Saving Saffron Sweeting (27 page)

‘I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.’

I was determined not to make a scene and scanned the dessert
menu before continuing. ‘But you do know I’m helping
them plan a big Thanksgiving event? Can we share the bread and
butter pudding?’

He didn’t blink. ‘Yes to the pudding and yes, I know
about the turkey dinner.’

‘And?’

‘And what? It’s no big deal. I think you’re
all bonkers.’

Bonkers?
That didn’t sound like a term of
endearment.

‘Look, the Hall’s mortgaged up to the nines.
It’s inevitable they’ll have to sell it sooner or
later. But if the three of you want to play at party planning for a
bit, I’m not going to get in the way. You’ll be lucky
to break even, though.’

‘Oh.’ I didn’t pursue the topic, but I was
disappointed.

Now, to Jem, I confessed, ‘It wasn’t quite the
reaction I’d been hoping for.’

‘Well, it sounds like he might have a point,’ she
said.

‘Maybe he does, but a bit more faith in me would be
nice.’ Then again, James had shown unswerving faith in my
business abilities, and look where that had landed us.

‘So you just made mad passionate love in a hotel in
Southwold all weekend?’ Jem teased me.

‘I’m not going to dignify that question with a
response,’ I said, but she could hear the huge smile in my
voice. ‘Let’s just say, all that outrageously expensive
underwear doesn’t seem such a waste now.’

‘Oh, lucky you,’ she replied wistfully. ‘I
can’t remember the last time we – well, you know. And
certainly not in expensive underwear.’

‘Are things okay?’

She sighed. ‘Fine. You know, it’s just … just
everything. So tired the whole time.’

I didn’t know what to say to make her feel better. I had
no words of wisdom for juggling nappies and nookie.

‘But I want to hear about the rest of your weekend,’
Jem said loyally.

‘There isn’t much more to tell. He took me to a
place called Snape Maltings. We should meet up there some time,
you’d like it.’

‘Snape what?’

‘Maltings. It’s an old malt house, like the one
here, you remember? Only this one isn’t falling down,
it’s been converted into a huge concert hall, and there are
shops and cafes and luxury holiday flats. It’s very
cool.’

I had, in fact, been in absolute heaven browsing the blissfully
stylish home decor shop at Snape. Scott had sensibly realised I
wasn’t listening to a word he said and had wandered off
somewhere. By the time he came back, I’d bought new bed
linen, a duck-egg-blue milk jug and a set of French glasses
embossed with bees.

Jem laughed. ‘I think I’ll just live vicariously
through you, Grace.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at you – new job, cute cottage, sexy man who
sends you roses. I’m so happy for you.’

I was happy for me too. Of course I was.

I said goodnight to Jem and tucked the vase of roses under my
arm to take upstairs. I wanted them next to my bed, to make sure I
saw them as soon as I woke up in the morning.

I confess, I was so busy seeing the world
through Scott-tinted glasses that Halloween sneaked up on me. But
in the last week of October, I suddenly realised that the village
had made a herculean effort to get into the ghostly spirit.

Outside the pub were straw bales and pumpkins, and what looked
like a stolen scarecrow hastily transformed into a witch. The
little library sported hairy black spiders in its window, and
inside I spotted a display of spooky books suitable for reading to
children. Brian had gone all out in the bakery: cookies and
cupcakes were decorated with bats, cats and orange icing. He was
also taking orders for pumpkin pies.

I got the biggest shock, however, when I popped into the post
office and encountered a human skeleton, which was clutching a
telescope and wearing a pirate’s hat. Next to him, a fake
hand reached out of an old sailor’s trunk.

‘Good grief!’ I said to Violet, in admiration.
‘Where on earth did you find him?’

‘Peter helped me,’ she replied, looking proud.
‘He dug around and found me a couple of bits he hadn’t
sold.’

‘Can’t think why,’ I murmured. After all,
every stylish home needs a skeleton next to the television.

I noticed she had a prominent display featuring plastic
witches’ hats, black and orange party supplies and even a
tall basket filled with broomsticks.

‘It looks great in here,’ I told her.

‘Did you see my pumpkins?’ At her age, she could ask
that kind of question without people snickering.

I nodded: there was a fine display of pumpkins outside the
door.

‘I’ve sold an entire crate already. That’s the
second batch and more are coming from Wisbech this week.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I smiled.

She pointed out a large poster on her noticeboard. ‘The
kiddies’ parade starts at four o’clock. I assume
Hargraves is taking part? If you are, you have to put orange
balloons outside, so people know.’

‘Orange balloons. Right. Absolutely.’

I bought three small pumpkins and fled, arms full, back to the
office, where I fell down our step.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Amelia had just
returned from viewings and was hanging keys back up.

‘I’ve goofed!’ I yelped, picking up the two
pumpkins that I’d dropped. ‘It’s Halloween in
four days and we haven’t decorated!’

‘Why do we have to decorate?’ she asked calmly.

‘Because I told the whole village how important Halloween
is to the Americans. There’s going to be a parade and all the
kids will want free candy – I mean sweets. We need to have
orange balloons outside. Oh God, and costumes. You and I have to
dress up.’

‘You’re pulling my leg.’ Amelia smirked and
smoothed down her grey leather skirt.

I shook my head. ‘I’m deadly serious. There are
posters everywhere, haven’t you seen them? This is a big
thing for the village.’

She looked sceptical and started typing.

‘It’ll bring in new people,’ I said, having no
idea if this was true. But I remembered the reception I’d got
from Amelia last time I suggested something to benefit the village.
This time, I was going to be more devious. ‘People who might
not have considered living here.’

Amelia’s head swivelled sharply, like an owl’s.
‘Really?’

Good, I had her attention. ‘Oh yes, definitely,’ I
said confidently.

She put her elbows on her desk, making a steeple of her fingers
as her eyes narrowed.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘you do decorations,
I’ll sort out costumes. You can spend a hundred pounds, but
keep the receipts.’

I leaped up and tried to hug her but she batted me off.
Undeterred, I grabbed my car keys and headed out of the door.

‘Holy crap!’ Amelia said in a loud
whisper. ‘Where are they all coming from?’

I shushed her in case any of the pirates, pixies or princesses
overheard. ‘I think maybe they’re bussing them
in.’

It was only twenty past four and we had already been deluged by
children. Some were shy, and barely knew whether to accept the free
sweets or not. Others tried to grab fistfuls and had to be reminded
by their video-camera wielding parent to
say the magic
word
. All, however, were enormously cute. So far, we had seen
a bumble bee, a flamingo and even a television set, as well as the
more predictable pirates, ghosts and witches. As far as I could
make out, both British and American families were out in force.

My jester costume was comical, verging on ridiculous, but at
least it was warm. Dressed in a purple and red velvet tunic, with
long sweeping sleeves, matching curly hat and bottle-green tights,
I had risked an earlier trip to the bakery for snacks to sustain us
through the evening.

To my concern, I found Brian had put on twenty pounds and
changed gender. Happily, the figure behind the cat mask, dressed
entirely in black Lycra, turned out to be Marjorie.

‘Brian’s along at the malt house, setting up,’
she told me. ‘I’m just minding the shop and giving out
sweeties to the kids, then I’m closing at four
thirty.’

I didn’t ask what kind of setting up he was doing as I was
busy choosing the least gruesome cookies left in the cabinet.

On my way back to the Hargraves office, I’d looked up the
High Street. The clocks had changed the previous weekend and it was
already dusk. I spotted several clusters of orange balloons, and
outside the pub, a trio of buskers were unpacking instruments. They
were wearing university gowns and mortar boards, which might or
might not have been their regular busking attire. It was one of
those days when it was extremely dangerous to compliment someone on
their costume.

I was in no doubt, however, that Amelia had changed her outfit.
She was also a jester, but I noticed with envy that her costume was
far sexier than mine. She looked classy but racy in black and white
diamond spandex, complete with black gloves and a sparkly face
mask. Unlike my awkward booties with curled up toes, she was
wearing tall black stilettos. I noticed she’d even managed to
get one of her cocktail rings on over her glove.

‘Where on earth did you get these?’ I’d asked
her, not liking to enquire whether she was wearing any
underwear.

‘Years ago, when I was a student, I was in the drama
club,’ she said. ‘Footlights, you might have heard of
it?’

‘You mean
the
Footlights, where a gazillion
famous people got started? Stephen Fry, Emma Thompson?’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyway, I
called an old friend and he recommended a costume
supplier.’

‘Wow.’ I felt better about my jester get-up, knowing
there was a chance it could have been worn by a great thespian.

Even if I looked a little bizarre, the office was fabulous. In
my panic that Halloween was upon us, I had worked until midnight
gathering supplies and then decorating. I had repeated the orange
balloons inside, and nearly broke my neck climbing on our desks to
hang matching paper streamers. Black cut-out ghosts floated in our
window, while obligatory spiders dangled from the ceiling and
perched on our computers. A Cambridge party store had yielded a
cavernous plastic cauldron, which now contained the necessary candy
for the trick-or-treaters.

Best of all, I had taken inspiration from Violet and persuaded
Peter to let me raid his antiques barn. A huge doll’s house
now claimed our coffee table. Populated by mini witches and
thumb-sized black cats, it glowed from battery-powered lights
covered in orange paper. Beside it, an old half barrel was filled
with packing straw and lucky dip gifts.

Now, seeing the hammering it was taking from eager little paws,
I hoped we had enough trinkets. Perhaps I should make a mercy dash
to the post office to see if Violet had any stock left.

Amelia was having a wonderful time, shaking her jester bells at
the children, flirting with their fathers and generally hailing all
visitors with ‘Trick or Tree-heat!’ I hoped she
hadn’t been at the emergency brandy we kept under the kitchen
sink. She was collecting business cards in a separate cauldron,
ostensibly a raffle for a bottle of wine, but I knew she’d be
calling everyone in the next few days to see if they had any real
estate needs.

At five, we locked up and made our way down the High Street in
the direction of the noise and merriment. There were cars parked
everywhere, and small family clusters straggled along in the
growing dusk, buckets of candy dangling from little fingers. Under
the tall black swan-necks of the Saffron Sweeting street lights,
the bustle of wizardly figures made me think we had been
transported to Diagon Alley.

The student buskers had moved on from the pub, so we followed
the sounds of their music – currently, ‘The
Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ from
Fantasia
–
to the crowd clustered in the field next to the malt house. There,
we found temporary lighting had been strung up in the beech trees,
and some enterprising soul had brought in a cart to sell candyfloss
and popcorn. The adults, meanwhile, were flocking around an old ice
cream truck, which seemed strange until I approached and saw it had
been commandeered by Brian to sell both cider and mulled wine.

Amelia spotted it too and made a beeline for the queue. I joined
her and when we got to the front, was surprised to find Brian being
assisted by none other than Mary Lou.

‘Grace!’ She seemed delighted to see me.
‘Isn’t this awesome?’

‘It’s great,’ I said.

‘What’s it gonna be? We have hot dogs and pretzels,
as well as drinks.’

Perfect. I bought mulled wine for Amelia and cider for me. I
hoped the American families knew the crucial difference between our
cider and theirs. They’d get pulled over on their drive home,
if not.

‘How come there are so many people here?’ I asked
Mary Lou.

‘Well, you know, word just sorta spread,’ she
grinned.

‘I love that you’re working with Brian.’

‘We got plans, honey. You ain’t seen nothing
yet,’ she replied.

I would have asked what she meant, but the orderly British queue
behind me was starting to rustle and mutter, so I moved aside.

The evening was chilly, but not so inhospitable that people
couldn’t stand around and chat. By the malt house –
where someone had hoisted up fake ghosts – I saw bales of
straw arranged as circular seating. Curious, I went over and found
none other than Kenneth, reading ghost stories to a cluster of
children. He peered intermittently over his spectacles, to make
sure they were listening.

‘Grace, congratulations!’ Peter appeared from the
throng and raised his paper cup to me.

I shook my head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This is all thanks to you, you know.’

‘Oh no, not me,’ I protested. ‘I didn’t
do this.’

He bit into a hot dog held in a paper napkin, and waved it as he
spoke with his mouth partly full. ‘You started it, at least.
It’s fantastic to see what the village can do, when people
get inspired.’