Starting Over at Acorn Cottage

by Kate Forster

  She paused, feeling strange at being on the other side of the desk, so to speak, pitching her idea like her customers at the bank used to have to pitch to her. She took a deep breath and spoke.

  ‘Let me buy the tearooms and give the money to Moira, and I can be a partner. You will have a bigger cut since I can’t really bake, but I’m good with business and we can do the renovation. Henry could do it, and I can help with marketing and so on. I mean, I think we could make the tearooms the best in the country. Really inject some life into the village again.’

  Rachel’s eyes widened as Clara was speaking. ‘How can you afford that?’

  Clara swallowed. ‘I have money.’

  ‘But that’s such a lot of money,’ said Rachel. ‘Are you rich?’

  ‘Not rich, but I got some money after my dad died. Well, Mum got some, and so did I, and Mum saved it. I invested it when I learned banking at uni, and it grew. Was supposed to be for my retirement but why not start living now?’

  The money from Victims of Crime for the death of her grandmother and father had been a weight since she had become aware of it after the court case. It was blood money, she had told her mother who had disagreed. ‘Money is money, Clara. Don’t tie emotion to it; it will help you one day.’ Clara had never wanted to spend it until now. It could help Rachel and it would help her create a life in Merryknowe.

  ‘Please let me do this,’ she said. ‘It’s only money and I want to do this. It will help me also – I’ll have an actual job in the village and can stay here. I would have a purpose, a source of income, a reason to get up every day.’

  ‘You could do that?’ Rachel asked, still looking confused.

  ‘Which part?’ asked Clara.

  ‘All of it.’

  Clara heard her mind click into gear and she nodded. ‘Pen and paper?’

  Rachel jumped up and found both. Clara started to write on the pad and scratched out some figures.

  ‘Okay, we can do it. Moira doesn’t deserve anything from you, except maybe criminal charges, but I understand you not wanting to create any more drama in your life. In fact, I respect it.’

  She showed Rachel the numbers she had in her head to buy the tearooms and invest in the shop for the renovations.

  ‘That’s too much money. It’s not worth it,’ said Rachel shaking her head.

  ‘It is worth it, your talents are worth it, and I can afford it,’ Clara said firmly.

  Rachel looked at the figures again and then handed the notepad back to Clara. ‘I’m not great with numbers or the accounts.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And Henry would help us?’

  Clara liked that Rachel used ‘us’.

  ‘I think he will.’ Would he say yes? She still had to talk to him about them, their ‘us’. Why was it all so complicated or was she making it complicated? She was trying to have a simple life in Merryknowe and now she was offering to buy half a business and was in love with a man who was still in love with his dead wife.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’ Rachel’s voice interrupted her train of thought.

  Clara was surprised. ‘Don’t you want to think about it? Speak to a lawyer? Get some advice?’

  Rachel frowned at Clara. ‘Why? I trust you. You saved me.’

  ‘I don’t think I did. I mean, life just worked out a funny way for you.’

  But Rachel shook her head. ‘No, I know what you did for me and I know what I could have done if Moira came back here.’

  Clara was silent for a moment as she played with the pen. ‘That’s finished now. You don’t have to think about it again,’ she said though she wondered if she was really saying it to herself. So why did she always think about what happened?

  She hadn’t told a soul throughout her life. She had gone to school and university and dated boys and had friends and lived with Giles and had a career and no one knew what she did.

  Did it matter? Did she need to tell anyone anyway?

  But deep down she knew, she had to tell Henry. She had to be honest and tell him and then if he left then that was that. At least she would know.

  She had imagined telling Giles when they were together. She even tried once but Giles had been so scathing of the story on the news about the woman who killed her husband, she’d said nothing. He wouldn’t understand, he couldn’t understand, she justified. Giles’s mother and father were seemingly perfect like him, balanced and equal and educated. She wondered how they were going with Judy although if she gave them a much-wanted grandchild then she would be fine.

  ‘Let me go home and talk to Henry,’ she said to Rachel.

  ‘About the tearooms?’ Rachel asked excitedly.

  ‘Among other things,’ said Clara as she got up and she felt Rachel hug her awkwardly.

  ‘You are amazing, Clara, thank you.’

  Clara hugged Rachel back. ‘So are you. We are going to turn the tearooms into something everyone will want to come to and it’s going to be amazing, I promise.’

  And Clara felt truly excited for the future, if she could just bring herself to talk to Henry about her past.

  46

  Clara – aged 15

  Clara walked up the path and silence greeted her. She stopped and listened closely and then ran to the chicken coop.

  Screaming, she ran inside and then she saw him. Gran was on the floor. Blood was everywhere and his hands were around Mum’s neck and she was turning blue, so Clara grabbed the knife Gran had been using to cut up the potatoes.

  She stabbed him until he fell and then he cried her name.

  It was a plaintive sound that rang through her bones and ended in her matching his cry. She used a tea towel on him to try and stop the bleeding from his back but the tea towel was soaked through.

  Mum had gasped for breath and Clara wasn’t sure who to help but Dad grabbed her hand and held on, looking at her, trying to speak but he couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry,’ she had said and he had whispered something to her but when she leaned down to try and hear him, he had died.

  Mum had looked at her and at Gran and started to cry and then she picked up the knife and stabbed him again in the front, four times in the heart.

  ‘Call the police, Clara,’ she had said. ‘Tell them I’ve killed your dad.’

  So Clara did.

  And later, when the police told her that Mum had been arrested and Gran was dead, Clara realised she was all alone in the world and that she had murdered her own father.

  47

  Henry was holding Naomi’s ashes when Clara walked through the door. He saw her look at him and then the ashes, and then she turned and ran upstairs, where the bedroom door slammed.

  He put down the container and went and knocked on her door.

  ‘What?’ came the reply.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ she said.

  ‘Because you’re in a bad mood and I want to help.’

  ‘Go and be with Naomi,’ he heard her say.

  ‘That’s unfair.’ He opened the door and saw her lying on the bed, facing away from him.

  ‘Clara, what is going on? Why are you so angry with me?’

  ‘I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with myself.’

  She still didn’t look at him.

  ‘Why are you angry with yourself?’

  She said nothing. Henry had forgotten how to be in an argument with an adult, so he stood helplessly at her side.

  ‘Clara, you’re being…’

  She rolled over and sat up. ‘I’m being what? I come home to tell you exciting news. I want to talk about us and what is happening and you’re sitting at the kitchen table hugging your dead wife’s ashes. I mean, it’s not exactly reassuring that you want to be here with me. You sleep in this bed every night. We make love, you kiss me, but are you imagining it’s her? Am I merely the substitute for Naomi?’

  Henry felt his body tighten with anger and he walked to the window.

  �
�That’s incredibly unfair, and you are making assumptions that are so wrong it’s insulting.’

  ‘Am I?’ Clara had raised her voice now. ‘You don’t talk about us, the future, what happens after the cottage is finished. You haven’t even got Pansy’s things for school.’

  Henry went to speak but Clara was roaring now.

  ‘And the fact she is going to school, well that’s something else. I mean if it weren’t for me, she would be stuck in the van with you, colouring in for the rest of her life.’

  That was too far for Henry.

  ‘How dare you say that. You’re insinuating I’m a bad parent because I held her back a year.’

  Clara laughed and it sounded mean.

  ‘A year, two years, who knows? You are stopping her from having friends and sleepovers and parties and everything else that little children deserve and need but most of all, if it wasn’t for me and Tassie, you were stopping her from learning to read, the most important skill of all.’

  ‘You are out of line,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re deluded.’

  Henry walked out, went downstairs and drank some water to calm down.

  How could he have been so wrong about Clara? Why was she being so angry and nasty?

  He heard her walk down the stairs and storm into the kitchen.

  ‘You don’t want to be here with me, you want to be with her, but she’s dead.’ Clara tapped the container on the table.

  ‘Stop it,’ he warned.

  ‘Stop what? Being honest with you?’ she said.

  Henry heard himself scoff at her words. ‘Honest? That’s rich coming from you.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. You said there was something you needed to tell me when we met and since then it’s hung like a bloody guillotine over us and every day I wonder if you will tell me what it is. Every day I see it in your face when you are lost in thought. When you’re so passionate about helping Rachel. What happened, Clara? What happened?’

  She shook her head at him.

  ’Nothing happened.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t have to believe me. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  She crossed her arms and stared at him. He sat down at the table.

  ‘I’ll wait for you to tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  Henry could hear Pansy talking to Gumboot in the garden. Everything Clara had said, he had worried about himself. He felt like a bad father who had held Pansy back to keep himself happy. He worried about her not having friends or normal childhood experiences. He knew he was doing the right thing by sending her to school and getting her prepared with Tassie but sometimes it was all so hard and he didn’t have all the knowledge he should. But Clara? He looked up at her.

  He had been wrong about her. She was cruel and knew where to place her cuts so they hurt the most.

  ‘When the van is repaired, Pansy and I will be on our way,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I think that’s best,’ she said.

  He could hear a fly angrily buzzing somewhere.

  ‘And I’ll get a new box to put Naomi in.’ He tapped the lid of the container.

  ‘Oh keep it. I’m sure she won’t mind being carted around in your substitute wife’s cottage pie container.’

  Henry had had enough and he stood up so quickly, his chair fell over with a loud bang. He saw Clara jump and step backwards.

  ‘You are so out of line, I can’t believe it. You know nothing about what is in my head, because you don’t ask. You’re not any more interested in a future with me than you think I am with you. You haven’t asked about Pansy starting school, or even invited us to live with you. We have no idea what you want and we are essentially homeless while fixing you this lovely home, which you don’t spend any time on. You say you want this simple life but you’re filling your life with other people’s problems. Rachel and Tassie and the bakery. What are you running away from, Clara?’ His voice was raised now, which was rare for him but he was furious at her assumptions and unreasonable attitude.

  ‘Nothing – mind your business. I’m not paying you for your advice,’ she screamed in return.

  ‘So what are you paying me for? To fix the cottage or to sleep with you?’ As soon as he said that he regretted it and her face was shattered.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ He rushed to her side but she pushed him away.

  ‘No, no, no.’ She ran upstairs and he heard the door slam and then just the angry buzzing of a fly somewhere.

  48

  Tassie had watched Clara leave with a wave and knew the plan had worked. She would get the tearooms up and running and put Merryknowe back on the map again. The little village had so much to offer and now Rachel and Joe were swinging hands and Henry and Clara were an item, soon there would more little ones in the village and those empty shops and houses would fill up again.

  For years she had watched the village contract until it was barely even a place to stop for passers-by. It wasn’t as pretty as some of the other villages around with their window boxes and watermills in the town square or Roman ruins and tour guides. But Merryknowe now had Clara and Rachel. They were the real love affair, she realised as she closed the curtains.

  A gentle friendship that gave them both what they needed. Support and a purpose.

  But there was still the issue of Clara’s secret.

  Tassie didn’t know what it was but she felt it heavy and always around Clara, following her, watching her like a ghost.

  And that’s when Tassie knew the secret was Clara’s father. He was the ghost of regret and guilt and anger.

  And if Clara didn’t finally admit the secret, let the truth out where it couldn’t grow in the darkness of shame, it would eat her alive and she would end up like Sheila Batt: alone, and dead in her bed.

  Tassie rushed across the road, not even bothering to close her front door, and banged her small fist on the glass door of the bakery, calling out Rachel’s name.

  Please come, Rachel, she said to herself, as she heard a car behind her.

  ‘You all right, Mrs McIver?’ she heard Joe’s voice say.

  ‘Oh, Joe, can you take me to Clara’s cottage? It’s urgent.’

  Joe frowned and called out to Rachel and rang the bell above her head, which she was too short to reach.

  Rachel came downstairs with a grin on her face, seemingly happy to see them both.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said, opening the door.

  ‘Mrs McIver needs to go to Clara’s; says it’s urgent,’ said Joe. ‘Shall I take her?’

  He looked to Rachel for approval.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Rachel asked Tassie. ‘Did she tell you about our plans?’

  ‘What plans?’ asked Joe.

  But Tassie shook her hands at them both. ‘That can all wait. Joe, take me to Acorn Cottage now, and then come back to see Rachel and she can share it all with you then.’

  Tassie spoke in her best schoolteacher voice and Joe and Rachel both immediately responded.

  ‘Righto then. Let’s go to my van and I’ll give you a quick hoick up.’

  ‘No one will be hoicking me up or down. I can get in myself,’ said Tassie as she marched down to the van.

  She did need a small hoick from Joe but neither of them mentioned it and they were soon on their way to the cottage.

  Tassie played over the strategy in her head as they rounded the corner and she saw Clara’s red car outside the cottage.

  ‘Thank you, Joe, I can take it from here. You head back to see your Rachel.’

  ‘My Rachel, I like that,’ he said as he opened the door for her and helped her down.

  ‘Oh and, Joe?’ She turned to him as he walked to the driver’s side of the van.

  ‘Yes, Mrs McIver?’

  ‘Can you shut my front door for me?’

  Joe smiled, waved and drove away while Tassie stood outsid
e the gate of the cottage.

  She could see the patches where Henry had been preparing the walls for new paint. The roof was on and looking very proud. The garden was somewhat more tamed but Clara needed to spend more time in it. But the gate was fixed and the sign reading Acorn Cottage was strong and sturdy.

  She pushed open the gate and heard a little bell ring and Pansy came running around the side of the house with the small dog.

  ‘Tassie,’ the little girl cried. She ran to the front door and opened it calling inside. ‘Clara, Daddy, Tassie is here.’

  She saw Clara look out from the upstairs bedroom and she was wiping her eyes. She hoped she wasn’t too late, as she could feel the energy in the air of an earlier storm.

  Clara came downstairs, speaking in a bright, cheery voice that Tassie recognised as a cloak to cover her pain. ‘Oh my goodness, how did you get here? I swear you are a witch. Where’s your broom?’ she joked.

  Pansy held her hand, so soft and new against her old skin.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Joe dropped me off.’ Tassie wasn’t in any mood to play. ‘Pansy, go and play, dear. Clara and I need to talk.’

  Henry came out behind Clara. ‘Cup of tea, Tassie?’ he asked. She could see strain on his face and through the open the door she could spy Naomi’s ashes on the table.

  Oh dear, yes, something had happened and it wasn’t good.

  ‘No tea,’ said Tassie, almost rudely, but she had no time for pleasantries now. ‘But Clara and I will have a gin and tonic. I suggest, if you don’t have any in the house, you drive to the shop and get us some. Lemon required also. You must plant a lemon tree, dear – they are so useful.’

  Clara nodded and Henry, as though under a spell, picked up the keys to Clara’s car and left the house. Pansy was outside again, playing on the swing that Henry had tied onto the sturdiest of the oak tree branches, singing under the leaves a song that Tassie couldn’t quite place but it sounded familiar.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Tassie, and she walked into the kitchen and sat down.

  ‘You’re making me worried. What’s happened? Is it Rachel?’ asked Clara.

  ‘No, it’s not Rachel, it’s you.’

  Clara sat down opposite her.