Saving Saffron Sweeting (5 page)

When characters in books say they cried
themselves to sleep, I am sceptical. That night, I drenched several
tissues, gave myself the hiccups and emptied the complimentary tin
of shortbread. Sleep, however, was certainly not on the agenda, at
least not until long after the Saffron Sweeting church clock had
chimed two.

Roused rudely by my alarm clock, I wondered how on earth I could
face Lorraine’s famous breakfast. However, I reckoned without
the assistance of the tiny shower, which was pleasantly hot for the
first four minutes and then turned abruptly icy while I still had
conditioner in my hair. I emerged brutally lucid, realising why
some eighty-year-olds are so fanatical about swimming in the sea
daily. My thoughts were clearer, my skin was glowing and my
appetite wasn’t too shabby, either.

Lorraine was upbeat as she brought me some orange juice and an
enormous pot of tea. I mused that being a morning person is part of
the job description, if you run a bed and breakfast.

‘Good morning, Grace! Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, lovely, thank you,’ I lied tactfully. I also
avoided mentioning my cold shower. Not the assertive choice, but,
in common with many English friends, a hotel has to be absolutely
terrible before I consider complaining.

‘It’s a lovely day for sightseeing.’ Lorraine
delivered toast in a silver rack and a dish of glossy
marmalade.

‘Yes, lovely,’ I agreed lamely. I wasn’t in
the mood for floating past Cambridge colleges in a punt.

By the time Lorraine brought a flowered china plate boasting a
pair of fried eggs, some bacon and even a famous Newmarket sausage,
I had decided the risk of going to my parents was too great. I was
still nervous James might turn up, and I dreaded that kind of
showdown. Here in Saffron Sweeting, I felt anonymously safe. The
village was quiet and attractive, and would make a restful hiding
place while I attempted to get my thoughts together.

I dipped the sausage in the egg yolk and watched with
satisfaction as it oozed all over my plate. At this rate, the
weight I’d lost recently would go back on fast. I’d
better give some thought to taking up jogging again. Not today, of
course, but soon.

It seemed I was the only guest at Oak House that morning and
Lorraine made a couple of other cheerful comments which were
possibly intended to engage me in conversation. To discourage her,
I picked up a National Trust handbook and pretended to browse as I
ate.

In reality, though, I was trying to come up with a plan that
went beyond visiting historic houses and their accompanying gift
shops. After my conversation with James yesterday, I realised I had
no strategy at all. I was completely adrift, looking at a blank
sheet of paper representing the rest of my life. I was terrified:
never before had I faced so many choices all at once. Sorting out
my future might take more than a few days and a couple of cream
teas.

My American bank account was empty, but I still had some meagre
savings in England. If I was careful, I probably had enough funds
to take several weeks off, but it would certainly help if I
wasn’t paying for bed and breakfast each night. And I had no
great desire to stay at Oak House indefinitely, listening to the
grandfather clock ticking my life away. Even if I didn’t know
which road to take, I couldn’t just sit and do nothing.

Before this sliver of courage could desert me, I got to my feet
and thanked Lorraine for breakfast. Squaring my shoulders, I went
upstairs to grab my handbag.

Normally, I wouldn’t pass a bakery
without going in to lend my support to a small business. However,
even after walking into Saffron Sweeting, I was still so full of
breakfast that I wondered if I’d ever eat again. So I crossed
the road instead to the little estate agency, announced as
Hargraves & Co by dark green swirly lettering. All the houses
in the window seemed to be large, expensive and for sale, not
rent.

Nonetheless, I ventured inside, causing the bell attached to the
door to clang loudly as I stepped down into the bright but narrow
office. It was barely more than ten feet wide, although it
stretched back quite a way, and three desks were huddled into the
space. Only one of these desks was occupied, by a chic
auburn-haired woman who was currently on the phone. She waved a
hand at me without making eye contact; hesitantly, I took a
seat.

‘No, darling, I don’t think they will,’ she
said into the phone, which was tucked under her chin so she could
work her keyboard at the same time. ‘They told me six eighty
is as high as they can go. I don’t think seven hundred is at
all reasonable, especially given this economy.’

I eyed the large colour photograph of the featured listing on
the wall next to me. It looked like a converted barn, complete with
triple garage and a paddock. The asking price was well into seven
figures. It was stunning, but I suspected those lofty rooms would
get lonely without a massive family to fill the space.

‘Their mortgage is in place – I think you should
consider the offer very seriously.’

Another phone began to ring and she frowned at it. All three
desks were piled high with papers.

‘Okay, yes, just let me know, darling. But don’t
think for
too
long.’ She had picked up her
smartphone and her fingers were flying at the speed of a concert
violinist. ‘Yes, all right, I’ll call you
tomorrow.’

The other phone stopped ringing, but began again
immediately.

‘Sorry to keep you.’ The estate agent flashed me a
smile which lasted a tenth of a second, before propelling herself
across the room on her wheeled chair to answer it. As she did so, I
got a glimpse of a short skirt, shapely legs and an impressive pair
of leopard print heels.

Another brief conversation followed, which of course I could
hear. The caller seemed to have approval to spend four thousand a
month, as long as the place was fully furnished and ready
immediately.

‘Right, super,’ the agent finished up, twirling her
shoe on the end of her foot. ‘Yes, absolutely, Saturday is
fine. Let me know what time.’

Finally, she stood and came towards me. She was older than me,
maybe by ten years. Above the long legs were ample but undeniably
attractive curves. ‘Hello, I’m Amelia Hargraves. How
can I help?’ She held out her right hand, adorned with a
large cocktail ring, to shake mine briskly.

‘Hi.’ I felt like an irritant in her busy morning,
where time was presumably money. For such a sleepy village, this
had come as a surprise. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I was
wondering if you have anything for short-term rental?’

‘What type of property did you have in mind?’ Amelia
returned to her desk and consulted her computer screen.

‘Er, small, just for one person. And just for a few
months,’ I said.

Her phone buzzed and she consulted it before turning back to me.
‘Well,’ she shook her head, ‘there isn’t
much – most of the places I have are family homes. I do have
a cottage in Bottisham, though.’

She thumbed through a file and passed me a flier. The photo
showed a depressing looking brown house, with a car resting on
bricks in the front garden.

Amelia was apparently good at reading faces and I’m sure
mine had fallen.

‘Do you want to be in Cambridge itself, or out
here?’ She was searching through another file.

‘Out here, preferably,’ I replied.

‘Good – competition is fierce in Cambridge for
short-term rentals, even though it’s summer.’ She
pushed a wavy auburn strand behind her ear. Even if the colour had
received considerable help from her hairdresser, it suited her
beautifully. My own was dull and lifeless in comparison.

‘Here’s a garden flat in Newmarket. You’d have
racehorses going past each morning, on their way to
training.’

That sounded fun and the picture looked much better.
Regrettably, the monthly rent was so high that I would be better
off staying at Oak House.

‘Thanks, but I don’t think my budget can go quite
that far,’ I apologised.

It seemed the implications of leaving my husband were going to
be economic, as well as emotional. I hadn’t expected
accommodation to be so scarce. Saffron Sweeting obviously
wasn’t bustling with activity, so who, apart from fleeing
wives like me, was so keen to live here?

Amelia gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re not on a
relocation package, then?’

‘No.’ That was an odd question.
‘Why?’

‘Just thought I’d check. Most of the people arriving
in the village are being transferred by their employers.’ The
phone on her desk rang but she ignored it. ‘You realise
we’re only five miles from the Science Park?’ Her tone
was matter-of-fact.

‘Oh, right.’ I had heard of the Cambridge Science
Park but didn’t know much about it, other than it being an
out-of-town location for technology companies.

‘Yes, three American bio-tech firms moved in this spring.
Cambridge is the hot place now for genetics and all that.
They’re bringing a lot of staff over.’

This explained why she was so busy and the high prices of the
houses in the window. Perhaps I would have been better off in the
postcard-perfect Cotswolds, after all.

‘That’s ironic. I’ve just come from America,
but I’m not a gene scientist.’ I gave a small
smile.

She shrugged and turned her attention back to her computer.

‘Actually, I just left my husband,’ I blurted. So
much for keeping a low profile.

Amelia’s carefully groomed eyebrows shot up, and now I had
her full attention. ‘Oh, you poor darling.’ She tutted
and shook her head. ‘That explains why you look so
shell-shocked.’

‘Do I?’ I knew I wasn’t exactly radiant, but
jet lag could be blamed for that, surely.

‘I’m afraid you do. I was the same, all through my
divorce,’ she added carelessly, as if a divorce was as
troublesome as a pair of too-tight shoes. She looked at me again,
and her expression softened. ‘Listen,’ she said,
‘I’m not promising anything, but I’ll keep my
ears open for you. Take my card and call me in a couple of days,
all right?’

I had just passed the duck pond on my way back
to Oak House, when I heard a squeal of brakes. I turned around in
time to see a large red estate car come hurtling down the hill from
the church, and there was a horrible crunch of gears as it failed
to make the left turn at the crossroads. I winced as it shot
straight across the road instead, only to hit the wooden bench with
a splintering bang. This was probably the only thing that prevented
the car from ending up in the water with the ducks, which rose up
as one in an almighty flap.

I jogged the fifty yards back to the scene – there, that
counted as my exercise for the day – and saw two little boys
looking out of the car’s rear window with wide-eyed
expressions of glee.

‘Mommy!’ one of them cried out. ‘What did you
do
? Dad’s gonna be so
mad
!’

A blonde woman clambered shakily out of the driver’s seat,
crying but apparently unhurt.

‘Goddamn it,’ she wailed. ‘Which jerk came up
with the idea of a stick shift?’

I detected a definite American accent.

She thumped the bonnet – now crumpled and hissing steam
– with her hand. ‘Can’t they even make a car that
works in this frickin country?’

They say that misery loves company and, sure
enough, it cheered me up to talk to Mary Lou while we waited for
the breakdown service to come from Newmarket. Neither she nor her
boys were hurt, but her pride was as dented as the car and she
seemed to think this was yet another way that England was
conspiring to challenge her. The family had been here only six
weeks and initial excitement had given way to confusion and
homesickness for Pennsylvania. I realised that although I was
feeling adrift and confused, at least I hadn’t wrapped my
little car around a village bench.

‘I had awful trouble with the gears when I was learning to
drive,’ I offered in support.

‘Automatics are the sign of a civilised society,’
she grumbled. ‘Randy, quit hassling that duck!’

The younger boy seemed intent on bullying the waterfowl. Of
course, with a name like that, if he was attending an English
school, he was probably receiving similar grief from the other
kids. The elder, quieter boy had his nose in an iPad.

‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’ I offered. ‘I
have a car at the bed and breakfast, just up there.’

She sighed. ‘Thanks, that would be great. We were heading
home anyways.’

I walked back to Oak House to get my car. When I returned to the
duck pond, the breakdown crew had arrived and their unhurried
efforts were being supervised by a small crowd, including an
elderly man with a walking cane, a woman on horseback and the
village postman.

After the sorry-looking tangle of red metal had been loaded and
driven away, Mary Lou gave me directions to her house, just beyond
the far edge of Saffron Sweeting. As we drove through the village,
I realised I hadn’t yet explored this far. On the right, we
passed a huge, low building with a decaying roof. This, presumably,
was the malt house which Jem and I had read about.

According to our internet research, nobody is sure how the
village got the Sweeting part of its name, but one theory is that
steeping
, part of the malting process, got changed
accidentally over time. Many villages had a malt house in the
eighteenth century, supplying the needs of local publicans and home
brewers. The Saffron Sweeting malt house looked as if it had
received little attention since then. It had a forlorn air, which
was a shame as its solemn architecture was appealing.

‘So, the boys aren’t in school?’ I hoped I
wasn’t being too nosy.

‘It didn’t seem worth it, with just a few weeks
before school gets out here. I’ve been trying to give them
classes at home. But they’re going in September, for sure
… if I don’t strangle one of them before
that.’