by Della Galton
Clara felt her face flood with embarrassment, but he wasn’t finished.
‘This is the only thing I have managed to salvage from my only daughter’s only wedding cake.’ He peered a little closer at Kate, who was wearing an orange T-shirt and light canvas jacket and mid-length shorts, possibly because it would have been hard to get trousers over the walking plaster on her lower left leg. ‘You’re the owner. You’re Kate Rawlinson.’
‘I am, yes.’ She met his gaze steadily. ‘I’m extremely sorry.’ She glanced enquiringly at Clara.
‘Isn’t it John?’ Aiden said, taking a step towards him and the two men sized each other up. ‘Didn’t you used to be Avenue Plant Hire?’
‘That’s right.’ Some of the heat had gone out of John’s voice.
To Clara’s relief, Aiden’s presence seemed to have diffused the situation a little. He was several inches taller than the stocky John Scargill, but he exuded an air of calm authority and the two men clearly knew each other.
‘This is supposed to be the best day of my daughter’s life,’ Peggy Scargill put in and Clara caught a waft of her spicy perfume as she moved and the heavy gold silk of her dress rustled.
‘It’s fine, Mum.’ Isobel and James had arrived now too. Isobel was holding her dress up with one hand so it didn’t drag too much on the grass. Her other hand was clutching her groom’s. ‘It’s not anyone’s fault that the alarms went off,’ she continued, her sweet face earnest to placate. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
‘Someone set off an alarm on the top floor, but there was no evidence of a fire,’ Clara told Kate. ‘Unfortunately, we were halfway through the ceremony at the time. But we’ll be back on track as soon as we’re cleared to go back into the building.’
‘Yes, before I change my mind,’ Isobel quipped.
Peggy looked at her in alarm.
‘I was joking, Mummy.’ Isobel gave James a lingering kiss. ‘Hey, what do you suppose the chances are of us having a photo on the fire engine, Clara? Do you think they’d mind?’
‘I’ll ask them,’ Clara said, glancing around for the photographer and anxious to try and make amends somehow for the unwelcome intermission they’d been forced to take. ‘That would be a novel one for the album.’
‘You should sit down,’ Aiden was saying to Kate, ‘and put your foot up.’
Clara nodded. She had noticed the winces of pain that her boss was doing her best to disguise. ‘Everything’s in hand.’ She couldn’t believe she was saying that. But it was true. Peggy and John seemed to have calmed down, if only because they didn’t want to create a scene for their daughter. They were talking to some other guests now. Clara focused on what needed to be done. Despite her burning eyes and overriding tiredness, adrenaline had galvanised her thoughts.
Five minutes later, she was on her way to salvaging things: she’d reassured a disgruntled registrar that as long as they were back inside in the next twenty minutes, which was absolutely doable, he would still be able to finish the ceremony and get away on time; she’d arranged an impromptu photo session for Isobel and James, which one of the firefighters was delighted to be part of, whilst his mate finished the paperwork with Phil, having confirmed there was no fire. She saw Kate talking to the band leader and shortly afterwards they had picked up the more portable of their instruments and had burst into an impromptu rendition of ‘London’s Burning’ on the lawn, which seemed highly inappropriate but was certainly making everyone smile.
It was a pity they couldn’t serve the champagne yet, Clara thought, but it didn’t look as though they needed it. Even John Scargill was tapping his foot to the music.
Then someone shouted from the end of the gardens. ‘Hey everyone. Look – there are dolphins out there.’
In a ripple of excitement, the whole wedding party shifted to look. Indeed there were. The shiny grey, sleek-backed outlines were clearly visible, and for the next few minutes, there was the kind of display that money couldn’t buy, and that no one would ever forget as the small school of dolphins jumped and played and splashed in the sparkling sea just off the headland.
Clara felt tears fill her eyes as she watched them, along with everyone else. Against all the odds, and despite the saboteur’s best efforts, it looked as though the Bluebell’s first wedding might turn out to be brilliant, after all.
It was only when Isobel and James were finally married, and the last of the eco-friendly rose petal confetti had been thrown, and the registrar had sped away smiling, and the guests had been shepherded towards the restaurant, that Kate and Clara caught up again.
‘Shall we have a quick chat while they’re eating?’ Kate said. ‘Where’s Foxy by the way?’
‘In the office. And yes, thanks.’ Clara swallowed anxiety. She might have salvaged things out of the chaos the day had nearly become, but what if Kate didn’t see it that way?
En route to the office, Clara glanced into the restaurant, which smelled divine. The waiters were scurrying around serving up Mr B’s exquisite creamy watercress soup with home-made, warm crusty rolls. The man himself might be as complex as a box of frogs, but his food was masterfully simple. The finest ingredients simply used by a master, was his motto. She sniffed appreciatively; she was glad they’d won the One Stop Watercress battle.
In the office, while she waited for Kate, she sat on the manager’s chair and stroked Foxy and the little dog put her head on her knees and gazed up at her with liquid brown eyes.
Clara wondered if she should offer Kate her bungalow back sooner than the end of October, which was what they had recently agreed. Kate was planning to stay with Aiden until then, but a bungalow might be easier than a house with her lower leg in plaster.
Behind her, the door opened with a soft click and Clara jumped. They might have salvaged the wedding, but that didn’t mean she felt any less wired. She was as tense as a battery spring.
Kate appeared, followed by Zoe, with a tray of coffee, which she put down swiftly on the desk before disappearing. This was just as well because Foxy gave her mistress an ecstatic welcome that would have sent the most robust of coffee pots flying.
‘I’ve missed you too, little one,’ she said, stroking a delighted Foxy. ‘Have you been behaving yourself?’
Foxed wagged her tail and sniffed at the plaster and finally settled down again.
Clara was reminded of when she’d been interviewed here, of how lovely Kate had been, even though she’d been late and had arrived with blood on her suit. Of how warm and understanding and compassionate she was. Of how well they had clicked. Getting off a long-haul flight and stepping into a scene of wedding chaos must have been a shock, but she didn’t look too pissed off, even now, just a little tired. She sat in the visitor’s chair and poured them both a mug of coffee.
‘First of all, I need to say a massive thank you,’ she began. ‘I picked the right person to leave in charge of my baby.’ She glanced up at the framed portrait of Caroline Rawlinson above their heads and Clara followed her gaze. ‘I wish she had lived to see this place come alive. She’d have loved it.’
‘It’s been my pleasure,’ Clara said. ‘How are things with your Mum?’
‘Practically sorted. It was good having those extra few weeks, although for the last few I think I may have been more than a hindrance than a help.’ She gestured to her ankle. ‘I still can’t believe I did so much damage falling off a flaming stepladder. Still, at least it’s on the way to being mended now.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘We decided to try and get an earlier flight back because I was worried after that horrible piece in the paper last week. I didn’t think we’d be able to change it – hence I didn’t warn you – but they offered us a last-minute cancellation.’
Clara nodded. The Curly Wurly challenge felt as though it had been a lot longer ago than a week.
‘You look worn out, Clara. Are you all right?’
Clara told her about Grandad and Kate’s face sobered. ‘Oh my goodness, is he OK? Should you even be here?’
‘He’s going to be fine. And I wanted to be here.’
‘OK, but I am going to send you home very soon. No arguments. Remember what you promised. You should be with your family.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So tell me about today. Do we think our “saboteur” had anything to do with the alarm going off? Also, did I imagine it or did John Scargill say something about pigs?’
Clara filled her in. Kate knew most of what had gone on, but Clara brought her up to speed, explaining that the saboteur no longer seemed a hazy possibility any more but a concrete fact. She tried to be unemotional about it all. To just give her employer the bare facts, but she didn’t leave anything out. Not even her suspicions that her ex may have had something to do with the YouTube video.
‘He’s away on a round-the-world trip,’ she finished. ‘Although I got a postcard from him yesterday with some angry exclamation marks.’
‘It seems unlikely that he’d be able to cause much damage from a distance,’ Kate mused and Clara nodded.
Does Mr B have any theories?’ There was a glimmer of humour in Kate’s eyes now. ‘He usually does.’
Clara told her about the Manor House, about Mr B’s altercation with Adam Greenwood, about her night out with Adam, and about her certainty that he had nothing to do with any of it.
‘What about his brother? He’d have just as strong a motive as Adam and they do co own the hotel.’
Clara confessed that she had never met Nick Greenwood. ‘Although I guess we can’t rule him out, I do know that he’s been in and out of hospital a few times lately. Then there’s the reporter from The Purbeck Gazette,’ she added. ‘He seems to have it in for us. But I have no idea why.’
‘Neither have I. But from everything you’ve said, it does sound as though it’s someone close to home.’ For the first time since they’d been talking, she frowned. ‘Clara, I have to ask you this. Could it be someone who works here?’
Clara felt a jolt of shock. ‘No I don’t… We… you… have an absolutely brilliant team. They are loyal and hard-working and I think most of our staff love working here.’
‘Most?’ Kate queried.
‘I just meant we have agency staff fairly often in the restaurant and kitchen.’ She racked her brains. ‘But even they tend to be regulars.’
‘So how sure are you that it’s not anyone who works here – in percentage terms?’
‘Ninety-five per cent sure.’
‘Thank you. That’s such a relief. Now, I’m going to pull rank and insist that you take that leave I’ve been promising you. We did agree.’
‘All right.’ It was the gentleness in her boss’s voice that got to her. Clara felt sudden tears pricking the backs of her eyes. ‘Are you sure you don’t need your bungalow back sooner now? With your ankle, I mean?’
‘No, honey. As we said, Aiden wants to look after me at his and I’ve decided to let him.’
Clara reached for her bag and stood up. ‘Would you like me to still look after Foxy?’
Foxy had got out of her basket and was already by her side.
‘I would be really grateful, if you don’t mind? She’ll get more walks with you. And, besides, it looks to me as though my faithful little dog has changed her allegiance already.’ She got up too, steadying herself on the desk. ‘Would it be OK if I came over to the bungalow Monday or Tuesday for a proper chat about the saboteur? I’ll phone first to arrange a convenient time. I want to find out what’s going on.’ Her voice was quietly determined. ‘I want to know who is behind this and I want to know why. And I will find out. And I will stop them. The Bluebell was my Aunt Carrie’s dream. Her gift to the world. And I didn’t throw my heart and soul into creating it for her only to have some pediculous scumbag, as Mr B would put it, try to smash it all down again.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to help you,’ Clara said.
28
It felt odd knowing she didn’t have to go into work when she got up the next morning. Not that she went in on a Sunday that often, but even when she wasn’t there, Clara was used to having the Bluebell running through her mind – who was staying – what visits were coming up – it had become part of the fabric of her life and she liked it that way. It felt odd, having handed the reins back to Kate.
On the plus side, though, it was very good timing as last night she had phoned Gran for an update and, all being well, she was picking Grandad up this morning. It was a Sunday lunch day. Plans had been changed and instead of going to Mum and Dad’s they were descending on Gran. For the first time in nearly six months, the entire family would be together.
It also cheered her up considerably when she discovered there were several text messages on her phone from her colleagues.
The first was from Zoe and it was long enough for her to need to scroll through several times on her phone:
Are you OK? Phil told me about your Grandad. Is there anything I can do to help?
Ps I may have a date with a firefighter
Pps the reception was totally brilliant, Isobel said.
Ppps His surname is Baker, isn’t it!
It took Clara a moment to realise she was talking about Mr B, whose surname was NOT Baker, although Zoe was close.
In the interests of fairness, she didn’t reply to this part of the message.
There were also lovely messages from Phil and Mr B, offering support and telling her that the wedding had gone off brilliantly in the end. Even Janet, the chambermaid, had sent a message saying,
Hope your Grandad makes a good recovery.
Clara swallowed a lump in her throat. It warmed her to know how much everyone cared.
It was lovely to spend Sunday with her family. Mum and Rosanna took over Gran’s kitchen to cook it, while Gran fussed around Grandad, who spent the time in an armchair with a blanket over his knees.
‘I feel like an old person,’ he grumbled to Rosanna.
‘You are an old person,’ she told him. ‘Seventy-eight is old.’
‘An old person who’s just had a heart attack,’ Mum joined in. ‘So sit there and relax and stop complaining.’
He winked at Clara. ‘See what I mean about diplomats,’ he muttered. ‘None of this lot would make a decent politician.’
‘Isn’t that a contradiction in terms,’ Dad said mildly. ‘After all that Brexit malarkey. You tell me a single one of them who acted decently in the last three years – or is it four?’
‘Stop bullying him.’ Gran bustled around with a protective expression on her face. ‘I’ve only just got him back. I don’t want him having another heart attack. I’ve got too much to do to look after him.’
‘Selfless and self-sacrificing to the core,’ Grandad sniped, but his eyes were enormously tender as he glanced at his wife.
Clara caught the look and thought, That’s love. That’s the kind of love that I want. I don’t want hearts and flowers and grand gestures. I want to be with someone I can spend my life with – side by side – go through all the ups and downs and come out the other side, smiling.
Suddenly she remembered Adam’s message. Oh God, he’d asked her to call him and it had completely gone out of her head. That was a measure of how stressed she had been yesterday. She hoped he was OK.
She slipped outside into the garden, where Tom and Sophie were playing ball with Foxy.
Standing by the back door, she dialled Adam’s number and, to her disappointment, his phone went straight to voicemail. She left him a message saying she hoped everything was all right.
Tom spotted her and raced across the grass. ‘Is dinner nearly ready? I’m starving?’
‘It’s not starving, Tom, it’s hungry. People in poverty-stricken countries are starving,’ Sophie caught up with her brother and contradicted him in a voice that was a near perfect mimic of her mother’s.
‘Let’s go and see,’ Clara said, opening the back door.
‘Did Mum tell you about the latest Granny-isms, Auntie Clara?’ Sophie asked as they all trooped ins
ide.
‘No,’ Clara said, glancing at the granny in question. ‘I don’t think she did.’
‘We went shopping yesterday and I said we’d been to Weird Face and Fat Fish.’ Mum rolled her eyes.
‘When it should have been Weird Fish and FatFace,’ Sophie added gleefully.
‘I still think they’re very strange names to call brands of clothing,’ Mum said. ‘Now then, you lot, go and sit at the table so we can dish out the dinner.’
It was only a lot later in the afternoon that Clara realised she had another missed call and a voicemail from Adam. She hadn’t heard the phone. He must have called when they’d all been eating and it was on silent. They had a rule that there should be no phones at the table. He’d left her another voicemail saying that it wasn’t urgent and he was tied up for the evening, but he’d catch up with her soon.
On Monday morning, Clara had a visit from Phil.
‘I won’t stop. I just came to see if you’re all right,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets as he stood on the doorstep and looking unusually self-conscious.
‘Come in and I’ll make you a coffee,’ she said, feeling amazingly touched that he’d made the effort to come round. Phil lived on the other side of Brancombe, so he was unlikely to have been passing.
He didn’t hang around long, although he did stay long enough to tell Clara that no one thought she’d been in any way to blame for the things that had gone wrong at the wedding.
‘The Scargills were fine,’ he said, as he drained his coffee. ‘Thanks mainly to Isobel and James who were incredibly sweet – both of them were insistent they’d much rather have had a memorable day than a perfect one. They got that all right. They loved the fire engine photos. Kate asked Isobel if we could send one to the papers and she was well up for it.’
‘But perhaps not the Gazette,’ Clara cautioned.
‘Definitely not the Gazette, no.’ A beat. ‘Those dolphins were perfect too. Sometimes I think there really is a God. Also, did you hear that Aiden knew John Scargill? They’re both in the building trade and they used to work together. That helped.’
