Starting Over at Acorn Cottage

by Kate Forster

  23

  The sun streamed into Clara’s curtain-less windows and she stretched, wondering if Henry was awake. He seemed to be the first thing she thought of and the last when she was in bed. The fantasies went from basic domestic ones where they cooked and chatted about plans for the day, to intense passionate intimacy that made her blush to think about when she was around him.

  All this time she’d thought she wasn’t into sex but in fact, she realised, she had never felt real desire. Nine years of average sex and not saying what you need in life or in bed will do that to you.

  But she felt it now when she was around Henry. The ache in every part of her body, needing to be touched, filled, sated.

  If she could rate her favourite things about Henry, it would be his arms, his hands, his thighs, his legs, his forearms, his smile. Oh, it was everything. She climbed out of bed, and wandered to the window to peer at the van.

  The door of the van was open and Henry came to the door, a tea mug in hand. She could see the steam rising from it. He looked up at her window and smiled and waved.

  Dammit, she thought. Now she looked like a creeper, spying on him in her ugly Justin Bieber T-shirt that Judy had given her as a joke present. She didn’t have a washing machine and was running out of clothes and refused to ask Henry if she could wash her knickers in his machine, so to speak.

  He had offered at dinner when she mentioned it in passing but she refused his help because she already had taken too much from him and washing was so intimate.

  Pulling on jeans and a sweater with tiny ribbon bows in different colours sewn onto it that her mother had given her before she died, and one she had never worn because of those tiny bows, she dashed downstairs and outside.

  ‘I need to go to the village and see Rachel about her mum, and then I need to buy a washing machine.’

  ‘Cup of tea for your troubles?’ He stepped back into the van and handed her a mug.

  ‘You are almost perfect, you know,’ she said as she took a sip of the strong tea at perfect drinking temperature.

  ‘Oh? What would make me perfect?’

  She wondered if this was him flirting. Clara tried to think of a flaw but couldn’t. ‘I don’t know but you are pretty clever at things and you know how I like my tea.’

  ‘Before you get a washing machine, you’ll need a plumber as you don’t have any taps for a machine.’

  ‘Oh God, do you know a plumber?’

  ‘I do.’ He nodded. ‘I can call them and see if they’re around.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, thank you.’ They sipped their tea in comfortable silence.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here.’ She looked up at the trees and their green canopy.

  Pansy popped her head out, around her father’s back.

  ‘Can I come and see Rachel?’

  ‘Not today, darling, we’re heading up to see about school, remember?’ Henry said to her.

  Pansy disappeared singing a rhyme about school and Clara smiled at him.

  ‘So… school? Does this mean you’re staying in Merryknowe for a while?’ she asked carefully, not wanting to tread on any toes or fragile feelings. She knew this was a big deal to Henry and she also knew it would be arrogant to think it had anything to do with her.

  Henry shrugged. ‘For the time being. There is a lot to do on the cottage and she’s going to be behind if I don’t start her soon.’

  ‘She will love it,’ said Clara.

  ‘I hope so.’

  They looked at each other. A thousand things came into Clara’s head that she wanted to say to him, but instead she said, ‘I blocked Piles.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Piles, I blocked him; he rang me and said he missed me and I blocked him.’

  Henry started to laugh. ‘Piles?’

  ‘Oh, it’s Giles but he’s such a pain in the arse I called him Piles.’

  Henry laughed even harder.

  ‘And I blocked him, because I don’t love him anymore. Not sure I ever did.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good. A wise decision,’ said Henry nodding and wiping his eyes.

  Clara felt her cheeks turn hot and she handed back the tea. ‘Anyway. I need to dash.’

  She ran back into the house and grabbed her phone and dialled the bakery.

  ‘Rachel? Hi, can I come and see you? And can I bring my washing?’

  She gathered her washing, which was rather a large amount, and dragged it out to the car in a moving bag.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ Henry asked, as he was gathering the old reed from the roof from the garden and putting it in a pile on the outside of the fence.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Clara, not looking at him. The words, ‘I blocked Piles’ rang in her ears. Seriously, she needed a muzzle when she was around Henry. She just said everything and nothing all at once.

  ‘Where are you taking your washing?’

  ‘To Rachel’s. She said I can borrow her machine and dryer.’

  ‘I would have done it for you,’ he said. ‘I have a machine.’

  Clara looked up at him. ‘I just said I blocked Piles. The last thing I need is my knickers in your machine. I mean I’m really overstepping boundaries here.’

  ‘You are honestly the funniest person I have ever met.’

  She sighed. ‘That’s the trouble. I don’t try to be, I just think I don’t have a filter.’

  She opened the car door and pushed the box of clothes inside onto the back seat, using her bottom for the final push, and then got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I don’t think you’re mad, I think you’re fantastic, and you were right to block Piles. He sounds like a huge idiot to let you go.’

  Clara felt butterflies migrate inside her and she gripped the steering wheel.

  ‘Be careful, Henry, a girl might think you’re giving her ideas.’

  She turned on the car and then backed out into the laneway and drove up towards the village.

  Too much? Oh whatever, life was short and she really couldn’t embarrass herself any further than she already had. She had a crush on Henry and like most crushes it would deflate when he did something stupid or wore a horrible hat or something. She just hoped it came soon before she was head over heels in love with him.

  *

  When Clara arrived, Rachel serving in the bakery. Clara nearly didn’t recognise her with a new haircut but it suited her so much. It was shorter and with layers that made her fine hair seem thicker, and showed off her lovely neck. It was so different that Clara felt her mouth drop open in surprise.

  ‘You hate my hair,’ Rachel stated, and touched it somewhat self-consciously.

  ‘Not at all actually. It looks amazing. When did you get it done?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ said Rachel as she let Clara through the back door and showed her through the kitchen to the washing machine and dryer.

  ‘I just wanted a change.’

  Clara smiled at her. ‘It’s a lovely change. Really suits you.’

  Rachel flushed pink with pleasure. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I do some washing? I need a machine and Henry has to put taps in or something before I can get one.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Rachel as the bell on the door of the bakery rang and she rushed off to serve the customers.

  Clara put on the first load of washing and went into the bakery where she saw Rachel buzzing around and customers waiting.

  People were coming in the door and sitting at the tables. Clara saw how flustered Rachel was becoming as she tried to serve, use the till, bag items up and get to the people at the tables.

  She looked around and saw an apron hanging on a hook. She pulled it on and tied it up behind her waist and stepped out next to Rachel.

  ‘I’ll do the tables; you do the serving here at the counter.’

  Rachel looked up at her. ‘Oh gosh, thank you. It’s never been this busy. Joe’s sister Alice is going to help me but she can’t start till tomorrow.’
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  ‘It’s okay, I’m here,’ said Clara and she moved from table to table taking the orders for the coconut sponge, or the coffee cake, or the steak and kidney pies with chutney.

  It was busy in the tearooms and bakery but while Clara worked, chatting to customers, helping Rachel behind the counter and warming up pies and serving generous slices of cake, she stopped thinking about anything else but work. She missed talking to people, she missed the business and she wondered if she could live in the cottage with no company and no real work besides the house and whatever she made of the garden.

  After the final customer left, Rachel and Clara sat at one of the tables, eating the last pie and piece of coffee cake.

  ‘Thank you for helping me today,’ said Rachel, and she slid over a fifty-pound note.

  Clara slid it back over the table. ‘It was fun and it was interesting, but I don’t need the money. Save it for Alice.’

  ‘I know, but Mother always said we never needed help before so I’m unsure of the procedures.’

  ‘I don’t think your mother ever saw the place as busy as it was today. Hiring someone is good and it will help Alice and help you.’

  Rachel was silent and Clara cleared her throat before speaking.

  ‘The hospital rang me this morning about your mum.’

  Rachel stayed silent.

  ‘They said you haven’t seen her yet.’

  Rachel toyed with the fork on her plate.

  ‘I don’t judge you for not wanting to see her, Rachel, but you will have to make a decision about this, because she will return here eventually unless you make some hard decisions.’

  Rachel looked up at Clara; her eyes were wide and her face pale.

  ‘I can’t see her again. This time without her has been lovely. I hate her but no one will understand. You’re not supposed to hate your parents but I do. I hate her with everything I am. I wished she’d died the night she felt down the stairs.’

  Clara took Rachel’s thin hand in hers. ‘I understand and I don’t judge you. Just because she’s your mother doesn’t mean she was good enough for you to love unconditionally.’

  Rachel frowned and pulled her hand away. ‘I don’t want to see her again.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘How? How can you understand?’ Rachel glared at Clara.

  ‘Because I had a father I hated. I hated him so much and it changed who I was. It changed me and I don’t want you to have that pain.’

  They were silent for a while.

  ‘So, what do you want to do about your mum?’ Clara asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t think about it. I have to clean up and get the orders in to Joe for the meat tomorrow. I was thinking of making a curry pie. That would be popular, don’t you think?’

  Clara could see a faraway look in Rachel’s eyes. She knew that look. It was the look of disassociating from the situation. It was too much for Rachel to think about and Clara understood that pain. She finished another load of washing and drying, and helped Rachel clean up, sweeping and mopping the floor. There was only one thing to do: she would go and visit Mrs Brown and see if she couldn’t solve this whole mess herself.

  24

  Rachel had spent years trying to understand her mother’s hatred of her. It didn’t matter what she did, it was wrong in her mother’s eyes, and eventually Rachel drew further into herself until she felt like a little turtle, peeking out for signs of danger and then hiding away when her mother was around.

  But if you stayed hidden long enough, you forgot how to be in the world. You forgot how to make conversation, or even the sound of your own voice. If it wasn’t for the shop, Rachel would never have spoken to anyone besides her mother.

  She couldn’t remember having friends when she was at school, but she also couldn’t remember being bullied or shunned. She was mostly overlooked in life, a shadow of a girl who should have been going to parties, having sleepovers, trying on her best friend’s clothes and wearing makeup and kissing boys.

  Instead she was a slave to the bakery, told to leave school by her mother because she wasn’t smart enough, even though Rachel’s home economics teacher said she was creative and could make anything in the kitchen and with the sewing machine.

  Mother told her that home economics was a useless skill but that was all she did in the bakery. Measuring, budgeting, planning, mending the curtains on the windows because Mother wouldn’t pay for new ones.

  But Rachel’s inner life was rich and filled with imaginary friends, dancing and perfumed nights with handsome men who vied for her kisses and more.

  When her face stung from a slap or her upper arm ached from the bruising, she would lie in her bed and dream up intricately detailed scenarios where she would find herself being wooed and loved beyond anything she had ever imagined. In her imagination was a wardrobe of delicate and beautiful dresses, sexy outfits, demure outfits, and a perfect figure. She would turn heads when she walked into a room, and would charm women and men with her kindness and warm wit.

  In her dreams, she was exactly what Clara was in real life.

  Rachel opened the back door of the bakery, to take the rubbish out as Joe the butcher’s van pulled up.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, jumping down and rushing to her, taking the rubbish bag from her hands and easily throwing it into the bin.

  ‘Hi,’ said Rachel, wondering why he was there. Had she ordered something and he’d forgotten to deliver it earlier?

  ‘Good day?’ he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket. She was used to seeing him in his striped butcher apron, which he always wore when delivering the meat. He looked less… She tried to think of the right word. Less butcherish, she decided, and much more handsome.

  Joe was nice-looking, in his own way. Copper hair with bright blue eyes, and while he wasn’t tall he was strong-looking; he had a strong back and arms and thick thighs and neck.

  Rachel tried to think of something to say when Joe spoke first.

  ‘Alice said she likes working in the shop.’

  ‘She’s great with the customers,’ Rachel said, meaning it. Alice was smiling and happy and exactly the sort of friend Rachel wished she’d had when she was at school.

  Joe shuffled his feet.

  ‘Do you want to go out sometime?’ he asked.

  ‘With Alice?’ Rachel was confused.

  Joe’s face turned red. ‘No, I mean me but if you want go out with Alice, I can ask her.’

  Rachel took a moment to take in his words. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘Why do you want to go out with me?’

  Rachel wasn’t testing him, she was genuinely curious. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, or witty, or even interesting, so she wondered what he saw in her.

  ‘Because I think we should be friends,’ he said. ‘There’s not a lot of people around here our age – we should stick together.’

  ‘Okay.’

  At least he was honest and didn’t pretend there was anything about her that was compelling.

  ‘And because I like you. I don’t know you very well but that’s not because I didn’t want to – your mum made it sort of hard to chat, you know?’

  Oh, how she knew, but instead she just nodded. How much had her mother taken from her for all these past years?

  ‘That would be nice – to go out,’ she said.

  ‘We can have an early pint and roast at the pub if you want?’

  She thought for a moment. She was hungry and she hadn’t eaten much today and someone else cooking sounded like a dream.

  ‘I would like that very much,’ she said, meaning it. ‘I’ll go and get changed.’

  She glanced down at her work clothes. ‘I can’t wear this to the pub.’

  ‘Why? You look fine,’ he said. ‘But if you want to get changed, then I’ll wait.’

  Rachel thought about her idea of what she should wear in he
r imaginary wardrobe. A dove-grey chiffon cocktail dress with satin shoes like she had seen an actress wear in an old movie once. It was so elegant and perfect. She didn’t think she would be wearing some old pants and a flowered print shirt, and sneakers. But then, hunger and curiosity took over.

  ‘Let me grab my keys,’ she said. She ran inside, ignoring the ringing phone, and slammed the door behind her.

  25

  When Clara returned from Rachel’s, Henry was talking to an older man outside the cottage. Clara dragged her washed and dried clothes in the large box from the back of the car and left them on the ground, as Henry came to her side.

  ‘Let me get that,’ he said as he touched her shoulder for just a second longer than what would be an accident.

  His touch ran through her body and landed in her stomach again and then further down.

  This was ridiculous, she thought. As she was about to speak he gestured to the older man.

  ‘Michael, this is Clara Maxwell, the owner of the cottage.’

  The man nodded. ‘I put your taps in.’

  ‘Sorry?’ She looked at Henry for translation.

  ‘The taps for the machine. He put them in the kitchen, so there is room for a machine.’

  ‘Oh wonderful, thank you!’ said Clara, meaning it. The idea of trekking into Rachel’s to wash her clothes wasn’t something she could foresee doing weekly.

  The man turned, grunted and handed Clara a piece of paper, which she looked down and saw was a handwritten bill for his time and materials. He then walked to a truck that had The Friendly Plumber stencilled on the side.

  ‘That’s false advertising – he’s about a friendly as Eeyore,’ said Clara, pointing at the words as he drove past them.

  Henry laughed. ‘He warms up eventually.’

  They walked into the cottage together.

  ‘Do you want this in your room?’ he asked, looking at the washing.

  ‘Um, yes but I can take it.’

  ‘No, it’s too heavy, let me.’

  Clara ran up the stairs ahead of him, trying to remember if she had made the bed and if there was any underwear lying on the floor.