Billy and Me (3 page)

Rosefont Hill is a tiny little village, one where everybody knows everything there is to know about everyone who lives here. Nothing newsworthy usually happens, therefore you can imagine what an impact a film crew rolling into town has on it.

Four weeks have passed since the news of their visit broke and the village has continued to be a buzz of excitement. Each shop has had a spruce up, hoping that they’ll gain some new trade. The local WI, of which Molly is the head, has examined every potted plant on the High Street and made sure they’re watered, pruned and spruced to perfection. Each of the street lamps lining the main road now has a basket of colourful spring flowers dangling from its side. Even the local primary school children have been allowed to contribute by making a huge welcome banner. The large sign, made up of the children’s tiny painted handprints, has been proudly strung up at the start of the High Street, ensuring it’s the first thing our visitors are greeted with. It seems like every member of the community has done something to get the village prepared for its newcomers, and their hard work has paid off as it looks nothing less than idyllic!

I have to admit that despite my momentary scepticism
early on, I’ve joined them in their excitement and now find myself looking forward to it all – especially now that trucks full of equipment have roared their way through the village, as well as a few dozen members of the crew. Slowly, strangers have started milling around the village, although most of them seem busy setting up Cavalier Hall for the start of filming, which is apparently due to kick off any day now.

It seems like quite a lot of the village folk have been tarting themselves up somewhat for the event (with the possibility of A-listers and VIPs coming into town they want to look their best). I’m not entirely sure what they’re hoping will come of their freshly dyed hair or their new cardis from Marks and Sparks, but looking good certainly seems to be important to them. For instance, I notice now, whilst looking at her from across the counter, that even Mrs Sleep from Pemberton Way has decided to apply a bit of lippy which she certainly wasn’t wearing before the film crew arrived. I, however, am the same as usual – wrapped in a red apron, wearing chunky black boots, skinny jeans and a plain white vest top. My frizzy brown hair is whipped up and pinned underneath a massive red polka-dot hankie with a big roll of hair sticking out of the front (I’m still in keeping with the fifties look that Molly loves, I’m just slightly more low-key with it). The finishing touch to my look is a nice dusting of flour from the morning’s baking session. Yes, forever glamorous. The white powder sticks to my clothes and my already pale skin and refuses to budge no matter how much I wipe myself down. It’s a look
I’ve grown accustomed to over the years, even if I do appear quite ghostly. My relaxed state is not because I don’t care about the starlet arrivals – it’s just that looking after my appearance is a bit tricky when I’m baking and stood in front of a hot oven for most of the day. If I were to bother applying make-up in the morning before heading into work, it would simply melt away from my brown eyes within the first few minutes. It would be a waste of time!

‘Oh, Sophie,’ says Mrs Sleep whilst squinting her eyes and sieving through the loose change in her hand. ‘How much did you say that was?’

‘Three pounds fifty, please, Mrs Sleep.’

‘Ahh … do I have that here, dear? I’ve forgotten my glasses.’ The eighty-four-year old holds her hand out for me to look through and I can see that she doesn’t have enough money to pay for the pot of tea and slice of Victoria sponge that she’s already scoffed. I quickly glance around to check that Molly is occupied elsewhere, then lean across the counter and whisper to Mrs Sleep, ‘You’re forty pence short … but seeing as you’re my favourite customer I’ll let you off!’

Mrs Sleep chuckles like a cute little schoolgirl being told to keep a secret, with her hand over her mouth. Her eyes light up. She’s still smiling to herself as she grabs her shopping trolley and wheels it out of the shop.

I pull two twenty-pence pieces out of my back pocket and toss them into the till straight away, knowing that I’d forget if I left it until later on.

‘You’ll end up skint if you keep giving away money like that.’

The stranger’s deep voice startles me. I look up to see a man, about my age, gazing at me with a smile on his face … Now, we don’t see many men in the teashop, we’re far too floral and twee for them to cope with so they usually opt for the café down the road instead, therefore the arrival of this man (and a rather good-looking one at that), makes my heart momentarily stop and my cheeks instantly burn in surprise. He is jaw-droppingly attractive, with brown hair swooped up in a stylish quiff, a healthy tan and deep brown eyes which twinkle as he smiles.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there …’ I somehow manage to say, softly clenching my jaw and forcing myself not to revert into the old, socially inept me. I’ve come a long way from that little girl who quivered at the attention of others, but I think a large part of that has been down to the safety of these four walls and Molly’s time and care. Every now and then, especially when I’m caught off guard, I have to use every ounce of self-control I possess to keep calm. Of course, with this stranger there’s the added element of him being drop-dead gorgeous, so I have no choice but to let my cheeks continue to blush.

‘That’s OK, you were busy … with your favourite,’ he says with a slight smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already checked my pockets and I definitely have enough cash on me.’

‘Glad to hear it … I can only have one favourite a day.’

At this the stranger throws his head backwards and lets out a huge laugh. It’s quite unsettling as I’m sure I didn’t say anything funny enough to warrant such a grand reaction. I feel my cheeks flush further.

It’s as if the sudden release of laughter has shocked even him and he quickly becomes quite uneasy as he picks up a menu from the counter and hides his face with it as he browses through it. I look away and give him a couple of moments before I ask, ‘So, what can I get you?’

‘I’ll have a pot of coffee and a piece of lemon drizzle cake, please,’ he says, with less confidence than before.

‘Would you like to sit in or have it to take away?’

He looks around the room. There are only a few other customers in the shop and they’re all quietly reading or nattering away.

‘In, please.’

‘Great, just take a seat wherever you like and I’ll bring it over.’

‘Thanks.’

I watch him as he turns away from the counter with one hand buried in the back pocket of his faded blue jeans. He ponders over which table to sit at before eventually choosing a table in the corner, away from the window. As I start to make up his pot of coffee, Molly appears at my side.

‘Tell me everything!’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, still flustered at the new arrival.

‘Who is he?’

‘I’ve got no idea!’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘Seriously, Mol, I’ve got no idea. I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Really? He looks a little familiar to me. He’s not Mr and Mrs Williams’ grandson, is he?’

‘Maybe, but I don’t think so. Wasn’t he in the Army? And ginger? I do think I’ve seen him somewhere before, though …’

‘He must be something to do with the filming. Just look at him,’ she says, glancing quickly over her shoulder. ‘Oh, if I was ten years younger!’

‘Just ten? Make that forty!’ I joke.

‘You cheeky little … I could show him a thing or –’

‘Excuse me?’

We both stop talking immediately and whizz around to find the handsome stranger stood at the counter again. Unsure of what he has heard we stand in silence for a few seconds, quite startled.

‘Sorry there, my love, can I help?’ says Molly, jumping into action and going back to the sweet and welcoming lady that she is, dropping the comical cougar act.

‘I just realized I’m hungrier than I thought,’ he says while childishly rubbing his tummy. ‘Any chance of getting a ham and pickle sandwich as well?’

‘Of course. I’ll bring it over when I’m done.’

‘Thanks.’

As he walks back to his seat Molly turns to me and pretends to faint, causing me to stifle a laugh which makes me snort instead, much to my embarrassment.

A short while later, when Molly has popped out to get some shopping from Budgens, Miss Peggy Brown beckons me over to her table. I’ve noticed that the seventy-five-year old has been looking at the newcomer for quite some time, with a frown plastered on her worried face.

‘Do you know who that is, dear?’ she asks while nodding in the stranger’s direction.

‘Not the foggiest, I’m afraid.’

‘Hmm … I’m not sure he’s all the ticket.’

One thing I do love about the elderly ladies in the shop and around the village is their bluntness. There’s no beating around the bush with them, they simply say whatever is on their minds. It’s a quality I’ve come to admire, even if it does mean that they regularly point out that they don’t like my new haircut, colour, or the jeans that I’m wearing.

‘What makes you think that, Miss Brown?’ I ask, suppressing a smile.

‘He has been looking at that same page for the past hour and has been continuously muttering to himself.’ As if to clarify the lunacy of his actions, she widens her eyes and adds, ‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, dear!’

I follow her gaze and watch as the man reads, then
covers his page and mutters to himself – sometimes with his eyes closed or other times staring at the ceiling. He continually taps the heel of one of his purple Converse trainers against the front leg of his chair. His face is alive and animated, as if he’s in conversation, or twisted with concentration. I’ve never seen anything like it – no wonder Miss Brown has been frowning at him!

‘It might be worth you going over and checking if he’s all right!’ she adds.

‘Me?’ I ask, with my pitch several tones higher than before.

‘You wouldn’t send a little old lady like me to go and talk to some lunatic would you, dear? I’ll keep an eye on you from here and shout if he suddenly attacks. I’ll have another tea when you’re ready too, please.’ she says with a nod, a wink and a firm shove in the newcomer’s direction.

As I hesitantly walk towards him he has his eyes tightly screwed shut, his arms and legs crossed, and is tapping his fingers on his forehead in frustration.

‘Sorry,’ I start.

He stops and looks at me in a mixture of confusion at my interruption and continued frustration at whatever he was doing, the frown still buried deep in his brow. Now that I have his attention I’m overcome with nerves and am tempted to run back to my safe haven behind the counter. I look over my shoulder at Miss Brown and see her eyes widen at me, encouraging me to go on. I can feel my cheeks burning again and I have to drop my gaze to the floor so that I can continue.

‘I’m so sorry to interrupt – it’s just that Miss Brown, the elderly woman who is sat behind me and glaring at you, is a tad worried about your mental health,’ I say, in what I hope is a light and jokey manner. Although, is there ever a jokey way to bring into question someone’s mental health?

I briefly look up to see the frustration leave his face and watch as it’s replaced with a look of intrigue as he sneaks a peek behind me in Miss Brown’s direction.

‘Really? Why? Have I done something to offend her? Did I eat with my mouth open? Slurp noisily on my coffee?’ he asks, clearly amused.

I hear the elderly lady loudly tutting behind me.

‘Actually she’s worried about the fact that you’ve been talking to yourself for the past hour,’ I force myself to continue. ‘According to her it’s the first sign of madness …’

Suddenly he breaks out into another huge laugh, making me look up from the floor and take in his joyful face – causing a smile to spread across mine uncontrollably. Once he has composed himself, he leans forward, lightly holds my forearms, pulls me towards him slightly and looks into my eyes as he continues in a calm and quiet voice.

‘Please tell dear Miss Brown that I’m sorry for upsetting her. There’s no need to call the men in white coats yet. I’m just lear—’

I stop listening.

Something jolts within me and I’m suddenly light-headed and shaky. I can’t stop the fear mounting. I can’t
tell my brain that it’s ok. I can feel the panic rising through me, causing my mouth to go dry, my breathing to shallow and my mind to get momentarily lost. I’m rooted to the spot.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks, concern breaking out over his face.

‘I’m sorry …’ I try and say, but no sound is coming from my mouth.

‘Hey, you’re shaking. Here, sit down!’

Before I can try to protest he leaps from his chair, pulls out the one next to him, gently takes me by the shoulders and lowers me into it.

‘Can I get you something? A camomile tea?’ he asks calmly before running behind the counter and rummaging around.

The noises he makes pouring and stirring are intensified in my head. SWOOOOOOOOOSH. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. PLOP. TING. TING. TING.

‘Here, drink this,’ he says coming towards me.

I take the tea and slowly sip at it, attempting to concentrate on the hot liquid as it works its way down through my body, trying to ignore the irrational terror that bubbles away inside me.

I’m aware of the stranger as he pulls his chair next to mine and reaches out, taking one of my hands in his, gently rubbing the inside of my palm with his thumb. Instead of freaking me out further, it has the opposite affect; it feels soothing and calming, reminding me I’m safe.

I’m grateful that he isn’t staring at me. Instead both of us sit and look at our hands. Mine in his.

We sit in silence like this for a few minutes.

Slowly the fear leaves me and the nice feeling of calmness rises within me, causing me to sigh heavily in relief.

‘Better?’ he asks, his hand stopping the rubbing motion but continuing to clasp mine.

I nod slowly. Instantly feeling stupid, I keep my eyes on the cup I’m holding, too humiliated to look elsewhere.

‘How embarrassing!’ I say, closing my eyes.