Saving Saffron Sweeting

by Pauline Wiles

  ‘Agreed.’ I was tempted by the full English breakfast but decided that was too piggy, even for me. I hoped Nancy wouldn’t mind both Amelia and me tucking into bacon. ‘And the shops are fantastic. I plan on getting all my Christmas gifts in one fell swoop.’

  ‘Ooh, there’s a whole building of antiques.’ Nancy consulted the Snape map on her phone.

  ‘Are you allowed to fraternise with the competition?’ I asked her.

  She winked. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  ‘Won’t tell what?’ Amelia said.

  ‘Tell Peter that Nancy’s been buying antiques without him.’

  ‘Why, has he got some kind of monopoly on you?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘Well, not quite.’ Nancy was looking exceedingly pleased.

  Amelia frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You know.’ I tilted my head towards Nancy and attempted to waggle my eyebrows. ‘The dishy and delightful Peter.’

  ‘Er, the gay Peter?’ Amelia said loudly, cocktail ring glinting as she made a camp gesture.

  I shushed her as our food arrived.

  ‘Peter’s not gay,’ Nancy said evenly.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Amelia daubed HP sauce on her sandwich. She took a huge bite and looked at me to back her up.

  I caught her eye meaningfully and shook my head.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ said Nancy definitively. She grinned and picked up her fork to tackle her scrambled eggs.

  ‘Holy crap!’ Amelia choked on her bacon butty.

  Nancy thumped her on the back, smiling. ‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ she protested.

  ‘Yet? Wow.’ When she could talk again, Amelia raised her cappuccino cup to Nancy. ‘Here’s to you, darling.’

  After we’d munched for a few minutes, I looked at our stylishly simple surroundings. ‘Do you think we can save our malt house and create something like this?’

  Amelia puffed up her cheeks. ‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘It would be amazing, but I’ll be honest, it’s a long shot.’

  ‘They’ve really got it together here,’ I sighed. ‘No wonder Scott was sniffing around.’

  ‘Was he?’ Nancy asked.

  I nodded. ‘He brought me here on a date: I thought he was just trying to make sure I had a good time. Silly me. It was obviously a business visit for him. He already had his beady eye on the Saffron Sweeting malt house.’

  ‘Except he wants to demolish ours, not convert it,’ Amelia pointed out.

  ‘It probably costs more to preserve something like this than just to start again,’ Nancy said practically.

  ‘Yes, well, money isn’t everything,’ said Amelia as she fished in her Mulberry handbag for a Dior lipstick, then crossed her legs and accidentally kicked me with her new Coach boot.

  I threw her an ironic look, which she missed completely. She was totally behind this malt house project; perhaps her altruistic side had surfaced at last. And although she said our chances of saving it were slim, I felt more hopeful. We’d stirred up a little publicity and the previous week, a dishy journalist from the local Cambridge paper had interviewed several of us.

  ‘Anyway,’ Amelia narrowed her eyes at me, ‘if anyone’s fraternising with the enemy, it’s Grace.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what Scott was up to.’

  ‘But you do now,’ Nancy said crisply.

  They were both looking at me unflinchingly. I gazed down at my lap.

  ‘He stood me up on Friday,’ I said, after a pause.

  If I was looking for sympathy, I didn’t get it.

  ‘Where?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘My place. I cooked dinner.’

  ‘And he didn’t show up?’ said Amelia.

  ‘No. Fog in Glasgow. Flight was cancelled.’

  Nancy and Amelia exchanged looks.

  ‘How many times is that now?’ Nancy said.

  ‘How many what?’ I asked.

  ‘That he’s blown you off.’

  Amelia looked momentarily confused, but I knew what Nancy meant.

  ‘Only twice,’ I said.

  Nancy snorted. ‘Only? How many times does it take?’

  I made a little pile of the sandwich crumbs on my empty plate. ‘What are you saying?’

  Nancy wrinkled her nose and blinked at me through her glasses. ‘Just that he’s not treating you real good.’

  I glanced at Amelia, who had her elbows on the table and was resting her chin on top of interwoven fingers.

  ‘Actually, darling, he’s not behaving very well in general, is he?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ I screwed up my napkin and ran a weary hand through my hair. ‘He’s not.’

  ~~~

  Nancy and I had left our cars in Saffron Sweeting, so Amelia took us back to the Hargraves office in her green Mercedes. We were almost at the shortest day of the year. Despite leaving Snape in the early afternoon, it was now dusk. As we passed the malt house, I was sure I spotted a Jaguar through the gloom.

  So far, December had proved damp and foggy. As I transferred my shopping bags into the Beetle’s boot, I thought the village looked almost Dickensian.

  Ignoring the welcoming promise of the pub, I trekked back in the direction of the malt house. The long building was in shadow, of course. It looked doomed and mournful, like the Titanic after her lights went out. Beside it, the beech trees were now bare. As I stood looking up, an owl hooted, making me jump and reminding me why I was here. Yes, there was the Jaguar, with Scott sitting in the driver’s seat, fingers moving over his iPad. I tapped on the window and now it was his turn to jump.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous.’ He smiled in surprise as the window slid down. ‘I was on my way to see you.’

  I shrugged wordlessly, shoving both hands into my coat pockets and hunching my shoulders against the damp chill.

  ‘Hop in,’ he said. ‘It’s cold out there.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m okay.’

  Scott looked surprised, then turned to grab his coat from the passenger seat. He got out of the car, sliding his arms into his jacket. Then he gave me a quick hug and lowered his head for a kiss. I turned away.

  ‘Are you hungry? Would you like to go out for dinner?’ He settled for brushing the hair off my face.

  ‘There’s leftover beef, remember?’ I couldn’t believe he’d forgotten.

  ‘I’m so sorry about Friday night,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’

  I nodded dubiously and gazed at the chunky zip on his trendy navy jacket. It said Barbour in tiny letters.

  ‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’ I said.

  Doubt crossed his face. ‘Can we do this at your place, where it’s warmer?’

  I looked up at the malt house, looming above. I had the impression it was protecting us from the wind. I shook my head. ‘Ask me here.’

  ‘Well, okay. I know it’s been difficult spending time together recently.’ He smiled. ‘I’m busy, you’re busy.’

  I wasn’t too busy to whisk egg whites into a soufflé and whisk myself into fancy underwear, I thought. But I said nothing.

  ‘So I was thinking, if you’d like, we should go away properly together. For Christmas. No work, no distractions, just you, me and a five-star hotel.’

  ‘Somewhere else you’re buying?’ I lifted my chin in irritation.

  ‘No. Gosh, no, definitely not. I was thinking maybe Prague. Or Vienna?’

  I couldn’t help it, my eyebrows climbed of their own volition. ‘Wow.’

  This was serious stuff. I had visited Prague years ago on a backpacking trip, but never Vienna. I pictured snow-dusted castles and glossy horses pulling carriages. I saw string quartets and a roaring fire in an ornate, gilded hotel suite. Oh, and I saw elegant tiered plates of delicate European pastries. It was hard to imagine anything more romantic.

  Scott put a gloved finger under my chin and tilted it so he could see my face. ‘Well?’ In the darkness, his face was shadowed, but he looked as charming and confident as ever.

  I licked my lips to
say Yes and kiss him, but was stalled by a new vision. I saw myself, on Christmas Eve, dressed in a new coat and snug fleece-lined boots. I was standing in a check-in hall at Heathrow Airport, with one eye on the flight departures board and one eye on my silent phone, as throngs of hurried travellers swarmed around me. I was waiting for a man who wasn’t going to show up. Again.

  I took a step backwards and said a reluctant goodbye to the ride in a horse-drawn carriage.

  ‘Grace? Will you come with me to Vienna?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t.’

  CHAPTER 30

  Christmas was grim. Having turned down the festive allure of Austria, my next best option was to spend it with my parents in Norfolk. Sometimes, the familial hearth can be the loneliest place in the world.

  The creations of the Gilling kitchen were worthy of an international culinary festival. For three days before Christmas, ingredients were seared, simmered, sautéed and steamed. Smells which would have driven Mungo insane wafted through the house, from fresh bread in the morning to herb-laden soups at lunchtime. By afternoon, cinnamon and vanilla scents could be detected, and each evening, slow-roasting meats thrilled our noses with their promise of juicy tenderness.

  My parents, competitive in the kitchen at the best of times, were in heaven. Between them, they lugged in mounds of vegetables and visited the butcher’s shop daily. Their narrow fridge couldn’t cope, so an extra one was rigged up in the garage, beside the golf clubs and long-forgotten camping gear.

  Since I was so clearly single, I decided I might as well eat to keep warm. The relentless heat of the kitchen meant the central heating was turned down and the rest of the bungalow was nippy. Most of the time I was wearing two jumpers and a scarf, even indoors. Yet, in spite of the extra layers, I can’t ever remember feeling so cold at this time of year. I helped half-heartedly with the food preparation but mostly stared mindlessly at repeats on television. Whenever Radio 2 played ‘Last Christmas’, I left the room before I began crying.

  Jem, glowing so much that I wondered if she might be pregnant again, arrived with my brother and Seb the day before Christmas Eve. But no: she said, ‘This time of year just suits me. I’m thrilled to bits to get my meals cooked for five days.’

  She was right; the season, with its gold, crimson and teal, did suit her dark colouring.

  ‘Don’t you miss being with your family?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘There are so many of us, I always wonder if Seb’s going to get trampled underfoot. They won’t miss three.’

  ‘Are you sleeping better?’ I wanted to know. I, for one, was not, and the sofa bed in dad’s study wasn’t helping.

  She smiled. ‘Not much. But I seem to have more energy. Getting past Seb’s first birthday was a milestone.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve started doing a bit of freelance work.’

  ‘Really? Like what?’

  ‘I’m calling it HR consulting, although between you and me that’s a bit of a grand title. But I can do it from home, answer questions, give policy advice, that kind of thing.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ I hugged her.

  ‘So far I’m only doing it for one company – they’re small and don’t want a full-time person.’ She started attacking the bowl of nuts on the living room table, shelling them with the nutcrackers that we only saw at Christmas time.

  ‘Still, I’m impressed.’

  ‘Yup. It beats minimum wage at Tesco. I woke up one morning and decided to just try and create the life I want.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I murmured, moving my feet out of the way of flying nut shrapnel, while noting it was the second time this week I’d heard that concept.

  ‘And how are you doing?’ Jem asked quietly.

  I had called and told her that Scott and I had broken up, but hadn’t shared details. I’d simply said, ‘He lives life completely on his own terms. I don’t think he gives any thought to the people around him.’

  I made out I was okay, but in reality I was angry with myself for getting swept up in a hollow relationship. Amelia was right: Scott had been a total rebound guy, and I was beginning to think his only purpose had been to soothe my shattered ego.

  Even so, I couldn’t help thinking wistfully of that hotel in Vienna, romantic, snowy walks, and warm arms around me at night. But as I mooched around the house, observing my parents’ gentle harmony and Harry and Jem’s joy at Christmas with Seb, I wondered whose arms I was really missing.

  ‘C’mon, Grace,’ Scott had said when I told him I wouldn’t go to Austria. ‘I said I was sorry. What’s the problem?’

  I’d backed away from him and folded my arms. ‘I just don’t think we share the same values.’

  ‘Like what? Pretending a village that’s stuck in the last century isn’t going down the pan?’

  ‘It’s not stuck in the last century. It’s a way of life. You grew up here, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Which is precisely why I can see the writing on the wall. You’re being naive.’

  ‘And you’re being mercenary.’

  He laughed. ‘No, I’m just going after what I want. You should try it, rather than drifting around playing nice the whole time.’

  I’d glared at him.

  ‘So you won’t come away with me?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Fine.’ He turned to get back in his car. ‘I know plenty of other women who’ll do the Viennese Waltz.’

  That had been a cheap shot. Had he ever really cared about me, or had I just happened to be around buildings he fancied? I thought back to his loft apartment, where pride of place had been given to framed blueprints, not framed faces.

  ~~~

  Not counting tiny Seb, there would be six mouths to feed on Christmas Day: mum and dad, Harry and Jem, me, and Aunt Dotty.

  My father’s sister and a retired traffic warden, Dorothy Gilling lives in King’s Lynn and has acted eighty years old for the past three decades. She makes much drama of the weather and considers the thirty-five mile trip to Holt to be equivalent to crossing the Himalayas. Dressed accordingly in a sensible tweed skirt, walking boots and thick woollen socks, she allows at least two hours for the journey and grips the wheel of her Ford Fiesta with unblinking intent. Despite all that, she’s fun to have around, especially once she’s had a couple of sweet sherries. A colourful character, I was relying on her to take the burden of the family’s curiosity off my shoulders.

  Still, as I sat at the Christmas lunch table wearing a lopsided paper hat and a fake smile, I couldn’t help gazing at Dotty over my glass of Sauvignon Blanc and wondering if this was how I was going to end up: eccentric and alone.

  We had feasted royally and quaffed even more. Smoked salmon salad was followed by turkey, stuffing, parsnips, roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts and sweetcorn. Secretly, I liked the bacon-wrapped mini sausages the best, but I tackled the bird with as much gusto as I could manage, grateful we weren’t feasting on one of mum’s chickens.

  Crackers had been pulled, silly jokes told. I tried not to think about last year when James had been here. He knew all the cracker jokes off by heart but had humoured my father by playing along. He’d also peeled five pounds of potatoes without a word of complaint and had been first on hand with a damp tea towel when it looked as if the flames around the Christmas pudding might take out the dining room curtains.

  This year, there were no pyrotechnics, at least, not visible ones.

  Dotty waved her spoon, laden with pudding and brandy sauce, in Jem and Harry’s direction. ‘I like to see the next generation looking so happy,’ she pronounced.

  Harry raised his glass to her. He, too, seemed more relaxed than usual, confident that the banking world could do without him for seventy-two hours. He had been buried in the Radio Times, plotting how many classic action films he could fit in. Now, he looked at Jem and smiled. She leaned her head into his shoulder for a moment, before glancing at Seb,
docile in his bouncer seat. My mother looked as if she might get teary and even dad nodded proudly.

  Dotty turned her wizened gaze to me. ‘And what about you, Grace? You’re awfully glum for Christmas Day.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ mum said quickly.

  ‘I noticed your wedding photo’s been relegated to the loo,’ Dotty said, with a meaningful twitch of her head.

  I had seen that too, and remembered thinking it would have been easier if my mother had hidden it completely. But now, I just shrugged, unable to craft a witty comeback about my marriage going down the toilet.

  ‘Terrible shame.’ My aunt, bossy at the best of times, had had far too much to drink. ‘Throwing a good man away, just because he had a fancy woman.’

  ‘That’s enough, Dot,’ my father muttered, as I gazed down at my red paper napkin and started tearing its corners off.

  ‘Well, Geoffrey,’ his sister popped more pudding in her mouth and continued cheerfully, ‘it’s not as if she’d be the first Gilling to pick up the pieces and carry on.’

  I was so mortified, her words didn’t register immediately. By the time I looked up, Harry was staring fixedly out of the window, my father’s eyes were huge as he glared at Dorothy, and Jem was gazing at me in disbelief. I turned in slow motion to my mother, who had gone white except for two small blotches of red burning on her cheeks. She stood up and started gathering bowls, even though most of us hadn’t finished our pudding.

  ‘Right,’ she said, clattering her best china as though it had come from the bargain bin at Oxfam. ‘Who wants cheese?’

  ~~~

  Nobody dared say anything further, right through the Queen’s speech, the inevitable Two Ronnies repeat and most of Titanic. Dotty sat in the best chair, first looking pleased with herself, then rubbing her stomach for indigestion, and finally nodding her head in gentle slumber.

  As Rose and Jack’s new-found love faced the looming iceberg, I followed Harry and Jem to the kitchen where the carnage was breathtaking. Exuberant and creative cooks, my parents didn’t believe in tidying up as they went along. While Jem busied herself transferring mountains of leftovers to Tupperware, Harry bravely rolled up his sleeves at the sink. I squeezed a few more things into the dishwasher then picked up a Royal Wedding tea towel – Charles and Diana, not William and Kate.