Saving Saffron Sweeting (11 page)

And with a growling roar from the twin exhausts of his flashy
car, he was gone.

I tugged my sodden T-shirt down over my waistband, set my lips
in a defiant grimace, and got back to pushing.

By the time Nancy and I arrived back at the
office, I was a little drier but shame-faced. Amelia, clearly
disgusted by my appearance, but chirpy from closing a sale, shooed
me out with both hands. ‘Nancy, we’ll keep our eyes
open for you,’ she promised. ‘Perhaps you’d
consider something a bit more modern too?’

Nancy admitted that she would, then invited me to the pub for a
restorative drink. Since we’d abandoned my car on the river
bank to dry out, I decided I could afford to get mildly
legless.

‘Sorry you took a swim,’ she said as we sat down in
the garden, eyeing the sky for clouds. ‘But you were
awesome.’

‘I didn’t feel very awesome.’ I opened a bag
of prawn cocktail crisps to share.

‘And that guy who stopped! Too funny! Do you know who he
was?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Didn’t really look
at him. I was distracted.’ And I preferred not to think about
the view he’d had of my bra. I nursed my Pimms moodily.

‘I know what I’m reminded of!’ Nancy declared
suddenly. ‘It was just like that movie!’ She sniffed at
the crisps before licking one cautiously.

‘Uh?’

‘Which one was it … I know –
Emma
.
Remember? Gwyneth Paltrow’s carriage got stuck in the river
and the cute hero came to help.’

Huh. I’d seen it. ‘Yeah, but he didn’t come to
help, did he? He laughed and drove off.’ I tutted and
wondered if it was too early to order dinner. I had surely earned
dessert tonight.

Nancy, however, took a sip of her wine and said pleasantly,
‘Am I being a jackass, showing up with my English fantasies?
Thatched cottages and romantic heroes? You must be hacked off at
yet another dumb American.’

‘Not in the least,’ I replied, my tone more
friendly. The booze was making me feel better. ‘Anyway, our
cottages might not be up to scratch, but I can promise you several
guys in Saffron Sweeting look just like Ewan McGregor.’

Good, she realised I was taking the mickey.

‘Technically,’ Nancy smiled now, ‘I have a guy
lined up already.’

‘You do?’

‘Well, a man. He’s older. We’ve been seeing
each other off and on for about six months.’

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Someone you
work with?’

‘No … I met him at a conference. He’s a
professor in genetics at Cambridge.’

‘Wow. Good for you!’ I admit it, I was
impressed.

‘So, obviously, when the chance came to work here, I
leaped at it.’

‘I bet he’s thrilled,’ I said encouragingly,
wondering if it would damage my professional image to eat the fruit
out of my glass.

Nancy’s smile faltered. ‘I think so.’

I looked at her with what I hoped was enquiring kindness.

‘It’s just that now I’m here, I’m not
totally sure Elijah had factored me into his plans,’ she said
eventually.

I pondered this. Two careers, two continents: that was never
going to be an easy puzzle.

‘Well, yes, it’s tough if you’re both
successful in different countries,’ I agreed.

She nodded.

‘I originally moved to California because of my
husband’s job,’ I told her. ‘It was like being on
holiday – vacation – for a while, but I didn’t
settle until I got a work permit. And then we came unstuck
nonetheless.’

Nancy watched me.

‘Sorry if this sounds old-fashioned,’ I said,
‘but I’m beginning to think it’s really hard for
two people to have different career paths and still stay in
sync.’

‘Grace, that’s mighty depressing,’ she said in
return. ‘I think Jane Austen would expect you to be more
optimistic.’

We laughed and I made an effort to lighten my tone. ‘Okay,
don’t listen to me,’ I said, ‘I’m just a
bit freshly bruised.’

By the second of July, a few Stars and Stripes
flags had started to appear outside Saffron Sweeting’s larger
properties. Everyone assumed they were in support of the American
tennis players at Wimbledon, and the pub was nearly the scene of an
ugly confrontation when the world number one – an American
player – dispensed with poor Bobbie Middleton in a fourth set
tie break.

Next day, yet more flags had appeared and were the cause of some
muttering in the bakery. I had stopped by to pick up coffee for
Amelia and me, as had become my habit each morning. The grumbles
were led by Violet, the grumpy old woman from the post office.

‘We’re proud of
our
sportsmen too, but you
don’t have to go shoving it down people’s
throats,’ she was saying.

I smelled the sweet, yeasty air and wondered if a flapjack was
suitable breakfast food. Brian, the mild-mannered architect of my
emerging gluten addiction, made diplomatic noises to Violet.

‘And isn’t it an affront to the Queen, to fly
another nation’s flag on English soil?’

‘Yes, well, maybe it isn’t very tactful,’
Brian shrugged, ‘but it cheers the village up, doesn’t
it?’

‘Poppycock,’ retorted Violet. ‘We don’t
need cheering up – we’ve won Best Kept Village
twice.’

‘Morning, Brian!’ I took the risk and interrupted,
giving Violet a wide smile. ‘I expect the flags are for the
Fourth of July, rather than the tennis,’ I added.

Violet sniffed and put her cheque book back in her ample
handbag.

Her friend, a chubby woman with tightly permed hair, chimed in.
‘What, you mean Bastille day? Celebrating the guillotine
– hmmph.’

I caught Brian’s eye and swallowed a giggle. ‘Um, I
think that’s France,’ I responded, adding, ‘Two
coffees, please,’ to bring us back to business.

‘Well, wherever it was, I hope they’re not bringing
their Republican ideas to Saffron Sweeting. We’re loyal to
our monarch here.’ With a regal flounce, Violet tucked her
handbag over her arm and exited the bakery, her friend trailing
like a lady-in-waiting.

I wasn’t sure of Brian’s allegiances, so I gave him
a bland smile in response to his conspiratorial wink. It was a long
time since a man had winked at me, but as I had met his gorgeous
wife, who taught Pilates in the village hall, I assumed I was safe
enough.

‘Anything to eat?’ Brian asked me. ‘French
croissant, perhaps?’

‘Only if you’ll promise not to report me for
treason.’

He slid two plump golden croissants into a white paper bag and
winked again. ‘On the house.’

The following evening, the long summer shadows
had faded to dark and I was yawningly thinking of going to bed when
a sharp burst of terrifyingly loud bangs split the night in two.
Gunfire in the sleepy safety of Saffron Sweeting was unthinkable,
but the possibility of a gas explosion crossed my mind. Within
seconds, the bangs were followed by hisses and fizzles and it
dawned on me that our American cousins were celebrating
Independence Day.

I scampered upstairs and looked out of the bedroom window, but
saw nothing. Undeterred, I tried the bathroom and found that by
climbing on the toilet seat, I could enjoy a partial view of the
display. I’ve always loved fireworks and wished I had known
in advance. For an amateur display, both size and height were
impressive and I guessed they had taken considerable planning and
funds. There were several of my favourite kind: simple white stars
shooting out from multiple centres.

The hissing and fizzing from the direction of the village was
loud, but not loud enough to drown out a sudden and insistent wail
from close at hand. I froze and listened. Were the rats back? Was
this some kind of mating call?

Gingerly, I ventured back downstairs, wondering if I would
witness an erotic rodent rumpus on the kitchen table. No, the room
was still and just as I’d left it. Another wail, however, led
me to the back door, which I opened just a crack.

Instantly, a wet black nose pushed the door wider and a blur of
black and white shot past me. Before I could let out my own
surprised yelp, four determined paws and a long tail had
disappeared into the living room.

I followed at considerable speed and found my canine interloper
had taken up residence in the middle of my sofa, where he was now
panting with delight at his escape from the evils of the night. He
was some kind of large spaniel, no longer a puppy, but still young.
His legs and tail were beautifully feathered and his feet only
slightly muddy. Improbably long ears framed a pair of melting brown
eyes. He looked both smug on his sofa throne and a little
beseeching, in case I turned out to be a cat person. Lucky for him,
I’m not.

Mungo, as his collar told me he was called, was now considerably
calmer and rested his head contentedly on his front paws. I perched
beside him and patted his glossy coat while I wondered if it was
too late to phone the number on his tag. No, I decided, his owners
were probably crazy with worry. I located my mobile phone and
dialled.

‘Thank you for calling Saffron Sweeting post
office,’ the message greeted me.

My wail was as anguished as Mungo’s original barking. My
spare hand flew to my mouth.

‘We are open from nine to six, Monday to Saturday. Please
leave a message …’

My intended cheerful announcement of Mungo’s whereabouts
deserted me and I hung up, looking at him in horror. The stupid
mutt had the audacity to wag his tail.

‘You can’t be,’ I told him sternly, shaking my
head in disbelief and foreboding. ‘You can’t be
Violet’s dog.’

But he was, and I was now an accomplice in his escape.

Of course, I was being over-dramatic. With the
clarity of thought which often seems to come with a new morning, I
concluded I was unlikely to be thrown into prison for harbouring
Mungo for a single night.

After I’d turned out all the downstairs lights, he had
trotted happily up the stairs behind me, and stationed himself on
the landing to oversee me brushing my teeth. We then had a battle
of wills when he’d made preparations to spring into bed
beside me.

‘No way,’ I had told him. ‘I’m not that
desperate for male company just yet.’

Despite the soppy eyes which greeted this refusal, I stayed
firm, and he circled the room a couple of times before settling for
the thin cotton rug beside my bed. There, he had snored happily for
most of the night.

When I arrived groggily in the kitchen next morning, Mungo was
stationed by the back door, gazing at the handle. A small
‘woof’ and a swish of his tail made his request crystal
clear. I opened the door, and instantly he was gone.

‘Well,’ I thought, ‘either I’m
conveniently off the hook, or in even bigger trouble when he gets
squished on the road between here and the post office.’ But
short of sprinting after him in my nightie – which was not
going to happen, for reasons of both decency and fitness –
there wasn’t much I could do. I took a calm, capable breath
and put the kettle on.

I was in the habit anyway of calling at the
bakery on my way to Hargraves & Co, but that morning I was
hopeful of hearing more about last night’s fireworks.

My eagerness for gossip was rewarded when I pushed open the
glass-paned door and found two oldish women deep in discussion. I
suspected they played bingo with Violet in the village hall on
Tuesday nights. It soon became clear they were not debating the
merits of granary versus wholegrain.

‘Independence is all very well, but they don’t have
to rub our noses in it,’ said the taller one in the blue
showerproof coat.

‘Yes, if they’re so proud of their country, I
don’t know why they’re camped out in ours,’
replied her friend with the jaunty golf umbrella.

I winced; I happened to admire American national pride. It
contrasted nicely with the British tendency to grumble about
everything from the government to the weather.

Brian felt compelled to chime in. ‘Well, ladies, taxation
without representation was a daft idea on our part, you
know.’

Tall blue coat looked down her nose at him, not really
understanding the reference, but refusing to be sidetracked.
‘As for the fireworks, I’m sure they broke at least
three by-laws. My husband’s on the council: something will
have to be said.’

‘Ooh, I know!’ Her friend seized the topic.
‘Fireworks belong in November. Decent folk were already
asleep last night when that dreadful racket began. We get up early
in these parts.’

I thought to myself that the only truly dreadful racquet of
recent days had been Bobbie Middleton’s, but resisted the
urge to say so. As far as I was concerned, the more fireworks the
merrier. Watching them light up the San Francisco Bay each Fourth
of July had been one of the highlights of my time in the
States.

‘Violet said her poor dog was so terrified, he bolted into
the night,’ added tall blue coat. ‘Disappeared
completely. Didn’t come home until this morning.’

I let out a silent sigh of relief and my shoulders dropped an
inch. Mungo had made it back safely.

Golf umbrella seemed ready to say something more, but we were
interrupted as the door flew open with a crash and a child-missile
hurtled into the shop. I recognised Randy from his behaviour as
much as his looks: sure enough, he was followed by Mary Lou,
another woman and finally, trailing, Randy’s elder
brother.

The little shop was now full and the two Sweeting natives wasted
no time in gathering themselves and their bread. They departed with
noses high, sparing just a couple of stiff nods and a curt
‘Good morning’ for the newcomers. I used the
intervening few seconds to ask Brian for my usual two coffees.

‘Hello again,’ I smiled at Mary Lou.
‘How’s the car?’

‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘don’t ask.
It’s determined to mock me.’ Then, to Brian,
‘I’ll get a large coffee, please. No Randy, you may
not
have a doughnut.’