by Rhoda Baxter
Chapter 6
Tracey offered to help in the bar. She could clear up the glasses and take food orders. Even do drinks, if people didn’t mind waiting for her to carefully set the glass under the spout, listening for the tell-tale ‘clink’ before pouring. She’d done the job often enough before she left to go to London that she could tell from the sound when the glass was in the right position, even if she couldn’t tell by eye where the glass and tap were.
The village regulars filed in around seven and greeted her with a casual ‘ey up lass’ or ‘you’re back are ye?’. They asked her about life in London and how the business was going - she kept her answers vague - and then the conversation moved on to local gossip, grumbling about politics or discussing how there was nothing good on the telly anymore. It was as though she’d never left.
As she stacked glasses and ran the till, Tracey let the familiarity embrace her and was surprised to find she liked it. She remembered all too well the urge to get away she’d felt in her teens, but it was different now. She was here in the full knowledge that she was leaving again soon. At least here, things stayed the same. Things were certain. Which was more than she could say for things at work.
The initial idea for Nifty Gift It had come from a drunken conversation. Giselle had just split up with one of her boyfriends and Tracey didn’t have a boyfriend, so they’d had two bottles of wine and a chocolate cake between them and somewhere along the line come up with a crazy idea for an app that found the perfect gift. They’d scribbled notes on bits of paper, one of which had disappeared down the back of the sofa. Tracey had found it a few days later and had a moment of utter clarity where she could see exactly how to do it. She’d designed and coded it all in evenings after uni and refined it after work while working in a data entry centre.
The tech work was hers, but the initial start-up money and the advertising ideas were all from Giselle. Tracey had refused to ask her father for help. They’d set up the company, with each of them owning 50%. Where Tracey was quiet and serious, Giselle was outgoing and keen to engage. It was Giselle who tirelessly pitched to bloggers, reviewers and opinion makers. Somehow, she’d managed to get their little app featured by a popular blogger, who brought it to the attention of a vast audience of busy professionals who didn’t have time to go out hunting for the perfect gift, but still wanted to look thoughtful. The product was sound, so it had caught on. They had made a decent amount of money in a few years. Enough for them both to quit the day jobs and start working for the company in earnest. The company staff were basically the two of them, Sally, the secretary and a couple of tech girls who provided customer support. Tracey liked it there.
Then, just over a year ago, they’d been approached by a mega company, wanting to absorb them into the fold. The money was too good to refuse and they wanted Giselle and Tracey (and, on their insistence, Sally) for six months in order to manage the transition and absorption into the wider ecosystem, with the option of extending their contracts for another year, should it be needed.
Giselle had used some of the money on trips to the US to make more contacts and had just been head hunted for a nice job in California. Tracey... well, she was the tech genius. There were hundreds of those in California. She knew that come mid-January, the parent company would no longer need her. She would be out of a job. But then again, she still had the money from the sale of the company. She had invested it. She didn’t need to have a job.
“Pour us another, will you lass.” Frank, who ran a plumbing business, counted out his money and slid it across the bar. “Don’t you worry,” he said, seeing her hesitate. “I aren’t driving.”
Tracey focused, very carefully positioned the glass and pulled the pint for him. It was funny how satisfying it felt. Despite all the work done on her eyes, her amblyopic eye hadn’t quite corrected itself. The glasses helped, as did the eye exercises, but when she was tired, or stressed, or just not concentrating, her depth perception still deserted her. It wasn’t as bad as when she was a child, when she had been labelled as simply clumsy, until an optician had worked out that the wildly different prescriptions in her eyes had side effects other than intermittent headaches. Her mother, who was already horrified at the idea of even having a child, let alone an unglamourous one, had persuaded her childless sister to have Tracey over the holidays, so that she could ‘do her eye stuff without people knowing’. Aunty Angie had taken one look at the frightened six year old and taken her into her arms. Those arms had been there for Tracey ever since.
When she’d first worked behind the bar as a seventeen year old, it had been intimidating, but the men and women on the other side of the bar had been so encouraging, she’d grown into it. You got to see a lot of things from behind here. It made her feel part of a club.
Within an hour, she had caught up on the gossip. Old Mr Holt had died. Harriet from the corner shop was single again. Sue from Pat’s Pantry had a fancy man.
“Right posh professor type from down south,” Bill confided in her.
“He’s not from down south, he’s from over Huddersfield way,” Frank piped up. “His Dad used to be bank manager in Halifax. You remember, died in a car crash about twenty year ago.”
“Oh aye? What’d he come back for? Not for her — after all this time?”
“His daughter runs the restaurant in the village,” Angie bustled in with a tray of clean glasses.
“She never,” said Bill.
“What’s the story with the new restaurant, Aunty Angie?” Tracey took the tray and started to hang up the wine glasses, carefully, testing that they were in the holders before she let go. “How long has it been here?”
“Well.” Angie wiped her hands and leaned against the bar. “It used to be the electrical repair shop, remember? They closed up with Mr Whitely retired and they sold the place on. Turned out some entrepreneur type decided that a sleepy Yorkshire village was the perfect place to put his posh new restaurant. They bought it, refitted it ...”
“Do they get much business?” It didn’t seem likely that anyone from the local community would go there. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t afford it.
“There’s some that come over from Leeds way,” said Angie. “They’ve usually got a few people in, but it’s never heaving.”
“Good riddance,” said Bill.
“But why do you say that?” said Tracey. “Surely, more people coming into the village would be better for everyone.”
They all stared at her blankly. Finally, Bill said. “New folk? We don’t need strangers round here.”
“But you do,” said Tracey. “You’ve got all the small businesses that sell stuff. They need customers. Not many people are going to stumble across the place by chance ...”
“We’ve managed until now,” Bill said.
“She’s right though,” said Angie. “We could do with more people coming in. The pub does okay, but the B&B side of things isn’t going that well. We get some regulars who’ve come here for their holidays for years, but it’s not enough.”
“Have you got a website?” said Tracey. She’d never needed to look this place up on the web, so she never had. She’d assumed that it wouldn’t be on the web.
“Oh yes,” said Angie. “I’ll show you later.”
“Hmm.” She thought of Vinnie Fonseka. He was probably the sort of person who booked over the internet. Someone looking for a cosy experience. Romance. An idealised vision. An idea stirred. “When’s the internet going to be fixed?”
“The man said he wasn’t sure. Summat to do with the weather. It’s not just here, the whole valley’s out.”
“If you’ve finished gassing,” said Bill. “You could get us a packet of cheese and onion.”
VINNIE FLICKED THROUGH the channels on the TV and found nothing he wanted to watch. So he turned it off and picked up the sketch book instead. He had drawn the ring. Over and over, with each drawing, the lines grew softer. In the last one, the large emerald almost glowed. He picked up the box and
looked at the ring again. It was just a thing now. Just a ring. A waste of money, but still, just a ring.
He’d forgotten how drawing made him feel. He had no illusions that he was any good. His sister was the artist in the family. He merely had passing ability to sketch. His sister had once told him that her art had kept her sane when she was working out how to come out about her sexuality. The confusion, the pain, all shown to the world in her art. Her art changed, Vinnie realised. He went to every one of her exhibitions, first in Brighton, now in Bristol. With each one, he saw an aspect of his little sister that he’d never known before. He looked at his drawings again. She was right. It helped. Maybe, if he could draw Hayleigh, it could remove some on the acid that twisted inside him when he thought of her.
He set to work. He drew her as he remembered her from their first holiday together. Hayleigh, wearing one of his shirts, looking over her shoulder at him. Back then she had been soft and sexy and had made him feel invincible. As he drew he realised that she hadn’t looked at him in that way for a long time now. Somehow, he had been too busy to notice. He paused and ran a fingertip over the face he’d drawn, smudging it. When had he last felt anything extraordinary? Not for years.
He sighed and checked the time. It was past ten o’clock. He must have been super absorbed in the drawing not to notice. He stood up and rolled his shoulders. They felt looser. Now that he came to think of it, he felt better. Less... coiled up. He glanced down at the sketchpad again. Hobbies. He’d forgotten how relaxing they were. Durr. Of course.
Smiling to himself, he went by the kitchen to grab a glass of water to take up. The book of walks was on the table. He swept that up too. Tomorrow, he would go for a walk.
THE NEXT MORNING, TRACEY pulled on her wellies and walked into the village. The sky squatted grey overhead. A sharp wind bit at her eyelids and nostrils. She could smell the snow in the air. It didn’t count as a white Christmas unless snow fell on London, but the weather didn’t know that. Tracey sniffed and marched on.
Pat’s Pantry was open. The bell rang as she walked in. Marzipan and cinnamon scented warmth wrapped around her, delicious in contrast to the cold. She pushed the door shut before too much of the heat escaped. She hadn’t seen the cafe decked out for Christmas before. It was lovely. There were red and white cloth decorations interspersed with gingerbread biscuits on red and white ribbons hung up as decorations. The tables each had a little pine centrepiece with red and white highlights. The cake display held a beautiful white and gold Christmas cake on the main stand and a row of little cupcakes iced in green to make little Christmas trees. Even the cinnamon rolls had been twisted into bauble shapes.
An elderly couple she recognised were sitting inside, having tea and warm tea cakes. She gave them a friendly grin. Sue, the baker was sitting behind the counter. She looked up when Tracey approached and smiled. “Tracey? Hello love. I heard you were back. How are you? What can I get you?”
Of course, everyone knew she was back. Everyone always knew everything within minutes around here. She ordered tea and sat at the table nearest the counter, so that she could chat to Sue.
“How’s it going in the computer business?” said Sue.
At the other side of the cafe, the elderly couple were watching, listening. Everyone also knew she was in the ‘computer business’ but no one here had any idea what that meant. They probably thought she designed websites. She wondered what the words tech entrepreneur would mean to them. “It’s okay,” she said.
“What is that you do, exactly?” said Sue. “I know it’s computers, but I don’t know much more than that.”
“I work for a big technology firm. I provide tech support for one of their apps.” There. It was easier to say now. It only hurt a bit.
“Oh yes? What does the app do?”
“It finds the perfect gift for whoever you want to buy for. It looks up publicly available information on them and selects options based on what they like and dislike—”
“I’ve heard of that,” said Sue. “What was it called, Nifty Gifty or something.”
“Nifty Gift It.”
“That’s it. I read about it Stuff magazine.” Sue beamed at her. “Well I am impressed. Who’d have thought you worked for them!”
Tracey felt light headed. “You read Stuff magazine?” The article in Stuff had been what caught the attention of their new parent company.
“There’s always a copy at the doctor’s surgery,” said the elderly gent. “I like flicking through sometimes.”
“You only look at it for the adverts with the young women in lycra,” said his wife, nudging him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Tracey stared. Just because the pub felt the same, she’d assumed that nothing changed here. Of course it did. The world didn’t stop outside London. She shook her head.
“Are you back for long?” Sue came round with her tea and a gingerbread angel. “The biscuit’s on the house. It’s nice to see you.”
“Not really, just here for a break. You know, relax a bit.” She took her tray. “Thank you.”
“Well, with the internet going down until after Christmas, looks like you’re going to be forced to have a quiet one,” said Sue. A timer went off in the kitchen. “I’d better see to that. Call me if you need anything.”
Once Sue had rushed off, the other two customers seemed to lose interest in her. Tracey pulled out her book and bit the head off the gingerbread angel. Relax. Good idea. She cracked open the book and breathed in that familiar smell of old paper. It was a new book. About a sheik this time. She dived in.
The bell rang. She looked up to see the old couple leaving, all bundled up against the cold. She returned to the story. The shop bell rang again. She looked up again. This time it was Vinnie. He pulled off his hat and unwrapped his scarf.
“Hello,” he said. “Still reading about millionaires?”
She checked his expression for malice. None. “Nope. I’ve moved on to Sheiks.” She held up the book.
“Moving up in the world,” he said. The sudden warmth of the cafe had made his face glow. The hat had made his hair stick up on end, making him look like the tenth Doctor Who. Cute. The word popped into her head unexpectedly. Not handsome, but attractive. She lowered her gaze back to her book, but it seemed to bounce straight back to him. How long had it been since she’d seen anyone she’d wanted to look at?
He looked at the cake counter and his eyes seemed to light up. He pulled off his gloves and stuffed them into his pocket. He had long fingers. Like a pianist.
Sue popped in from the back. “Hello, love. What can I get you today? Did you like the bread yesterday?”
“Oh yes. I ate the cheese rolls before I got back to the house. I’m going off for a walk today,” he said. “I’ve got sandwiches from Angie at the pub, but I’d like something sweet. What do you recommend?”
“Well...” Sue surveyed her inventory with an expert eye. “You’ll need something that you can eat with your gloves on, in this weather. How about I cut you a nice fat slice of fruitcake?”
“That sounds good. Yes, please.”
It was like she’d walked into an Enid Blyton book. “You sound like you’re going to ask for lashings of gingerbeer next,” said Tracey.
“No need. I have a flask of coffee.” He looked happier today. The perma frown replaced by a ready smile. It suited him.
“Good to be prepared. So, where are you walking to?” She was just making polite conversation. Nothing more. Obviously. “I take it you didn’t find anything else to fill the time, then.”
“Not really. But going for a walk seems like the right thing to do, you know. I haven’t been out of Leeds for ages. It’ll be good to get some fresh air.”
“Make sure you get back before dark though.” Sue handed him his cake, carefully wrapped in paper. “There’s heavy snow coming, apparently.”
“I’m not going too far. Only a few miles.” He pulled off his rucksack and put the cake in. “Anyway, I’ll see y
ou later. Bye Tracey.”
He had shrugged his bag back on and was heading out of the door before she could respond. He had remembered her name. She hadn’t expected that. She also hadn’t expected the little flush of warmth in her stomach at that fact. Oh dear.
Chapter 7
Vinnie crested the hill, map in one hand, the last gingerbread biscuit in the other. The village lay in the hollow, the lights already glowing even though it wasn’t even 3pm yet. The clouds were so low, they looked like they were about to crack and spill into the valley. His nose and eyes stung with the cold, but the walking made him hot and sweaty. His breath hung in front of his face every time he breathed out. By rights he should have hated it, but he didn’t. He could feel himself unfurling, his sight expanding past the walls of work, car, home until he could see further and breathe deeper than he’d done in years. He felt alive and it was wonderful. He could see the cottage not far along the road. He clambered onto a stile and sat on it. This view. The sky bounded by mountains. He’d loved this when he was on family holidays as a child, but somehow he’d moved to the city and forgotten. When was the last time he’d looked up?
He pulled what was left of his bag of biscuits, tucked a glove under his armpit and dug out the last broken biscuit from the bottom of the bag. His fingers screamed with cold. He crammed the biscuit in his mouth and pulled the glove back on. The weather didn’t look good. It was probably going to snow soon. He should get back.
He slipped off the stile and onto his feet. The cottage was warm and safe. He’d get in, have a good soak, then have a cheese toastie or something for tea and watch some telly. Maybe even do a spot of sketching. Or just fall asleep. Vinnie grinned. The best thing about going walking was the coming home.
TRACEY’S PHONE BEEPED unexpectedly as a message came through. She quickly fished out her phone. There was a message from Sally which simply read ‘Call me.’ It was from Saturday morning.
