“No, you did not,” Bryn said. “You thought I was for real.”
“I thought you were real for about the first sentence. Then it turned into some pathetic fairy-tale. You don’t know anything, do you?”
“I know that an engagement was announced,” Bryn said.
“But you don’t know who broke up with who or what the reason was, or anything at all. Nothing that will help us find Miss Clapham. Nothing that will help us save this two-horse town.”
“Two-horse town. Now that’s an exaggeration if I ever heard it. No horse, more like.”
The blood rushed from Nina’s face. She’d recognise that voice anywhere. How much had he heard?
“And Miss Clapham? Has she broken up with someone?”
“She broke up with you, you eejit,” Nina hissed. “She broke up with you a million years ago, and it was the best thing she ever did in her whole life. Unfortunately, she forgot to make you disappear, so you make yourself unpleasant, doing ridiculous things in some vain attempt to make her think you’re more in control and therefore better than she is.”
“You do like to prattle,” Laud Mayor said.
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Nina said. “You think you’re going to close down this village. Whoever heard of such a thing? How does a village get closed down? It dies, it fades away, it does not close down. You can’t hang a big ‘closed’ sign across the main road in. You can’t go to its business owners and tell them to shut up shop when they earn a perfectly decent income right here. You think you can shut down this place, but all you do is make the leaves wilt. The roots are still strong. The roots will always be strong. You cannot touch the roots.”
Laud Mayor stood, arms folded, one hand stroking his chin. It was a posture, Nina knew it was. He was trying to irritate her. She turned her back on him to return to her own stall, but a crowd had drawn in, and she was stuck.
“She’s right, you old goat,” shouted a man. “You can’t make our village go away. You could stop being our Mayor though.”
A woman began to chant and the crowd began to jeer. “Go away, go away, take your chair and go away.”
Bryn shoved his cheeses to the end of the table. He scrambled onto it and raised his hand in the air. A silence fell on the crowd, an uneasy silence. Nina wondered if the crowd’s unrest might transfer itself from the hapless Mayor to Bryn himself.
“Wait,” he said. “We don’t want an uprising and we don’t want anyone to be hurt. I propose we have a vote.”
A tremendous roar went up from the crowd. The man who had called the Mayor an old goat came close to Bryn’s table. “Do it now,” he said. “A vote, even an official vote, won’t mean anything to anyone. You’ll get a good feel for the people’s voice and it will go some way towards encouraging you.”
Bryn looked at Nina, and she shrugged.
Bryn raised his arm again, and once again silence fell. “If you want our village to survive, follow Nina over there.” He pointed to the empty paddling pool. If you prefer to stick with the Mayor and watch him attempt to end the life of our village, follow him over there.” And he pointed to the starting point of the flying fox. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to the Mayor, “you’re going to have to move.”
There was no hesitation. The Mayor moved to the flying fox, and Nina moved to the paddling pool. It was easy to see who had the most votes. The Mayor had a mere five people standing by him.
Bryn called for Nina and Laud Mayor to meet between the two groups. They walked towards each other slowly, with the steady beat of the hand clapping behind Nina and the icy glare of the Mayor’s supporters ahead of her.
She held out her hand to the Mayor when they met in the middle, and he took hers, giving her a limp handshake and no eye contact.
“The people have spoken,” Bryn said.
“You wait,” the Mayor said.
“We will,” Nina said. “We’ll wait.”
Chapter 67
c. AD 1640, FRANCE: confectioners discover if they rock almonds in a pan filled with sugar and hot syrup, a candy shell forms on the nuts.
They had a gathering that night – it could hardly be called a party. Old Tom, who had begged the owner of the fish and chip shop to fill his deep fryers and produce mountains of chips for the fete visitors, had arranged a burger and chip dinner for Nina’s family and friends. He’d told the chap to be prepared to make a hundred burgers.
They ambled down to the beach, burgers and chips in hand, arriving in dribs and drabs. The tide was on its way out, the stars so bright they were reflected in the water. There was much to talk about – the Mayor, Bryn’s stand for justice, the takings from the day, the potential to re-open the campground.
Everybody was tired, but nobody wanted to leave. The men dragged driftwood into a heap, and set a match to it. Flames cast uneven shadows across people’s faces. John watched Bryn watch Nina. Would the fellow ever make a move?
Mrs Potts hovered on the periphery. She had brought an old cake tin, held carefully in front of her. She had placed it beside a log while people laughed and shouted, but as the moon rose higher and the air chilled, the group settled close to the fire and Mrs Potts picked up the tin, clutching it to her tatty cardigan as she waited in the shadows.
It was Maudie who began to sing. Her voice was not bad, only a little off-key on the higher notes. Others joined in – some songs were rollicking, others more peaceful. During a lull, Mrs Potts stepped forward, the tin now with its lid off and the candle flames burning steadily upwards.
She made her way towards Nina, stood beside her, held the cake in front of her, towards the flames of the fire. “Happy birthday to you,” she began, in a cracked voice, slowly, gazing all the while at the cake. “Happy birthday to you.”
John joined in. Maudie joined in. Barbara and George and Old Tom and Claudia and everyone joined in. “Happy birthday, dear…”
The crowd fell silent. Then as one, they sang again.“…Gre-eg. Happy birthday to you.”
How Nina kept it together was anyone’s guess. All around her, eyes welled up with tears. Nina, keeping her eyes fixed on the cake, counted the candles. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
“Thank you,” she said to Mrs Potts. “You are very kind. What kind of cake is it?”
“Cabbage,” Mrs Potts said, standing a little straighter with the pride of it all. “Cabbage from my own garden.”
*
December 1 came and Nina’s parents along with all their friends loaded themselves onto the bus and left. They took John with them, promising to stop as often as he needed and deliver him directly to his own door. December 2 and December 3 passed by, pleasantly uneventful. On Thursday, December 4, Nina ditched a batch of coconut ice in the gap between the steps and the chimney. She looked up to see Bryn flourishing the national newspaper.
“I’ve found her,” he said. “I’ve found Miss Clapham.”
Chapter 68
c. AD 1650, ENGLAND: people develop a sweet tooth for black licorice candy coins.
Miss Clapham had heard of the success of the fete. She had heard about the Mayor’s unhappy experience. A small smile had worked its way from her mouth to her eyes, not at Laud Mayor’s discomfiture, but at the pluck of the young Nina. She’d known the girl was right for Sweet Treats from the moment she’d seen her handwriting on the envelope.
John had told Miss Clapham about the hapless Bryn. He told Miss Clapham that Bryn may as well be invisible to Nina, for all the effort he wasn’t making. He also told Miss Clapham that she should have told him she was matchmaking. Nina needed looking after.
Miss Clapham had looked at him oddly.
“What?” John said. “I’m not joking. She’s not a plaything.”
“No woman is a plaything, John,” she said, “and I am sorry you think I would encourage that line of thought.”
John did not have the energy to argue. “Nina should have known you were going to run off and leave her,” was all he said.<
br />
“If she’d known, she’d not have come,” Miss Clapham said. “You know that as well as I do.”
John barely shook his head. His breath seeped slowly from his lungs and he had to will himself to inhale again. “What are you doing?” he said.
“Nothing that will harm anyone,” Miss Clapham said. “I’m going now. Rest. I’ll tell you how the story ends.”
John closed his eyes. Whatever Miss Clapham thought she was doing, Nina would be alright. He’d seen her determination, her renewed ability to focus on the job at hand. She’d grieve, maybe for the rest of her life, but her resilience was back. He might be faintly mad at Miss Clapham, but he was glad for Nina. She was a survivor.
*
Laud Mayor sat in his study and surveyed the latest bunch of dying flowers. His cat lay, curled on his closed laptop. He did not care. There was no need to use the computer. He rather fancied a bit of a walk along a beach. He’d go for a drive; sit on his chair that Miss Clapham so generously gave him. Contemplate the meaning of life. Perhaps even take a short stroll through the village that held the one thing he most wanted, and review his strategy. Whatever else happened, he must not let that one thing escape his grasp.
*
Miss Clapham wrote Bryn a long letter. In it, she exhorted him to take courage in his successes. He didn’t have any idea what she referred to. Presumably it was something to do with the astronomical amount of cheese he’d sold at the fete.
*
Nina wrote a letter to John, thanking him for his help and asking had he heard from Miss Clapham. John replied by return post. He had. She was well. He did not say if or when she would be back.
*
Nina also wrote a letter to her parents. In it, she promised to spend Christmas with them. She apologised again for the sadness she’d given them. She asked her father to send a package, a box perhaps, of nuts and bolts and computer pieces. There just didn’t seem to be a surplus of those items in the village.
*
Mrs Potts came into Sweet Treats and gazed at the row of framed prints on the wall. She took one from its hook and turned the frame over. Whatever she was looking for, it wasn’t there. She removed another picture, did exactly the same thing. Both pictures she hung back in their place.
“Can I come back to your place” Nina said.
Mrs Potts started. “Of course,” she said. “I was hoping someone would come to share my silverbeet cake.”
Chapter 69
c. AD 1674, ENGLAND: Thomas Willis, physician to the king, connects the body’s use of sugar to diabetes.
“Look! There’s been a symposium on Women at Risk,” Bryn said. “Miss Clapham was a guest speaker.”
Nina skimmed through the article. “She’ll be back soon,” she said.
“Wonder what else she was doing,” Bryn said. “The symposium was yesterday. She’s been gone for ages.”
“The hard work’s done,” Nina said. “So long as she’s back before the next fete, I’ll be happy.”
Bryn tossed the paper into Nina’s woodbox. He hoped Miss Clapham would stay away for quite a while longer. He’d be sorry to see Nina go.
*
Laud Mayor tried to get comfortable on his beach-seat. He had never actually attempted to recline on it, had rather perched on the edge and gazed at his feet instead of across the water.
He too had seen the newspaper article. Miss Clapham might not have university qualifications to speak on Women at Risk, but she had once been a woman at risk and she’d survived, so she was technically qualified to stand on the podium and tell her story. He only hoped that she’d left him right out of it.
*
Bryn jumped when the telephone rang. It rang so rarely in his small shop. Miss Clapham’s voice crackled over the very bad ’phone lines. She’d consulted her lawyer, who had told her there were grounds to press charges, but she’d decided not to. She would take it up with Laud Mayor himself, but she’d like Bryn to be present.
Bryn remembered the chat he’d had with his lawyer too. It seemed eons ago, nearly irrelevant in the big scheme of things. He would be honoured to accompany her, he said, and he’d like to raise his own concerns at the same time. Would they need another witness?
Perhaps Laud Mayor would care to arrange a witness of his own, Miss Clapham said. She would be back in a few days. Maybe Bryn could arrange with Laud Mayor a meeting time and place. In, say, a week.
On his end of the phone, in the general store that had become his world, Bryn nodded, forgetting that Miss Clapham could not see him. She didn’t wait for him to speak, merely wished him well, and hung up.
Bryn placed the phone back in its cradle, and turned to the waiting Maudie. “One day this place will be filled with peace and quiet again.”
“Oh, Bryn,” Maudie said. “You don’t want peace and quiet. You want things to happen. It’s much more fun.”
*
Nina took each print from the wall. She looked at the backs. She shook each one a little, looking for who knows what. She looked up at Queen Victoria, steadfastly gazing down at her. “Forgive me,” she said. “I’m looking for something.”
At Mrs Potts’ that evening, she looked carefully at each of the prints on her wall. Presumably, what Mrs Potts was looking for would not be in her own frames. She examined the backs, and shook them a little too, hoping one of them would sound or look different from the rest.
After the television was turned off, after she’d heard Mrs Potts shuffle to her room and close her door, after she’d heard the creak of Mrs Potts’ bedsprings, Nina once again opened the bottom drawer. She knew what was in there now. She had found the missing magazines in Sweet Treats. Each one had been opened and read, the corners were tatty and the staples on the fold loosened. She’d found the subscription renewal form, heavily scribbled on but not in Miss Clapham’s handwriting. She had guessed it was Mrs Potts’ writing.
No point renewing this. I won’t be having our collection taken by Laud.
Taken? By Laud? Laud Mayor? What on earth would he be doing, taking a collection of prints from anybody?
Once again she flipped through the contents of the bottom drawer. There were no subscription letters, no cancellation letters, no demand letters, nothing that would clarify Mrs Potts’ words.
Nothing. Until she pulled the drawer right out and there, lying in a crumpled heap beneath the drawer was a hand-written page. Nina took it out, flattened it carefully. Squinted at the scrawled words. Skipped to the bottom of the page. Nigel Laud.
She’d found it. Whatever it was that she looked for, it would be found on this page. His handwriting wasn’t much good. She couldn’t scan the page; each word had to be carefully deciphered.
Marilla, I have loved you and lost you through no fault of my own. I have no desire to be scorned by a mere woman, nor will I be made a public laughing-stock. I will track you down wherever you go; I will destroy any chance you have of success. I will tell the world of your cunning ways and I will make your life a misery. When your life is over and done, you will burn in hell and I, looking down through heavenly portals, will laugh without ceasing.
Nellie, you are a fool which is no more than can be expected from your sex. Your father was wise indeed to refuse you an inheritance. Your husband must have been drunk out of his mind to have asked you to be his wife. God rest their souls, they are safe from you now. You made a big mistake when you helped Marilla buy your father’s shop. You chose to stand against me, and I will not abide a woman who will not acquiesce to my every wish.
The two of you are suitable only for the most menial of tasks. I am sorry I ever befriended you. You have betrayed and belittled. For the rest of your life, I will win and you will lose.
Mad, was Nina’s first thought. Totally mad. She wanted to show the letter to someone, but who?
She folded it carefully, placing it in a small pocket in her backpack. She’d put it back when she’d decided what to do. Perhaps Old Tom could help. Perhaps Bryn would be
able to help. Even Maudie, bless her, might know what to do with the dreadful letter.
Bryn, when she showed it to him, hit his hand hard against the shop bench. “I’ve got a letter like that,” he said. “Belittling and threatening. Mine was about refusing to stock salmon. Honestly, I got it in a couple of times and not once did he buy any from me. Not a long enough shelf life to take the risk. He also referred to Miss Clapham in it.”
Nina folded the letter carefully. “Do you think Maudie’s got a letter too?”
They went to the café, where Laud Mayor himself sat outside drinking his coffee. They walked past him, heads held high, backs straight, not afraid of a man who was a proven bully. Maudie took a coffee and a custard square to a customer, then pulled out a chair. “Sit down for a minute,” she said.
Sweet Treats Page 19
