by Rosie Green
This would be my bedroom, I think, as I stare out at the pond. I idly count the ducks. Right now, there are three male mallard ducks with their beautiful blue-green plumage and five females, far less striking with their brown feathers. They’re all clustered in the same area of the pond, except for one of the females, paddling alone at the far side.
I smile wistfully. I know how she feels.
But imagine waking every morning to the distant squawking of the ducks on the pond!
My heart starts beating faster.
I’m going to do this!
I should have asked Mick where the bakery is, although I’m sure it will be easy enough to find. I grab my bag and run downstairs. Popping into the café, I catch Sylvia’s eye and give her a thumbs up. She’s unloading a tray of cake and coffees at one of the tables, so I mouth, ‘Where’s Mick?’
She points across the village green. ‘He’s gone to get me some more milk.’
I’m dashing out of the café when I bump right into someone coming in. A tall girl about my age with a thin face and glasses, huddled into a black coat and a red scarf.
‘What the hell?’ she demands, poking her head round the door of the bustling café with a frown. Her corn-coloured hair is scraped back in a severe ponytail. ‘I normally come here for a bit of peace and quiet but I guess that’s not on the menu today.’
I laugh. ‘No, a coach party just arrived.’
‘Well, I can see that!’ She looks at me as if I’m stupid. ‘Give this to Sylvia, will you?’ She thrusts a sheet of paper in my hands and without another word, walks off.
I stare after her. How rude! Even her walk looks disgruntled. I only hope the people in Sunnybrook are more friendly and welcoming than she seems to be!
The small poster in my hands is advertising zumba classes at the village hall, led by ‘Jaz’.
Remembering Mick, I look around and see him half way across the village green, so I slip the poster in my bag and run after him. My route takes me past the duck pond and I notice that the female duck I noticed paddling alone is different from the rest. While the other females have browny-orange beaks, hers is a lovely pearly blue-grey colour.
I finally catch up with Mick. ‘I wondered where the bakery is that you mentioned,’ I pant.
‘It’s on my way. I’ll take you along there.’
‘What, now?’
He grins. ‘Well, there’s no time like the present.’
Two minutes later, I’m following Mick over the threshold of ‘Allsop’s Artisan Bakery’, which smells deliciously of new-baked bread. A young woman with neat, glossy brown hair looks up from behind the counter when we enter and gives us a shy smile.
‘Ah, Fen. Is Madeline about?’ asks Mick.
The girl called Fen nods and is about to speak when we hear the click-clack of heels approaching. ‘Yes, hello, that’s me!’ a voice trills.
Fen’s smile vanishes.
The tall, rather buxom woman who appears looks to be in her late forties. Her make-up is thick but artfully applied and her blonde hair has been teased and highlighted to within an inch of its life. She’s wearing a dark suit and looks dressed for a business meeting.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mick.’ The smile snaps off, replaced by a slightly sulky look. ‘I thought you were Mr Eames of the Artisan Bakery Foundation.’
Her eyes alight on me. ‘Welcome to the best artisan bakery in the county. Everything baked on the premises by my own fair hands! Isn’t that right, Fen?’
Fen clears her throat nervously. ‘That’s right, Mrs Allsop.’
‘Gosh, how lovely!’ I say truthfully, gazing at the wonderful array of cakes, scones and pastries under the display case.
‘Ellie here is moving to the area and was wondering about the job,’ says Mick.
‘Oh, I see.’ Mrs Allsop’s eyes flick over me. Then she turns to Fen. ‘Take her through to our artisan kitchen and make a note of Ellie’s details, will you?’ She emphasises the words ‘artisan kitchen’ with a degree of pride. Then she turns and ducks down, fussing over her reflection in a little mirror on the wall.
I say goodbye to Mick and Fen ushers me through.
‘And speak up, Fen, for God’s sake!’ calls Mrs Allsop gaily. ‘Don’t go mumbling into your beard like you usually do!’
I glance at Fen. Her face flushes but her expression doesn’t change.
I’m expecting great things of the ‘artisan kitchen’. But it just looks like my kitchen at home. We sit down at a big wooden table and Fen, in a quiet voice, tells me what the job would entail. And before I know it, I’m telling her that I’m definitely interested. Fen looks pleased and tells me Mrs Allsop will be in touch.
Back out on the high street, my head is spinning.
I think I just landed myself a job interview!
Walking along in a daze, I’m not looking where I’m going and collide with someone coming out of the newsagent’s. The newspaper he’s carrying flies out of his hand in a neat arc and lands in a muddy puddle by the side of the road.
I stare in horror at the paper, now a soggy unreadable mess, and turn to apologise to the stranger.
My heart leaps in my chest then begins thudding at a fair old rate.
It’s that man again.
Zak Chamberlain.
It’s definitely him. All dark, unruly hair, tall frame and big muscles for swinging in trees! And – oh bugger – judging by the faint grin on his face, it’s fairly clear he’s recognised me, too.
Heat rushes into my face. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’ I bend to rescue the sodden lump, holding it in the air as it drips. ‘Can I buy you another one?’
He laughs. ‘No, thanks. The news is depressing anyway. So you’ve probably done me a favour.’
I gulp. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’
He takes the paper and drops it in a nearby bin. ‘You never told me why you needed the photographs of my great-aunt’s tree.’
I glance at him in surprise. ‘So that’s not your house?’
‘No, I live in London. I was visiting her that time we – erm – met.’
I absorb these new facts. Then, to fill the silence, I say, ‘I think I’ll be moving here for a while.’
‘Yeah?’ His eyes crinkle in a warm smile that for some reason makes my insides feel weird. ‘Well, maybe we’ll run into each other again. When I’m visiting next.’
I smile back. ‘Perhaps.’
But as I cross the green on my way back to the café, I’ve already made up my mind to give Zak Chamberlain a wide berth.
Because as I’ve just found out to my cost, men are trouble . . .
TWO MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER SIX
When I wake it’s almost eight and a feeble March sun is poking fingers of light through the curtains. The sound of enthusiastic squawking tells me that Huey and Dewey are going at it hammer and tongs out on the duck pond.
It’s Friday and I’m due to start my shift at nine.
After Mick introduced me to Fen and Mrs Allsop at the bakery, way back in January, I thought I’d have to go back for an interview – but Mrs Allsop herself phoned later that day and told me the job was mine if I wanted it! I was so gob-smacked, because it had all happened so quickly, that I said yes without even thinking it over. I think she’d have liked me to start immediately, but in the end, it was almost a month before I’d tied up all the loose ends in Newtown.
I resigned from the surgery and worked two weeks’ notice, and I steeled myself to phone Richard and tell him I knew all about him and Giselle. I was worried he might be against selling the house we shared, but luckily, his guilt worked in my favour – when I demanded we put the house on the market straight away, he agreed immediately.
Once off the phone to Richard, I burst into noisy tears then opened a bottle of gin. And the following day, Sunday, I packed the things I would need into my little car and drove to Sunnybrook, feeling strangely light, as if I’d shrugged a weight off my back.
I’ve been here almost a
month now.
The sound of squawking brings me back to the present. The ducks are lively – and I need to get lively, for my shift at the bakery. I can hear Sylvia moving around in the café, and at eight-thirty, I run downstairs to join her for breakfast.
‘Almost ready. Sit yourself down.’ She’s behind the counter, working her magic with the coffee machine.
‘You bake the best sultana scones in Britain,’ I tell her, breathing in the fresh-baked scent with a sigh, as she places a freshly-brewed cappuccino in front of me, along with a tea plate containing the scone and a little pot of home-made strawberry jam.
‘So why don’t I have more customers through the door?’ She smiles as she says it but I know it bothers her.
‘Because you’re stubborn?’ I give her a little knowing smile.
She glances around her, at the shelves laden with ornaments and the dozens of pictures taking up every inch of wall space. Then she folds her arms. ‘I’m not getting rid of it. No matter what Madeline Allsop says.’
I grimace at the mention of my boss. ‘What does she say?’
‘That it’s like a Victorian parlour designed by someone with no taste whatsoever.’ She laughed when she said it but she meant it all right!
I cough to hide my urge to smile. Monster Madge (as Fen and I refer to her in private) might not be my favourite person but on this subject, I think she has a point.
Sylvia sits down opposite with her latte and starts spreading butter on her toasted teacake as if she’d like it to be Monster Madge’s face taking a scraping.
‘It must have been lovely to share your interest in antiques,’ I murmur to cheer her up. ‘How long were you married to Mr Snow?’
She smiles and fluffs her hair. ‘Fifty-one years.’
‘Gosh.’
‘I know.’
‘Snow is such a lovely surname.’
‘Oh, Mr Snow wasn’t his real name. He was Albert Symington. Bert. Mr Snow was just my nickname for him. We loved the film, Carousel, you see. It was the first thing we saw at the pictures together. There’s a song in it called, “When I marry Mr Snow”. Daft, really. But after seeing that film, I couldn’t get the song out of my head. And every time I sang it, Bert would joke that he was getting properly jealous of this Mr Snow character.’ She smiles at the memory. ‘And then a month after our first date, he got down on one knee and proposed.’
‘A whirlwind romance!’
‘Yes, it was.’ Her eyes sparkle at the memory. ‘We were young but we knew we were right for each other even then. And ever after, I called him Mr Snow. Or Snowy for short.’
‘That’s lovely.’
‘I sometimes wish we’d had children.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘I suppose we always felt we were happy enough, just the two of us.’
‘But you’ve got your sister and her family.’
‘Agatha, yes.’ She grins. ‘She hates driving so I don’t see her that often. Once in a blue moon, really.’
‘Didn’t you say your family would be here tomorrow?’
She nods. ‘Not Agatha. Just the young ones. My sister’s grandchildren. There’s some kind of school reunion going on so they might want to crash for the night.’ She shrugs. ‘Chances are they’ll just kip down at friends’ houses, so I wouldn’t worry about it.’
I shrug. ‘As I said when I signed the lease, it’s perfectly fine.’
If Sylvia’s family are as nice as she is, I won’t mind at all having to share the space for a night or two.
*****
Working at the bakery is a mixed bag. I love meeting the customers but Monster Madge is unpredictable, to say the least. I hate the way she constantly picks on Fen. But I’m determined to stick it out because it means my savings will last longer.
Plus, I rather like Fen, even though she is such a mouse. The first week I was there, I barely managed to coax more than a ‘good morning’ and a shy ‘goodbye’ out of her, but she’s slowly started opening up to me.
People in the village, after they learn I’m working at the bakery, usually grimace then try to reassure me that Madeline Allsop isn’t bad, once you get used to her weird sense of humour. It’s beginning to dawn on me why I walked into the job with no formal interview whatsoever. No one else in the village fancies being laughed at on a daily basis by Madge!
It all rather deflates my triumph at landing the job so quickly . . .
I work at the bakery every weekday from nine to three, serving customers behind the counter. And every other day, as soon as my shift is finished, I hop in the car and drive the thirty miles to visit Mum.
I find the driving quite stressful but I’m all Mum has now. It’s up to me to make sure she’s okay.
I’ve decided to start doing yoga again to bring some balance to my life. (I used to go to yoga classes regularly but I stopped them because Richard kept nagging me to stay at home with him instead.)
When I walk into the bakery at nine, I catch Fen in the middle of an enormous yawn. I laugh. ‘You look absolutely shattered.’
‘I am,’ she says. Another yawn brews immediately but this time, she stifles it.
‘What have you been doing?’ I ask curiously. ‘Been burning the candle at both ends? Got a mystery lover no-one knows about?’
Fen blushes to the roots of her hair and I wish I could take my questions back. Particularly the one about the lover. Is it possible I’ve stumbled on a secret?
From conversations we’ve had, I assumed Fen led a really quiet life. She comes from a very well-to-do family. They have a huge house in its own grounds a few miles out of Sunnybrook and her dad and brother are both well-respected lawyers. But Fen seems to prefer her little one-bed flat in the village, which is strange because she could probably have a whole wing to herself in the family home!
‘Me? Burn the candle at both ends? I don’t think so.’ She brushes it off, but the colour in her cheeks, which had started to subside, flares up again.
‘Sylvia says your family have fantastic parties. I guess the house really lends itself to great entertaining.’
Fen nods. ‘Yeah. We have a huge Christmas bash, where we have to mingle with all of Dad’s lawyer friends. It’s fine for my brother because he knows most of them anyway but it’s torture for me. Then there’s a Midsummer party in July.’ She grimaces. ‘I hate parties. I can’t do small talk. I get all red and tongue-tied.’
I get the feeling poor Fen feels overshadowed by her brother’s success and I can’t help wondering if that’s why she’s grown up so timid and lacking in self-confidence.
Monster Madge arrives at ten.
‘Good morning, ladies.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Allsop,’ we chant obediently, as she clatters in.
‘Fen, get me a cup of tea and a slice of my fabulous lemon drizzle cake.’
Fen, who’s in the middle of transferring cherry and coconut scones from a cooling tray to the display case, stops what she’s doing and starts heading for the kitchen.
‘Well, finish that first!’ Madge points at the scones with an incredulous glance at Fen.
Flustered, Fen rushes back and does what she’s told.
I really feel for her. She can never do anything right. I hate the way Madge bosses her around and seems to take pleasure in humiliating her.
Madge heads to her office. Then she pops her head back round the door. ‘Oh, and Fen?’
Fen looks up. ‘Yes?’
‘For God’s sake stop being so loud. Honestly, Ellen, I don’t know how you cope with her constant chatter.’ She cackles like a witch at her own joke and disappears.
I make a face at the closed door. ‘Er . . . it’s Ellie?’
We exchange a weary smile.
‘What is an artisan bakery anyway?’ I ask.
‘A fancy term for baking by hand on the premises, producing a quality product?’
I nod. ‘Well, Madge certainly ticks all those boxes, I’ll give her that. Those cinnamon apple cakes are heavenly. I’ve never tasted anything l
ike them.’
Without bothering to comment, Fen trudges off to put the kettle on.
*****
By the time I return from Mum’s, it’s early evening and Sylvia has closed the café and gone home.
As I let myself into the flat, I’m already planning my yoga session. Digging around in a box, I find an old chill-out CD, then I get into my trusty old purple leotard and black tights and slip the disc into Sylvia’s ancient player.
It might be old, but the sound is pretty good, I realise a second later, as the music starts booming out. As Sylvia’s gone home for the night, there’s no-one to mind the volume, so I sink down onto the rug and start going through the old routine.
Ten minutes in and I’m realising it’s a bit like riding a bike – you never forget it. It’s all coming back to me. Why did I ever let control freak Richard dissuade me from taking my classes? I smile as I go into a ‘downward dog’ position, in time to the melodic sound of chiming bells on the sound system, the last track on the CD. What an idiot I was to allow my wishes to come second to Richard’s.
From now on, I will revel in my new-found freedom! I will be a strong, independent woman! Woe betide any man who tries to tell me how to live my life!
The CD ends and I fill the silence with an enthusiastic rendition of Chaka Khan’s ‘I’m Every Woman’. The uplifting girl power anthem fires me up as I stretch this way and that, singing at the top of my lungs as there’s no-one here to object.
One more downward dog, I think, as I attempt a ridiculously high note and fail to get even remotely close. Laughing at my terrible screechy singing, I put all my effort into this final stretch, lowering myself downwards and taking my weight on my hands. It’s weird seeing the room upside down from this position. As I slowly stretch out my leg at the back for one last time, my Chaka Khan cover version is reaching its climax; it’s the part where you have to decide whether to dip down an octave or just go for it.
I take a huge breath and go for it.
It’s all in me-e-eeee!
It feels good. But it’s bad. (Think tormented spirit in a haunted house.)
Then I get the biggest fright of my life.
