Sam managed a brittle smile. ‘Will do.’
Lifting the old-fashioned handle, she swept from the shop, fighting the urge to bang the door in its frame. She hurried across the grass, seething at the old woman’s nosiness. Nessie would no doubt remind her that they needed friends, not enemies in Little Monkham, but Nessie had yet to encounter Franny; she couldn’t know what it was like to be cross-examined under that gimlet-eyed gaze. Scowling, Sam crossed the green, certain Franny was watching her. She needed to get out of Little Monkham before she did something Nessie would really get her knickers in a twist about.
Chapter Seven
Nessie needed a break. It felt like days – weeks – since she’d thought of anything other than the pub and since the plumbers had started work on the toilets, there was a strong and pervasive smell of stale urine in the air that made her eyes water. Sam had escaped to the shops in Gloucester so Nessie left Joss in charge and went for a lunchtime walk.
The graveyard was frozen despite the afternoon sunlight. Nessie spent half an hour wandering among the headstones, bending to read the faded inscriptions and spotting the names Forster and Fitzsimmons going back several generations. And then, tucked away in a quiet corner, she found her father’s grave.
The headstone was simple – just his name and dates. Nessie stared down, aware that an unexpected lump was forming in her throat. It wasn’t that she missed him; too much of her life had been spent without him for that. But she was saddened by a life cut short, its fire dimmed by drink. Once, Andrew Chapman had been young and full of potential. He’d been bright and funny and smart enough to ensnare her mother at university, who herself had been whip sharp. But it had all gone wrong and now he was buried in this tiny village graveyard, leaving two daughters who didn’t mourn his passing much.
But someone else clearly did, Nessie realised, blinking away the dampness that had cooled on her lashes. The grass around the base of the headstone was neatly trimmed and there were fresh flowers in the pot sunk into the ground below it. Someone had brought a mixture of roses and geraniums, had trimmed them and slipped them one by one into the holes so that they sat prettily, and they had done it within the last few days. It wouldn’t have been Sam, Nessie was sure; they must have known Andrew would be buried in the churchyard but neither had mentioned seeking out his grave. It must have been someone in the village or the surrounding area, someone Nessie and Sam had yet to encounter. Once again, Nessie was reminded that there must have been more to her father than booze.
The clock struck two. Aware she could no longer feel her toes, Nessie headed home. She stopped at the bakery on the green, remembering Kathryn’s instructions to get cake to have with their coffee later. Maybe she’d pick up some bread too – if all else failed, she could use it to plug her nose with.
The woman behind the counter was plump and dressed entirely in white. Her hair was caught up in a net attached to her hat. Her name badge declared she was Martha and Nessie decided she looked like she’d stepped straight from a bread advert, the kind that harkened nostalgically back to a bygone time when life was simpler and bread was bread. There was one other customer in the shop, a striking woman in a deep red coat with hair to match. She wore seamed stockings that led into gorgeously impractical high heels. She had her back to Nessie so she couldn’t tell her age but everything about her screamed glamour, the kind that felt totally out of place in a quiet village bakery. The conversation between her and Martha suggested the woman in red was a regular, though; they were discussing Mrs Carruthers’ ex-husband in a way that left no doubt he was someone they both knew. Nessie focused on the cakes underneath the glass counter, trying not to listen, and so it took a moment for her to notice the expectant silence that had settled over the shop. She looked up to see both women gazing at her.
‘Sorry,’ she said, feeling embarrassment flood her face. ‘Were you talking to me?’
Martha smiled, her pink cheeks becoming even plumper. ‘Ruby here was just saying how like Andrew you are.’
It caught Nessie out every time someone made a reference to her father. She and Sam had spent so many years never mentioning his name, trying to pretend he didn’t exist, that it was a real shock to be confronted by him practically everywhere she turned in Little Monkham. Summoning up a careful smile, she turned to look at the red-haired woman.
Her make-up was immaculate; smoky black eyes, impossibly long lashes and perfectly arched brows over glossy red lips. She wasn’t young – Nessie guessed maybe mid-fifties – and her beauty had dimmed a little with age but she oozed sophistication. Sam would be amazed that such a woman lived in the village, Nessie thought, and she summoned up a polite smile. ‘Do you think so? I think I’m more like my mother.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Nessie Blake.’
The woman shook her hand, a wry smile playing around her scarlet mouth. ‘I know. My name is Ruby Cabernet and I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Franny, Nessie thought with a mild stab of annoyance. The gossip network in Little Monkham was something both she and Sam were struggling with – didn’t these people have anything better to talk about? The name intrigued her though; it couldn’t be real. ‘Have you?’ she said.
Some of her irritation must have carried to her voice because Ruby’s smile cooled a little. ‘From your father. He and I . . . well, how should I put it?’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘He and I were lovers.’
Nessie felt her mouth drop open. Her father and Ruby had been lovers? It didn’t seem likely; from what she remembered of him Andrew Chapman had scarcely been able to stand upright most of the time, let alone manage to – well, it didn’t seem possible. Maybe he’d found a way to stop drinking. She knew he’d tried over the years but had always fallen off the wagon, sometimes within hours of promising he’d never drink again. ‘Oh,’ Nessie said stiffly. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘No reason you should,’ Ruby said, with an elegant shrug. ‘You weren’t close. He was always very sad about that. He told me once that his biggest regret was losing you and your sister.’
Nessie didn’t know what to say. Her stomach squirmed with a mixture of bewilderment and distress; she was already raw from her discovery in the churchyard and the last thing she’d expected at the bakery was to run into someone who could stir up her long-buried emotions even more. ‘Look—’ she began but Ruby cut across her.
‘I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,’ she said, picking up her wrapped loaf. ‘I’m sorry. But if you ever have any questions about him you’ll find me at Weir Cottage. Or perhaps I’ll see you in the pub, when it opens again.’
She nodded to the baker and swept past Nessie in a cloud of Chanel. ‘I recommend the mince pie crumbles, just divine with a dash of Grand Marnier,’ she called over one shoulder.
The door closed with a cheery jangle, leaving a small silence. Nessie stared at the glass counter and her eyes came to focus on a row of glistening mini crumbles, each decorated with a sugar-crusted red berry. ‘Six of those, please,’ she said, rousing herself to point at the cakes. ‘And one of the snowman meringues.’
Rummaging around in her bag, she dug out her purse. She was an idiot not to have expected this really – of course he’d had friends and even a girlfriend in the village. He’d lived there for years and years, for heaven’s sake. At least the mystery of the flowers was solved.
Outside in the chilly December air, she could see Ruby in the distance, picking her way along Sixpence Street. She started towards the pub, filled with the uneasy feeling that she was going to be seeing a lot more of her father’s girlfriend. And as much as The Star and Sixpence needed customers, Nessie wasn’t sure either she or Sam would be glad to see Ruby.
Kathryn greeted Nessie warmly when she knocked on the door of Snowdrop Cottage.
‘Come in,’ she said, beckoning her into the kitchen. Her gaze settled on the cake box in Nessie’s hands. ‘I see you’ve discovered Little Monkham’s best kept secret. I’m terrified Martha will apply to go on one of these bake
ry shows on TV and we’ll lose her to Mary Berry.’
Nessie handed over the cakes. ‘I got Luke something too, I hope that’s all right.’
‘Fine,’ Kathryn nodded. ‘It’ll take more than a puff of meringue to put that boy off his dinner. Luke! There’s cake here, come and get it.’
Footsteps thudded overhead, followed by a thundering on the stairs. A moment later, Luke burst into the kitchen, a thick dinosaur book under one arm. He glanced at Nessie and then his attention was caught by the frosty confection Kathryn was scooping onto a plate. ‘Awesome. Thank you!’
He flashed Nessie a grateful look and vanished back upstairs. Kathryn carried the teapot over to the pine table. ‘Come and have a seat,’ she said, waving to one of the matching pine chairs. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘Now, be honest – how many times have you considered leaving Little Monkham since you arrived? Ten? Twenty?’
Nessie couldn’t help grinning. ‘Sam’s had it worse than me. But I did just meet someone unexpected in the bakery.’
Kathryn listened as Nessie gave her an edited version of events. ‘Don’t mind Ruby,’ she said, once Nessie had finished. ‘She’s got a taste for the dramatic, comes from her acting days.’
‘Oh,’ Nessie said. ‘That explains the name at least. TV or film?’
‘Stage, mostly,’ Kathryn replied, pouring the tea. ‘I think she was quite the star back in the day. She spills all kinds of stories about Richard Burton and the like if she’s had enough gin.’
If she’s had enough gin . . . The words echoed in Nessie’s head and things started falling into place. She’d wondered what her father and Ruby could possibly have had in common, apart from Little Monkham. ‘Does she like a drink, then?’
Kathryn shrugged. ‘Don’t we all? But there were some nights she needed a helping hand getting home from the pub. I reckon that’s how they got together, her and your dad. It was easier for Ruby than going home.’ She stopped then and seemed to realise what she was implying. ‘Not that I’m suggesting she didn’t love him or anything.’
Nessie remembered the flowers on the grave, neatly trimmed and arranged with care, and Ruby’s quiet dignity in the bakery. Andrew was definitely still in his lover’s thoughts. ‘No,’ Nessie said. ‘I got the impression they were quite close.’
Kathryn took a long sip of her tea and eyed her sideways. ‘Tell me to bugger off if you like, but Andrew lived in Little Monkham for nearly ten years and you never came to visit. So I’m just wondering how much you knew about his life here?’
Nessie looked at her sharply. ‘I know he drank.’
‘Well, he was always very open about that,’ Kathryn said quietly. ‘You’d be surprised how many drinkers end up running pubs. And it wasn’t much of a problem at first.’ She glanced at Nessie, her expression uncharacteristically serious. ‘Towards the end, it got worse. We worried he’d forget to settle the fire before bed, or that he’d take a tumble down the cellar steps one night. We took it in turns to check on him, pretending it was on Franny’s orders but I think he knew the truth.’
Nessie took a gulp of too hot tea and swallowed. She’d guessed her father must have had some help but not that he’d been barely capable of looking after himself. Shame seared across her skin and made her want to shrivel away.
‘Joss was brilliant with him,’ Kathryn went on. She pulled a wry face. ‘I know he comes across a bit brash but he’s got a good heart. Most of us do, even though it might seem like the Village of the Damned here sometimes.’
‘Thank you,’ Nessie said, doing her best to smile. ‘I – well, I’m sorry he was such a burden.’
Kathryn’s eyes widened. ‘He wasn’t. Goodness no, he was a great man, always pleased to see you and so clever.’ She paused and shook her head. ‘We looked out for him because we cared, Nessie, that’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t want you to think we’re all like Franny, because we’re not.’
‘I’m beginning to see that,’ Nessie said and this time her smile wasn’t forced. ‘There’s a lot to like about living here.’
Kathryn reached for the cake box. ‘You’d better believe it. Wait until you try Martha’s mince pies. You’ll never want to leave.’
Chapter Eight
Nessie read the article in the Cotswold Chronicle three times but it didn’t make her feel any less sick. The huge photo of her looking hopelessly mumsy in front of the pub was bad enough but the words beside it were so much worse. Instead of the upbeat puff piece Sam had been expecting, the article on page five had led with the headline CHAMPAGNE SUPERNOWHERE? and seemed to be slyly suggesting the two sisters were inexperienced, incompetent and heading for disaster. She folded the paper up and gazed blindly at the kitchen table. Where had she gone wrong? She’d said all the things Sam had told her to say but it maybe it had all sounded as wooden and as unconvincing as it had felt. Joe Poole clearly didn’t believe she and Sam had what it took to run the pub.
Franny was going to have a field day when she saw the article. And Sam . . . Nessie dreaded to think what Sam was going to do when she got back from collecting the new flyers at the printer’s. Arrange for Joe Poole to meet with an unfortunate PR accident, probably.
Hearing a knock at the door, Nessie shoved the paper underneath some magazines and went to answer. It was probably Joss, come to check the cellar before they opened at midday. His behaviour around Sam might set her teeth on edge but she had to admit he was superb at his job.
She unbolted the door and pulled it back. ‘Morning, Joss—’ she began but the words died in her throat. It wasn’t Joss on the doorstep. It was an older woman, with a tight grey bun and an expression to match. Under one arm was a folded copy of a newspaper. Her eyes burned over her wire-rimmed glasses as she stared at Nessie.
‘Vanessa, I presume?’
With a sinking heart, Nessie guessed who this must be. She took a deep breath and summoned up a smile. ‘That’s right. And you must be Franny.’
The woman nodded curtly. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time,’ she said, unfurling the paper and holding it up so that Nessie could see the humiliating headline. ‘This kind of thing won’t do. We have high standards in Little Monkham and negative publicity like this won’t be tolerated.’
Nessie went still. Won’t be tolerated? What was that supposed to mean? ‘I can assure you that we’re just as disappointed as you, Ms Forster, and this article couldn’t be further from the truth.’
Franny looked anything but convinced. Inside the pub, the telephone began to ring, its faint warble floating out through the open door. Nessie swallowed a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘Will you excuse me?’ she said, smiling politely. ‘I probably need to get that. Lovely to meet you at last.’
With a nod, she stepped back and shut the door in Franny’s face. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wood and breathed in and out, willing her thumping heart to slow. Then she hurried towards the phone. ‘Hello, The Star and Sixpence, how can I help?’
Silence. ‘Hello?’ Nessie repeated. ‘Who is this?’
Another one of those stupid cold-calling machines, she guessed, the ones that dialled a dozen numbers and then only connected one. Sighing, she was just about to hang up when she heard a faint sound, as though someone on the other end had cleared their throat. ‘Is someone there?’ she asked sharply.
There was a click and then the dialling tone filled her ear. Nessie replaced the handset and stood for a moment, deep in thought. It must have been a wrong number, she decided, pushing it out of her mind.
Sam took the article better than Nessie had been expecting.
‘Well, it’s not quite what I was expecting but at least we got a decent amount of coverage.’ Sam studied the newspaper again. ‘Page five, too. Not bad.’
‘You’re not angry?’ Nessie asked in confusion. ‘Isn’t it bad publicity?’
Sam smiled. ‘No such thing. I would have preferred a glowing write-up, obviously, but this is almost as good.’ She held the page up for Nessie t
o see. ‘It would have cost at least a couple of hundred pounds for a half-page advert like this. He mentions the Boxing Day re-opening twice and it’ll get people talking, if nothing else. We might even get a few gawkers coming to see how badly we’re doing.’
Nessie pursed her lips. ‘Speaking of gawkers, I had a visit from Franny.’
She filled her sister in on Franny’s displeasure.
‘See?’ Sam said, looking delighted. ‘It’s working already. Franny won’t be able to resist coming to look and we’ll charm the pants off her.’
Nessie shuddered. ‘I’m not sure either of us has enough charm for that.’
‘Rubbish,’ Sam said, her eyes gleaming at the challenge. ‘They’re going to be falling over themselves to get through the door on Boxing Day. Just you wait and see.’
As Christmas drew nearer, the days blurred into a never-ending flow of builders, tradesmen and deliveries. The cellar was stacked high with crates, leaving the narrowest of alleys between them. By the time Christmas Eve arrived, the mismatched tables and chairs were no more, the brickwork walls inside the pub had been repointed and the nicotine yellow ceiling had been replastered. At Sam’s insistence, it now boasted a galaxy of dimmable downlights between its dark wooden beams. They made Nessie want to reach for her sunglasses and she was certain the locals would hate it but Sam assured her the lights would never be that bright. ‘The floor and table lamps I’ve ordered will be here next week,’ her sister said, waving away her concerns. ‘They’ll soften everything up, don’t worry.’
Nessie was amazed to get a call from the plumber just after midday, telling her he’d be round in an hour to fit the new boiler. Both she and Sam had resigned themselves to a cold Christmas Day with hot water that worked when it wanted to.
‘It’s the Franny Effect,’ Joss said, when Nessie expressed her surprise the plumber was working on Christmas Eve. ‘I told you, when she wants something done, it gets done.’
Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence Page 5
