by Della Galton
For maybe a full thirty seconds, there was silence, except for the ticking of the clock in the hall that they could hear through the half-open door. Clara could hear his light breathing and feel his sadness, like dust in the air, and she knew he must be struggling. You couldn’t recount events like that, no matter how long ago, without reliving them to some extent.
Then she could bear it no longer. She slipped off the settee and went and knelt on the carpet by the armchair and she took his hand. ‘I can’t imagine how much that must have hurt,’ she murmured.
He squeezed her fingers. ‘I don’t know why I told you.’
‘Maybe I’m a good listener too.’
‘You are.’ He sounded surprised. Clara decided not to take that personally. He was the second person who’d unburdened himself to her today and she was pretty sure Grandad had been surprised too.
‘I’ll make us some more coffee’ she said and got up without waiting for him to answer. He could have a few more moments in the dark with his thoughts or he could come out to the kitchen, but she didn’t want him to be embarrassed. Or to think he had to go.
He didn’t come out, but a few moments later, when she went back into the lounge, he had switched on a sidelight so there was a muted rose glow in the room. Also, to her surprise, Foxy had climbed up onto the armchair and had her head on his lap. It was funny how dogs always knew. They were such empaths.
‘Is she allowed up here?’ Adam looked up guiltily. ‘She said she was.’
Vulnerable Orlando, Clara thought, but she responded lightly to his question. ‘Oh did she now,’ and she widened her eyes in mock reproof. ‘Yes, I think Kate lets her. Although she doesn’t often get up there.’
‘She manages OK with three legs, doesn’t she? How did she lose it?’
Clara hesitated, but she couldn’t pussyfoot around him. ‘She got hit by a car. The guy didn’t stop. I was driving behind him. So I did.’
‘Bastard,’ Adam said, stroking Foxy’s ears and causing her to open one eye in pleasure. ‘So how come Kate ended up with her?’
‘It turned out she was a stray. The vet couldn’t trace her owner. I’d already said I’d cover the bill for whatever needed doing when I took her in. But then, of course, she needed a permanent home and I don’t have a garden to speak of, so Kate came to the rescue.’ She put the new cafetière of coffee on the small square table they’d been using. ‘It’s funny how things work out. I was driving to my interview at the Bluebell at the time. I was a bit late – being as I’d gone via the vets. I was also a bit messy. I’d got blood on my interview suit. Kate was very good about it. She loves dogs. And, as luck would have, it I’ve ended up looking after Foxy anyway. As well as this beautiful bungalow.’ She spread her arms to encompass the oblong-shaped room. ‘I’ll be quite sad when I have to go back to my tiny house.’
‘One day, when you get your smallholding, you can have a dozen dogs.’
‘Maybe it’s like your tea plantation. The fantasy is much more appealing than the reality.’
‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ he said, raising his cup in her direction. ‘I much prefer coffee to tea.’
‘I’ve got a confession too. I don’t own a pair of green wellington boots. You were right.’
‘I knew it.’ He winked at her. ‘Although I can see you tending to plants. You’d be good at it too. You’re one of life’s nurturers, aren’t you?’
‘We have that in common,’ she countered, glad that they were away from car accidents. Away from divorces, even though that’s what he’d come round to talk about. ‘I’m assuming that much of your time is spent looking after Nick.’
He darted a glance at her. ‘Some of it. But don’t go telling anyone. I’ll lose my street cred.’
‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Cheers.’ He drained his cup and clonked it back onto the table. ‘The truth is, I only do what any half-decent brother would do. Nick was there for me when I lost Shona. He was bloody brilliant. I couldn’t have got through it without him. The illness is a bugger because it’s progressive, but not terminal. And fortunately he has long periods of remission. Hell, have you seen the time? I should get out of your hair.’
She looked at her FunFit bracelet, which was good for telling the time if nothing else, and was amazed to see it was twenty-five to eleven. ‘Blimey. No. I hadn’t. Where did that go?’
‘It was the same when we went out to dinner,’ he said, when she finally saw him out and they were standing at the front door. ‘The time just flew by.’
‘For me too,’ she acknowledged.
They were less than a foot apart and she didn’t want him to go. Apart from that brief moment when she had held his hand, she realised they had never actually touched and yet she was totally aware of him: of the faint scent of his aftershave; of the darkness of his eyes; of the tallness of him. Tall people intimidated her usually, especially at close proximity, but he didn’t. He was too gentle.
‘Thanks so much for listening,’ she said, aware that she was standing on the doormat, which gave her an extra inch, and looking up into his face.
‘I think it was more the other way round,’ he said, dipping his head, and for a hair’s breadth of a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but it was gone as swiftly as it had arrived.
Then she was closing the door, standing in the six-foot-two block of Adam-Greenwood-shaped emptiness that he’d left behind.
19
She didn’t sleep well that night. She was too wired with caffeine and conversation. When she did finally drop off, she dreamed that the gap between the Old Harry Rocks had moved farther apart and that she and Adam were in a rowing boat, armed with a rope lasso, which they planned to throw over the smaller of the giant white rocks so they could tow it back into its rightful position again. The only problem was that no matter how hard they rowed, they never seemed to get any closer and then a big storm blew up and there was a tsunami that lifted the rowing boat right up onto the crest of its wave and threatened to smash it down onto the great rocks beneath.
Clara woke up, drenched in sweat with the thin summer duvet tangled up around her legs and all the pillows on the floor. It was daylight. It was just gone eight and she was safe in her bed, albeit with her heartbeat thundering. She lay there until the adrenaline of the nightmare had subsided and then reached for her mobile phone.
Curiously, she checked the sleep report on her FunFit, which said:
Good. You indicators, this night, quite good. Yes. Healthy sleep. Fantastic.
She threw it across the room. Then she got up and did what Adam had suggested last night and phoned Grandad.
He didn’t answer the mobile phone he’d had yesterday. She wasn’t surprised. It was probably still on silent. She phoned the house line and Elsie answered.
‘How’s Grandad today?’ Clara knew her voice was artificially bright like you are when someone’s ill and you fear they won’t get better.
‘He’s still the same, I’m afraid. Still intent on getting divorced. Jim’s tried to talk some sense into him. They were up late last night and they’ve just walked up to the paper shop.’ Elsie sighed. ‘What does your mother think?’
‘I haven’t said anything to her yet. I was hoping he’d change his mind.’
‘I see. Hmmm.’ There was a longish pause, during which Elsie cleared her throat. ‘To be honest, love,’ she said at last, ‘I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but maybe if that’s what they both really want, it would be for the best. They can’t live in limbo for ever.’
‘I know.’ Clara could feel tears queuing up to get into her voice. ‘It can’t be easy for you two either.’
‘Oh, love, it’s not that. Eric can stay as long as he likes. We don’t mind having him at all. But it’s not good for him or Thelma, is it? All these shenanigans at their age.’
‘I know,’ Clara said again. ‘Will you tell him I called and that I’m here if he wants to chat?’
‘Of cou
rse I will, love.’
‘People, eh,’ Clara said to Foxy once she’d put down the phone. But she couldn’t deny that Elsie might be right. Adam had said exactly the same thing. Gran and Grandad were grown-ups after all.
She decided not to phone him again. Or any of the rest of her family. It wasn’t a lunch Sunday, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to keep things to herself for a while. She was due into work at midday anyway. When she got there, she discovered a text on her mobile from Adam. It was very brief.
Thanks again for last night. Ax
She typed back a reply straight away.
Thanks for coming over. Cx
But she didn’t press send. She sat in her car staring at her phone screen.
She wanted to say so much more. She wanted to suggest they saw each other again, but this time just for the pure pleasure of it. Not because it was a business meeting to unite two hotels. Not because either of them wanted to let off steam. But just because she had felt such a connection with him on the last two occasions they had met. Just because the time flew.
He was rapidly becoming a friend, someone that she trusted, and after last night she was pretty sure he felt the same. But she couldn’t say all this in a text. Maybe she should phone him.
A small whine from the back of the car jolted her into the present. She looked back at the text she’d written on her phone and in a flash of paranoia she deleted the kiss in case he thought she was being too familiar. Then she pressed send.
When the first couple of days of October passed without any more communication from Adam, Clara knew she’d been right not to phone him and suggest that they went out on a date. Good grief that could have been embarrassing.
She gave herself a good stern talking-to and resolved to put Adam Greenwood out of her mind. He was a business acquaintance and he was a friend. These were the facts.
On the plus side, she heard nothing more about a divorce, either from Grandad or from anyone else in the family.
Even when she caught up with Rosanna for a coffee the subject didn’t arise. Rosanna was busy with the children and the talk was of the school’s nativity play, which had just been cast, ready to begin rehearsals in November.
‘Sophie’s playing an angel,’ Rosanna said. ‘And Tom’s going to be doing a piano piece in the revue they’re having at his school.’
‘How fantastic is that.’
‘I know. Proud Mummy moment.’
Clara couldn’t bring herself to mention Grandad’s decision, and if no one else knew, then maybe he had decided against the nuclear option, after all. Good. She would just have to keep her fingers crossed on that one.
In the meantime, the Curly Wurly challenge was an excellent distraction. She and Zoe were getting quite excited about it. Mr B thought it was ‘kind of cool’. Phil thought it was nuts, even though Clara knew he was secretly pleased to have a connection with a record-breaking attempt. Jakob said it confirmed his theory that all English people were a little crazy. Even the hard-to-impress Keith thought it was a bit of harmless fun and more sensible than that woman who grew her fingernails eighteen feet long.
‘One of the things I love about working at the Bluebell is that there’s always something to talk about,’ Zoe said. ‘Mum says I’m really lucky. She works in an old people’s home and all they ever talk about is their feet, their medication and their arthritis.’
‘Poor loves,’ Clara said.
‘It was a shame about all those hot Young Farmers though,’ Zoe added wistfully. ‘Do we have any more groups coming like that?’
‘Well, it just so happens that I’m mid negotiation with a group of Dorset firefighters who are booking us for their Christmas party,’ Clara told her. ‘And there is, of course, next year’s Secret Policeman’s Ball. We’re hoping to stage one of the events here.’
‘What? Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me?’ The outrage in her voice was comical.
‘Because I am still in the very delicate early-stage negotiations,’ Clara teased. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep you in the loop once I know what’s happening. And talking about keeping people in the loop, have you seen any interesting bags on eBay lately?’
‘No, but if I do, you’ll be the first to know,’ Zoe promised.
‘How’s the sweepstake going?’
‘William Big is currently top of the leader board. Think about it…’ Zoe said.
Clara thought about it and snorted.
‘Except Phil says he probably wouldn’t have changed it if it were that. They get quite a lot ruder…’
‘I don’t think I want to know.’
‘OK. Well, on the polite front, Batty’s quite popular – not surprisingly. So’s Buttery.’
‘Buttery surely isn’t a surname.’
‘It actually is. It’s an old Nottinghamshire name. Jakob looked it up.’ Zoe paused. ‘Actually, Mr B knows now. He found out. Phil accidentally left the sweepstake book out. They had a blazing row and didn’t speak for a day, but in the end Mr B said he’s not giving us any clues, but if anyone guesses his surname, he’ll confirm that they’re right. And he’ll award a prize.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘The day before yesterday when you were at that meeting with the tourist board.’
Clara wasn’t surprised Mr B had taken control of the situation – control freak that he was. ‘So what’s the prize?’
‘He said he’ll create a new dessert for the menu to be named after the winner. So if I win it could be Zoe’s Zabaglione and if Ellie May wins it could be Ellie May’s Mango and Vanilla Cookies and if Phil wins it’s Phil’s Passion Fruit Buns.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Clara said, shaking her head.
The world record contender, Micky Tucker, arrived with his mother, Shirley, on the afternoon before the challenge was scheduled to take place. They had booked two nights’ bed, breakfast and evening meal and had sent an advance message asking if the kitchen could possibly do them a couple of Mr B’s celebrated chocolate cheesecakes with spun sugar for dessert.
A message had been sent back that Mr B would be honoured to prepare his chocolate cheesecake for a potential Guinness World Records holder.
When they arrived, Zoe checked them in and then she dashed into the office to tell Clara all about them.
‘Micky Tucker’s got a proper Somerset accent, luuurve,’ she mimicked. ‘He’s got bright ginger hair and he looks like he might have eaten a few Curly Wurly bars in his time, never mind stretching them!’
‘I guess you’d have to do something with all the ones you practice with,’ Clara said, licking her lips. ‘It would be a shame to throw them away.’
She met Micky and his mother that night at dinner and she saw that Zoe was right. Micky wasn’t what she’d expected an aspiring record breaker to look like – not that she’d realised she’d had an expectation until she saw him – he was almost as wide as he was tall. In fact, mother and son both were. They were also both very nice, cheerful people and incredibly excited about the chance to break a world record.
‘I’ve a reporter coming ’ere in the morning,’ Shirley told Clara. ‘He’s going to interview Micky about the challenge. How ’e feels, what he’s done to get ready for it – that kind of thing. It’ll be a proper human-interest piece, he says. Then he’ll be coming along with us to the Chocolate Challenge to take pictures and suchlike. And, with a bit of luck, we’ll be back here to celebrate after we’ve done it.’
‘Fabulous,’ Clara said. ‘I’ll be coming along too.’
‘Will you, lurve. That’s kind.’
‘Who’s the reporter?’
Shirley consulted her notepad. ‘It’s a chap called Simon Tomlinson. He’s from The Purbeck Gazette.’
Bloody hell, that name was a rather unpleasant blast from the past, Clara thought, remembering Lighthousegate and realising Shirley was still speaking.
‘We’ll get into the nationals too, I’m sure. If Micky breaks it.’
‘I’ve brok
en it twice in rehearsals,’ Micky said, looking confident. ‘It’s all about keeping your nerve. Keeping a steady hand. Focusing in.’
‘And a good breakfast,’ put in Shirley Tucker. ‘Going off with a good breakfast’s important.’
‘Yeah. Can we have whisky with our porridge?’ Micky asked. ‘I’ve always fancied that. It’s traditional, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe more in Dalwhinnie than in Dorset,’ Clara said, ‘but I’m sure it could be arranged, if that’s what you would like.’
Like the mini Oktoberfest, the Chocolate Challenge was only in its second year at Swanage. Clara was amazed she hadn’t heard anything about it last year. Events concerning chocolate didn’t usually get past her radar.
She drove Micky and Shirley to the festival in Phil’s car, as he’d tactfully said they would all have a bit more legroom in his. It was taking place on the sports field on the outskirts of town. As they got out of the car, Clara could see that there were three large marquees in situ. There was also a giant blow-up slide for the children, alongside some mini fairground rides, and a great scattering of stalls.
Brancombe, which was on the outskirts of Swanage, might not be as big as Bavaria, but it had pulled out all the stops for its mini version of Oktoberfest, Clara saw.
While the Tuckers wandered off to find the reporter from The Purbeck Gazette, she went into the Chocolate Challenge marquee, which wasn’t hard to find – she just followed her nose – and was instantly surrounded by the divine smell of chocolate. This must be what it would smell like inside Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, she thought, taking a long and blissful breath. There were undertones of vanilla and salted caramel, and honeycomb – and was that toffee? Her mouth watered as she stared around her.
To her left was a chocolate fountain supervised by a woman in a pristine white coat with the words The Chocolate Foundation in swirly letters on the front. The woman was dipping marshmallows on sticks into the fountain and lining them up on a tray beside it.
