by Rosie Green
‘What about those shares you’ve had for ages?’
‘I sold them.’ I avoid her eye when I say this because I know she won’t approve.
I’d had the shares in a company I’d worked for in my early twenties and I’d been determined to hang onto them as a ‘rainy day’ fund. Especially once I realised Grant was gambling and seemed to lose more than he won. Recently, he’d been on at me to sell the shares, saying he thought that putting the money in a building society might be safer. I wondered if it was just an excuse to get his hands on some extra cash, so I stuck to my guns. But a few weeks ago, with the expense of Christmas coming up, I finally agreed to sell them.
Jules frowns. ‘You didn’t give the money to Grant, did you?’ She knows about his old gambling addiction.
‘No. I put it in the joint account. It’s still there.’
‘Well, you’ll need to withdraw it.’
I swallow. ‘Grant will be furious.’
‘It’s your money, isn’t it?’
I shrug. ‘Yes, but when I moved in with him, we agreed we’d split everything we owned right down the middle.’
She gives a bitter laugh. ‘I think that agreement became null and void the moment Grant locked you out of his house!’
I grin at her. ‘I guess you’re right. And it is my money.’ I’ve got enough to keep me going for a good six months, as long as I’m careful.
‘So you’re going to do it?’ Jules looks excited. She never liked Grant. Even in the beginning when he wasn’t being moody and throwing his weight around.
I nod. ‘I can’t think of a better plan. And I’ve got to do something. The thought of living here in the village, knowing Grant is just around the corner, deliberately keeping Titch from me.’ I shiver. ‘It’s just horrible.’
‘He might relent – eventually.’
I look doubtful. ‘He hasn’t spoken to his brother for five years – all because Ian gave him some financial advice that turned out badly.’
‘So where will you live?’ Jules gets up and fetches a map of Britain.
I grin at her, feeling so much better now that I have a plan. I open the map out. ‘Got a pin?’
CHAPTER THREE
I decide on a village called Sunnybrook - for no other reason than it conjures up a lovely picture in my mind of dappled sunlight on water, plus it’s roughly fifty miles from Palmerston. Far enough away, as Jules said, for me to be incognito, but close enough that it’s a reasonably easy drive to the stables.
I decide that if I’m going to do it, I need to leave straight away – before I chicken out altogether. So next day, I set off after lunch, waved on my way by Jules and Chloe. After the despair of the past week, I’m feeling apprehensive but excited as well. Because at least I’m doing something that will hopefully mean I can continue seeing Titch.
Half way to Sunnybrook, though, a song comes on the radio that Titch adores. She, like Chloe, is a big fan of Frozen, and we used to do this one together. We’d twirl and dance around the living room, singing at the tops of our voices, Titch’s long dark hair flying. We didn’t care what we sounded like; we just had fun.
Suddenly I’m sobbing noisily, unable to stop. The feeling of grief and aching loss is unbearable. Blinded by tears, I pull into the side of the road, get out of the car and stumble over to the snowy grass verge. Why am I leaving Palmerston, where Titch is? Shouldn’t I have stuck around, just in case Grant changed his mind? Of course I should!
I turn to get back in the car but my foot slips in the snow. Next moment, I’m tumbling onto my bottom and sliding down a snowy slope. I manage to stop myself before I make contact with the thorny hedge at the bottom but my jeans and the back of my jumper are absolutely soaked through.
The sudden shock gets my mind back into gear. There’s no point returning to Palmerston if Grant’s going to continue acting against me out of pure spite. At least this way, there’s a chance Jules will be able to help me actually see Titch from time to time . . .
I climb the slope, my jeans and jumper clinging wetly in a truly disgusting way. My case is in the boot - but do I really want to start opening it up, here by the side of the road, to find something dry to wear?
My eye catches a plastic bag on the back seat. It’s the line dancing costume Jules gave me the night I changed my mind about going. I could just put that on for now. I’ll be in the car, so no one’s going to see me. And even if they do, so what? I might for all they know be on my way to a line dancing class . . .
Contorting myself in the back seat, getting out of my wet clothes and into the dry outfit, is a little tricky and the costume itself is quite startling. I smile to myself, thinking: that’s Jules’s sense of humour for you! But soon, I’m back behind the wheel and driving on in the direction of Sunnybrook. It’s New Year’s Day so there’s not much traffic on the road.
I keep catching sight of the brown suede tassles dangling from my shoulders and feeling alarmed for a second, until I remember they’re part of my outfit. The tan leather, embossed cowboy boots (also with tassles) are a size too small and pinch my toes. But I’ll get changed as soon as I book into a bed and breakfast place. I’ve got a list of guesthouses in my phone.
As I finally enter the village of Sunnybrook, I spot a large sign by the side of the road announcing ‘Sunnybrook New Year’s Day Fancy Dress Competition. Hog Roast. Village Hall. 3pm’
I glance at the clock. It’s almost three now, which is presumably why there are lots of people in colourful costumes walking across the village green and along the main street, causing a bottleneck at the entrance to one of the buildings – the village hall, presumably.
The costumes are a bit odd and I can’t work out if there’s a theme. The women’s are fairly diverse and colourful. But among the men, there appear to be a strangely large number dressed in dark suits and peaked hats, carrying whistles. And lots of firemen and footballers.
It’s a bit worrying, to be honest, arriving to find the streets so busy. My aim was to keep a low profile, since I’m actually meant to be in Scotland or at least pretending to be. I’d rather it had been just a normal, sleepy Sunday and I could have crept into the village vaguely anonymously. But here I am, faced with what looks like the entire population of Sunnybrook!
Spotting a hotel called ‘The Swan’ on the other side of the road, I pull into a parking bay. It looks smart but fairly ordinary. Hopefully not too expensive. I decide to abandon my idea of tracking down a guesthouse and treat myself to a night in the hotel instead. Then I’ll start looking for a permanent place to stay in the morning.
I need to get inside because I’m feeling a little conspicuous parked here. Passers-by keep peering into the car with big smiles, as if they’re expecting to know me. And worse, there’s a guy up ahead taking photographs of everyone in their outfits. I’ll definitely avoid him. He might work for the local newspaper. The last thing I need is to find myself featured in a jolly, double-page spread of photos from Sunnybrook’s New Year celebrations. That would be my ‘Scotland’ cover blown immediately, if someone Grant knows happened to spot my photo in the paper!
I tell myself not to be so melodramatic. The chances of being spotted here by anyone I know are pretty slim. I’m only getting worked up because I’m feeling so exhausted. And cold. I haven’t quite warmed up since getting soaked on that snowy slope earlier. A hot bath would be lovely . . .
Getting out of the car, I notice to my alarm that the man with the camera is drawing ever nearer, chatting to villagers as he goes and taking pictures. Now, he’s photographing a middle-aged woman in a Marilyn Monroe wig and dress. She keeps giggling at him like a flirty teenager and fussing self-consciously with her plunging neckline.
I go to fetch my case from the boot. It’s a ton weight and I struggle a bit (Jules helped me to lift it in.)
‘Can I help there?’ asks a deep male voice.
‘Er, no thanks, it’s fine.’ I turn and the photographer is standing there, regarding me with faint amusemen
t.
‘Cowgirl,’ he says suddenly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You wanted to be a cowgirl when you grew up!’
I stare at him, bemused. ‘No, I didn’t. I wanted to be an Olympic medal-winner.’
‘So why didn’t you . . .’ He moves his finger up and down indicating my outfit, and suddenly, it clicks.
‘All those men with whistles wanted to be train drivers when they grew up!’
‘Spot on. Dress as what you wanted to be when you grew up.’
‘Well, I’m not entering the competition. These are my actual clothes.’
‘Really?’ He nods approvingly, his eyes travelling from the pointy tips of my distressed cowboy boots (I know how they feel), over my freezing bare legs, up to the tassles tangled in my cleavage. ‘Let’s have a photo anyway.’ He raises his camera – at which point I take evasive action and dive round the other side of the car.
‘No photos.’
‘Oh, go on. Just one?’ He gives me a lazy smile that’s probably meant to be sexily persuasive. No doubt plenty of other women would be salivating at his feet by now. But I’m not going to be quite so easily charmed! Although I have to admit he is very easy on the eye. Tall and broad with long legs and chestnut brown hair that’s a little too long and curling on the collar of his blue shirt. No wonder Marilyn Monroe was beside herself with excitement.
‘No photos,’ I repeat.
‘Don’t you like having your picture taken, then? I’m not being nosey. I’m just interested.’
‘And I’m very busy,’ I say tartly, as I start trying to heave out my suitcase. ‘So if you don’t mind . . .’
‘Sure. Of course. Sorry.’
To my annoyance, he continues to stand there, lounging against the side of the car, looking as if he’s thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of me getting hot and frazzled with the effort.
‘Have you got a dead body in that?’ he asks at last. ‘Here, let me.’ Reaching over, he grabs the handle and lifts it out as if it’s no heavier than a briefcase.
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem.’
He gives me a lazy smile and I can’t help noticing his striking green eyes. ‘I’m Harry Bentham, photographer.’ He holds out his hand and I automatically go to shake it. Then I realise he’s holding out his business card.
How bloody presumptuous!
But I take it and put it in my pocket. ‘Jaz Winters, between jobs. And next time I don’t want my photograph taken, I’ll be sure not to call you.’ As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I feel bad. It’s not like me to be rude to a stranger.
But Harry Bentham just laughs. His teeth are annoyingly white and even. ‘Nice to meet you, Jaz Winters. Do you live here? I haven’t seen you around.’
I sigh inwardly. There’s no point denying it. ‘I do. From today.’
‘You’ve just moved here?’
I nod and point at the hotel. ‘I’m going to stay there tonight then look for somewhere to live tomorrow.’
‘A girl of mystery,’ he remarks, narrowing his eyes and assessing me in a way that both irritates me and sends hot colour surging into my cheeks. He doesn’t know how near the mark he is!
I grab the handle of my case. ‘Not really. Goodbye, Harry. Happy snapping.’ I launch myself into the road, pulling back smartly as a taxi whizzes by.
‘If you get bored, give me a call and I’ll buy you a drink,’ he calls after me.
‘I’d never be that bored!’ I shout back without turning round. But I’m smiling.
‘Ooh, that hurt, cowgirl!’
As I haul my suitcase up the steps of the hotel, I can hear him belting out the theme song from Rawhide, one of my dad’s all-time favourite cowboy movies . . .
SIX MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m trapped in a very small space.
A bead of perspiration slides down the side of my face but I can’t do anything about it because my hands are otherwise occupied.
With the temperature on this July afternoon set to smash records, it feels like an oven in the café’s tiny public loo. Gingerly, I balance my tray filled with used teacups and buttery knives and plates on the edge of the washbasin.
I could probably see the funny side of this - if I wasn’t feeling as tense as Donald Trump on a windy day.
I can’t come out, however hot and cramped it is in here, because there are roughly fifty people on the other side of the door, about to say ‘cheese’ for a big group shot on café opening day. And I dived in here five minutes ago to avoid the whole thing.
I don’t do photos.
And I especially don’t do photos when the guy holding the camera is the irritating Harry Bentham!
Ellie’s voice drifts through to me. ‘Where’s Jaz? She was clearing tables a moment ago.’
I tense up and the load on my tray rattles alarmingly, as if I’m on a train going over points.
‘Perhaps she’s in the loo,’ suggests Fen in her shy, slightly hesitant tone.
‘Right, everyone, gather together,’ shouts Harry. ‘Big summer smiles.’
‘Hang on. We need Jaz,’ calls Ellie. ‘She’s helped so much. I doubt we’d have been ready for opening day without her.’
I shake my head. No, Ellie, you really don’t need me!
I’ve got an irritating tickle in my nose but I am not going to sneeze!
Quick, quick, remedies for stopping sneezes! As long as I don’t have to stand on my head, I’ll probably be okay . . .
Pinching your nose. That’s worth a try. But how can I . . .?
Carefully balancing the tray on the basin is precarious to say the least. As basins go, it’s in the same league, size-wise, as the ‘play kitchen’ unit I got from Santa when I was five.
But the sneeze is building. So I move one hand to my nose – ve-e-e-e-ery slowly, with only the tiniest amount of crockery slippage. And – ah, there we go. Sneeze aborted.
But as I relax, the tray tips a millionth of a degree and two cups slide off into the basin with a disproportionately long series of rattles and clinks.
‘Jaz?’ calls Ellie, sounding worried. ‘Are you okay? You’ve been in there ages.’
Damn!
Plastering on a smile, I re-load the tray, unlock the door and emerge.
And yes! Every one of those fifty people - including endlessly grinning, wisecracking Harry - is standing there with expectant looks on their faces, waiting for this mysterious person to come out, wondering I suppose if the length of my stay in the ‘rest room’ is the result of a booze-and-curry-fest the night before.
‘Okay?’ repeats Ellie anxiously, and I nod, pasting on my usual smile for the public.
‘Okay, everyone?’ calls Harry. Even his T-shirt has a joke on it. Give Blood. Play Rugby.
He looks directly at me and grins. ‘Better late than never. My good old mum always says that if running late counted as exercise, she’d be a size eight in no time.’ He’s still looking at me so I form my lips into an obliging smile.
Everyone else laughs uproariously. Although to be fair, it’s probably less to do with the quality of his joke and rather more to do with the amount of Prosecco that’s been consumed already at the official opening of the new-look Little Duck Pond Cafe.
‘Could you come up to the front here, Jaz? So we’ve got someone nice and tall on each end?’
I do as he asks, hating having it pointed out that I’m on the tall side. I was always the tallest girl in the class at school. It took me years to shake off the slightly round-shouldered look that came of being desperate to be down on a level with my classmates. Even now, at five feet eleven in my stocking feet, I often feel as awkward as a giraffe at a sausage dog convention.
Just as he’s about to start clicking, I slip out of position and run for the safety of the back row, standing strategically behind a man with an unusually large head.
*****
The Little Duck Pond Café has become the centre of my world ever s
ince I arrived here, six months.
It’s July now. A sweltering summer day with a golden sun burning in a clear blue sky. A complete contrast to the snowy day I arrived here, back in January.
I tried to get a room at ‘The Swan’ but it was full because of New Year visitors. Thankfully, by the time I emerged from the hotel, the event in the village hall was obviously under way because the streets were practically empty. I just started walking, trailing my suitcase, desperate to find a guesthouse with a vacancy. But not knowing the place, I found that I’d managed to walk in a complete circle – and I still had nowhere to stay the night. Tears threatening, I decided this was a bad omen and I should never have left Palmerston. I was about to head back to the car when I realised what I really needed was a hot cup of tea.
And that’s when I saw The Little Duck Pond Café for the first time.
Owner Sylvia welcomed me into the warm fug within, with such quirky good humour that I finally felt my panic start to subside. I asked her why she wasn’t at the village hall and she smiled wistfully and said it was the anniversary of the death of her lovely husband, who she called Snowy. He’d died four years earlier and she’d struggled to cope – until she decided to buy this place. I got the idea that The Little Duck Pond Café had saved Sylvia’s life. It had given her something to live for.
I’m so thankful instinct drew me to Sylvia’s door. After making me a coffee, she took one look at my trembling hands and suggested a stiff brandy might be more appropriate. Surprised, I said how great it was that the place was licensed for alcohol. Her look told me it absolutely wasn’t - but she shrugged and said no matter, the welfare of her customers was her chief priority, not some petty regulation that said she was barred from giving a drink to a friend in need!
I explained I needed a place to stay. And after recommending several guesthouses in the village, which also turned out to be full, Sylvia suggested I stay in the flat above the café until I found a permanent place. It was half-renovated, with bare walls and paint pots and brushes in a jar of turps next to the sink in the kitchen. But there was a bed and a sofa and a fully-functioning bathroom and hob. I accepted immediately and a week or two later, I found myself the one-bedroom flat I’m living in now, just round the corner from The Little Duck Pond Café.
