After a while, Maudie walked Nina back to Mrs Potts. Bryn swept the concrete outside Staceys. “Get Claudia to look after the café,” she hissed. “It’s an emergency.” She took Nina’s clothes off and helped her into bed. She opened the window a little and pulled the curtains. Then she sat beside the bed and wondered what to do.
Mrs Potts poked her head through the door once. “It’s not an hotel,” she snapped. “She should be at work during the day.”
Maudie put a finger to her lips. She turned away from Mrs Potts, and heard her shuffle to the kitchen. Shortly she returned with a cup of cabbage soup. “It’ll help,” she said, her voice still curt, but Maudie was grateful for the simple kindness, even as she emptied the bowl outside the window.
Old Tom came by. “What’s wrong?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” Maudie said. “She seemed alright last night.”
“I’ll send the Missus,” Old Tom said. “Will she go to Staceys or Sweet Treats?”
“Check with Bryn,” Maudie said. “He’s organised something, I don’t know what.”
Bryn came by at the end of the day, his face pink with embarrassment. In his hand he clutched a bunch of wild flowers. “To cheer the sickroom,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Maudie shook her head. “You are very kind,” she said. “Perhaps when she is able to eat you might bring some delicacy. So she has more to look forward to than, say, cabbage soup.”
Bryn nodded, then hurried away, leaping the fence and pausing to give a cheery wave when Mrs Potts shouted that he ought to use the gate as it was intended.
Maudie slept on the floor in Nina’s room that night. When the cat yowled, Maudie was the one to leap from her uncomfortable sleep. When the clock struck six, and still Nina slept on, Maudie stretched and yawned. She’d have a quick shower. Nina wouldn’t wake in the next ten minutes, she was sure of it.
But Nina did wake. When Maudie came into her room, wet hair still dripping, it was to find Nina sitting on the edge of the bed. “Nice morning,” she said. “I slept through that dreadful cat’s yowling.”
“That cat,” Maudie said, “belonged at the campground. He’s made that racket every morning since it closed. He needs to get over himself.”
She sat beside Nina and picked at her thumb nail. She had to ask it, but she was scared of Nina’s response. “What’s the matter, Nina? I want to help.”
“Everybody has black days sometimes.” And she gathered clean underwear and a towel and padded off to the bathroom.
*
She would not think, Nina decided. She would not think of the mayor and his desire to shut down the village. She would not think of the fete. Perhaps she would not even participate in the fete after all. Her job, after all, was to keep Sweet Treats open – nothing else mattered. She was so, so tired.
She wouldn’t let Mrs Potts irritate her. She wouldn’t encourage the budding friendship between herself and Maudie and Bryn. Maybe she wouldn’t call her parents either.
But that was where Nina’s plans to isolate herself came unstuck. She wanted her mother to place a plate of decent home-cooked food before her, prepared with love every step of the way. She wanted to sit pressed close to her father and feel the rumble of his voice in his chest.
Maudie gave her cell phone to Nina, and managed to look nonchalant. Nina entered her parents’ number. She had thought she’d wait and see them face to face, but now she knew that was ridiculous. She couldn’t live her life alone anymore.
The phone was answered on the fifth ring. A strange voice acknowledged that yes, this was the home of Nina’s parents, that they had gone to the Greek Islands for six months, that they were expected back at the end of April.
Nina left her address with the woman. Could she forward it to her parents please. Was there an address or number Nina could have?
There is nothing, the faceless voice said. They wanted the freedom to move from place to place. But they did call her once a week to make sure she hadn’t burned the place down. Nina supposed it to be a joke.
She remembered this was a new number attached to her parent’s names. “What is your address?” she asked.
Suspicion entered the woman’s voice. “Are you sure you’re their daughter?” she said. “I didn’t think it possible for a good girl to be so distanced from her parents?”
Thanks for that, Nina said as she disconnected. Thanks a bunch.
She worked silently throughout the day. Customers came and went. She put their chosen sweets into little paper bags, took their money, and turned away.
Bryn came by. He placed a bundle of rolled-up papers on the counter. He asked her which sweets she would recommend and when he had bought them, he pressed Nina to take the little bag, to consider the sweets a gift. He folded her hand around the bag, the touch of his hand strangely comforting. She looked into his face and saw his own sadness, nearly hidden, in his dark eyes.
If it hadn’t been for the darkness in her own head, she’d have squeezed his hand in camaraderie. Hadn’t they both suffered loss? Didn’t they both live in a world shrouded with sadness?
Instead she dropped the coins into the till, shut the drawer with a click, put the sweets into her pocket, and offered a brisk farewell.
Chapter 42
c. AD 1150, EUROPE: Crusaders return with sugar, but only the wealthy can afford it; ITALY: Venetian traders introduce comfits – tiny sweets made from single seeds, or nuts, or pieces of fruit, covered in layers of coloured sugar.
Bryn, when he returned, carried a letter addressed to Nina, its envelope scattered with stamps. Nina looked at it. John. Only John would put as many stamps as possible onto an envelope. She would open the envelope carefully; he would want it back. Her eye automatically took in the frank marks. John would be pleased – the frank marks were sharp and easy to read.
John hoped she had settled. He hoped she enjoyed Miss Clapham’s company as much as he had on the occasions they had spent together. He asked what her accommodation was like, and how did the Victorian clothing look on her. Had she made friends? Did she take long walks by the sea?
He’d tacked a p.s. on the end. Nina knew from long experience that the main reason for writing a letter was always embedded in the postscript. In John’s p.s. he had written: I’m coming to visit for a few days at the end of the month.
That will be nice, Nina said aloud. Mrs Potts, who was chopping brussel sprouts, red cabbage, and leeks raised her eyebrows and waited.
Nina placed the letter in the middle of the table. “You can read it if you like.”
Mrs Potts snatched the single page. Her eye travelled straight to the bottom of the page. “From John,” she said aloud. “I’m coming to visit….”
Nina saw Mrs Potts’ eyes widen – whether in fear or controlled excitement she did not know. “Will he stay here?”
“I have no idea,” Nina said. “Where else could he stay?”
“You won’t be sleeping in the same room.”
“Goodness, no!” There had been days during Greg’s illness that Nina had wondered if there might be a life ahead for the two of them. John had seemed to guess her thoughts. “I can never marry,” he said. “My life is too tenuous to take on the responsibility of other people, much as I would have liked it to be possible.”
Nina had learned he not only had haemophilia, he had also contracted hepatitis and HIV as a result of improperly screened blood transfusions.
“Someone should pay.” Nina had twisted Greg’s bed sheet so tight it had torn. “Someone should pay.”
“Someone is,” John said. “I’m paying and one day it will be my life that I pay with.”
“I don’t mean that,” Nina said. “Who are these stupid people who sit behind desks and chew their pens?” There had been no answers then, and they had not talked about it since. And now he was coming to visit. He must be in a patch of good health.
Nina changed the subject. Perhaps she could surprise Mrs Potts into speakin
g openly. “Can you tell me anything about Laud Mayor?”
Mrs Potts scraped back her chair and dumped her dishes into the sink. Instead of scarpering into the lounge, she pottered about, rinsing the few utensils and the one pot she had cooked dinner in. Mrs Potts was very good at ignoring uncomfortable questions, Nina thought.
“I’ve been looking on the ’net,” Nina said.
“The what?”
“The internet.” No phone, no internet, only a small stack of weekend newspapers. Totally dependent on the television for news. She supposed the news wouldn’t speak of things like internet access and the abilities of cell phones too often. “On the computer.”
Mrs Potts grunted.
“I’ll show you sometime,” Nina said, hoping to break a little more ground. “Anyway, I was googling this area…”
“You were what?”
“Googling. Doing a search.” It dawned on Nina that she must keep her language very simple. “I was looking at information about this area, and about Laud Mayor. The other townships are bigger than ours. Their local community is not so obscure as ours. They have reasonably small areas of commercial enterprise, but you could say they are more visible than our farming community.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Oh, everything,” Nina said. “If the last three businesses here are closed down, there is no reason at all for anybody to stop. Nobody will look for a bed. Nobody will enjoy the beach. Nobody will …”
“Okay, okay,” Mrs Potts said. “Still nothing to do with me.”
“Do you know the people on Laud Mayor’s council?”
“They say he is a tyrant.”
“He doesn’t attract much positive commentary in the newspapers.”
“When do you have time to read the newspapers?”
Nina nearly said she read them online, but thought better of it. “Just whenever,” she said. “During the quiet moments in the shop.”
“No quiet times there when Miss Clapham’s around.”
“There are not many when I’m around either, to be honest,” Nina said.
“That man never got voted in as mayor by me.” Mrs Potts was abrupt, and Nina was frozen into silence. She hoped she would not inadvertently do something that would make Mrs Potts clam up. “Anybody could see from afar he was a bully, but did anyone open their eyes and take a good long look past his smooth talk? He’s a wolf, and he’s thrown off his sheep’s clothing.”
Nina’s face must have shown her surprise.
Mrs Potts wrung the dishcloth as through she were wringing a neck. “I am permitted to have my opinion,” she said.
“It’s a free country, indeed,” Nina said. “And you have no idea how glad I am to hear your opinions.”
“You do exaggerate.”
“Sit down,” Nina said. “Please do. If we’re to save the village we need to find out a little history.”
“You’re a right old nosey-parker, aren’t you?” Mrs Potts’ voice was gruff but she did sit hard on her chair.
“We’re trying to save the village.”
“And who said the locals want this place to survive?”
Now there’s a question, Nina thought. At this exact moment in time, there were only three people trying to save the main street. Was it enough? Were they the right people to do it?
“But don’t you want it to survive yourself?” Nina said.
It seemed Mrs Potts was going to spit on the floor, but at the last moment she regained a little composure. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“Is there anyone else we could talk to?”
Mrs Potts grunted. “I’m missing the six o’clock news.” She moved to the doorway then said over her shoulder in a voice nearly too faint to hear. “Talk to Miss Clapham.”
Chapter 43
c. AD 1200, EUROPE: people believe that unicorns crave licorice; FRANCE: sugared almonds, or dragees, are made for medicinal purposes.
“But I can’t!” Nina wailed. “She’s gone and I don’t know where.” She glared at Mrs Potts. “Do you know where she is?”
“Why would I?” Mrs Potts snapped. “We’ve only exchanged the most essential information over the years.”
“But you knew her when you were young. You were friends!”
“So?”
“You must know how she thinks, how she reacts. You must have some idea where she is.”
Mrs Potts plunked into her swivel rocking chair. She held her palm up to silence Nina, and turned the television on. Crass music promoting some product or other filled the room.
“Why can’t you tell me?” Nina stood akimbo, but Mrs Potts took no notice.
If Mrs Potts could ignore the issues, then so could she. Nina thought she hadn’t been this angry in a long time. “Miss Clapham had better be back before the fete.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one,” Mrs Potts said. “Go on, go away. There’s never any peace with you here.”
What was Mrs Potts hiding? Who did she think she was protecting? It was maddening. So terribly exhaustingly maddening.
*
“It’s so exciting.” Maudie bunged a hot drink onto the mantelpiece, and jiggled from one foot to the other. “I’m going to see my niece, my girl!”
“When?” Nina would not be a wet blanket just because she wouldn’t be going to see her boy – would never see her boy - but envy and jealousy and rage sat just beneath the surface of her smile.
“Today. I decided last night. Old Tom will help Claudia make sandwiches and wash dishes. He’s checking my oil and water, then away I go, into the blue, blue yonder.
“In fact,” Maudie said, barely pausing for breath, “I put two and two together and decided that I’d save money and time if I took a few extra days to have a small holiday. Go shopping and the like.”
Nina’s eyes were round with incredulity. Here was a person who just upped and left everything without a whole lot of forward planning, expecting her to relinquish the help of both Old Tom and Claudia on a whim. “What about me?” she wanted to shout, but instead she said, “What about this village? What about the fete? What about Laud Mayor, and rates, and all that?”
“You’ll need to keep the ball rolling in my absence, but you’ve got Bryn.” Maudie was so blithe Nina felt she must be missing some part in her thought process. Truly, nothing made sense in this place. It was all ridiculous.
Nina shrugged her off. “Have fun,” she said. “Here, fill a bag with sweets.”
Maudie’s face split into a wide, honest smile. “My girl,” she said, “my girl will thank you over and over. Thank you!”
Chapter 44
c. AD 1260, FRANCE: the Catholic Church allows sweets to be eaten on fast days because they are medicinal.
Nina took the brick from the loophole, reached through the gap, and unlocked the door. Inside the library, which was only one small room, the shelves were meticulously clean but dust lay thick on the desk. A canopy of spider webs hung dangerously close to Nina’s hair; she ignored them but crossed her fingers that the busy spider would not choose to land on her.
She scanned the shelves, looking for a small book, probably merely a photocopied resource with a cheap cardboard cover. She could not find anything that resembled the wished-for book. Perhaps if she looked more specifically in the history section, or the local section, but it was to no avail. The hoped-for reminiscences of a literary local seemed not to exist.
Her eyes itched and her nose had become blocked. Perhaps she should look out some light bedtime reading while she was here. An appealing thought, but not one she should indulge in before the fete. Out of curiosity, she looked in the food section, and came up trumps with a book Miss Clapham must surely have used in her professional life – A Timeline of Confectionery.
She wiped the dust from the desk and neatly completed the borrower’s card. As she wrote her name and the date, she coughed a little. Fancy completing a borrower’s card for a book from a library which th
eoretically didn’t exist.
It was when she returned the pen to its drawer that she saw the hardback book on the desk. An Hysterical History – the life and times of a small New Zealand village since 1840. She flipped the cover open. The book had been written by the youngest son of the region’s largest family. It had been published a mere eighteen months ago. Nina obediently filled out another borrower’s card. This was a book she intended to read.
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