‘I’ve sold an entire crate already. That’s the second batch and more are coming from Wisbech this week.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I smiled.
She pointed out a large poster on her noticeboard. ‘The kiddies’ parade starts at four o’clock. I assume Hargraves is taking part? If you are, you have to put orange balloons outside, so people know.’
‘Orange balloons. Right. Absolutely.’
I bought three small pumpkins and fled, arms full, back to the office, where I fell down our step.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Amelia had just returned from viewings and was hanging keys back up.
‘I’ve goofed!’ I yelped, picking up the two pumpkins that I’d dropped. ‘It’s Halloween in four days and we haven’t decorated!’
‘Why do we have to decorate?’ she asked calmly.
‘Because I told the whole village how important Halloween is to the Americans. There’s going to be a parade and all the kids will want free candy – I mean sweets. We need to have orange balloons outside. Oh God, and costumes. You and I have to dress up.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’ Amelia smirked and smoothed down her grey leather skirt.
I shook my head. ‘I’m deadly serious. There are posters everywhere, haven’t you seen them? This is a big thing for the village.’
She looked sceptical and started typing.
‘It’ll bring in new people,’ I said, having no idea if this was true. But I remembered the reception I’d got from Amelia last time I suggested something to benefit the village. This time, I was going to be more devious. ‘People who might not have considered living here.’
Amelia’s head swivelled sharply, like an owl’s. ‘Really?’
Good, I had her attention. ‘Oh yes, definitely,’ I said confidently.
She put her elbows on her desk, making a steeple of her fingers as her eyes narrowed.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you do decorations, I’ll sort out costumes. You can spend a hundred pounds, but keep the receipts.’
I leaped up and tried to hug her but she batted me off. Undeterred, I grabbed my car keys and headed out of the door.
~~~
‘Holy crap!’ Amelia said in a loud whisper. ‘Where are they all coming from?’
I shushed her in case any of the pirates, pixies or princesses overheard. ‘I think maybe they’re bussing them in.’
It was only twenty past four and we had already been deluged by children. Some were shy, and barely knew whether to accept the free sweets or not. Others tried to grab fistfuls and had to be reminded by their video-camera wielding parent to say the magic word. All, however, were enormously cute. So far, we had seen a bumble bee, a flamingo and even a television set, as well as the more predictable pirates, ghosts and witches. As far as I could make out, both British and American families were out in force.
My jester costume was comical, verging on ridiculous, but at least it was warm. Dressed in a purple and red velvet tunic, with long sweeping sleeves, matching curly hat and bottle-green tights, I had risked an earlier trip to the bakery for snacks to sustain us through the evening.
To my concern, I found Brian had put on twenty pounds and changed gender. Happily, the figure behind the cat mask, dressed entirely in black Lycra, turned out to be Marjorie.
‘Brian’s along at the malt house, setting up,’ she told me. ‘I’m just minding the shop and giving out sweeties to the kids, then I’m closing at four thirty.’
I didn’t ask what kind of setting up he was doing as I was busy choosing the least gruesome cookies left in the cabinet.
On my way back to the Hargraves office, I’d looked up the High Street. The clocks had changed the previous weekend and it was already dusk. I spotted several clusters of orange balloons, and outside the pub, a trio of buskers were unpacking instruments. They were wearing university gowns and mortar boards, which might or might not have been their regular busking attire. It was one of those days when it was extremely dangerous to compliment someone on their costume.
I was in no doubt, however, that Amelia had changed her outfit. She was also a jester, but I noticed with envy that her costume was far sexier than mine. She looked classy but racy in black and white diamond spandex, complete with black gloves and a sparkly face mask. Unlike my awkward booties with curled up toes, she was wearing tall black stilettos. I noticed she’d even managed to get one of her cocktail rings on over her glove.
‘Where on earth did you get these?’ I’d asked her, not liking to enquire whether she was wearing any underwear.
‘Years ago, when I was a student, I was in the drama club,’ she said. ‘Footlights, you might have heard of it?’
‘You mean the Footlights, where a gazillion famous people got started? Stephen Fry, Emma Thompson?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyway, I called an old friend and he recommended a costume supplier.’
‘Wow.’ I felt better about my jester get-up, knowing there was a chance it could have been worn by a great thespian.
Even if I looked a little bizarre, the office was fabulous. In my panic that Halloween was upon us, I had worked until midnight gathering supplies and then decorating. I had repeated the orange balloons inside, and nearly broke my neck climbing on our desks to hang matching paper streamers. Black cut-out ghosts floated in our window, while obligatory spiders dangled from the ceiling and perched on our computers. A Cambridge party store had yielded a cavernous plastic cauldron, which now contained the necessary candy for the trick-or-treaters.
Best of all, I had taken inspiration from Violet and persuaded Peter to let me raid his antiques barn. A huge doll’s house now claimed our coffee table. Populated by mini witches and thumb-sized black cats, it glowed from battery-powered lights covered in orange paper. Beside it, an old half barrel was filled with packing straw and lucky dip gifts.
Now, seeing the hammering it was taking from eager little paws, I hoped we had enough trinkets. Perhaps I should make a mercy dash to the post office to see if Violet had any stock left.
Amelia was having a wonderful time, shaking her jester bells at the children, flirting with their fathers and generally hailing all visitors with ‘Trick or Tree-heat!’ I hoped she hadn’t been at the emergency brandy we kept under the kitchen sink. She was collecting business cards in a separate cauldron, ostensibly a raffle for a bottle of wine, but I knew she’d be calling everyone in the next few days to see if they had any real estate needs.
At five, we locked up and made our way down the High Street in the direction of the noise and merriment. There were cars parked everywhere, and small family clusters straggled along in the growing dusk, buckets of candy dangling from little fingers. Under the tall black swan-necks of the Saffron Sweeting street lights, the bustle of wizardly figures made me think we had been transported to Diagon Alley.
The student buskers had moved on from the pub, so we followed the sounds of their music – currently, ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ from Fantasia – to the crowd clustered in the field next to the malt house. There, we found temporary lighting had been strung up in the beech trees, and some enterprising soul had brought in a cart to sell candyfloss and popcorn. The adults, meanwhile, were flocking around an old ice cream truck, which seemed strange until I approached and saw it had been commandeered by Brian to sell both cider and mulled wine.
Amelia spotted it too and made a beeline for the queue. I joined her and when we got to the front, was surprised to find Brian being assisted by none other than Mary Lou.
‘Grace!’ She seemed delighted to see me. ‘Isn’t this awesome?’
‘It’s great,’ I said.
‘What’s it gonna be? We have hot dogs and pretzels, as well as drinks.’
Perfect. I bought mulled wine for Amelia and cider for me. I hoped the American families knew the crucial difference between our cider and theirs. They’d get pulled over on their drive home, if not.
‘How come there are so many people here?�
�� I asked Mary Lou.
‘Well, you know, word just sorta spread,’ she grinned.
‘I love that you’re working with Brian.’
‘We got plans, honey. You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ she replied.
I would have asked what she meant, but the orderly British queue behind me was starting to rustle and mutter, so I moved aside.
The evening was chilly, but not so inhospitable that people couldn’t stand around and chat. By the malt house – where someone had hoisted up fake ghosts – I saw bales of straw arranged as circular seating. Curious, I went over and found none other than Kenneth, reading ghost stories to a cluster of children. He peered intermittently over his spectacles, to make sure they were listening.
‘Grace, congratulations!’ Peter appeared from the throng and raised his paper cup to me.
I shook my head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This is all thanks to you, you know.’
‘Oh no, not me,’ I protested. ‘I didn’t do this.’
He bit into a hot dog held in a paper napkin, and waved it as he spoke with his mouth partly full. ‘You started it, at least. It’s fantastic to see what the village can do, when people get inspired.’
‘Well, that’s true,’ I said. ‘But I can’t take the credit.’ I felt guilty for being so wrapped up in Scott recently, but nonetheless was thrilled to see my new friends enjoying themselves.
From the ice cream truck, Nancy waved at us and then threaded through the crowd. She wasn’t in costume, but was wearing a beautiful rusty orange coat and big amber earrings. The colours suited her.
‘This is awesome!’ she said, hugging me and giving Peter a friendly squeeze on the arm. I hadn’t realised they’d become friends.
‘Jeez,’ she gasped, as a sudden loud pop drew our attention. ‘Is that Giles?’
I followed her surprised gaze and sure enough, saw Peter’s partner knee-deep in children. He was making balloon animals for them.
‘That’s so sweet,’ I said.
Peter nodded. ‘Giles loves kids.’ I thought he looked wistful, and wondered if the authorities would entertain the idea of them starting a family. I had a feeling adoption might be trickier here than in San Francisco. And what on earth would his mother say?
Nancy nudged me. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while,’ she said, meaningfully.
I bowed my head in acknowledgement. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I barely realised it was Halloween, until this week.’
‘And then Thanksgiving! I love this time of year.’
I groaned. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you planning a big party?’
‘Umm, yeah, but it’s not going so well.’
I told her how few tickets we had sold and how my press releases seemed to have landed in recycling bins.
‘At this rate, we’re heading for a big loss. I feel awful – I’m letting Bernard and Daphne down.’ I sighed. ‘Then again, Scott did say we were wasting our time.’
‘Did he? Why?’
‘Well, he’d like it to fizzle, then he’d be able to persuade the trustees to sell Saffron Hall. But his parents are so excited. And they’re lovely people, I like them.’
‘So, he doesn’t think you can make it work? That’s not very supportive.’
I shook my head and shifted from one curly jester foot to the other. I had, in fact, talked to Daphne about Scott’s belief that the Hall should be sold for development.
‘It was hard for him as a little boy,’ his mother had said. ‘We were squeezed into our couple of rooms and I kept having to explain to him we didn’t own the whole house. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t play wherever he wanted.’
‘But now he’s on a mission to sell the Hall, not save it,’ I’d pointed out.
Daphne had sighed. ‘Scott believes in fitting his own oxygen mask first. His own financial security is uppermost in his mind. He bought his first flat when he was twenty-one and hasn’t looked back.’
If his investment properties and Jaguar were anything to go by, Scott’s financial security was in the bag. Perhaps he just didn’t know when to stop. And to be honest, I wasn’t putting up much of a protest at his generosity in sharing his lifestyle.
To Nancy, I said in a subdued voice, ‘I think part of me might want Thanksgiving to fail, so as not to rock the boat with Scott.’
‘Grace, that’s pretty lame.’ Nancy tutted.
‘I know.’ I finished my cider and shrugged, then realised she was still waiting for a response. ‘What?’ I said defensively.
‘You shouldn’t let him intimidate you,’ she said. ‘Swing for the fences.’
‘Easier said than done,’ I grumbled.
‘Grace, wake up! How many families are here tonight?’
I looked around. ‘I dunno. Thirty?’
‘More like eighty. Do you have any fliers?’
I nodded. ‘They’re at home.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there! Go fetch them!’
When I got back to the malt house, Nancy and Peter were still chatting. I’d had to park the Beetle a quarter of a mile away and arrived, breathless, jester bells jingling and hat askew.
‘What now?’ I panted.
‘Cars,’ she said. ‘Windshields.’
‘Can I help?’ Peter asked.
‘Sure thing.’ Nancy handed him a pile of leaflets. We set off down the High Street, me on one side of the road, the two of them on the other, putting our literature under windscreen wipers.
‘Good,’ Nancy declared, as the cars finally petered out by the vicarage. ‘That should help.’
The three of us began walking back together. ‘How are you selling tickets?’ she asked me.
‘People send a cheque to the Hall,’ I replied.
‘That sucks, if you’ll excuse me saying. Why aren’t you doing it online?’
‘I don’t know how,’ I said. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’ The uncomfortable truth was, I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought. I’d been too busy gazing into Scott’s eyes and being swept off my feet.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave that to me.’
~~~
When I arrived home, after ten o’clock, the novelty of being a jester was wearing thin. In fact, I was looking forward to a long bubble bath and maybe getting the edges of Good Housekeeping soggy.
Most of the families with children had drifted away by seven. It had started to get really cold and the remaining grown-ups, myself included, had trooped by mutual consent to the pub. We made a funny group: two jesters, three witches, at least four vampires and Marjorie as a feline.
Bizarrely, Fergus, the pub landlord, had been dressed as Cleopatra, complete with black wig.
‘It was on sale,’ he told us cheerfully.
We hadn’t been there long when Brian and his wife came in. Everyone greeted him enthusiastically, praising his initiative and hot refreshments.
‘To be honest, it was Mary Lou’s idea.’ He wouldn’t accept the compliments. ‘She’s got a heck of a zeal, that one.’
‘Where is she?’ Fergus asked.
‘Taking those wretched kids home to throttle them, I hope,’ Brian said. ‘Talk about sugar overload.’
‘What did she mean about more plans?’ I asked, then looked at Brian’s wife in case I’d put my foot in it. Thankfully, her pretty face remained calm as she drank her shandy. Whatever the deal was with Mary Lou, she wasn’t bothered.
‘You’ll like this, Grace.’ Brian paused for effect, then said, ‘Mary Lou and that friend of hers are going to open a shop. Second hand children’s stuff. Or toys, or something.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘In the old bank building. It’s been empty for months now.’
I wondered if Amelia had been part of this plan. Then again, she didn’t seem to bother much with commercial property.
‘They’re going to have space for a cafe. They seem to think mothers – or moms, as they keep saying –
will love it.’
‘Gosh.’ I processed this. ‘But won’t a cafe compete with you?’ Now it was autumn, Brian’s outdoor tables weren’t getting much use, but his takeaway coffee still seemed popular.
‘Hah! That’s the best part. I’m running it. I’ve got an ad in the paper for staff.’
‘See, Grace.’ Peter had been listening and chimed in. ‘You really have started something rolling.’
I had shrugged it off, but privately, I was thrilled to hear of a joint American–British venture. If Mary Lou could pull it off, I could see that her shop might attract mothers from outside the village too. It couldn’t be easy, moving continents without all the paraphernalia that accompanies kids. I’d thought about Jem and Harry’s tiny flat and the sheer amount of gear they seemed to need for Seb.
I started to run a bath and then perched on my bed to look at the day’s mail. There wasn’t much, but a chunky envelope from Norfolk caught my eye.
This arrived for you, said a short cover note on lavender paper. I thought it might be important. Love Mum. PS: Will you be coming for Christmas?
It contained another envelope. I needed only a glance to ascertain it had come via the US Postal Service. James’s careful writing was on the outside.
I felt sick. Was this what divorce papers looked like? I turned the envelope over in my hands, then remembered the bath. I scuttled to turn off the taps before I caused a flood. As I straightened up, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. I was still wearing the ridiculous jester’s hat. I pulled it off and threw it on the floor, then looked myself bravely in the eye.
‘Whatever is in here, Grace Palmer, you can deal with it,’ I said firmly. ‘Things are going fine. You’re doing fine. You have a new life now.’
Nonetheless, as I located my nail file and ran it along the short edge of the envelope, I couldn’t help wishing Mungo was there to keep me company.
CHAPTER 26
All the information was in English, but my brain still struggled to make sense of it. I had been so ready to read the official words signalling the end of my marriage to James, I couldn’t comprehend why I was seeing pages with a conference agenda and travel itinerary. An Information Security summit in Kensington held zero interest for me. On the other hand, ethical hacking and cryptography seminars would be a total magnet for James. Light dawned. I fumbled the sheets and realised I’d been reading back to front.
Saving Saffron Sweeting Page 21