Pay? I hadn’t expected this. ‘Er, I didn’t think we’d charge. Just put a packet together to help promote the other businesses.’
Amelia chuckled. ‘Well, I’m not providing free advertising from the goodness of my heart, Grace.’
‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘But it’d be great for the village. These new families – they have money to spend.’
‘All the more reason Peter and friends can cough up,’ she said crisply. Then, seeing my face, ‘All right, I’ll think about it,’ and turned back to her accounts.
I sighed and started phoning anyone who’d viewed a house recently. Now that the school holidays were over, we were telling buyers that if they got a move on, they could be in their new home for Christmas. If they were American, I shortened the timescale to Thanksgiving.
Later that afternoon, Amelia took a call.
‘Yes, she’s here,’ she said, ‘I’ll transfer you.’ With the caller on hold, she said to me, ‘It’s Bernard somebody.’
Bernard? Had I shown a house to anyone called Bernard? I didn’t think so.
‘Hello, Grace speaking.’
‘Ah, yes, good afternoon. We met last night after the parish council meeting,’ said a plummy accent. ‘This is Bernard Pennington-Jones. I’m the general manager of Saffron Hall.’
Could this perhaps be bow-tie man? He had certainly looked like a Bernard.
‘Are you familiar with Saffron Hall?’ he continued.
‘Er, not really.’ Was that the rather austere-looking place, further up the road past Nancy’s house?
‘We’re a manor house on the road to Soham. Grade II listed. Privately owned. We open for tours a couple of times a month and do weddings in summer.’
‘I see,’ I said politely, not seeing at all.
‘And I was wondering if you would give us some of your business expertise.’
Holy cow. Was this a wind-up?
‘Miss Palmer?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, pulling myself together and wiggling my mouse to wake up my computer. ‘Just looking you up on the internet.’
I found it. Wow, it was huge. There must have been twenty windows in the front facade alone. Peach-coloured brick: a boxy, elegant building. Gorgeous.
‘And you’re asking us to sell Saffron Hall for you?’ I asked. If so, he shouldn’t be talking to me. Amelia was without doubt the best woman for that job.
‘No, no – ha, ha!’
I don’t know how it’s possible to laugh with a posh accent, but he managed it.
‘Goodness, no.’ He seemed entertained. ‘Not yet, at least. But we’re having a spot of bother and I found your talk last night fascinating.’
‘Okay,’ I said, to show him I was listening.
‘You see, we have a great deal to offer visitors, yet we never seem to attract enough of them. I’m afraid we operate rather in the shadow of Anglesey Abbey.’
I knew Anglesey Abbey, of course. A centuries-old priory, owned by the National Trust, with extensive gardens and a working watermill. Oh, and let’s not forget the tearoom.
‘So I’d like your advice on increasing visitor numbers.’
This was way out of my league. ‘Mr –’ What was his name? ‘Mr Pennington-Jones, I’m flattered, but I can’t help.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Yes, well, I understand.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m just not sure I have the expertise to tell you how to run your stately home.’
‘That’s very honest of you, Miss Palmer. I appreciate your integrity.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Nonetheless, may I offer you a free tour? Perhaps a spot of lunch in the orangery?’
‘Oh.’ I thought about the peach brick and the sweeping driveway. There wasn’t any harm in just going for a snoop round, was there? ‘That’s really kind of you,’ I said. ‘When would be convenient?’
~~~
It had been at least six weeks since I’d seen Jem.
‘It’s like you’ve disappeared off to Brigadoon,’ she’d complained. ‘What do I have to do to see you – wait a hundred years?’
As a result, she was driving up with Harry and baby Seb for lunch on Sunday. This was a fine plan, until my hapless brother let it slip to my parents on the phone. At that point, I’d been volunteered to host a family reunion.
‘You’ve chosen a perfect spot between here and London,’ said my dad, ever practical. ‘Suits me – can’t stand that North Circular.’
My mum was more effusive. ‘Poppet! What a lovely idea! We haven’t all been together since you came back. And I’d like to see this little village of yours.’
I knew better than to attempt to cook. On Thursday, I placed an order with Brian that was almost big enough to finance his eldest through university. On Saturday, I picked up two quiches, ready-to-bake garlic bread and a Black Forest gateau. Then I made a guilty trip to Waitrose in Newmarket for the rest of the groceries, which Saffron Sweeting couldn’t supply.
Harry and Jem arrived first, with Seb asleep in his baby seat. I hadn’t seen Harry in nearly a year, since before he became a father. We hugged awkwardly – the Gilling family not being good at outward affection – and he disappeared into the living room in search of sport to watch. He re-emerged in annoyance when he found I didn’t own a television, but then settled for the general knowledge crossword.
‘He’s on duty with Seb,’ Jem said in a hushed tone, looking appreciatively at her husband. ‘He promised we could have some girl time before your parents arrive.’
While the kettle boiled for tea, I brought her up to speed on the parish council meeting. ‘I thought I was going to die of fright, but actually, it turned out okay.’
‘Good for you – another dragon slain.’
‘And …’ I glanced towards the living room to check my brother’s ears weren’t waggling, ‘there was this guy. I think he was flirting.’
‘Ooh la la! Tell me more!’
I described Scott and how he had let his gaze linger.
‘This could be a sign.’ Jem poured our tea. ‘Oh, you used a bag. I wanted to look at the leaves.’
‘What do you mean, a sign?’
‘That it’s time for the next chapter. You know,’ she said in an undertone, ‘move on from James.’
‘I’m not sure I want to move on,�
� I replied instinctively. ‘I mean, it’s just so soon.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Perhaps not. Depends how nice his bum is, I suppose.’
I considered pretending I hadn’t looked at Scott’s backside, but she knew me too well and smirked confidently. I sipped my tea demurely but smiled nonetheless.
‘Woo-eeh! Here we are!’ A cry pierced the thick stone walls of the cottage. Moments later, my mother erupted through the back door. She was wearing a floppy straw hat – as if she were off to the Chelsea Flower Show – a linen shirt and trendy white jeans.
‘Halloo! And where’s my gorgeous grandson?’ She almost bowled Jem over in her haste to shower Sebastian in ardent kisses. Seb woke obligingly and started to squawk, then shut up as he presumably recognised grandma. I saw Jem sag a little and gave her a sympathetic smile. It wasn’t that mum meant to be rude, she just tended to overlook Jem’s role in creating and nurturing the twenty pound bundle of bliss she was now cuddling. In fairness, she pretty much glossed over Harry’s role in it too.
I went outside to see if dad had suffered collateral damage from the maternal maelstrom.
‘Hello, Gracie. Good to see you, love.’ He was lifting a box out of the car boot.
‘And you, dad. What’s that?’
‘Ah, it appears to be for you. From James.’ Poor dad, he didn’t like conveying awkward news. ‘He’s phoned a few times, you know … but your mother’s forbidden me from telling him anything.’
So, James had been calling my parents as well as Jem. Given the situation, that was brave of him. I eyed the box. Sure enough, it had come via FedEx and was plastered in customs stickers. ‘Thanks, dad. I’ll open it later.’
I busied myself sorting out drinks. Mum was now strolling around happily with Seb in her arms and he seemed equally entranced by her hat. My father and brother were talking animatedly about cricket, the Middle East, or possibly cricket in the Middle East. Jem had her head in the fridge, pulling out boxes and packets in preparation for lunch.
This was the most people I’d ever entertained in Pothole Cottage. Even though they were my family, it felt strange. Had I become so insular and protective of my bolt-hole? With the FedEx box out of the way, I wondered how long it would be before someone dared mention James.
As it turned out, we made it most of the way through lunch, squeezed around my kitchen table. We talked politely about Harry’s two-dimensional banking job and dad’s work in progress – a calculus textbook, no less. So that took all of five minutes. Mum shared news of the chickens, the din of their neighbour’s Harley Davidson, and the ‘dreadful’ organisation of the golf club’s charity fashion show. I decided that must be the origin of the white jeans, since she surely didn’t have the sartorial initiative to have chosen them on her own.
Jem was interrogated on her plans for going back to work, including ‘But Jemima dear, you’ll go simply dotty at home all day,’ from my mother; ‘Norah was always there when you two got home from school,’ from dad; and a jokey ‘As long as my dinner’s ready, I don’t mind,’ from my brother. This earned him an airborne napkin from me and a withering stare from his wife. Had they talked properly about their situation?
‘So, Grace.’ My brother had been given the important role of dividing up the chocolate gateau. ‘Is it completely kaput with James?’
Silence fell around the table, and we all watched as Harry manoeuvred a tall slice of gooey cake, cherry and all, onto my father’s plate. I twisted my feet under my chair and hoped someone would change the subject. No one did.
‘I would say so.’ Perhaps a brief, dignified answer would suffice.
‘What’s in the box, poppet? Some of your things?’ Despite two sherries before lunch, mum had the sensitivity to bring her exuberance down a notch.
I nodded.
‘Nice of him to do that. Must have cost a bit to send,’ Harry said.
‘Considering he slept with someone else, it’s the least he could do.’ Jem threw a warning glance in Harry’s direction.
‘So that’s it, then?’ my brother persisted. ‘End of the road?’
‘When a husband cheats, it usually is.’ Jem was either sticking up for me, or firing a shot across Harry’s bows, or maybe both.
My mother surveyed the differing wedges of gateau on each of our plates and apparently needed no calculus textbook to deduce that she had been cheated out of a cherry.
‘Don’t be so sure of that,’ she said, and reached over to steal dad’s.
He didn’t even blink, much less object, but just sat there looking sorrowful.
~~~
Eight helping hands professed themselves eager to help tidy up the meal, so I escaped to the living room where Seb was dozing in his little seat. I tried to think of him growing up, going to school, getting married, perhaps cheating on his wife. My imagination failed me: I just couldn’t picture this innocent baby inflicting that amount of pain.
‘You’ve got it so easy,’ I told him. ‘Keep it that way, little buddy.’
Dad had fallen asleep in the big armchair by the fireplace, so the rest of us decided to take a stroll round the village. Everywhere was closed for Sunday afternoon, but I showed them the malt house, Hargraves & Co and – proudly – a couple of houses I had helped sell.
‘Yes, it’s all very nice,’ mum pronounced. By that, I think she had decided that Saffron Sweeting probably voted Conservative, or, worst case, Lib Dem.
Harry was eyeing up property prices in the Hargraves window. ‘Not cheap round here, is it? Sorry Jem, I don’t think we’ll be buying a weekend home in Saffron Sweeting.’
Jem, in charge of Seb in his pushchair, shrugged as she watched the bees on a nearby lavender bush warily. She’s always been more of a city girl.
‘Grace, you’ve done all right with your cottage. Nice place,’ my brother continued.
‘Well, my days there may be numbered.’ I told them about the skirmish over land access, but that a sale now seemed likely.
‘Shame,’ mum tutted, as we reached Mary Lou’s house and turned left. ‘Although of course, you’re always welcome back home, you know that.’
‘Thanks, mum. I’ll, um, keep that in mind,’ I replied. There was no way I could deal with both my parents and a daily dose of Harley-riding chickens.
We had nearly walked back up the track to the cottage when I realised a car was inching along behind us. I turned to see a dark blue sporty convertible.
‘Oh my God. It can’t be.’ I was as shocked as if the baby had launched into a Puccini aria.
‘What?’ Jem was slower to turn, as she’d been watching to make sure that Seb’s pushchair wheels didn’t fall into a pothole. ‘Oh, lookee here,’ she said.
I was already lookee-ing here. In the driver’s seat was Scott, blond hair tousled, dark glasses glinting and white teeth smiling.
Mum was taking off her shoes on the back-door mat and hadn’t noticed the handsome arrival or my panicked expression. My brother, however, clocked the car, then the speculative grin on his wife’s face and finally my slack jaw. Had he overheard what I’d told Jem before lunch? In any case, for once in his life, he did the tactful thing and hustled our mother inside.
‘We’ll put the kettle on,’ he called, and shut the door.
Scott parked his car behind dad’s and got out. ‘Grace, hello again.’
‘Hi,’ I said, wondering how scruffy I looked in comparison to the other night.
Jem, bless her, busied herself in reaching down to unbuckle Seb and lift him out of his pushchair.
‘You live here?’ he asked.
‘That’s right.’ This was awkward. ‘Did Amelia give you directions?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. She did.’ He nodded slowly and then seemed lost for words.
‘This is Jem,’ I said. ‘My sister-in-law.’
Jem freed a hand to shake Scott’s, then went back to jiggling Seb and patting his back.
‘The rest of the scary clan are inside,’ I went on. ‘Visit
ing for Sunday lunch.’ Oops, I was in danger of babbling.
‘I’ve come at a bad time. Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.’ Scott made as if to turn round.
‘No, no, that’s okay, I need to change this little monster,’ Jem interrupted brightly. ‘You two carry on.’ She made a lunge for the nappy bag from the bottom rack of the pushchair. ‘Nice to meet you, Scott.’ She disappeared inside.
Scott looked up at the white walls of the cottage. ‘Attractive place,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it?’ I looked again at the climbing roses, the tiled roof and wonky chimneys. ‘I fell in love, the first day I saw it.’
He smiled at me and I allowed myself to smile back. He certainly was good-looking. Today he was in jeans with a faded red checked shirt. I should have been reminded of a steakhouse tablecloth, but on him it looked just fine. He took his sunglasses off and polished them on the hem of the shirt before looking at me again. His blue eyes really were incredible. Today, in the soft September sunshine, they seemed to have an inner ring of gold too.
‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ he said.
That struck me as strange, since he’d clearly been on his way to visit me. I smoothed down my T-shirt surreptitiously.
‘I enjoyed chatting the other night.’ He seemed more confident now, more like he had been in the pub. Again, he was holding eye contact just a fraction longer than necessary.
I held my tongue, despite my racing thoughts. To distract myself, I began nudging a loose stone with my toe.
‘So, if you have any free time next weekend, I was wondering, can I take you out to lunch?’
I’d be lying if I said I was totally floored by this. After his flirting in the pub, then showing up in my driveway, I’d had a few minutes to compute the likelihood of him asking me out.
I kicked at the stone, thinking about the FedEx box which had travelled five thousand miles to bring me the remnants of my old life. And I realised, I couldn’t come up with a single good reason to decline.
‘Oh … thanks.’ I gave the loose stone a final kick. It landed with a soft thud in the nearest flowerbed. Then I looked him in the face. ‘Yes, I’d love to.’
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