Saving Saffron Sweeting (7 page)

My soul and spirit were further boosted when I
stumbled upon an elegant cafe, housed in a church nave in Trinity
Street. After lunch, I phoned Jem.

‘Grace! Where are you? How are you?’ she asked in
one breath.

I filled her in: I had indeed made my way to Saffron Sweeting
and was hoping to stay for a while.

‘Are you sure you want to be stuck in a small
village?’ she asked. ‘I feel bad about steering you
there – I had too much to drink the other night.’

‘I think it’s okay,’ I replied. ‘I like
that it’s quiet. And the bakery’s great.’

The welcome I’d received from Brian, the baker, had
certainly been warmer than in the post office.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to get work in London?’
Jem asked. ‘And I’d see you more often.’

‘It’s only an hour on the train,’ I smiled.
‘But if I can’t find somewhere to stay, I’ll
rethink.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay, I guess. I spoke to James – he was on the
brink of coming over here but I persuaded him not to.’

‘Wow. Interesting, that he was going to drop everything
and follow you.’

‘You think?’

‘I do. Things can’t be all cosy with the other
woman, if he was on his way here.’

‘Oh.’ I hadn’t thought about his motives for
coming to England.

‘Grace …’ Jem said, ‘I’m behind
you, whatever you do, but, well, do you think maybe you were a bit
hasty? You and James have such a lot of history; shouldn’t
you at least talk to him?’

I didn’t want to think of our history: fourteen years, two
countries, multiple jobs. Thirteen Valentine’s Days, a dozen
summer holidays, hundreds of Sunday mornings. Two written-off cars
(me), one broken arm (also me), one broken marriage vow (him).

I swallowed. ‘I can’t. I just can’t deal with
seeing him.’

‘Okay,’ she said, after a pause. ‘That’s
understandable. What about your mum and dad? Have you told
them?’

‘No … but I’ll visit them soon. They think
I’m with you, by the way.’

‘Right, no problem, I won’t say anything. But
promise you’ll come and see me,’ she said. ‘I
could do with some adult conversation.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll do afternoon
tea soon.’

I didn’t expect Amelia to remember me as
I pushed open the bottle-green door of Hargraves & Co and
stepped down into the office, but to her credit, she did.

‘Hello there,’ she called from behind a mountain of
papers. ‘I’ve been keeping a look out, but I
haven’t found anything for you.’

Today, she was wearing a neat pencil skirt and an amazing floral
silk blouse which made her hair look as shiny as a racehorse. I
made a mental note to find a good hairdresser, and soon.

‘Oh, well, that was kind,’ I replied. ‘I
realise I’m asking a lot, to get something cheap and
short-term. I just looked at some awful places in Bury.’

‘It’s not easy for renters at the moment, darling.
Demand is so strong, you’re getting slim pickings.’

‘You’re certainly busy,’ I smiled at her,
thinking I should get out of the way and let her do some work.

‘Yes, totally hectic and I love it, but sometimes
I’d give anything to stop for a cup of coffee.’ She
started stapling and stuffing house details into green Hargraves
presentation folders. ‘And between you and me, some of the
American clients can be so critical … They just don’t
understand that houses are different here.’

I spotted a prominent listing displayed next to the door. The
asking price was close to two million pounds. ‘That’s
gorgeous,’ I said, taking note of the sweeping driveway,
conservatory and even a small stable block. There was a glossy,
dark creeper on the outside of the house, giving it the kind of
stately look which takes decades to achieve.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it,’ she agreed. ‘But
unfortunately it only has two bathrooms and the heating needs an
exorcist. My clients aren’t thrilled by cold baths, it
seems.’ Once again, her shoe made restless circles in the
air.

My gaze was still on the glossy photos on the wall. Even without
that kind of money, I would have enjoyed a good nose around any of
the houses. For me, trying on real estate was far more exciting
than trying on clothes.

The phone rang and Amelia lunged to answer it, scattering fliers
on the floor as she did so. I picked up the ones I could reach,
before deciding to leave her in peace.

Retreating quietly from the office, I crossed the street to the
bakery. It was half past three and I had to wait behind a couple of
mothers with young children in tow, presumably buying after-school
treats. As they squeezed around me with their bags of goodies, I
asked Brian for a hot chocolate and then remembered what Amelia had
said about coffee. On impulse, I added a latte and a couple of
Bakewell tarts to my order.

Hands full, I returned to the estate agency. A middle-aged
couple were now seated by Amelia’s desk, details of several
houses spread in front of them.

‘To be real honest,’ I heard the man say, ‘we
weren’t blown away by anything we saw yesterday.’ His
accent was definitely west of Cornwall. Three or four thousand
miles west.

‘The rooms were kind of poky,’ his wife added.

‘Well, the house on Damson Lane is listed. It’s two
hundred years old,’ Amelia smiled at them. She spied me
hovering near the door and I gestured to the coffee as best I
could, as the hot chocolate started to burn my other hand.

Her eyes widened. ‘For me? You sweetie, thank
you!’

I approached her desk and excused myself to her clients as I
leaned across with the drink and pastry. The man was tanned and
looked like he had outdoor hobbies – tennis or golf, perhaps.
His wife had been careful not to catch as much sun, but her hair
was tastefully streaked with blonde highlights and her manicure was
immaculate. I imagined she spent a fair amount of time lunching at
their country club.

‘Well, sure it’s listed,’ she said.
‘It’s for sale, isn’t it?’

Amelia looked quizzical and sipped her coffee.

‘Excuse my overhearing,’ I ventured. ‘Amelia
didn’t mean it’s for sale. In England, a listed
property means it’s protected for historical value and
interest. It can make approvals for alterations hard, but
you’re rewarded with living somewhere with centuries of
character.’

Mrs Country Club tilted her head to one side. ‘Oh,
really?’ she licked her lips and glanced at her husband.
‘You mean, like some famous historical figure could have
lived there?’

Amelia caught on fast. ‘Well, in this case, we don’t
know,’ she said, ‘but being so close to Cambridge,
kings and princes have certainly roamed these parts.’ Did she
wink at me?

The husband was studying the house details again. ‘Why
does it say the bedrooms are on the first floor?’ He pointed
at the paper. ‘They weren’t. They were all upstairs.
That’s just misleading. You’re supposed to check your
facts when you’re selling houses.’

There was a pause; Amelia seemed taken aback.

I felt the sugary courage of my hot chocolate. ‘Pardon me
again,’ I ventured, talking to Amelia. ‘In the US, the
first floor always means the ground floor.’ I looked at Mr
& Mrs Country Club now. ‘That’s just a British
quirk,’ I said apologetically. ‘I’m afraid we
count a little differently. By first, we mean second.’

The husband looked from me to Amelia, and back again. ‘Do
you work here?’

I started to say
No, of course not
, but Amelia was
quicker.

‘This is Grace,’ she said smoothly.
‘She’s British but lived in the States for several
years. My clients adore her.’

Her what? Adore who?

Mrs Country Club looked at me doubtfully, but her husband was
already nodding.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘perhaps we should go take
another look at this place. And I’d like for Grace to
accompany us this time.’

‘Perfect,’ Amelia beamed. ‘Would you like to
go now?’

Their real names were Ted and Betsy and they
were from Thousand Oaks, outside Los Angeles. He was Vice President
of something unintelligible for one of the bio-tech companies and
they were expecting to be in England for at least five years. Betsy
refused to rent for that long and since money wasn’t a
primary constraint, they planned to buy a house.

I had tried to take Amelia to one side to ask her what on earth
was going on, but she had disappeared for all of twenty seconds
into the back room, returning with a set of keys. She handed these
to me cheerily, before bundling me and her American clients out of
the front door. Before I could blink, I found myself in the back of
Ted’s vast beige car, complete with delicious smelling
leather seats. I hoped my shoes were clean.

I had no idea where our intended property was, but fortunately
Betsy had a good memory and directed Ted up past the church to
Damson Lane. The car crunched on the gravel driveway and I slid
from my seat to find myself in front of the house I had been
admiring in the photo. It was even more charming in reality.

‘Wow.’ I stood stock still and drank in the facade
with its mellow bricks, the colour of ripe wheat. The house
wasn’t huge but it had majestic presence. It had either been
the manor house or home to a wealthy farmer. The trunk of the
ancient Virginia creeper was as big as a small tree. Being a little
outside the village, there was total peace and the only sound came
from a few birds singing in the hedgerow.

Ted and Betsy were looking at me oddly as I didn’t
move.

‘Sorry,’ I shrugged to them. ‘I feel like
I’m in a Jane Austen novel.’

‘Which one?’ Betsy asked, as we all crossed to the
front door and I prayed the lock wouldn’t be tricky.

‘
Pride and Prejudice
, I think. That’s my
favourite, anyway.’

Ted yawned but Betsy nodded agreeably. ‘I just love Keira
Knightley.’

The front door yielded and I stepped back to allow them into the
house first. This was their second viewing and I could tell they
were interested but uneasy. By English standards, it was gorgeous,
but I could see that the formal rooms might feel constraining. Ted
and Betsy were probably accustomed to a ‘great’ room,
or open space living. Happily, the kitchen had been modernised and
was spacious enough to accommodate a casual dining space too. It
even had a big red range cooker, which Betsy was eyeing with
suspicion.

‘That’s an Aga,’ I told her. ‘I’ve
never cooked on one, but I understand that once you get used to it,
you’re hooked.’ Coincidentally, I had been reading an
article about them in bed at Oak House the previous night.
‘Apparently, they’re enjoying a renaissance, even
though they cost thousands.’

Ted was in a little sitting room, where French doors opened onto
the sweeping lawn at the back of the house.

‘I suppose we could use this as the den,’ he called
to Betsy.

We joined him and I noticed the attractive stone fireplace.
Betsy glanced at it too.

‘Do you think it would be cold in winter?’ she asked
me.

‘Well, if you’re used to Los Angeles, you’d
probably want some nice heavy curtains.’ I pondered.
‘But it’s not too big, so wouldn’t cost much to
heat.’

Upstairs, I asked them if two bathrooms for six bedrooms was a
problem.

‘We don’t have kids,’ Betsy said –
sadly, I thought. ‘So I think it’s okay.’

‘If guests all come at once, they can share,’ Ted
shrugged. ‘Good of you to mention it, though,
Grace.’

I revised my initial opinion of him – he wasn’t as
irritable as I had thought.

‘I don’t understand the complete lack of
closets.’ Betsy gestured round the master bedroom with some
frustration. ‘What in the world do English people
do
?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘mostly we have stand-alone
wardrobes. You might want to go shopping for a couple of
those.’

‘Great,’ said Ted. ‘More to buy.’

‘But if I were you,’ I told Betsy jokingly,
‘I’d grab that small bedroom next door and make the
whole thing into a giant walk-in closet.’

She giggled and I realised I’d stumbled on a great idea.
Perhaps she owned mountains of clothes.

We didn’t spend long looking around outside the house,
which was a shame, as I could happily have brought a picnic and
spent all day. But they said they’d seen it last time and had
liked the stables.

‘Do you ride?’ I asked Betsy.

‘Not much,’ she said, ‘but I wanna learn.
English style. With the velvet hat and jacket and all.’

I smiled at her and silently hoped she didn’t plan to take
up fox-hunting.

As I made sure everything was locked up before we got back in
the car, I could hear them discussing the house in hushed tones. I
wasn’t sure how they felt, but I knew I was smitten. I told
them I’d be thrilled to go back with them, if they wanted to
view it a third time.

‘Do you mind if we drop you on the edge of the
village?’ Ted asked. ‘We’ve got dinner with
friends this evening and need to run back to our hotel in Cambridge
first.’

I didn’t mind one bit. They pulled over next to the duck
pond and I slid squeakily from my leather seat before saying good
bye. I doubted Amelia would lock up her office much before six, and
I made my way back at a leisurely pace. The afternoon shadows were
lengthening and Saffron Sweeting was glowing gently. A tractor
rumbled by, but otherwise the High Street was deserted.

As I crossed the road by the post office, I noticed the elderly
woman who ran it turning the sign on the door from open to closed.
I waved at her and I’m sure she saw me, but she didn’t
wave back. Obviously not a cheerful soul. I put her deliberately
from my mind and wondered what to say to Amelia. It all seemed
pretty unorthodox – after all, she hardly knew me, yet
she’d sent me off with strangers and the keys to a two
million pound house. Still, I had to admit I’d enjoyed the
outing.