by Mona Marple
She nodded as he planted a kiss on her forehead.
He held out a hand to Bomber. “I don’t think we’ve met?”
Bomber eyed Tom and shook his hand. “I’m an old friend of Sandy’s.”
“You’re no friend of mine.” Sandy said. She was so furious her body was shaking. “And you’ve had your ten minutes.”
“Oh Sandy, don’t be like that.” Bomber said. “I’m going to see Cass now, and I’d like to be able to tell her me and you have sorted our differences out.”
“You’ll never be able to tell her that.” Sandy said. She glared at him. “We’re done.”
Bomber shook his head and stood up, then stormed out of the pub.
“Wow… remind me to never get on your bad side.” Tom said. He took Bomber’s seat and reached across the table to hold her hands. “Who is he?”
“The man who broke Cass’ heart.”
“I didn’t know she was dating.” Tom said.
“Not now, when we were younger. He was her first love.”
“And you’re still holding that against him?” Tom asked. His earnest expression made her lose her breath. The suggestion that her anger towards Bomber was irrational took her by complete surprise.
“Well, yes. I’ll never forgive him.” Sandy admitted.
“Hmm.” Tom said.
“What?”
“I don’t know the story, Sand, so I don’t really want to get involved… it’s not my place to have an opinion. But, from the outside, it kind of sounds like it’s not your forgiveness to give.”
4
The day dragged.
Sandy snapped at Derrick for taking a little over an hour for his lunch break, then remembered he’d had a medical appointment and apologised profusely.
“I’ve survived worse.” He said with an easy grin. “Is everything okay?”
Sandy had nodded, told him that she had slept badly and felt as grouchy as a bear without honey. It wasn’t a lie exactly. She had slept badly, and she did feel grouchy. But it wasn’t the whole story.
She was still furious with Bomber for returning to the village, annoyed with Cass for contacting him in the first place, and troubled by Tom’s refusal to see her side. Was she really overreacting? It wasn’t her heart that had been broken, after all. But surely, that’s what friends were for? To say when something was a bad idea. To warn you away from repeating the same mistake.
As if she didn’t have enough on her mind, she’d arrived at work that day to a request for a home visit to discuss a catering job.
“Oh, no.” She’d said after Bernice had finished relaying the voicemail message.
“I know, pet, it won’t be easy.” Bernice said as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Want me to come with you?”
It was a generous offer. Bernice much preferred being behind the scenes than dealing with customers. Sandy would have liked her support at the appointment but didn’t want to ask that much of her. “Thank you, but no, I’ll go on my own. These appointments are always hard.”
Her stomach churned at the thought, but she couldn’t say no. There were no other catering businesses in the village, and she wouldn’t see a Waterfell Tweed resident forced to contact an out-of-town company for something so personal.
No, she would have to go.
She tried to put the appointment to the back of her mind while she served the steady stream of customers in the bookshop.
Rob Fields returned and bought the art book he had perused the day before and, to Sandy’s relief, didn’t mention her altercation with Bomber. A chapter of the U3A arrived at lunch time and their group of sprightly pensioners explored the aisles with wild glee, every single person buying at least two books before heading downstairs for coffee and cake.
As they made their way downstairs, Felix Bartholomew, also in his autumn years, appeared from one of the aisles at the back of the store with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“I had to hide out in case they thought I was one of them and forced me onto their coach!” He exclaimed, casting furtive glances around the bookshop to check that the coast was clear.
Sandy laughed. The older man, with his extravagant moustache and fabulous collection of bow ties, was revealing himself to be quite a character. “You’re safe now, Felix.”
“If you see Dorie, make sure she knows I wasn’t speaking to any women up here. I think she’s the jealous sort.”
“Really?” Sandy asked with a smile. Dorie had been laughing off Felix’s marriage proposals for weeks, ever since he began renting her cottage.
“She’s playing hard to get but she likes that I’ve only got eyes for her.” Felix said, and Sandy realised that in his younger years he must have been an attractive man. There was a charming sparkle in his eyes, and his face still had a marvellous bone structure.
The conversation raised her spirits, but when she was locking up the cafe and should have been able to look forward to burying her nose in her latest mystery novel while enjoying a hot bubble bath that The Cat would no doubt perch on the edge of, she instead had to walk across the village square for a meeting with a widow.
Anastasia was an unknown to Sandy. A woman who had followed her husband across the country, from Leicester to Waterfell Tweed, to allow him to follow his dreams of becoming a shepherd. She was plainer than her name suggested, as if all of the creativity and flair had been used up in naming her and left none over for her personality or appearance. Her hair was grey with hints at the caramel colour it had previously been, and her house was as ill-maintained as her.
She opened the door to Sandy only after seven knocks of increasing volume, as if she hadn’t requested the appointment and specified the time. Her eyes were hollow shells, ghosts walked in her pupils and she shielded her face from the day light.
“Come in.” She said in a gravel voice as she allowed Sandy to enter the smoke-filled home.
Sandy let out a cough, the stale cigarette fumes catching in the back of her throat. She allowed herself to be led down the old-fashioned corridor, all floral wallpaper and a radiator sporting bright blue, chipped, paint.
“This is the best room.” Anastasia croaked, and Sandy looked around and nodded her approval. An old TV stood in the corner of the room, it’s depth twice the size of it’s screen. A dining table sat against the window, covered in a yellowed lace tablecloth. An open fire was unlit, the mantelpiece around it heavy, solid wood. Above was the centrepiece of the room, an enormous photo of Anastasia and Gurdip on their wedding day. Anastasia grinned into the camera, her hair very much caramel, while Gurdip gazed at his bride in adoration.
“That’s a beautiful photo.” Sandy said.
It was the wrong thing to say. Anastasia began to weep immediately, reaching down the bosom of her top, past the delicate gold cross hanging from a necklace, to retrieve a wad of tissue paper that she pressed against her eyes to physically prevent the tears from escaping.
Sandy said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
Anastasia looked as confused by life as she should. She had supported her husband, agreed to begin a new life, and that new life had ended cruelly. Gurdip stolen by the very land he had devoted himself to.
“Sit.” Anastasia commanded, and Sandy took a seat at the dining table. Her attention was caught by the garden beyond the window. A lush green lawn was bordered by a well-ordered and intricate array of flowers, plants and shrubs. An apple tree stood in the centre of the lawn, and a shabby chic bench sat beneath the tree. The contrast between the house and the garden made Sandy smile. Anastasia and Gurdip were clearly both more comfortable outdoors.
“So, I, erm, thank you for considering me for the wake.” Sandy said, the words clumsy on her tongue.
Anastasia shrugged. “There isn’t anyone else, is there.”
“Erm, well, no… right, ok. What we normally do is…” Sandy began. She opened the brochure that she had brought out with her, and laid it flat on the dining table. She had ordered the
brochure be printed a few weeks earlier, so that her catering prices were written in black and white. It was easier for her to show someone a price than tell them it. She hated the feeling of bargaining with someone and asking for money from them. Especially when she was profiting from someone’s death.
“I don’t want what you normally do.” Anastasia said. She too was captivated by the garden, and stared out at the lawn with an expression Sandy couldn’t read. “I want something for him, something that will make people think of my husband. Not just another buffet.”
Sandy bristled at the words, then reminded herself that she was with a grieving widow. She pulled out a notebook and pen from her handbag and turned to a blank page. “Okay, what are you thinking?”
“You tell me.” Anastasia said. “I’m not much of a domestic goddess. I don’t know what flavours go together, or anything.”
“Well, I have to admit I didn’t really know Gurdip very well.”
“Nobody did.” Anastasia spat, then recovered and smiled at Sandy. “I’m scared that nobody will go to the funeral.”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that.” Sandy reassured her. The villagers of Waterfell Tweed never missed a funeral. She was confident that most of the locals would be in attendance, dragging their black outfits from their wardrobes and adopting their morose expressions. A good funeral could be the highlight of the village week.
“The wake needs to be right for him.” Anastasia insisted. “I have to do this last thing for him.”
“Okay.” Sandy said. “Okay. Well, what were his favourite foods?”
“Lamb.” Anastasia said, a small, dry laugh erupting from her. “Before he was a shepherd, of course. He couldn’t eat it any more when he got to know the flock.”
“Can I ask, what made him want to be a shepherd?”
“Oh…” Anastasia said, and her eyes lit up for the first time. “A boyhood dream. He couldn’t even tell me why, just that as long as he could remember, it was what he wanted. Of course, his family, they made all of the children go into medicine.”
“He was a doctor?” Sandy asked.
Anastasia nodded. “An excellent one. He was so calm and reassuring. He was the same with the flock. We managed to put some money away, both of us climbed the corporate ladder for years and we lived a pretty meagre life. We were just happy together. Tending our garden, growing our own food, going to church. There’s only so much you can spend in a garden centre, the rest we saved.”
“You didn’t have children?” Sandy asked.
Anastasia’s face clouded over. “No… we… I couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry, that was a tactless question.” Sandy said. She felt her cheeks flush.
Anastasia said nothing, lost in her thoughts as she looked out on her garden.
“You grew your own food? Maybe I could incorporate that into the food I make.” Sandy said.
“Maybe.” Anastasia rasped.
“What did you grow?”
“Strawberries, they were his favourite. Do you, do you want a tour?”
Sandy nodded, unsure whether the tour would be of the house or the garden. To her relief, Anastasia led her to the back door, and out into the fresh air. The kitchen garden wasn’t visible from the best room, Sandy realised, as Anastasia led her down the lawn and then out towards the right hand side, where a small potting shed stood. Behind the shed, row upon row of plants were revealed, each row neatly labelled.
“This is amazing.” Sandy said. She had never seen anything like it.
“These are the potatoes. Buggers, they are.” Anastasia said. She was transformed out of the house; her posture tall and proud, her eyes bright. “I call them the needy children… they take up so much time, and space. But there’s nothing like a potato salad with my potatoes in it.”
Sandy looked at her quizzically.
“Gurdip did the cooking.” Anastasia explained with a coy smile.
“Maybe I could make some of his recipes? The potato salad?”
Anastasia nodded but her expression was vacant. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Sandy reached out and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder as she descended into tears.
“It was an awful, awful accident.” Sandy soothed.
“No!” Anastasia exclaimed, recoiling from Sandy’s touch as if it had burnt her. She turned to Sandy, fury on her face. “Don’t you ever say that. It was no accident.”
“He fell, didn’t he?”
“He knew the land like the back of his hand. He wouldn’t have fallen. He wouldn’t be so careless. It wasn’t an accident.” Anastasia insisted. She was almost hyperventilating, her breath coming in ragged, short bursts. “Don’t let anyone say that.”
“Okay.” Sandy said. “Okay. It’s just what I heard. I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to upset you.”
“People need to know the truth.” Anastasia whispered.
“Look, I’ve got enough ideas to start working on. I can really use this vegetable garden as the inspiration and make a really nice, fresh selection of food. Would that be ok?”
“Of course.” Anastasia said. “That’s all I want.”
“I’ll see myself out.” Sandy said. She left Anastasia in the garden, looking out over her beloved kitchen garden, and made her way back through the smoky house. It was a relief to return to the fresh air and finally be able to make her way home. Even more than earlier, she was desperate for that hot bath, although she knew she wouldn’t forget the widow’s grief easily.
Gurdip fell, Sandy thought as she crossed the village square and tried to ignore the hard feeling in her stomach.
5
Despite the call of the hot soak, Sandy was sufficiently unsettled by her visit to Anastasia that she headed left instead of right, barging into The Tweed where she hoped Tom would be able to speak to her. Gus Sanders almost fell out of the door as she pulled it open, his eyes glassy, cheeks ruddy.
“Evening!” He called, for he was a pleasant drunk.
“Good evening, Gus. Heading home?”
“See if dinner’s in the dog.” He joked, giving a mock salute as he stumbled past her and turned towards the cottage he shared with his wife Poppy, Tom’s sister.
The commotion attracted Tom’s attention, and from behind the bar he met Sandy’s gaze. He was in the process of pulling a pint and she caught his uncensored joy at seeing her walk in. Her stomach flipped and she wondered if her own face revealed how fond she was of him as she trudged across the pub towards him.
She took a bar stool and allowed him to finish serving his customer, and then a second customer who had waited patiently for their turn. He made pouring a pint seem like an art form. The way he applied just the right pressure to ensure that the golden liquid was dispensed evenly, leaving a small head at the top of the glass, sitting atop a pint of opaque amber.
“Mocha?” He offered, turning his attention to her finally. She rarely drank, preferring the creamy warmth of a mocha instead, and was constantly touched that Tom had began to stock the sachet drinks behind the bar when he realised that.
“Yeah, go on then.” She accepted. “I was heading home to see The Cat but I wanted to see you.”
Tom cocked his head to one side. “Sounds ominous.”
“I was just missing you.” Sandy said, which wasn’t entirely true. She was perfectly happy at the thought of a night in on her own until Anastasia had unsettled her. “And I wanted to talk to you… if you have a few minutes?”
Tom surveyed the pub, checking every cosy nook with his eyes as he vigorously stirred her hot drink. There was an art form to perfecting her drink of choice too; lots of stirring to ensure the powder mixed properly, and then a top up of hot water as the initial water always sank after stirring. “I’m on my own so I can’t leave the bar, but you can prop it up and keep me company. I’ve had much worse bar flies.”
Sandy laughed. The idea of her propping up a bar was out of character. “Sure, I’ll stick around for a while. Have
you had a good day?”
Tom nodded in between drying glasses. Sandy felt uncomfortable sitting relaxing while he worked.
“Can I help with that?” She asked.
“Nah, don’t be silly. There’s not many left. Tell me about your day. What’s on your mind?”
Sandy took a deep breath. “I’ve just been to see Gurdip’s widow.”
Tom stopped and gazed at her then, his full attention on her in his usual, intense way. “How is she?”
Sandy shrugged. “I want to say not coping, but she must still be in shock. We’re catering the wake. Those meetings are never easy, but…”
“You’re worried about her?”
Sandy nodded. “She said some things that I found concerning.”
“Like what?”
“She’s adamant he didn’t fall.”
“What?” Tom asked, his brow furrowed. “I didn’t think there was any question about that.”
“Neither did I.” Sandy admitted. “There’s no investigation, it’s just been ruled as a natural cause of death. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”
“Hmm.” Tom murmured. “I guess it’s natural to look for answers.”
“I think in her mind he’s this superman figure who couldn’t have been hurt by the land. She won’t believe that he could have fallen, even in the storm. Not on the land he knew so well.”
“Well…” Tom began.
“What?”
“It wasn’t land he knew so well.”
“What do you mean?” Sandy asked. Sure, he was a first generation shepherd, but he wasn’t a newcomer. He’d had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the rolls and contours of the Waterfell Tweed countryside.
“Black Rock wasn’t his patch.” Tom explained.
“I don’t…” Sandy stuttered, realising how little she knew about the work Gurdip did.
“Shepherds have to stay on their patch.” Tom said. “Black Rock wasn’t his. I thought it was odd as soon as it was announced, that that’s where he was found.”
“Could he have got lost in the storm?”
“I guess so.” Tom said. “It’s just odd, because he had the shelters on his own patch. It would have been quicker for him to head for one of those than end up at Black Rock.”
