Saving Saffron Sweeting (28 page)

‘Well, that’s true,’ I said. ‘But I
can’t take the credit.’ I felt guilty for being so
wrapped up in Scott recently, but nonetheless was thrilled to see
my new friends enjoying themselves.

From the ice cream truck, Nancy waved at us and then threaded
through the crowd. She wasn’t in costume, but was wearing a
beautiful rusty orange coat and big amber earrings. The colours
suited her.

‘This is awesome!’ she said, hugging me and giving
Peter a friendly squeeze on the arm. I hadn’t realised
they’d become friends.

‘Jeez,’ she gasped, as a sudden loud pop drew our
attention. ‘Is that Giles?’

I followed her surprised gaze and sure enough, saw Peter’s
partner knee-deep in children. He was making balloon animals for
them.

‘That’s so sweet,’ I said.

Peter nodded. ‘Giles loves kids.’ I thought he
looked wistful, and wondered if the authorities would entertain the
idea of them starting a family. I had a feeling adoption might be
trickier here than in San Francisco. And what on earth would his
mother say?

Nancy nudged me. ‘I haven’t seen you in a
while,’ she said, meaningfully.

I bowed my head in acknowledgement. ‘I know,’ I
said. ‘I barely realised it was Halloween, until this
week.’

‘And then Thanksgiving! I love this time of
year.’

I groaned. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you planning a
big party?’

‘Umm, yeah, but it’s not going so well.’

I told her how few tickets we had sold and how my press releases
seemed to have landed in recycling bins.

‘At this rate, we’re heading for a big loss. I feel
awful – I’m letting Bernard and Daphne down.’ I
sighed. ‘Then again, Scott did say we were wasting our
time.’

‘Did he? Why?’

‘Well, he’d like it to fizzle, then he’d be
able to persuade the trustees to sell Saffron Hall. But his parents
are so excited. And they’re lovely people, I like
them.’

‘So, he doesn’t think you can make it work?
That’s not very supportive.’

I shook my head and shifted from one curly jester foot to the
other. I had, in fact, talked to Daphne about Scott’s belief
that the Hall should be sold for development.

‘It was hard for him as a little boy,’ his mother
had said. ‘We were squeezed into our couple of rooms and I
kept having to explain to him we didn’t own the whole house.
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t play wherever he
wanted.’

‘But now he’s on a mission to sell the Hall, not
save it,’ I’d pointed out.

Daphne had sighed. ‘Scott believes in fitting his own
oxygen mask first. His own financial security is uppermost in his
mind. He bought his first flat when he was twenty-one and
hasn’t looked back.’

If his investment properties and Jaguar were anything to go by,
Scott’s financial security was in the bag. Perhaps he just
didn’t know when to stop. And to be honest, I wasn’t
putting up much of a protest at his generosity in sharing his
lifestyle.

To Nancy, I said in a subdued voice, ‘I think part of me
might want Thanksgiving to fail, so as not to rock the boat with
Scott.’

‘Grace, that’s pretty lame.’ Nancy tutted.

‘I know.’ I finished my cider and shrugged, then
realised she was still waiting for a response. ‘What?’
I said defensively.

‘You shouldn’t let him intimidate you,’ she
said. ‘Swing for the fences.’

‘Easier said than done,’ I grumbled.

‘Grace, wake up! How many families are here
tonight?’

I looked around. ‘I dunno. Thirty?’

‘More like eighty. Do you have any fliers?’

I nodded. ‘They’re at home.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there! Go fetch
them!’

When I got back to the malt house, Nancy and Peter were still
chatting. I’d had to park the Beetle a quarter of a mile away
and arrived, breathless, jester bells jingling and hat askew.

‘What now?’ I panted.

‘Cars,’ she said. ‘Windshields.’

‘Can I help?’ Peter asked.

‘Sure thing.’ Nancy handed him a pile of leaflets.
We set off down the High Street, me on one side of the road, the
two of them on the other, putting our literature under windscreen
wipers.

‘Good,’ Nancy declared, as the cars finally petered
out by the vicarage. ‘That should help.’

The three of us began walking back together. ‘How are you
selling tickets?’ she asked me.

‘People send a cheque to the Hall,’ I replied.

‘That sucks, if you’ll excuse me saying. Why
aren’t you doing it online?’

‘I don’t know how,’ I said. ‘I’ve
never done anything like this before.’ The uncomfortable
truth was, I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought.
I’d been too busy gazing into Scott’s eyes and being
swept off my feet.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Leave that to
me.’

When I arrived home, after ten o’clock,
the novelty of being a jester was wearing thin. In fact, I was
looking forward to a long bubble bath and maybe getting the edges
of
Good Housekeeping
soggy.

Most of the families with children had drifted away by seven. It
had started to get really cold and the remaining grown-ups, myself
included, had trooped by mutual consent to the pub. We made a funny
group: two jesters, three witches, at least four vampires and
Marjorie as a feline.

Bizarrely, Fergus, the pub landlord, had been dressed as
Cleopatra, complete with black wig.

‘It was on sale,’ he told us cheerfully.

We hadn’t been there long when Brian and his wife came in.
Everyone greeted him enthusiastically, praising his initiative and
hot refreshments.

‘To be honest, it was Mary Lou’s idea.’ He
wouldn’t accept the compliments. ‘She’s got a
heck of a zeal, that one.’

‘Where is she?’ Fergus asked.

‘Taking those wretched kids home to throttle them, I
hope,’ Brian said. ‘Talk about sugar
overload.’

‘What did she mean about more plans?’ I asked, then
looked at Brian’s wife in case I’d put my foot in it.
Thankfully, her pretty face remained calm as she drank her shandy.
Whatever the deal was with Mary Lou, she wasn’t bothered.

‘You’ll like this, Grace.’ Brian paused for
effect, then said, ‘Mary Lou and that friend of hers are
going to open a shop. Second hand children’s stuff. Or toys,
or something.’

‘Really? Where?’

‘In the old bank building. It’s been empty for
months now.’

I wondered if Amelia had been part of this plan. Then again, she
didn’t seem to bother much with commercial property.

‘They’re going to have space for a cafe. They seem
to think mothers – or moms, as they keep saying – will
love it.’

‘Gosh.’ I processed this. ‘But won’t a
cafe compete with you?’ Now it was autumn, Brian’s
outdoor tables weren’t getting much use, but his takeaway
coffee still seemed popular.

‘Hah! That’s the best part. I’m running it.
I’ve got an ad in the paper for staff.’

‘See, Grace.’ Peter had been listening and chimed
in. ‘You really have started something rolling.’

I had shrugged it off, but privately, I was thrilled to hear of
a joint American–British venture. If Mary Lou could pull it
off, I could see that her shop might attract mothers from outside
the village too. It couldn’t be easy, moving continents
without all the paraphernalia that accompanies kids. I’d
thought about Jem and Harry’s tiny flat and the sheer amount
of gear they seemed to need for Seb.

I started to run a bath and then perched on my bed to look at
the day’s mail. There wasn’t much, but a chunky
envelope from Norfolk caught my eye.

This arrived for you
, said a short cover note on
lavender paper.
I thought it might be important. Love Mum. PS:
Will you be coming for Christmas?

It contained another envelope. I needed only a glance to
ascertain it had come via the US Postal Service. James’s
careful writing was on the outside.

I felt sick. Was this what divorce papers looked like? I turned
the envelope over in my hands, then remembered the bath. I scuttled
to turn off the taps before I caused a flood. As I straightened up,
I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. I was still
wearing the ridiculous jester’s hat. I pulled it off and
threw it on the floor, then looked myself bravely in the eye.

‘Whatever is in here, Grace Palmer, you can deal with
it,’ I said firmly. ‘Things are going fine.
You’re
doing fine. You have a new life
now.’

Nonetheless, as I located my nail file and ran it along the
short edge of the envelope, I couldn’t help wishing Mungo was
there to keep me company.

All the information was in English, but my
brain still struggled to make sense of it. I had been so ready to
read the official words signalling the end of my marriage to James,
I couldn’t comprehend why I was seeing pages with a
conference agenda and travel itinerary. An Information Security
summit in Kensington held zero interest for me. On the other hand,
ethical hacking and cryptography seminars would be a total magnet
for James. Light dawned. I fumbled the sheets and realised
I’d been reading back to front.

His note was brief.

Dear Grace, I haven’t come to England before now,
because if you don’t want to see me, there didn’t seem
to be much point. But work are sending me to this conference in
London (see info). I’ve added a couple of nights on the end
of my stay and hope you’ll agree to meet me. I miss you so
much and want to see how you are. I would love to get together. I
can meet you anywhere. Please let me know. All my love,
James.

I let the papers flutter onto the bed and drifted, unseeing,
through to the steam-filled bathroom. I didn’t even swear
when I stubbed my toe on the edge of the bath. Shedding my jester
gear in a trance, I sank into the snug embrace of the water.

That was two
loves
in one short letter. And the second
one said
All my
. This was the exact opposite of what I had
expected and he would be here next week.

I added yet more hot water and closed my eyes.

The village, meanwhile, was on a roll. Less
than a week after Halloween, we found ourselves in warm clothes and
wellies again, huddled in the dark to celebrate Guy Fawkes night.
November the fifth was a Sunday, so the fireworks were held the
night before, in the field behind the malt house. Unlike the Fourth
of July, this time there was no grumbling about the noise: the
whole village seemed to be there, determined to enjoy themselves
despite the weak drizzle.

Violet and I had come to an amicable understanding that Mungo
was to be locked securely in her utility room with his dog bed and
– my gift – a fresh bone. This would ensure there was
no repeat of Independence Day’s terrified gallop round the
village. Having reached this truce, I didn’t try to avoid her
when I saw her near the bonfire, after the brief but much lauded
fireworks display.

‘Does Saffron Sweeting have fireworks every year?’ I
asked, as we found the right distance from the flames to warm our
hands.

‘No – only alternate years,’ she replied.
‘We don’t have the funds. But tonight’s were some
of the best I can remember.’

‘There’s a huge crowd,’ I said.

Over by the main gate, a couple of parish councillors were
holding donation buckets. They seemed to be doing pretty well. Once
again, families were out in force, kids whirling sparklers in rapt
delight.

Violet nodded and shuffled her feet to keep them warm.
‘Lots of folks from outside the village. Again.’

In the firelight, I could only just see her face. The darkness
gave me courage. ‘Do you resent that?’ I asked
quietly.

I thought she hadn’t heard me over the crackle of the
flames. Then, as the bonfire started to caress the bottom of the
wonky chair on which the guy sat, she said, ‘No, of course
not. Their ways just take some getting used to, that’s
all.’

‘You mean the Americans?’ I wiggled my fingers
towards the glowing heat.

‘Not just them. Although some of the Yanks are too loud
for their own good.’

I couldn’t entirely refute that, even though most of the
families were lovely. Tonight, they were confused about why we were
burning an effigy and most thought celebrating the near destruction
of our Parliament was a little subversive. In general, though, they
seemed happy just to enjoy the occasion. The pub had been dishing
out bangers and mash non-stop since lunchtime.

‘Everything’s changing so fast,’ Violet
continued. ‘I’m having trouble keeping up. I
can’t see the post office surviving much longer.’

The guy was in even more imminent danger than the Royal Mail:
the flames had reached his booted feet.

‘But wouldn’t you like to retire?’ I said,
hoping this wasn’t too rude.

‘Daft question,’ she said. ‘I was born in the
last year of the War.’

That meant she was close to seventy. Even though she seemed to
be in perfect health, she deserved to take things a bit easier.

‘My father was American,’ she said suddenly.

‘Really?’ I hadn’t seen that coming.

‘I never knew him. He never even saw me. My mother told
everyone he was killed. But before she died, she confessed she
never knew that for sure. He could have simply gone back to Kansas
and left us to it.’

‘Crumbs,’ I said, sensing an incredible story here.
Politely, I added, ‘I’m so sorry. That’s
hard.’

She smiled, her face half orange, half shadowed. ‘Well,
obviously it was a long time ago. I’ve pretty much stopped
wondering whether every newcomer to the village is my half-sibling.
But I would like to know whether he went on to have another
family.’

I nodded. No wonder she found the inbound Americans a little
unsettling.

The wind changed direction slightly; we were getting smoked and
would have to move soon. Violet waved at someone across the field.
I looked through the haze, and saw Peter in the queue for the hot
dog van. Nancy was with him.