Saving Saffron Sweeting (6 page)

‘Have you made plans for sightseeing during the
summer?’

‘We sure have. We’ve been to London, which they
loved. We’re going to Oxford and Bath next week. Then
there’s Ireland – yeah, and Paris and Amsterdam, for
sure. And Italy. I gotta see Florence.’

I blinked as she rattled off these destinations, remembering
that by American standards, the distances in Europe are tiny. And
if they were only going to be here for a limited time, it did make
sense to see as much as possible.

‘Right here,’ she announced. ‘On the
left.’

Despite the confusing instruction, I got the right house:
beautiful brick, with a dark red door. It had a genteel character
and a weather vane perched on the roof. There was even a dovecote
in the front garden, although I didn’t see any sign of
occupants – probably a blessing, with Randy around.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘This is gorgeous.’

‘I guess,’ Mary Lou sighed. ‘But it’s
only got one and a half bathrooms and I hate sharing with the boys.
I miss my mud room and media room too. And the closet space
sucks.’

I could imagine the acres of space she had enjoyed in
Pennsylvania, and had to admit that an extra bathroom was the thing
I had loved most about my California apartment.

‘Okay, guys, say thanks to Grace.’ The three of them
climbed out of the car. As they did so, I saw net curtains twitch
at the cottage opposite.

‘I hope your husband isn’t too cross about the
accident,’ I offered.

‘He won’t freak out. He has too much going on at
work.’ She shrugged. ‘So, Grace, where are you headed
now?’

‘Well, I’m not sure. I only arrived a couple of days
ago. I might go and explore a bit.’

‘We appreciate the ride.’ She picked up
Randy’s jumper, which he’d dropped carelessly.
‘Hey, lots of the wives meet Tuesday lunchtimes at the pub.
There’s not much else to do here. You’re welcome to
join us.’

‘Thank you, I’d like that.’

As I drove away, the irony wasn’t lost on me. The first
friend I’d made in Saffron Sweeting was an American.

Taking a drive around the local area did indeed
seem like a good plan. I could keep my eyes open for places to rent
which Amelia Hargraves might not know about.

I wasn’t hungry for lunch, but I drove back into the
village and walked around. Mary Lou was right – the only
shops were the estate agency, the bakery, and the combined post
office and general store. I stopped at the bakery for a hot
chocolate before venturing to the post office, hoping to buy a map
of the area.

A bell tinkled, announcing my presence as I stepped over the
awkward doorstep and down into the shop. All the buildings in
Saffron Sweeting seemed to be lower than the street and I wondered
whether the village ever flooded. If so, the ducks would have the
last laugh.

‘Afternoon,’ came a rough female voice from the back
of the store.

‘Hello.’ I headed for the display of newspapers and
magazines, in the hope that maps would live there too. Having a
choice of one meant my quest took no time at all, and I turned to
see the elderly shopkeeper watching me closely. I added some salt
and vinegar crisps and a carton of Ribena to my selection while she
waited to serve me, fingers tapping gently on the counter. There
was no one else in the shop.

‘Staying at Oak House?’ she asked, peering through
bi-focal glasses to ring my purchases up on an old-fashioned till.
Her hands were swollen, presumably from arthritis.

‘Er, yes,’ I replied, taken aback that she knew
this, but then realised that this was a reasonable assumption.

‘American?’ she sniffed.

Goodness, had my accent changed that much in four years?
I’d barely said two words. Then I remembered Amelia telling
me about other newcomers from across the Atlantic.

‘No, um, just visiting Cambridge,’ I mumbled.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Four eighty-eight,
please.’

I paid her and made the mistake of trying to further our
conversation. ‘I’m glad you were open. I thought it
might be half-day closing.’ I knew for a fact that some
English villages still picked one afternoon per week to close at
lunchtime, to make up for working on Saturdays.

She folded her arms and looked at me severely.
‘We’re not dinosaurs here, you know. I’m open
every day except Sunday. And the library has broadband internet, if
you want it.’

‘Great … thanks.’ I turned to go.

‘And one more thing, young lady.’

That didn’t sound good. My mum called me
young
lady
when I was in trouble. I turned back guiltily.

‘You can tell your friend she’ll have to pay for
that bench,’ the shopkeeper said sternly. ‘Saffron
Sweeting won’t tolerate joyriders.’

I realised she must mean Mary Lou. That news had certainly
travelled fast, although ‘joyrider’ seemed a bit strong
to describe someone who hadn’t quite found second gear in
time. But I just nodded meekly and made a tactical retreat from her
shop.

I knew it wasn’t logical to expect everyone in the village
to be friendly to strangers, and I was over-sensitive at the moment
in any case. I tried not to let this old lady and her spy network
influence my feelings about Saffron Sweeting. However, after such a
chilly conversation, I drew comfort when I returned to my car,
parked outside the tiny library a few yards along the High Street.
According to the posted opening hours, it did indeed offer Wi-Fi,
but not on a Tuesday afternoon, Thursday morning, or any time at
all on Friday.

If it hadn’t been for the glass of
evil-tasting dandelion and burdock, I don’t think I’d
have set foot over the threshold of Bury estate agency Miller &
Mullet.

I had driven across to the market town of Bury St Edmunds,
appreciating with prodigal eyes the lush trees, narrow roads and
tiny villages of my route. Once there, I had been snared by the
formal quaintness and white-aproned waitresses of Harriet’s
tearoom, where the promise of baked goods was too much to resist. A
hot, buttery crumpet took me back to my mum’s warm kitchen,
homework after school, bickering with Harry about the lyrics in
Freddie Mercury songs, and wet socks. I’m not sure where the
wet socks came from, but that was the image I got as I bit into the
crumpet and dripped butter onto my plate.

As for the drink, I wasn’t even sure I liked dandelion and
burdock, but I was certain it wasn’t available at a San
Francisco drive-through and I was determined to revel in all things
English. Looking back, I believe it had fermented a little and
instilled me with false confidence.

As with Hargraves & Co in Saffron Sweeting, I was the only
client in Miller & Mullet. However, while Amelia seemed to work
on her own, here were three young men who looked barely old enough
to hold driving licences, wearing carbon copy shiny suits and
predatory smiles. One of them leaped to his feet and crossed the
electric blue carpet to shake my hand vigorously.

‘Hello, I’m Darren, how can I exceed your property
expectations today?’

Ouch. Clearly, he had just come back from sales training. I
withdrew my hand and put it out of his reach.

‘Well, I’m looking for somewhere to rent. Somewhere
small.’ I glanced at his companions who seemed nonchalant,
but had the air of being ready to move in if Darren mucked things
up.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘How many bedrooms?’

‘Oh, just one, I think.’

‘Excellent, let me show you some options. I think
you’ll like these.’ Darren bounded across the room to a
sagging filing cabinet, from which he pulled a stack of property
details. ‘Sit down, sit down, let’s see what we
have.’

I quickly ruled out three houses which were too expensive, two
dismal flats, and a caravan. This left a tiny box, which he proudly
told me was a ‘railway cottage’ and a granny annexe,
apparently located in ‘Bury’s finest avenue’.

‘Let’s go and see your new home!’ He was on
his feet, nodding encouragingly and jangling car keys.

Darren drove carelessly, but not dangerously enough for me to
abandon our mission. He also used the word
excellent
at
every opportunity, including for the damp, unfurnished
‘railway cottage’ which boasted views of both the
tracks and a dual carriageway. In its pint-sized sitting room, I
felt I could reach out and touch opposite walls simultaneously.
Meanwhile, the kitchen was a grimy slum with an ancient boiler and
electric sockets which looked like you should wear rubber boots to
operate them.

Darren bounded upstairs to the
excellent
bedroom and I
trudged behind. I wasn’t sure there was room for a double bed
in the space, and although the Victorian fireplace was a nice
feature, it was also the only source of heat. With several thousand
pounds and lots of imagination, the room could become a cosy nest,
but in the short term, I would rather sleep in a tent.

In the bathroom, with cracked white bath, high level flush
toilet and worryingly bouncy floorboards, I watched a black, hairy
spider trying to hide in the overflow of the sink.

Darren, however, was beaming. ‘Well,’ he enquired,
‘can you picture its potential?’

Yes: I pictured the bath, with me in it, crashing through the
rotten floor to the kitchen below. Instead of asking him if the
house came with free life insurance, I gave a polite smile.
‘Of course it has great potential, for a buyer. But for a
rental, I was hoping for something more welcoming.’

Darren nodded, undeterred. ‘Ah, you should see York Road,
then. Beautiful, very homely. Excellent avenue, very
exclusive.’

I wondered where he lived, and decided it was probably with his
parents in a post-war semi, somewhere on the edge of town.

We left the railway arachnids to their own entertainment and
made the short journey to a suburban, tree-lined avenue dotted with
detached houses. I noticed that the residents were in no hurry to
take down their ‘Vote Conservative’ posters, even
though the elections had been last month. We walked up the driveway
of a mock-Tudor house, with diamond-patterned double glazing and
clashing pink roses in the flower beds. Darren then led the way
along a narrow path to the side of the garage.

‘The grandmother died quite recently, so the owners are
renting the flat out,’ he explained, opening a narrow front
door. ‘He’s a dentist, they’re a lovely
couple.’

I tried to look impressed, but stalled as the smell of old lady
hit me. It was part cabbage, part lavender and, I’m sorry to
say, part incontinence. The studio room was a good size, but the
air, combined with floral wallpaper, swirly brown carpet and pink
velvet curtains, made me feel instantly nauseous. The furniture was
obviously the old lady’s and I winced at the thought of
sleeping in her bed.

By the time Darren tried to show me the
excellent
kitchenette and bathroom, I had abandoned being polite.

His smile faltered. ‘It’s a beautiful street, very
safe, very quiet.’

‘I think I’ve seen enough. Thank you
anyway.’

On the way back to his office, Darren talked cheerfully about
the possibility of sharing with other ‘young
professionals’. I didn’t say much, partly because I was
so disheartened by the options I’d just viewed and partly
because I was too scared to talk. I was worried that if I opened my
mouth, the dandelion and burdock would make a bid for freedom.
Darren probably wouldn’t think it was excellent if I threw up
all over his company car.

Next morning, the dandelion nausea had
subsided, but was replaced with a different headache: increasing
disappointment over my marriage and fear for the future. Realising
I could either stagnate sorrowfully in the lounge at Oak House and
be glared at by the tortoiseshell cat, or make an effort to pull
back from the brink of despondency, I lugged myself into Cambridge
for sightseeing.

Locals complain about the parking, the lunatic cyclists, and the
shortage of affordable housing – amen to that last one.
Visitors to Cambridge, on the other hand, are unanimously bowled
over by eight hundred years of history and stunning architecture,
packed tighter than a Tetris grid.

As a teenager in the city, with my mind on lipstick, exams and
shopping, I had failed to appreciate it, but now I paused at every
corner to drink in a new vista. Camera in hand, I wandered past the
touristy shops on King’s Parade, down Silver Street to the
throng at the Mill Pond, and then north along the Backs. The gentle
exercise, mild June air and centuries-old postcard views calmed me
and renewed my optimism.

Pausing on Garret Hostel bridge, I watched the punts glide down
the river past Clare College and Trinity Hall. Some were
professionally chauffeured, expertly steered by attractive male
students, no doubt hoping for large tips. These guys made it look
effortless: they had perfected the art of steering by leaving the
pole in the water at the end of each stroke. They also knew the
dangerous parts of the river, that is, the bits with mud which
could hold the pole hostage unless it was given a sharp twist
before being pulled up.

Other punts, however, were self-propelled by tourists who had
clearly never set foot in such an odd flat-bottomed boat before.
These were making chaotic progress, the punter wobbling madly as he
or she tried to balance on the rear platform, with absolutely no
control over direction. I saw one lose his pole, causing much
hilarity amongst his group. The emergency paddle was found and they
manoeuvred the twenty-foot-long boat back upstream to retrieve the
defiant pole from the mud.

The metaphor wasn’t lost on me. Yes, I was wobbling,
direction-less and probably going against the flow. But at least I
was afloat. I had a little money and a few friends, and enough
skills to muddle through. I might not be gliding elegantly, but I
could keep paddling. It would take more than an unfaithful husband
to sink me.