Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  My method was severely flawed. I’d lost my money on Golden Gate. PBJ Sandwich disgraced me by finishing last. So, in the third race, I switched my allegiance to Blighty and placed an each way bet on Lovely Jubbly. Bobbing up and down to see past the unruly group in front of us, I lost sight of her.

  ‘I can’t see!’ I was up on my tiptoes despite Amelia’s heeled sandals. ‘Where is she?’

  Scott was a good eight inches taller and was glued to his binoculars. ‘Er, fifth. No, wait – that’s not her.’

  I clutched his arm and bobbed some more.

  ‘There she is! She’s second!’ he called out.

  I whooped as she came back into view, thundering down the home straight. The leader was a length clear, but two other horses were nudging alongside my pick.

  ‘Hang in there! Come on!’ I yelled.

  A blur of colours whizzed past us, to deafening shouts and cheers from the crowd.

  ‘What happened?’ I cried. ‘I couldn’t tell. Did she do it?’

  ‘I think so.’ Scott was grinning at me. ‘Let’s go and see.’

  When we reached the Tote and I found I’d made all of nineteen pounds, I did a little jig.

  ‘Champagne!’ I announced. ‘My treat!’

  Scott laughed. ‘You won’t have any winnings left.’ But he looked pleased for me nonetheless.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘That was brilliant.’

  He laughed again, shook his head and gestured to the bar.

  ~~~

  ‘So, is this a good time to ask if you’re enjoying yourself?’ Scott smiled as we clinked glasses.

  ‘Well, obviously the first couple of races were dire, but I might rethink that opinion now.’ I sipped my champagne and reminded myself that bouncing up and down like a sugar-fuelled eight-year-old at a birthday party wasn’t ideal first date behaviour. This guy was sophisticated and my winner’s jig had not been cool.

  He nodded and said nothing, watching my face.

  I was tempted to just sit there and gaze back, but blamed that on the champagne. Instead, I added, ‘Yes, it’s really fun, thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

  There was a pause and then he waved at someone behind me.

  ‘Will you be okay on your own for a few minutes? There’s someone over there I need to talk business with.’

  ‘No problem.’

  He made a tilting gesture with his glass. ‘I’ll text you if I can’t find you.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  I was curious, but had no particular wish to be introduced to his business colleague. Instead, I took a quick peek as Scott made his way across the bar and greeted a paunchy older man in a grey suit. A city fat cat, perhaps?

  I’d taken careful note of Scott’s betting behaviour so far, as it had occurred to me he might be a hard-core gambler. But from what I could see, he was treating the afternoon lightly and was a good loser. True, he placed larger bets than me, but that wasn’t hard, and after all, this wasn’t his first rodeo. Whether it was his preference, or to keep me company, he’d stuck mainly with the Tote for his betting. Only once did he head for the bookmakers, when he said he was intrigued by the long odds for a horse called Beach Belle. That flutter had resulted in a fistful of twenties, which he had pocketed with a grin and a careless shrug. Overall, he didn’t seem to be displaying addictive gambling tendencies.

  I, on the other hand, was hooked. This was so much more fun than feeding ten-pence pieces into the waterfall machines at the beach in Lowestoft. Harry and I had done that on every family holiday, until he’d reached sixteen and abandoned me for the delights of the disco.

  Now, I ran my eye down the list of runners for the next race. American Dream jumped out at me as the obvious choice. Still riding high from my recent win, I almost ran to place my bet, then drooped over the railings with my hand in front of my eyes as the hapless horse ambled around the track so slowly he might as well have gone backwards.

  Jem, no doubt, would declare this to be a sign, and for once I was inclined to agree.

  Enough of this foolishness. James had broken my heart, and now I was starting over. I was on a date with an incredibly attractive man and I had no intention of blowing it. My life was in England now.

  ~~~

  After his short absence, Scott rejoined me and apologised for being rude.

  ‘No problem,’ I said cheerfully, ‘I was quite happy losing all my money on a terrible horse.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ he responded. ‘Don’t worry, that happens to me all the time.’

  I’m not sure it was true, but it was gallant of him to say it. He really was a decent bloke.

  ‘So, I take it you’re quitting while you’re behind?’ he asked. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. But I might get a cup of tea while I calm down a bit.’

  ‘Told you it would work you into a frenzy,’ he said.

  He was totally flirting with me and I didn’t need to blame the champagne for my willingness to flirt back. We watched a couple more races, standing closer than the crowd required, his arm around my waist as he pulled me nearer to point out something on the far side of the course.

  It was late afternoon when Scott turned to me. ‘So, Grace, last chance. You either win back all your money, or we leave now and beat the traffic.’ He consulted the race card, then said, ‘Decision made. To hell with the traffic. Let’s check her out.’

  We made our way to the Parade Ring, and there, in beautiful turquoise silks with white spots, a diminutive jockey was being hoisted onto Grace Under Fire.

  ‘Up for this?’ he asked me.

  I paused for a split second, then smiled up at him. ‘Absolutely.’

  ~~~

  It was dark when Scott bumped the Jaguar back up the track to my cottage.

  My final race winnings had been more than enough to pay for dinner at the quiet country pub he’d chosen, but Scott had insisted that today was on him.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll let you pay next time,’ he said, as he’d scooped up our bill.

  Forgive my anti-feminist treachery, but I was impressed. We’d shared a lovely meal, and I had felt sufficiently tired from the afternoon to relax properly in his company. I liked the sound of next time too.

  During dinner, he’d asked what had brought me to Saffron Sweeting.

  I’d set down my fork and taken a glug of wine. I was unprepared for this topic and the longer I stretched the pause, the bigger deal it would become.

  ‘My marriage ended a few months ago.’ When in doubt, keep it brief.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His reply was equally simple. He looked away and I couldn’t begin to guess what he thought.

  ‘And the village? Why there?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘It was either Saffron Sweeting or move back home to mum and dad’s.’ I made sure to smile, to show him I was at ease. ‘No-brainer.’

  He’d nodded, then topped up my wine. ‘Well, then.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Grace under fire.’

  My cottage was in darkness but I thought I could make out Mungo’s black and white shape, sitting on the doormat.

  ‘Your dog?’ Scott asked.

  ‘No, he just thinks he lives here,’ I said. ‘Don’t get out, you’ll only get slobbered on.’

  ‘You make it sound so tempting.’ He turned the engine off anyway.

  ‘Thank you, that was a lovely day.’ I was formal now, feeling shy. The low bucket seats of his car were hardly conducive to smooching and in any case, I had no idea of current etiquette at the end of a first date.

  ‘Thank you for joining me.’ As before, he ran a single finger down my forearm and over my hand. I felt the tingle from my ears to my toes, then froze like a rabbit as he leaned across the gearstick. Yet, when he brushed my cheek with the briefest of kisses, I was disappointed. Was that his secret, to leave me wanting more?

  Inside, the cottage felt chilly and it crossed my mind I’d have to investigate how the heatin
g worked. Mungo sat optimistically next to the empty fireplace, as I paced between the kitchen and the living room. I wasn’t sleepy, but couldn’t settle to do anything useful.

  In the end, I flopped on the sofa and fondled Mungo’s ears as he arrived, tail waving, at my side. His doggie identification tags made a tuneful clinking as I scratched him under the chin with my left hand and let my mind run over the day.

  This small noise from Mungo’s collar brought me back to the present. I stilled my hand and paused, looking down at my fingers. Mungo sank with a sigh at my feet and the only sound now was the rhythmic tick-thud of my antique clock.

  Slowly, carefully and before I could change my mind, I took hold of my platinum wedding ring. Then I tugged, twisted and wriggled, until it was off my finger.

  ~~~

  On Tuesday morning I stopped at the bakery, in search of Amelia’s favourite custard tarts.

  Brian was wiping crumbs off the counter. ‘They’re only just out of the oven. Can you come back in ten minutes?’ he said cheerfully, adding, ‘You look well, Grace.’

  I was indeed feeling upbeat after Saturday’s horse racing and heart racing, but I wasn’t going to share that with Brian.

  ‘Thanks. How’s business?’ I asked.

  ‘My accountant’s still finalising the August numbers, but fingers crossed, things are looking good.’ He seemed pleased. ‘Some of us are meeting tonight to plan Halloween.’

  ‘Really? That’s great.’ I was thrilled to hear it.

  To kill the time, I reluctantly took myself to the post office for stamps. Generally speaking, I tried to avoid Violet.

  My instincts had been right. As I turned to leave, she stopped me.

  ‘What’s going on with you and my dog?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I stalled for time, but knew full well what she meant.

  ‘Seems to me, you’ve been holding him hostage. He’s up at your place more often than not.’

  ‘I haven’t been holding him hostage,’ I retorted. ‘Mungo shows up of his own free will. You shouldn’t let him out if you don’t want him to roam.’

  She glared at me. I realised that squabbling over a canine’s affections was pretty lame.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry. I know he’s your dog. But for some reason he likes the cottage.’ I took a breath. ‘And when he first arrived, I didn’t have any other friends here.’

  Violet folded her arms. ‘So you made friends with my dog?’

  ‘It was a difficult time for me. I’d just left my husband.’ I felt tears beginning and kicked myself. What was I thinking, to reveal that to her? Now she’d make mincemeat out of me.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  For heaven’s sake, I thought. That’s too personal for the post office. Can’t we talk about the weather, or something a bit more British?

  I lifted my chin. ‘He cheated on me.’ Great, now my shame would be all over Saffron Sweeting by lunchtime.

  Violet, however, looked awkward and began tidying the newspapers on the counter. Then she sighed. ‘Well. His loss, dear.’

  It took a few seconds for this veiled compliment to sink in. I blinked back the threatening tears and edged towards the door.

  ‘Is there anything you’d recommend?’ Violet asked suddenly.

  ‘Sorry?’ What did she mean? A brand of tranquilliser? A tactic for dealing with errant husbands?

  ‘Anything you think I should stock, which the Americans would like?’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I looked around as my brain scrambled to catch up. Her selection was uninspiring at best, but I had no retail experience to call on. I struggled to think back to last autumn and what I’d seen on sale in the States. Violet waited, her expression softer than usual but still wary. Asking me for advice was obviously an olive branch.

  ‘Right. Um, well.’ Orange. I had seen a whole lot of orange. ‘Well, at this time of year, they get really excited about Halloween.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘If you can find supplies of pumpkins, and put them outside, that would attract folks in. And orange things. Black and orange, those are the Halloween colours. Oh, and candy – I mean, sweets. People give out sweets. Can you get some big bags of individually-wrapped small sweets?’

  She made a slight nodding gesture. ‘Thank you, Grace.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not thinking clearly just now. If I come up with anything else, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Okay. You do that.’

  We parted, certainly not friends. But we had each shared a problem and revealed a chink in our armour, and the other had passed up the opportunity to stick the sword in. The truce was palpable.

  I headed back to the bakery, glad to have an awkward conversation out of the way, and feeling much in need of strong coffee and the promised tart. What I didn’t need was to run straight into Nancy.

  CHAPTER 21

  Nancy and I both went into reverse, like two nervous drivers on a single-track road. Then we both seemed to realise that avoidance was futile.

  ‘Hi.’ I spoke first.

  ‘Hey there.’ She had just come out of the bakery, a white paper bag in her hand.

  ‘How are you?’ This is pretty much what the English say to everyone, whether best friend or sworn enemy.

  ‘Doing great, thanks – how about you?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’ I paused, thinking it was strange to bump into her on a weekday. ‘Not at work today?’

  ‘Working from home.’ She smiled. ‘Allegedly. Big report to write, so I figured I’d ease in gently, with some pastries.’

  ‘Look,’ I blurted, ‘I’m sorry I jumped down your throat. It was none of my business.’

  I saw her relax.

  ‘Got time for a quick coffee?’ she asked.

  Was this to be my morning of making truces? I looked at my watch. ‘Okay, just a quick one.’

  Brian had packaged up the custard tarts and he poured us two coffees. In the interim, Mary Lou had arrived in his shop. Thankfully, her fiendish boys were absent: they must finally have started school. She was talking earnestly to Brian and scribbling on a yellow notepad. Perhaps he was giving her baking tips.

  Nancy and I settled ourselves at one of the outside tables. It was still just warm enough, but summer was fading fast. The morning had an autumnal nip and the trees by the church were displaying the first hints of gold.

  ‘I meant to come see you, Grace,’ Nancy began. ‘You sure hit a nerve with what you said …’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. ‘I do realise that just because my husband was cheating, it doesn’t give me the right to stick my nose into your affairs.’ Oops, bad choice of word.

  She shook her head rapidly. ‘Well, I’m kinda glad you did.’

  I looked at her tentatively over the rim of my coffee and waited tactfully.

  ‘I was a schmuck. I’m kicking myself for pinning my hopes on a married man.’ Nancy tore off the ends of two sweetener packets at once and poured them as a pair into her mug.

  ‘Has something happened?’ I picked up on her use of the past tense.

  ‘Well, we had a big fight, and I gave him an ultimatum that he has to tell her and move out by the end of the month.’

  ‘Really?’ It was October next week. ‘I read somewhere it’s not usually a brilliant idea to give ultimatums,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Only if you’re not prepared for the outcome.’ She gave a wobbly smile. ‘I’m ready to end it. At least, I think I am. But anyway, thanks, Grace. I wasn’t acting smart and I needed a push.’

  ‘Okay … wow.’ I wasn’t sure I was ready for this catalytic responsibility on my shoulders. What’s more, I seemed to be making waves everywhere I went. The plan of hiding away and licking my wounds wasn’t quite panning out. ‘Well, I admire you for that. I really do,’ I told her quietly.

  She shook her head, looking gloomy. ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘all kinds of smart women end up looking like c
omplete idiots where men are concerned.’

  ‘Amen to that, sister. But when October rolls around, I need you to hold me to my word.’

  ‘I can do that,’ I said. ‘In fact, I can’t think of anyone better to nag you.’

  ‘That’s a deal, then. Now I guess we should both get to work.’

  We hugged briefly and I watched her walk purposefully off along the pavement, paper bag swinging from one hand.

  ~~~

  I wasn’t quite giddy enough to spend that week walking on air, but the date with Scott did put a certain spring in my step for the next few days. Amelia hadn’t asked for details, which struck me as odd, and I still wondered if they had some history. However, we didn’t have a lot of time for chit-chat. Hargraves & Co was pleasantly busy and I had to make time for my promised visit to Saffron Hall.

  The white Beetle was no stranger to extravagant houses, but even so, I considered parking it somewhere other than the sweeping driveway outside the Hall. My humble vehicle definitely didn’t belong amongst such grandeur.

  Having crunched self-consciously across the deep gravel, I looked in vain for a doorbell and had to settle for the heavy brass door knocker instead. I then stood like a wally, waiting for somebody to appear. After counting to ten, I decided to risk a gander through the downstairs windows.

  I was inching my way off the doorstep when the door was thrown open by bow-tie man.

  ‘Miss Palmer! Good morning to you!’

  ‘Hello.’ I shook the hand that was offered to me, sure now that this was Bernard Pennington-Jones.

  ‘So good of you to come.’ He ushered me into the entrance hall.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

  Bernard’s careful manners verged on formal as he gave a little cough before running through a brief speech on the history of Saffron Hall.

  Inside, the house didn’t feel as big as I had expected. It was impressive, but not forbiddingly grand, in the way a real stately home might be. Instead, it felt more like someone’s residence: comfortable, practical and a little battered around the edges. There was wood panelling, of course, some chandeliers and the occasional oil portrait. However, most of the downstairs rooms made me feel that somebody’s rich grandmother had just popped out to the shops.