The Sweetest Thing (9 page)

‘I’ll see you soon, Mum,’ I say, my voice wavering as the impact of what I’ve done hits me like a train. I’m going to miss her popping in for a quick coffee and cake. I’m going to miss her offers of babysitting and Sunday lunches with Mum, Dad and my sister.

‘You take care, love.’ She gives me a tearful smile. ‘Make sure you get out and about.’

I know what she’s getting at. Get out and meet people.

‘It’s going to be quiet for you, you being a city girl,
born and bred, but at least we know you’ve got someone to turn to in an emergency. Guy seems like a good neighbour to have. Capable.’

I dismiss any talk of turning to him. It would have to be the direst of emergencies for me to call on him.

‘And, just remember, me and your dad are at the end of the phone, and if you should decide that you’ve made a terrible mistake moving here, you can come home. You’ll always be welcome there, whatever happens.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say, choking up with emotion.

‘We’ll be back to visit. Soon.’

Before they leave, they call the children to say goodbye. I stand on the front lawn, watching the children run up the drive behind my parents’ car, laughing and waving, through a veil of tears. I turn and look back at the house and I think, Oh, no, what have I done? Have I just made the second biggest mistake of my life, buying this house out in the sticks with its temperamental Aga and varied wildlife?

Talking of wildlife, when I planned to get closer to nature, I didn’t mean this close, I muse, as I watch the inexorable march of a column of ants through my kitchen and under the larder door, when I go back inside.

‘Mum, I’m bored,’ Adam says, within half an hour of my parents leaving.

‘You’re always bored.’

‘Yes, but I’ve never been as bored as I am now.’

‘Why don’t you find something to do then?’ I say, slightly exasperated as I always have too much to do. ‘Do you want to cook us lunch?’

‘Boring,’ Adam says, hands thrust into the pockets of his long shorts.

‘You can clean my car – for pocket money.’

‘Boring,’ he says, but I can see from the twist of his lips that he’s trying not to smile.

‘How about – with your artistic skills – designing the logo for Jennie’s Cakes?’ I’ve already toyed with various ideas, but none of them are outstanding.

‘What’s the brief?’ he asks, sounding more interested.

‘It needs to have some reference to cakes, obviously. And I’d like it to have some colour, but natural colours which link with the idea of healthy ingredients.’

‘No electric blues then?’ Adam says, slightly disappointed.

‘Probably not. There’s a pad of paper in the drawer over there – but not on the table in here, please. I’m baking.’

Adam disappears off to his room with pens and paper, then Sophie and Georgia turn up, forced to endure each other’s company in the absence of other children.

‘I miss Granny already.’ Sophie is clutching her favourite teddy. I thought she had abandoned him but he’s back, one ear falling off and his red waistcoat all raggedy. ‘I wish Daddy was here.’

‘You know he can’t be, darling.’ They have spoken to David on the phone and via Adam’s Facebook a few times now that we’ve sorted out internet access. The connection is slow, more snail trail than information superhighway, but it will do for now. The children haven’t mentioned the possibility of their dad living with us for a while. I guess my parents’ leaving has unsettled them again.

‘Why not?’ says Sophie.

‘Because. Because … You know why. He lives with Alice now.’

‘Why can’t they live with us? We’ve got lots of space.’

‘He and Alice can stay in the spare room,’ says Georgia hopefully.

If it were that simple … If I could be that magnanimous!

‘Daddy needs to live near his work,’ I say. And it just wouldn’t work. Imagine the scandal. A commune in the respectable market town of Talyton St George. A ménage à trois. I wonder what the staid Guy Barnes would make of that. At least the girls have accepted that there is no prospect of David and me getting back together. ‘Have you finished clearing that stable?’ I say, changing the subject.

‘Yes,’ says Georgia. ‘All it needs now is some straw and a pony.’

‘Okay then, why don’t you take a couple of plastic boxes and see how many blackberries you can find?’ There are some – they’ve ripened early this summer. ‘And don’t eat them all on the way back this time, like you did with Granddad the other day.’

Once the girls have gone, armed with boxes and sticks to beat the prickliest of the brambles out of their way, I turn my attention to baking. Maybe it’s the mention of blackberries that triggers images of sticky jam tarts and apple pies. I haven’t checked to see how the Aga handles pastry yet. Now seems a good time to try. It will take my mind off how empty the house seems without my parents here.

I wash and dry the new utensils they bought, then weigh out flour with a pinch of salt and tip it into a mixing bowl – my favourite, which has a creamy, rustic glaze, one of the few things I have which suits the house. My fingers are covered in fat and flour as I
rub them together, lifting and separating to let the crumbs fall through and back into the bowl, when I hear a knock and a voice, an adult voice, and my heart lifts. They’re back! My parents have forgotten something, or they’ve decided to stay on a few more days.

‘Hi,’ I call, as the sound of footsteps comes ringing through from the lobby.

‘Good morning.’

I look up to find a strange woman in my kitchen, and when I say strange, she’s dressed up to the nines, as if she’s on her way to a wedding. She wears a hound’s tooth-patterned grey and cream silk dress with a jacket and heels to match. On her head she wears a fascinator, silvery feathers secured around a bead with three longer feathers curling out from the top. Her hair, cut short and dyed auburn, looks as if it’s set hard.

‘I think you must be in the wrong place,’ I say.

‘Oh, no, no, no, I know exactly where I am. Welcome –’ she holds out her arms ‘– to our lovely town, Talyton St George.’

‘You can’t just wander in here,’ I say, wondering who this is. She seems a bit too conspicuous to be a distraction burglar and she certainly isn’t selling tarmac for the drive in that get-up. ‘This is my home. It isn’t open to all and sundry.’

‘The door was open. I let myself in so as not to disturb you. I could see through the window that you were busy. Oh, you’re making pastry …’ She peers at the mixing bowl. I snatch it to my chest, and she looks at me then smiles sweetly. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. What must you think, someone fresh from the big city, finding a complete stranger in her house? I’m Fifi, Fifi Green, and today I’m acting as
your representative on the Talyton St George Meet and Greet Committee.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I put the bowl back on the table. ‘I’m Jennie Copeland.’ I hold out a hand, then realise it’s coated with fat and flour.

‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Fifi says. ‘You’ll spoil that pastry if you let the fat get too warm. Now, Jennie, was that Mrs Copeland or …?’

‘Ex-Mrs Copeland,’ I say, distracted by my pastry-making. I grab a jug of chilled water from the fridge and sprinkle some over the top of my breadcrumb-like mix. I pick up my small palette knife and use it to bind the ingredients together gradually, adding more water as I go.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking these questions, only I have to report back.’

I can feel my forehead tighten into a frown.

‘Is this a formal interview or something? Only …’

‘Don’t worry.’ Fifi smiles. ‘I only meant that people will ask. If I say that you wanted me to keep all the gossip to myself then they’ll assume you have lots of juicy secrets to hide, which will only make them all the more determined to winkle them out of you.’

‘I haven’t got any secrets,’ I say, amused now that this woman is apparently so interested in the minutiae of my life. I suppose I should feel honoured by her visit – nothing like this would ever have happened to me back in London where even our nearest neighbours kept themselves to themselves. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m just an ordinary person.’

‘Ah, that’s not what Guy said.’

‘Guy?’

‘Oh, yes. He said you were the most extraordinary woman.’

Now it’s my turn to be curious.

‘I’ve been in to see him this morning. I promised his mother – before she entirely forgot who I am – that I’d look out for him.’ Fifi shakes her head. ‘It’s the least I could do. Poor Mary.’

Fifi hoists her handbag on to the other end of the table, and extracts a sheaf of papers.

‘I can leave these for you if you’re busy,’ she says. ‘They’re a selection of leaflets on the various services available locally. If you need an introduction to the vicar or the Baptist minister, I can organise that for you. Here’s the contact number for our local doctors’ surgery – I can’t recommend Dr Mackie highly enough. He’s done wonders with my bunions.’

I notice how Fifi moves around the kitchen, as if making an inventory of my belongings. She stops at the kitchen sink and looks out of the window towards the back garden.

‘There are numbers for the vets’ surgeries too. Have you got any livestock?’

‘Not yet,’ I say, and then it occurs to me that her visit might be useful after all. ‘We’re looking for a dog, a pony and some chickens, but I haven’t a clue where to start.’

‘The best people to talk to about ponies are the Pony Club. I’m not really au fait with chickens, but I can certainly help you find a dog. I’m a founder member of Talyton Animal Rescue, and although we haven’t got our own kennels any longer, all our rescue dogs are housed with our network of approved foster carers.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, as she shows me the number to call.

‘So many people move down here now. They take on all kinds of animals and set up these little cottage industries, find it’s harder work than they imagined,
then up sticks and go home. It’s disruptive to the local community. Hence the idea of the Meet and Greet Committee to set you on the right track.’ She runs a finger – I watch her do it – along the crossbar of the window frame and checks it for dust. ‘I can recommend a cleaner, if you like.’

‘I don’t need a cleaner, thank you,’ I say through gritted teeth. It’s a nice thought, being welcomed into the bosom of the community, but the advice – which feels like criticism – is most unwelcome.

‘I hope you’re going to join the WI,’ she goes on. ‘We’re very much in need of new blood.’

‘Um, I’ll see,’ I say, then catch sight of the girls who, apparently bored with picking blackberries, are sitting on the gate into the paddock, chatting. ‘Actually, I’m going to find it difficult, getting out and about. The children.’

‘Oh, but that’s no problem. We have an excellent babysitting circle.’

Fifi Green is one of those people it’s impossible to argue with because she has an answer for everything. I decide to listen, nod and inwardly disagree. The pastry mixture is coming together now into a ball of dough. I scoop it up and wrap it in clingfilm before putting it in the fridge to rest.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ I say.

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

I wash my hands, then put the kettle to boil on the Aga, at the same time as Guy rattles down the drive in his tractor.

‘I hope Guy’s making an effort,’ Fifi says. ‘He didn’t want to sell Uphill House. It’s been in his family for several generations, but circumstances forced his hand.’

‘What happened?’ I ask.

‘It’s a long story,’ Fifi says, settling on a chair at the table while I pour coffee. I can’t offer her any cake. There’s none left. Then I remember I have a couple of shortbread slices in a tin in the larder, but Fifi declines. ‘Guy doesn’t like to talk about it – he’s a very private man. Anyway, soon after his father died, his mother – Mary – was diagnosed with dementia. Because he wanted her to remember the wedding, Guy decided to go ahead and marry his fiancée. It was a beautiful wedding.’ Fifi pauses. ‘The happy couple lived with Mary while the house at Uphill Farm was being built for them. They moved in about a year later, but only had a few months on their own. Mary’s condition deteriorated quite quickly and Guy, being the kindhearted soul that he is, moved her in with him and his wife, Tasha.’

‘That doesn’t seem terribly kind to his wife,’ I say, remembering how stressful it was sharing my house with my mother-in-law.

‘Guy’s wife wasn’t terribly kind to anyone,’ Fifi says. ‘It was Guy who did all the caring – as well as looking after the farm. It was so bad, he had to call his brother in to help, and that’s when it all went wrong. While Guy was keeping watch on his mother – because she was a liability – Tasha had her eyes on Oliver, the brother. Are you keeping up?’ she adds.

‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ I say. ‘Go on.’

‘The upshot was that Guy caught Tasha in bed – in the marital bed – with Oliver. I’ve heard that it was almost the end of all of them because he went to get his shotgun out of the cabinet, but couldn’t find the key, which gave Tasha and Oliver time to get away. Tasha called the police, but they couldn’t prove anything.’
Fifi smiles at me. ‘Oh, don’t worry. He isn’t normally a violent man.’

I am concerned though. I was moving to the country to get away from guns, and now I find the neighbour’s got one.