Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘I understand you were delayed,’ I’d said, ‘but why didn’t you let me know?’

  ‘The meeting was pretty intense,’ Scott had replied. ‘I was caught off guard: I thought the deal was in the bag. I’m sorry, I lost track of time.’

  ‘I’ve got better things to do than sit around waiting for you.’

  ‘I know, of course you do, I’m really sorry. I hated not being able to get back and see you.’

  His words were smooth, his tone sincere, but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that if I had been anywhere near the top of his priorities, he wouldn’t have left me hanging.

  Upon being introduced to Scott, Nancy fixed him with her appraising, bird-like look. Not only did she know about his dismissal of our Thanksgiving efforts, but I had told her about him disappearing to Manchester.

  ‘So, I hear you were hoping tonight would fall flat on its fanny?’ Nancy said pointedly to him.

  Bernard was clearly shocked and even Daphne took a step backwards.

  ‘She means bottom. Sorry,’ I said hastily.

  Scott, however, was grinning. ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘but I was hoping there would be leftovers.’

  Nancy raised her chin, ready to engage, but Daphne spoke first.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, haven’t you eaten yet? There’s lots of pie and coffee.’

  Scott was still looking as though he would enjoy a sparring match with Nancy. And was he actually assessing her legs in her short tweedy skirt and high-heeled boots? Perhaps he wasn’t as tired as I had assumed.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a forage,’ he said.

  I was relieved that his hungry gaze was now directed at the dessert buffet. He still hadn’t made any attempt to kiss or hug me.

  ‘Where are you staying tonight, dear?’ his mother asked. She knew we were an item and that Scott had slept over at my cottage on previous visits to the village.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Scott glanced at me now and waited.

  I paused. He was gorgeous and eligible, and had apologised sincerely. More flowers had arrived, this time stunning orchids. They were providing some much-needed wow factor in my living room. Even so, I had left the freesias beside my bed.

  I shook my head. ‘It’s getting late, we’ve had a long day. I should go.’

  Daphne nodded briskly to Scott. ‘I’ll put some sheets on the sofa bed.’

  She and Bernard went off together, arm in arm, and I imagined them in their little flat, making Horlicks and watching the ten o’clock news before bed.

  Nancy patted her stomach. ‘I’m so full, I need to go home and lie down. I don’t think I’ll eat for a week.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ I told her as we hugged. ‘You were incredible.’

  ‘I wish our relationships were as easy,’ she whispered to me, before bidding us goodnight.

  Scott took his tie off, stuffing it in his suit pocket. At last, he put his arms around me and kissed me briefly on the lips. ‘Stay for a coffee, at least?’

  His eyes were bloodshot and I wondered how far he’d driven that day. His hands were pressing gently in the small of my back. It felt nice to be close to him. ‘Okay then,’ I said.

  Scott helped himself to several slices of pie and I poured coffee for us both. We looked around the chaos of the ballroom; the caterers were making good progress in swishing everything away.

  ‘How about the orangery?’ he suggested.

  ‘Perfect.’ I needed no encouragement to chill out in my favourite part of the Hall.

  We settled in the wicker armchairs and I sipped my coffee while Scott ate. The orangery felt completely different in the darkness, more intimate, and the scent from the citrus plants was delicious. Designed as a room for daytime use, the old electric lights were inadequate and bathed us in a gentle, flattering glow.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d forgiven me,’ Scott said, when only crumbs remained on his plate. His confident, sexy smile, on the other hand, suggested he felt very certain indeed.

  ‘What for? Abandoning me in London, or for your complete lack of faith in tonight?’ My tone wasn’t unfriendly, but I didn’t plan to be a complete pushover.

  ‘Ouch. Well, as for London, I am truly sorry and I promise to make it up to you. As for you and my parents hoping to save Saffron Hall one party at a time …’ He pulled a face.

  ‘What?’ This wasn’t fair: the dinner had been a smashing success. Did I have to show him the profit and loss sheet?

  ‘Grace, honey, it’s very sweet that you’re all trying, but honestly, this place is on death row.’

  ‘Why?’ I propped my elbows on the table and cupped my chin on one hand.

  ‘Have you seen the grounds? The stables are crumbling, the swimming pool should be condemned. The house itself needs rewiring.’

  Right on cue, the orangery lights flickered. This was such a romantic setting, but I was feeling more irritated with him than I’d ever been.

  ‘And don’t get me started on the plumbing,’ he went on. ‘Most of it’s probably lead.’

  This rattled me. I hoped the hundred Americans who’d eaten here tonight didn’t know their water had come through poisonous pipes. If they did, we’d have a class action lawsuit to add to our troubles.

  ‘But it’s so beautiful,’ I said, sitting back and gazing at the glass roof. It was a cloudy night, threatening rain, but I could just make out the moon overhead. ‘How can you not want to save it?’

  ‘Grace, you’re adorable.’ He shook his head. ‘Just because it’s beautiful doesn’t mean it’s viable.’

  I liked being called adorable, but had a feeling it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

  ‘Anyway,’ he smiled at me, ‘if you and the parentals are determined to keep trying, I have another project to keep me out of trouble. One that would mean I could spend quite a bit of time in the village.’ He looked at me meaningfully, his confidence bubbling just below the surface.

  ‘Oh?’ Naturally, I was now super-curious. ‘What?’

  ‘The malt house.’ He leaned back in his seat, pleased. ‘Or, I should say, the land it’s on.’

  ‘What about it?’ I narrowed my eyes.

  ‘This area desperately needs short-term corporate accommodation. It’s all very well for the bio-tech staff on long contracts, but what about the ones only coming for a month? They need luxury executive housing.’

  ‘And you want to convert the malt house?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not convert. Demolish. It’s a brilliant location.’

  ‘Oh – my – God,’ I said slowly. ‘Please tell me you’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘Er – no.’

  ‘But it’s the heart of the village!’ I said. ‘It’s how we got our name.’

  ‘No, it’s a decaying heap of wasted space.’

  I too sat back, but in dismay, not in complacent satisfaction. ‘I just don’t know what to say.’

  Scott was looking at me in wide-eyed puzzlement. ‘You have a problem with it?’

  I blew out slowly. ‘Hell, Scott, yes, I do. And if you can’t see that, then that’s a problem all of its own.’

  ~~~

  Word travelled faster than a celebrity divorce on Twitter. The villagers were furious. From the post office to the pub and even in the bakery, I was met with tight lips and waspish comments.

  ‘I’m not conspiring with him,’ I told Brian as he wrapped up two Chelsea buns. ‘I hate the idea of the malt house being demolished.’

  ‘Maybe you do.’ He sighed. ‘But it doesn’t help that people see you riding around in his flashy car, smiling at him.’

  ‘What can I do?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s a meeting tonight at the pub. Come to that, and get your thinking cap on.’

  ‘Okay. Absolutely.’

  ‘Oh, and another thing.’ Brian leaned over the counter. ‘Bring Amelia. Round here, she’s the sharpest knife in the drawer.’

  ~~~

  Brian was wrong. Amelia certainly was a shrewd, strategic thinker, but I had neve
r seen anything like the organisational power of the Americans, once they got worked up about something. Mary Lou had rallied her troops and they were thirsty for blood. I was amazed at the sense of ownership they were displaying in protecting Saffron Sweeting’s heritage.

  ‘I grew up with strip malls and four lane highways,’ said a woman with a Scarlett O’Hara accent. ‘I don’t want that for my kids. We came to England for your history and your countryside.’

  ‘Agreed,’ came a male voice. ‘We moved here to escape the billboards. What’s next, KFC?’

  Fergus looked alarmed at the thought of competition for the pub and started giving out free bags of crisps.

  Aware of my precarious position, I sat quietly in the corner and observed proceedings. Amelia and Mary Lou had emerged as natural leaders of the small but passionate group. The former, I suspect, was simply flattered that so many of the villagers were looking to her for advice, but to her credit, she got them organised into task forces. One group was to start a publicity campaign under the banner of Save Saffron Sweeting. A second group was to research legal options for protecting the malt house. And a third group was in charge of approaching conservation charities, in case one could be persuaded to step in and help.

  ‘Grace, which committee do you want to join?’ Amelia singled me out.

  For a moment, I wondered which of the options would infuriate Scott the least. Then I realised I didn’t care. Saffron Sweeting was my home now, and these people were my tribe.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ignoring the nudging around me. ‘But I think we should talk to Snape Maltings. They seem to have a booming business and their malt house is intact.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mary Lou briskly. ‘Put Grace down with non-profit liaison.’

  My shoulders sagged slightly and I caught an icy look from Violet. It looked like it might be time to pick which side I was on.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘No, mum, definitely the navy.’

  We were Christmas shopping together in Marks and Spencer and my mother was eyeing up a scarf set for Harry.

  ‘But the red is more festive,’ she protested.

  ‘Precisely.’ Harry would be a hundred times more likely to wear the blue than the garish red. I placed the navy version firmly in mum’s basket.

  We didn’t often shop together, and as long as I wasn’t looking seriously for things for me, I quite enjoyed it. My mother was an impulsive shopper and easily distracted, but in short doses she was fun.

  ‘What are you getting for dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, he’s so tricky.’ She shook her head in irritation. ‘Socks and a chocolate orange, I expect.’

  I looked around the menswear section of the store for inspiration. If I had been buying a gift for James, he would be more than happy with something from here, but I knew that Scott had more exclusive tastes. And I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get him anything, since he had stood me up squarely last night.

  Our weekend escapes had been fun, but they’d left me with the feeling, now impossible to ignore, that I didn’t really know him. I had thought that a dose of real life might help, and had suggested I cook us a special dinner at my place. I’d chopped, browned, simmered and seasoned to create a rich boeuf bourguignon, my only error being to mix up the cooking wine with the one we were supposed to drink. For appetisers, I’d attempted individual soufflés, which were ready to go in the oven the moment Scott arrived. Not only that, but I had dusted, vacuumed, lit candles and taken a long, sensuous bath in preparation for our romantic evening. I’d even managed to get a fire going without smoking the cottage out.

  Mungo hadn’t got the memo that this was to be a private party. He’d shown up around six and by seven, as tantalising smells engulfed the cottage, he was drooling all over the kitchen floor. When Scott still hadn’t pitched up thirty minutes later, I broke into a bag of Quavers and shared them with my canine companion, nibbling slowly so as not to spoil my appetite. At eight, I stirred the beef anxiously, noticing how dry it was getting around the edges of the pot. Mungo sat up in anticipation, his tongue lolling out.

  Gloomily, I took a large glass of the remaining wine to the sofa, where I stared into the fire. Was I so pathetic, I was destined to be with men who messed me around? After last time, surely Scott realised that if he was going to be late, he absolutely had to call? Feeble or not, I was too proud to text him.

  Finally, my phone rang.

  ‘Where are you this time?’

  ‘Glasgow. We’re fogbound. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Right.’ So much for three hours of cooking and cleaning.

  ‘You’re livid, I can tell.’

  ‘It would just be a bit more convenient if you could confine yourself to East Anglia, when I’m slaving over dinner.’

  ‘Well, if you weren’t making it so hard for me to find projects, I wouldn’t have to go further afield, would I?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ I played with Mungo’s ears as he nudged his chin onto my lap.

  ‘Look …’ Scott sighed and paused to let an airport announcement finish. ‘Can I see you on Sunday evening?’

  ‘If you want reheated beef stew, then yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Good. I have something to ask you.’

  Needless to say, Mungo got a fine dinner that night, and he didn’t seem to care that his soufflé sagged.

  ‘Don’t you dare go home to Violet and throw it up,’ I’d told him as he flopped down by the fire with a sigh of doggy contentment.

  I hadn’t told my family about Scott, so I wasn’t going to mention the dinner disaster to my mother. And I couldn’t imagine what kind of question he might have up his sleeve.

  By now, mum was scrutinising some V-neck jumpers with Argyle diamonds on the front.

  ‘That’s a bit trendy for dad, isn’t it?’ I said doubtfully, as she held up a lilac jumper with a bold yellow pattern. My father didn’t like to wear anything that wasn’t navy, beige or maroon.

  ‘Not for your father, silly. For me. I was thinking it would look quite natty on the golf course.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I replied. ‘Lovely.’

  Amelia had given me Saturday afternoon off as we were so close to Christmas, nobody was looking seriously at houses. I suspected she was using the time to plot her efforts to save the malt house. Considering there was no obvious profit to be made from the project, she had become impressively committed to the cause.

  Not only that, but without me mentioning it again, she had quietly started to put together welcome packs to be given to all new residents along with their house keys. The bakery, antiques barn, Oak House bed and breakfast and even The Plough had promotional offers in there.

  ‘Never thought I’d see this,’ Brian had said to me, and personally delivered half a dozen custard tarts for Amelia.

  Mum added the sweater to the growing pile in her basket, then stopped and looked at me. ‘So, how are you doing, love?’

  ‘Fine.’ I met her eye, but looked away quickly.

  ‘You look brighter, I’ll say that much.’

  After a hearty portion of beef and two big glasses of wine, I had slept remarkably well, despite the indignity of my no-show date. I tried to change the subject. ‘Does dad need more socks?’

  I was unsuccessful.

  ‘It’s none of my business …’ she said, and I braced myself for what was inevitably going to be a pointed question.

  ‘… but have you heard from James?’

  I blinked. Yes, totally nosy. Still, what did it matter? ‘Not since I met up with him in London.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you’d seen him.’

  I filled her in briefly on his conference trip and Hyde Park, but not the freesias.

  ‘And how do you feel, now you’ve had some time … to yourself?’

  I shook my head, not because I was unwilling to talk, but because I didn’t know what to say. I feigned interest in the fabric composition of a pack of rainbow striped socks.

  ‘Gracie.’ Mum to
ok the socks out of my hands and put them back. ‘Marriage can be very hard.’

  I grunted in acknowledgement.

  ‘Especially these days. Young people now have such high expectations.’

  ‘Er, mum, I expected my husband to be faithful.’

  She nodded. ‘I know you did. We all do. It’s just … well, sometimes, Grace, you have to wonder whether it’s better, in the long run, to compromise.’

  I put my head on one side. ‘Compromise?’

  ‘There are thousands of happy marriages which haven’t always run smoothly. That’s all I’m trying to say.’ She added a three-pack of boring navy socks to her haul.

  What point was she making here? ‘You’re not saying I should take him back, are you?’

  ‘That’s up to you, love. I’m just suggesting you think about your long-term happiness. Be sure you’re not cutting off your nose to spite your face.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You’ve got dad.’

  She smiled softly and gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘Nobody’s a saint, Grace.’

  ‘Maybe. But I’m not going to let a man make a fool of me again.’

  ‘I just want you to be happy. And there’s more than one path to get there.’

  I watched as she fished in her handbag for her shopping list, surreptitiously slipping the happy rainbow socks into my own basket. Then, as she looked at me again, I plastered a Christmas smile on my face and said brightly, ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ~~~

  The next day was a Sunday. Amelia, Nancy and I took a field trip to Snape Maltings, claiming it was for research. Actually, it was a girls’ festive outing, before Nancy headed back home for Hanukkah and Amelia went to her parents in Bournemouth. Shopping, eating and gossiping were high on our agenda. As such, we’d only been there an hour when we decided brunch was a necessity. The three of us clattered upstairs to the charming white-walled cafe with its scrubbed wooden tables and thick overhead beams.

  ‘I’m so impressed with what they’ve done here.’ Amelia’s eyes lit up as she spied bacon sandwiches on the menu. ‘I knew about the music festival, but not the rest of it.’