Once the Clouds Have Gone

by KE Payne

  “A violin repair shop?” she said aloud as she slowly drove past it. “Why the fuck does Balfour need a violin repair shop?” She glowered at it as she drove past, as if to reinforce her point.

  Turning left off the main street, Tag glanced down at the address of the B & B she’d booked into. Even that was new to her. She counted down the houses, past the small fountain set into a wall, until she reached the fifth house, a large Edwardian granite-stoned property set back from the road. Tag pulled up outside and looked up. Four Winds Bed and Breakfast.

  She got out of the car and retrieved her suitcase from the boot, then walked up the two small steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a few moments a short woman with salt-and-pepper hair opened the door.

  “Ms. Grainger?” she asked pleasantly.

  Tag nodded her response. The woman opened the door wider and ushered her in.

  Tag automatically wiped her feet on a mat in a footwell just inside the door.

  “I’m Connie Booth.” Connie closed the door behind them. “Welcome to Balfour. Did you have a good journey up here?”

  “Once I’d shaken off Glasgow, yes.” Tag stood in the hallway and looked around. Twee pictures of Balfour looked back at her. Yes, there was even some tartan too. She smiled inwardly. Such a cliché.

  “You’ve come straight from Glasgow?”

  “Mm.” A smile. Tag was tired. It was the best she could come up with right then.

  Signalling her to follow, Connie took Tag to her room, tucked away towards the back of the house.

  “Here we are.” Connie swept into the room. She straightened the blanket on the small single bed and turned to face Tag.

  Tag scanned around her. Nice. Small, but nice. It’d do.

  “You here for the walking?” Connie nodded towards Tag’s walking trousers and boots. “Planning on tackling our big brute?”

  Tag dipped her head and looked out of the window. The sun was just disappearing round the side of Ben Crathie, the mountain that stood guard over the town. “No, no walking,” she said vaguely.

  “Just having a few days R & R, then?” Connie returned to the door.

  “Something like that,” Tag replied. Nope, she still didn’t want to engage Connie in conversation.

  “If there’s anything you need,” Connie said, opening the door, “just come and find me or my husband.”

  “I will,” Tag said, adding, “thanks.”

  “I’ve laid out a tray for you.” Connie looked at something just over Tag’s shoulder. Tag turned and looked too. Well, it seemed polite to. “Tea, coffee, snack. The usual.”

  “Thank you,” Tag said again. Take the hint, Connie.

  “Well I’ll leave you in peace,” Connie said “Breakfast is at eight tomorrow, but just shout if you need anything in the meantime.”

  She left. With Connie gone, Tag felt like she could finally relax. She pulled her suit from her suitcase and hung it on the back of the door. She smoothed it down, picking a few pieces of fluff from it. Feeling thirsty, she filled the small kettle from the tray with water and started making herself tea, adding two packets of sugar to it—a luxury Anna had frequently frowned upon when they’d been together.

  It’s bad for you. Anna’s voice filled Tag’s ears. And it’ll pile on the pounds.

  “Good,” Tag said aloud, patting her flat, toned stomach. Her eye caught a packet: a fruit scone, laid out next to the teapot, along with a small pat of butter and jar of strawberry jam. Picking the scone up up and turning it over in her hands, she read the packaging: Graingers’ Watermill and Bakery. A family business since 1856.

  “Apt.” She opened the packet and sniffed inside. It smelt awesome. Suddenly hungry, Tag pulled it out, tore it in half, and slapped a healthy dollop of butter onto it. She lifted it into the air and saluted Anna. “Bite me, Deveraux.” Tag bit into the scone. Awesome didn’t even come close. Light as a feather, the slightly salty flavour of the butter perfectly complemented the yeasty taste of the flour. Tag chewed, her brow furrowed. “Nice flour, Dad.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and nodded, then looked down again quickly, suddenly feeling foolish.

  After a cup of tea and a shower, Tag felt ready to take on anything that might get thrown at her later. She put on the clothes she’d chosen, a simple, exquisitely tailored suit she’d picked up in Selfridges, knowing that she couldn’t go to her own father’s funeral looking as scruffy as she normally did. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt distinctly uncomfortable at the starchiness of the stiff material. Uncomfortable and stupid. She pulled irritably on the collar of the cream blouse she’d put on underneath and unbuttoned the suit jacket. She put her hands into her trouser pockets and wiggled them about. She sighed. Whilst Tag knew she had to wear smart-casual clothes at work to impress clients, she felt far more at home in combat trousers and long-sleeved T-shirts, and jeans and vests. Sweatpants, even. What was wrong with sweatpants, anyway? She glanced at her recently removed clothes, chucked into a heap on her bed. Comfortable clothes. Clothes that didn’t fucking suffocate her. Tag yanked at the collar on her blouse and untucked it from her trousers. Better. She looked at herself in the mirror once more, blouse tugged open untidily at the neck, jacket wide open, hands plunged deep into her pockets.

  Like father, like daughter.

  She looked at her watch. Time to go. Tag brushed her hair one more time, reluctantly buttoned up her jacket again, tidied up her collar, smoothed her suit down, and nodded. That’d do.

  Grabbing her keys and leaving her room, Tag had hoped to get out of the B & B and into her car without Connie seeing her. The second she started to walk down the stairs, however, the door to Connie’s private quarters opened and she appeared, looking up the stairs towards her.

  “Hello again,” Connie said pleasantly.

  Tag stared at her. Like her meeting Tag was a coincidence?

  “Off out?”

  “Mm.” Tag stopped mid-stair and jangled her car keys in her trouser pocket.

  Connie looked her up and down. At the black suit and the look on Tag’s face, shadowed with nerves. “I didn’t realize you were here for a…”

  “Funeral?” Tag finished her sentence for her. “Yes. Well, solicitor then funeral at three if you want all the gory details. I’m in for a fun day, aren’t I?” Tag carried on down the stairs, smiling pleasantly. She really didn’t need this right now.

  “I’m so sorry.” Connie reached out and touched Tag’s arm. “And there was me babbling on earlier about climbing mountains.”

  “It’s fine.” Babbling. Good way to describe it. “You weren’t to know.” Tag made for the door, eager to leave.

  Connie glanced up at a clock on the wall. “Three p.m., you say?” She frowned. “Adam Grainger’s funeral?”

  Tag stopped, her hand on the front door. “Yes. Adam Grainger’s.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded strange. Had Connie noticed? She quickly cleared her throat.

  “Of course!” Connie raised her eyes heavenwards. “Grainger! You’re a Grainger. I didn’t put two and two together when you booked your room over the phone, but now…”

  Genius. The woman was a genius.

  Connie studied Tag carefully. “What relation are you to Adam? Such a lovely man. I didn’t know him that well, only to pass the time of day with, but he supplies—supplied—all our breadstuffs for the B & B, you know,” Connie said. “A stalwart in the town, he was. People will miss him.”

  Tag inhaled slowly.

  “What relation did you say you were again?”

  I didn’t, Tag thought. She pulled her car keys from her pocket and studied them. Stay polite. Rudeness doesn’t suit you, Tag. “I’m his daughter,” she finally said. She watched in amusement as Connie’s mouth opened slightly. Cogs whirled.

  “So you’re the daughter?” Connie asked. She didn’t make any effort to hide the look of surprise on her face.

  “That’s me.” Tag opened out her hands.

  “I’ve heard about you
,” Connie started. Paused. “I mean, I heard that Adam had a daughter called Taggie that lived away.” Awkward.

  Her father’s favourite name for her. Taggie. Sometimes Taggie Tiptoes because Tag was always trying to make herself taller so she could get up into the tractor cabin when her father was using it, so she could be with him. A coldness swept over her. “It’s Tag now,” she said, chasing the chill away.

  “Your father always used to refer to you as Taggie when he talked about you. Right up until the end.” Connie laughed self-consciously. “I always imagined a wee girl with plaits.” She glanced at Tag’s long, slender frame. “Silly, really.”

  Her father had spoken about her even after she’d gone? Tag squeezed the keys in her hand, almost as a distraction.

  “You must have left in the spring as I arrived here in the autumn the same year,” Connie said. “We missed each other by about six months.”

  “I left in the April, yes,” Tag said. “April fifth.”

  “So I believe—” Connie stopped herself.

  Tag tried to read her thoughts. Possibly something along the lines of: and gossip was still rife around the town about how you’d just upped and left, leaving your father heartbroken.

  “Mm.” Tag chewed on her lip. “I really must go.” She pulled the door open. “I won’t tell you how the funeral went later because I’m sure someone will get here first and tell you before I get back.”

  “I don’t want you to think…”

  Tag stopped her. “I’m joking with you,” she said, amused by the panicked look on Connie’s face. “I remember how this town just loves to talk, that’s all.” A wry smile played on her lips. “And by three o’clock this afternoon, they’re going to have a helluva lot more to talk about.”

  Chapter Three

  Freddie Metcalfe locked the door, turning the key once, then twice, just as she always did, then rattled the door handle once, then twice. Just as she always did. She let her fingers drag over the brass numbers on the bright red wooden door one last time. Snapshots of past encounters, filled with both laughter and sorrow, marched through her mind. Life in rewind.

  “Okay?” Pete’s voice rumbled with concern just behind her.

  Freddie turned away and fought the tears which she knew were just one more retrieved memory away. She was being ridiculous, she knew. It had been over six months since she’d shared this house with Charlotte, six months since she’d last been happy. But there was something about locking the door for the last time and dropping the key back through the letter box for the letting agent to find in the morning that was heartbreaking. Even after all this time, the hurt refused to leave her.

  “It’s so final.” Freddie lifted the letter box flap and poked her fingers through the slot, not quite able to make herself let go. Charlotte had crushed her. No, more than crushed her. She’d torn out her heart and stamped on it for good measure. Wasn’t it bad enough that Freddie had lost her sister, Laura, just months before? She was still grieving for her only sibling when Charlotte had come home one night, to this very cottage, and told her that she couldn’t cope any more. The next day, she was gone. Five years of their life together scooped up and blown to dust. Just like that.

  “You have a whole new life waiting for you,” Pete said. “New house, new town. A new start.”

  “You’re right, I know.” Freddie finally released the keys and relinquished her past along with them. She listened as they clattered to the floor inside, then pulled her hand back swiftly, removing her fingers as the flap snapped closed.

  “The new cottage is awesome,” Pete said, finally going to her. He pulled her into a bear hug. “Lyster is a fabulous village too, and it’s way closer to work. Win-win all round. Think of it that way.”

  “Yeah, work.” Freddie gave a small laugh into Pete’s shoulder. “That’ll be my next thing to worry about, now that Adam’s died.”

  “You love work.” Pete eased his hug. “You love running that cafe, you love the customers…what’s there to stress about?”

  Freddie stepped away. She shook snow from a small conifer outside the front door, watching as it showered to the ground. “Everything,” she finally said. “Everything will change now Adam’s gone.”

  “Doesn’t have to.”

  “But it will.” Freddie looked at Pete. “Blair’s taking over everything his father used to do, so I guess he’ll be my new boss.”

  “And the problem with that is?” Pete asked. “You like Blair.”

  “Adam’s daughter’s coming back this afternoon, too.”

  “For the funeral?”

  “Mm. From England, according to Blair.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And coming back to claim her inheritance, I guess,” Freddie said. “She’s getting half of Graingers’. Blair’s furious.”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily have to affect you,” Pete reasoned.

  “Unless when she comes back she doesn’t like the way we’ve been running things at the cafe,” Freddie said, her niggling thoughts coming to the fore “People do that, don’t they?”

  “Not like how cafes are run?” Pete widened his eyes.

  “No, come back with a bloody great broom and decide to sweep everything clean.” Freddie frowned. “Change things. This daughter, what’s to say she won’t do that? What’s to say she might decide to shut the cafe and the gift shop down? Concentrate on just the milling side of the business?”

  “Graingers’ is so more than just about the mill, as well you know,” Pete said. “It’s a way of life round here. It’s Graingers’ Bakery and Cafe. Always has been, always will be. Besides, there’d be a riot down in Balfour if anyone swanned up here and started tinkering with anything.”

  Freddie smiled. It was true. The mill, bakery, and cafe had been a part of Balfour for as long as anyone could remember. Growing up in a town more than twenty miles from Balfour, she’d only visited the mill a handful of times as a child but had always known about its existence and had always been made aware of its importance to the local community by her parents. Because that’s what Graingers’ meant to people: Community. Security. Loyalty.

  Then, when the opportunity to run the cafe had arisen four years ago, Freddie had jumped at the chance. What could have been better? A chance to run her own cafe, for a business with strong family ethics, in a town steeped with a strong sense of belonging and consistency. It had been just what Freddie had always wanted.

  But now? The death of Adam Grainger was putting everything that Freddie held dear into jeopardy. Her four years of sanctuary could finally be coming to an end—and the thought terrified her.

  “I wish I had your optimism.” Freddie picked at the conifer.

  “You don’t need to be worrying.”

  “I can’t help it. I was very happy with the way things were. Work was the one thing I could rely on to keep me on an even keel, and now I feel as though I’m wobbling again,” Freddie said. “I just don’t want anything to change around here, that’s all.” She sighed. “You know how much I have to have consistency in my life. For both me and Skye.”

  Freddie’s thoughts wandered to Skye. At school right now, Skye would in all probability be giving Mrs. Murray, or Mr. Dench, or whichever poor teacher was trying to instil some education into her, a hard time because Skye had lost her pencil case the previous evening. It had taken all of Freddie’s energy and resolve to hustle Skye out the door that morning, insisting that the school day didn’t have to be cancelled just because somewhere, in amongst the move, her Winnie the Pooh pencil case had been lost.

  “Skye’s doing all right,” Pete said. “You can’t spend the rest of your life worrying about her, about work, about long-lost Graingers turning up out of the blue to claim inheritances…”

  “I know, I know.” Freddie raised her hands in submission.

  “Anyway, you, me, and Sarah can easily deal with any kick-ass daughter that thinks she can just rock up here and try and change things,” Pete said. “Jus
t like we all dealt with Charlotte.” Pete dipped his head to catch Freddie’s eye. “Yeah?”

  “Your fiancée doesn’t need to be worrying about fighting my—”

  “Sarah will take out anyone that stresses you,” Pete said. “You know that.” He paused. “I know you miss Charlotte, Freddie,” he said, “and a lot of your stress still stems from what happened with her.” He playfully punched her shoulder. “But she’s so not worth all this anguish.”

  “You’re right, I know.”

  “And the right girl is out there for you,” Pete continued. “Just waiting to have a family life with you and Skye.” He smiled. “Everything one day will click into place. Home, work, love, life. Then you’ll look back and laugh at all this.”

  “Can I just start with looking for now?” Freddie laughed. “There was a girl this morning, actually…”

  “Serious?” Pete rested a shoulder against the front door. “Spill.”

  “Nothing to spill.” Freddie looked at the ground. “A girl came into the cafe this morning. Was fairly obnoxious, complained that I didn’t do decaf, then grumbled about the bill.”

  “And yet, a few hours later you’re still thinking about her?” Pete raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah. Whaddya know?” Freddie grinned, her mind falling back to that morning. It had been the briefest of moments—the girl had only stayed for ten minutes after all—but something about her had stuck. “First time I’ve felt anything since Charlotte.”

  “So?” Pete pressed. “Did you talk? Swap numbers?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Freddie pulled her car keys from her pocket. “She paid her bill—reluctantly—then left. Drove off in her car down towards Balfour.”

  “You watched?”

  “Of course.” Freddie jiggled her keys. “Probably halfway to Aberdeen by now.” The jiggling stopped. “Still, it was a nice feeling while it lasted.” She started to walk. “Shall we go? I’ve got a funeral to get to.”