Starting Over at Acorn Cottage

by Kate Forster

  Clara was silent, clutching the steering wheel and Rachel noticed her knuckles were white.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand about those things I spoke about, Clara. The pain, the violence, the guilt, and the sadness, but this is what works for me now. I just want her gone from my life.’

  Clara drove them back to Merryknowe, and when Rachel got out of the car, she went to say thank you to Clara but she drove away before she could speak.

  She watched the red car disappear in the distance, then saw Tassie’s curtain flicker in the window across the road.

  Tassie would understand. She walked to the old woman’s front door and as she was about to knock, it opened.

  ‘Cup of tea, love?’ Tassie asked and Rachel burst into tears.

  ‘Come in and let it out, love. Nahla came and cleaned and made a nice butter chicken for me, not too spicy, and some of her fancy thin bread. Come and share, and we can talk. I will read your future and show you that everything has a funny way of working out.’

  So Rachel did.

  43

  Tassie folded a tea towel over the handrail next to her sink, as Pansy ran outside in the neatly trimmed garden at Tassie’s house.

  ‘I just don’t understand why she let Moira get away with it all,’ Clara said.

  ‘But she’s not getting away with anything. She’s left with nothing, not a friend in the world and not enough money to live the way she thinks she ought to live,’ said Tassie. ‘That’s not much of a life. She’ll have to get a job, as she’s not the age for the pension yet.’

  ‘Still…’ said Clara, now tapping her nails on the table.

  ‘Still nothing,’ said Tassie firmly. ‘Just because you want a type of justice doesn’t mean you get it. She got the justice that Rachel feels comfortable with. You wouldn’t want her to have to live with guilt forever, would you? That’s not good for anyone. Secrets and guilt get very heavy to carry after a while.’

  Clara was quiet; all her previous fight had gone with Tassie’s words.

  Tassie sat opposite her with a bowl of peas and started to shell them.

  ‘Did you grow these?’ asked Clara, as she picked up some pea pods and started copying Tassie.

  ‘I did indeed,’ said Tassie.

  ‘I’d like to grow peas,’ Clara said, as she ate one.

  ‘You can grow anything in that soil out there,’ said Tassie.

  They shelled peas in silence, Tassie occasionally looking at Clara and then out through the open back door to check on Pansy who was doing a dance routine and singing to the apricot tree.

  ‘You all right, pet?’ Tassie asked Clara.

  ‘Of course, why?’ Clara’s voice was tight but Tassie could sense the emotion beneath the tone.

  ‘You seem frustrated,’ Tassie stated.

  Clara shelled some more peas and then looked at Tassie.

  ‘I don’t know where I am, or what I’m doing, and I don’t know what Henry wants. We never talk about the future. It’s only about what needs to be done in the cottage, but what happens when it’s finished? What then?’

  Tassie kept shelling the peas. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  Clara said nothing.

  ‘Because you don’t know what you want?’ Tassie encouraged.

  ‘I thought I wanted the country life, but I think I’m going to be bored… but I don’t want to go and work in a bank in Salisbury. That defeats the purpose of the move.’

  ‘Life in a small village isn’t for everyone, no,’ agreed Tassie.

  ‘And once the cottage is done and the garden is sorted and planted and besides maintaining it, and collecting the eggs, what else can I do?’

  Tassie shrugged. ‘You could start a business.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Clara scoffed.

  ‘But it’s not just about the cottage is it?’ Tassie said being careful. Clara was in a mood and everything in her way risked being pummelled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Clara but Tassie did know and she understood.

  ‘Pansy is a fast learner,’ she said. ‘Whipping through the letters easily. I think she will be right as rain for school soon.’

  ‘And that’s the other thing – Henry still hasn’t got her uniform. He said he would go into Chippenham and get her sorted but he hasn’t and I don’t want to be in the nagging wife role, reminding him, but he hasn’t done it yet and it’s annoying me. She needs shoes and hair ribbons and new pencils and a bag and lunch box and, well, everything.’

  ‘That she does,’ said Tassie, nodding in agreement.

  ‘My mum always had my things ready for me when school started,’ Clara said. ‘But I can’t say anything, because what am I to him and Pansy? And meanwhile his dead wife is in my cupboard in the cottage pie container and I swear to God I can hear her sometimes.’

  ‘What does she say?’ Tassie asked, looking up at Clara.

  ‘I don’t know but it feels like judgement,’ said Clara, making a face at the peas in the bowls between them.

  ‘You look like a child when you make that face,’ said Tassie.

  Clara sighed. ‘I know what I sound like. I’m feeling like I’m in between two worlds right now and I don’t know where I’m heading.’

  ‘None of us know where any of us of are heading,’ said Tassie. ‘But you can draw a map of things that make your heart sing. What would be on your map if you could choose?’

  Clara sat in thought.

  ‘Henry. Pansy. You. My grandmother. My mum. The cottage.’ She paused.

  ‘What else makes you happy?’ Tassie encouraged.

  ‘Seeing Rachel safe. Her plans for the bakery. The tearooms. But I don’t think she can do that without money and no bank will lend her the money with her history and age.’

  ‘That seems unfair,’ said Tassie shaking her head. ‘Her ideas are lovely and would be the makings of this village. Hopefully one day she can make enough money to make that dream come true. What she needs is some business help. Or a partner.’

  Tassie felt Clara’s eyes on her and then she heard Clara laugh.

  ‘Oh wow, you are good,’ said Clara shaking her head.

  ‘Good at what, dear?’ asked Tassie as she swept the pea pods into her apron and carried them to the bin.

  ‘Whatever you did just then,’ said Clara.

  Pansy walked into the kitchen and climbed into Clara’s lap.

  ‘I can read letters,’ she said to Clara.

  ‘I know, Tassie told me. She said you were the brightest one in her class.’

  Pansy beamed at Clara and then nestled into her. ‘I’m tired. It’s hot outside.’

  ‘Yes, we will go home and see Gumboot and Daddy.’

  Clara looked at Tassie who was washing the peas in the sink.

  ‘Do you think Rachel might want to talk to me about it?’ she asked tentatively. ‘I don’t want to push in where I’m not wanted. Like with Henry. He might not want me once the cottage is finished.’

  Tassie turned to Clara.

  ‘Clara Maxwell, you are not only wanted in Merryknowe, you are also needed. Now go and take that child home and talk to Henry about what you want and the ribbons and shoes and everything else on your mind and then have a swim down at the creek and cool down. You Taurus girls get so het up when you don’t have the bullseye in your sight.’

  44

  The walls of the cottage were rough and worn as Henry patched and sanded them, preparing them for the pink paint.

  He hummed a song. He couldn’t remember where he first learned the tune or even what it was but the song was company as he worked.

  The roof was fixed; the inside walls were painted. The living room was becoming more habitable, and Clara had ordered a sofa online to be delivered soon. They had chosen it together while lying in bed one night, their feet rubbing as they scrolled through the iPad. Henry had bought her a rug she had admired but said she couldn’t afford just yet, and he was excited to see her face when it arrived.

  Now they had the inte
rnet and the washing machine was busy spinning in the kitchen.

  The chickens were laying and chatting as they moved about their coop, and Gumboots was lying on the path in the sunshine, being patient as Pansy drew around him in chalk.

  ‘We have to get your uniform tomorrow, Pansy,’ he said, ‘and then head in to get some school shoes and a bag.’

  Pansy didn’t seem to hear or wasn’t interested. Perhaps he was speaking aloud so as to remind himself, he thought.

  He had thought about asking Clara to come but he didn’t want to burden her with being in the stepmother role. This was his responsibility and he needed to do it.

  Pansy’s work with Tassie was helping her not only learn her sounds and letters and some words, but also to be less impetuous and inappropriate. He realised she got away with more than she should have because he didn’t want her to be sad, but sadness was a part of life, and him telling Pansy off for being rude or using swear words wasn’t being mean, it was being a parent.

  He checked the time and wondered when Clara would be back. He missed her when they weren’t together. She had brought Pansy back from Tassie’s, dropped her off and said she had something important to do. She seemed to be grumpy and he wondered what was going on.

  ‘Pans,’ he called out.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy, not yeah,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, Daddy?’

  Close enough, he reasoned.

  ‘What did Clara say at Tassie’s house before you left?’

  Pansy thought for a moment. ‘She said that you won’t want her when you have finished the cottage.’

  Henry felt his mouth drop open.

  Why on earth would she feel that?

  He put down his tools and walked into the cottage and sat at the kitchen table. Fresh eggs sat in a little pink bowl that they had found at the second-hand shop in Chippenham. The last of the roses were in a glass on the windowsill. Pansy’s special cup that she drank her milk from was drying on the dish rack. His shoes were next to Clara’s by the back door.

  And Naomi was in the cupboard.

  He knew what he needed to do but he didn’t know if Clara wanted it also.

  God, love was complicated. Old love, new love, all love.

  And Naomi.

  He left his chair and went to the cupboard and opened it and took the container of her ashes out and put them on the table across from where he was sitting.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ he said to her.

  Hi, babe, he heard her say.

  ‘I’m in love with Clara.’

  I know.

  He smiled.

  ‘It doesn’t mean I love you any less.’

  I know.

  He paused.

  ‘What am I saying yes to?’ he asked and he closed his eyes and listened.

  All of it, came her voice and he felt his eyes hurt with tears and he swallowed his pain.

  ‘Can I love you and love her?’

  Yes, Naomi said and he reached across the table and pulled the container to him, holding it.

  ‘I have to let you go,’ he said.

  I need to go, she said. It’s time.

  ‘I know,’ he wept, holding her close.

  Will you let me go now, Henry? Will you promise to love our daughter and love your girl and be fully engaged in this life, not our old life?

  He nodded, struggling to speak.

  Say yes, Henry, say yes.

  He opened his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said to the empty room.

  And he knew she was gone.

  45

  The bakery was busy so Clara washed her hands, put on an apron and stepped in to help Alice and Rachel. People were waiting to be served and to sit at the tables in the tearooms, as Rachel rushed out of the kitchen with plates of sandwiches, the chicken and leek pie that was so popular and the vegetable Cornish pasty with a chilli tomato relish that Joe had made.

  Clara rushed from serving to taking orders to refilling the sandwich trays and making pots of tea for customers but no one was cross or impatient in the shop. Perhaps the smell of the delicious food, or the flushed red faces of the staff, or the genuine sense of good food and good intentions was enough to keep the crowd from uprising.

  Since Moira had gone, it was as though a type of fog around the shop and tearooms had lifted and the sun was shining down on the little store.

  Clara served butterfly cakes to a happy family visiting from China and then saw to some American retirees who wanted to try the chicken and leek pies. She later waved them goodbye as she met Rachel over the register.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rachel, ‘I would be lost without you.’

  Clara smiled, nervous about what she was going to ask after the shop was closed. As a response, she found herself working extra hard for Rachel, perhaps showing Rachel her worth and what she could bring to the store. She could see what Rachel wanted to achieve was possible but only with money and reliable tradespeople.

  Clara had often wondered about her relationship with money. While she had never been a big spender like Giles, or Judy, she was also aware of the importance of quality – but since she had been in Merryknowe, she had also understood the value of reusing items. Reusing plastic bags to line the bins, and the compost bin she had started, with Henry and Pansy happily contributing scraps from the kitchen to the mix.

  Glass jars and containers were washed out and reused. Clara was cooking more and Henry would bake bread every few days. It was easier than driving into the village or to Chippenham for basics. ‘Make do,’ she used to hear her mum saying when Clara was a child. Only now did Clara realise how lazy she had been with everything so close as a child and as an adult. How many times did she order takeaway when she couldn’t be bothered cooking?

  The crowd in the bakery eventually thinned and then Alice went home and Clara helped Rachel clean and close the store.

  ‘Everything sold again,’ said Rachel proudly. ‘Moira wouldn’t believe it if she saw it.’

  Clara wondered how Rachel was processing Moira’s betrayal but Rachel wasn’t very complicated. There was no doubt Moira’s terrible abuse impacted her but Rachel lived in the moment in a way that Clara had never been able to achieve.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ she finally asked Rachel as the last chair was put in place.

  Rachel paused before she spoke. ‘If you want to ask why I’m not doing anything about Moth… Moira, it’s because I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t about that. I think I have some ideas for that but we can talk about that later,’ said Clara. ‘This is about you.’

  They went upstairs and sat on the sofa. Clara felt like she was at a job interview.

  ‘I was thinking about something, and I spoke to Tassie about it, and she said I should talk to you so that’s what I’m doing.’

  Rachel looked worried. ‘Is it bad? This thing you’re thinking about?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clara. But now she wasn’t sure. Maybe Rachel wanted to be alone and do the tearooms and bakery her way. Maybe she would see Clara’s offer as condescending or controlling like Moira was. She regretted coming and now sitting in this position.

  What had seemed like a great idea with Tassie now felt rude and presumptuous.

  ‘I had an idea but now I think about it, it’s not the right idea, I’m sorry,’ she heard herself say.

  Rachel was silent.

  ‘I think I have to sell the tearooms,’ she said suddenly and then started to cry. ‘It feels like I am being punished again, just as I am starting to enjoy everything. I used to wake up when Mother… Moira was here and wish I didn’t wake up. I used to wish either I was dead or she was, and now she’s gone away and I want to wake up. I wake up so excited wondering what I will make today. Sometimes I wake up and I hear what I should make in my head. Things I never thought of making before; it’s like I have a magic baking fairy inside my head.’

  Rachel’s head was in her hands and she rocked on the sofa, her cries cutting throu
gh Clara’s heart. Grief and shame will ruin her, she thought, remembering the sound and the feeling.

  Rubbing Rachel’s back, she let her cry until the sobs slowed down and then she spoke gently to the girl. ‘You don’t have a magic baking fairy in your head, it’s just that you’re not stressed by Moira anymore, that’s why. You can focus on your work and your gift, which is really creative. You’re not using your stress thoughts; you’re using your artistic talents.’

  ‘Baking isn’t artistic. It’s just baking. Artistic people do art, not pastry,’ said Rachel, as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  Clara went to the bathroom and came back with a box of tissues.

  ‘It is absolutely artistic. Anything that makes a person feel something is art. I don’t care if it’s a poem or a book or a song or a slice of cake so perfect that makes you close your eyes and think: I could die right now and I would be happy. If it makes you feel good to be alive or reminds you why you’re alive, then it’s art.’

  Rachel said nothing as she wiped her eyes and then loudly blew her nose.

  ‘Now tell me why you need to sell the tearooms?’ asked Clara. She felt like she was back in the bank, helping her clients see reason or sense and not to panic. Panic about money made people do silly things and she did not want Rachel to panic, because Moira would find her way back into the cracks.

  As though Moira could hear Clara’s thoughts, Rachel spoke.

  ‘I have to sell because Moira needs money and I don’t like her but she has nothing. I don’t want to ruin her, but if I decide to do something about it, then I would have to sell it all anyway and start again. I thought if I sold the tearooms part of the business and that building, I could put a wall up and just keep the bakery.’

  Clara gasped. ‘No, the tearooms are where the potential is. That’s the cream on top, so to speak.’

  ‘But the kitchen is connected to the bakery,’ Rachel reminded her.

  ‘So maybe my idea isn’t so stupid now,’ said Clara.

  ‘What idea?’ asked Rachel.

  ‘I had an idea that I thought was probably too forward and pushy but now I think it might be the answer.’