The words were enough to break what was left of Sam’s fragile self-control. She burst into tears. ‘Of course I’m going to need you. I told you, I can’t do this without you.’
‘You’re stronger than you think,’ Nessie said soothingly. ‘And you’ll have Joss to support you. Plus Gabe, if he’s got anything to do with it.’
Sam dabbed at her cheeks, the thought of Gabe’s kindness setting off another torrent. ‘Poor Gabe. I bet he wishes he’d never set foot in the Star and Sixpence.’
The look Nessie gave her was level. ‘I’d be very surprised if that’s what he thinks. In fact—’
But whatever she was about to say was interrupted by a faint shout from upstairs. ‘Sam? Nessie? Breakfast is ready.’
‘In fact what?’ Sam asked, using her sleeve to wipe her face again.
Nessie let out a half-laugh. ‘Forget it. I think it might be better if you work it out for yourself.’
‘Ness!’
‘Sorry,’ Nessie said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Now, let’s go and get our breakfast. All this emotional vulnerability is making me hungry.’
Sam sighed and patted her baby bump. ‘I’m always hungry these days.’
Her sister was silent for a moment, and Sam had the horrible feeling she’d overstepped the line. But then Nessie reached out to squeeze her hand. ‘I’m proud of you, Sam. You’re going to be an amazing mum.’
Sam smiled. It felt good to be back on friendly terms with Nessie. ‘Just like you’d be a great – what’s that new job title?’
‘Head of Community Spirit,’ Nessie replied, after a slightly embarrassed pause.
Sam tried her hardest to maintain a straight face, but she knew she was fighting a losing battle. ‘Right. Well, like I said, you’d be a great Head of Community Spirit.’
‘Thanks,’ Nessie said dryly, as her sister convulsed with laughter. ‘That is actually the job title – I haven’t made it up.’
‘No, I know,’ Sam replied, trying once more to be serious. ‘But you’ve got to admit it sounds a bit like a cross between the WI and some hipster start-up. Hey, I’ve just thought of what your mission statement could be – “Raising spirits with spirits”!’
Nessie gave her a wry stare. ‘I thought you said you were hungry.’
‘I am,’ Sam replied in a cheery voice. ‘And the good thing about Gabe is that his spirits are easily raised. All you need to do is eat everything he puts in front of you.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
Nessie had barely finished knocking on the door of Henry’s cottage when Ruby answered.
‘Hello. How was the afternoon shift?’ she murmured, casting a worried look past the older woman to the dimly lit hallway behind her. ‘Did you manage to get him to eat lunch?’
Ruby sighed. ‘Nothing.’ She glanced at the tray in Nessie’s hands, snugly wrapped in pristine white cloth. ‘Although you might have more luck, if that’s from Gabe.’
‘Chicken in white wine sauce and new potatoes, fresh from the oven, and some Thirsty Bishop to wash it down,’ Nessie said. ‘If this can’t tempt him, nothing will.’
Four days had passed since Franny’s death and the repercussions were still being felt all around Little Monkham and the surrounding area. The Star and Sixpence had become an unofficial drop-in centre for those coming to pay their respects; Franny might have had a fearsome reputation, but there was no doubt she’d been admired and loved too, and there was a steady stream of visitors. At first, conversations had been shocked and sorrowful, but now it seemed that everywhere Nessie turned, she heard fond memories of the postmistress and her many years of service to the village. If Nessie had needed a lesson on what community spirit was, she knew she could do worse than be inspired by Franny’s legacy.
It was no surprise that Henry had not set foot in the Star and Sixpence. He’d left Micky’s cottage the morning after Franny had died and shut himself away, refusing to answer the door to anyone. Eventually, his worried next-door neighbour had surrendered the spare key to Father Goodluck and he had gone in with Owen to find a distraught Henry still in the clothes he’d worn the night of Franny’s heart attack, sat in an armchair and gazing at wedding photographs. He didn’t appear to have eaten; a plate of burned toast sat untouched in the kitchen and several cups of cold tea were dotted around the cottage, including one that had been knocked over and left to sink into the carpet. That was when the rota had been drawn up; the villagers agreed to take it in turns to sit with Henry – talking, listening or even in silence, letting him know he wasn’t alone. But, as yet, no one had been able to persuade him to eat.
‘It’s like he’s pining away,’ Ruby said, shaking her head in despair as she stepped back to let Nessie in. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so devastated. He’s – well, you’ll see how he is.’
‘It’s all been such a shock,’ Nessie said, her heart starting to ache the way it had so many times since Sunday evening. ‘But you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go and get some rest? I’ll take over here.’
Ruby didn’t protest as she slipped out of the door. ‘Thank you. Micky’s got the late shift – I’ll send him your way in a few hours. Good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ Nessie replied, hoping the delicious aroma of Gabe’s cooking would make her task easier. Straightening her shoulders, she nudged the front door shut and made her way into the small living room. ‘Hello, Henry. How are you?’
He turned his white-haired head towards her and Nessie almost dropped the tray in shock: his normally ruddy cheeks were waxy and pale and his eyes – usually so full of blustering self-importance – were sunken and dull. He smelled as though he hadn’t washed for days. ‘Oh, hello, Nessie,’ he said, in a voice that was dry and cracked and entirely unlike him. ‘Is it your turn to do the deathwatch?’
Nessie concentrated on sliding the tray onto a side table, taking the opportunity to compose herself before she replied. ‘No, it’s my turn to comfort a friend who has suffered a terrible loss.’
Henry grunted. ‘And I suppose you expect me to eat that? I’m not hungry.’
The stubborn undertone warned Nessie she had a battle ahead. She thought fast. What was that old sales saying – sell the sizzle, not the sausage. Maybe there was another way to tempt Henry into breaking his fast.
‘No, this is my dinner,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I hope you don’t mind me eating it in front of you?’
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quickly dissolving into apathy. ‘I don’t care.’
Settling into the armchair opposite, Nessie untucked the white cloth and examined the contents of the tray. Gabe had pulled out all the stops – beneath the silver plate cover there was a succulent chicken breast marinated in a creamy white-wine sauce, buttery new potatoes and honey-roasted carrots that Nessie knew would fall apart the moment a fork touched them. A gooey salted caramel brownie finished off Gabe’s contribution and Connor had carefully laid two bottles of Thirsty Bishop beside each other, with a gleaming pint glass.
Nessie placed the cover to one side, allowing the lip-smacking smell of the food to float across the room. She took a deep breath, savouring the delicious scent and wondered if Henry was doing the same. Right on cue, his stomach rumbled.
‘I’m starving,’ Nessie said, hiding a smile as she unwrapped the cutlery. ‘Haven’t eaten since breakfast. I can’t wait to tuck in – it smells so good.’
She didn’t look up. Instead, she cut a sliver of chicken and slowly raised it to her mouth.
‘Mmmm,’ she said, after a few moments of chewing. ‘I don’t know how Gabe does it.’
Henry didn’t answer, so Nessie moved on to the potatoes. The smell from the food filled the air; she had no idea how Henry was still resisting. Maybe it was time to wheel out the big guns, she decided, and picked up the bottle opener Connor had thoughtfully placed on the tray.
‘Is that Bishop?’ Henry asked in a sharp voice, when she lifted a bottle and expertly levered off the lid.
‘That’s r
ight,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it would go with the chicken, but Gabe said the flavour complements the sauce.’ She angled the glass and emptied the bottle into it, bringing the liquid to a perfect head at the end. ‘I’d let you have a sip, but it’s probably not a good idea on an empty stomach.’
Instantly, Henry scowled. ‘Don’t think I’m not wise to you, Nessie Chapman. I know what your game is.’
Nessie took another mouthful of food and raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Henry. I’m just eating my very delicious dinner and drinking an award-winning bitter.’
She took a long sip of Thirsty Bishop, trying hard not to show how much she disliked it. Give her a glass of Prosecco or a Bellini any day, she thought longingly.
Henry watched her in accusatory silence until, finally, it seemed he couldn’t take it any more.
‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind a bit of that chicken,’ he said, his tone grudging. ‘If there’s some to spare.’
Nessie glanced down at the plate, wondering how far to take the pretence that this was her dinner. She couldn’t help feeling there was a fine line between selling the sizzle and accidentally eating the sausage. ‘I could always ask Gabe to rustle me up another plate when I get back,’ she said, colouring the words with as much reluctance as she dared. ‘If you’re hungry.’
His dark-ringed eyes regarded her suspiciously for a few seconds, then his stomach gurgled loudly in the silence. He waved an impatient hand. ‘Pass it over, then. And don’t drink all the Bishop, or you’ll be running back to the pub for more.’
She half-expected him to wolf the meal down, but he took the time to tuck the crisp white napkin into the grimy collar of his well-worn shirt and ate slowly, chewing each small mouthful much longer than Nessie thought necessary.
When his plate was clean, he rested his head against the armchair and closed his eyes. ‘And now the drink, please.’
The brownie lay untouched on the tray, but Nessie didn’t argue. One step at a time, she told herself.
Henry took two long draughts, draining almost half the glass, then lowered his eyelids and sighed. ‘She would have enjoyed that meal.’
The backs of Nessie’s eyes prickled. ‘I know.’
He was quiet for a heartbeat. ‘She loved food, you see. When we first got married, she was always in the kitchen, experimenting with this and that, trying to be the perfect wife.’
Nessie nodded but didn’t interrupt; of course Franny must have been a good cook. Her cakes had been legendary, after all.
Henry opened his eyes. ‘Tasted bloody awful. She was good at baking but couldn’t get the hang of anything else.’ He stared at Nessie. ‘Made no sense to either of us, but I turned out to be the better cook. And that might have bothered some women – that the traditional roles were reversed – but she just told me we should play to our strengths and accepted it.’
It was exactly the kind of thing Nessie could imagine Franny saying, she thought, as a sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘I suppose she knew her limitations.’
He let out a derisive snort. ‘I don’t think she had any, apart from being a dreadful cook. She was the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met.’ His expression softened and he passed a quivering hand over his face. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to cope without her.’
‘We’ll help,’ Nessie said thickly, her throat suddenly aching and hot. ‘You’re not going to be alone.’
Swallowing hard, Henry did his best to nod. ‘I know. You’re all very kind.’ Lapsing into silence, he took several more sips of beer, then glanced over at Nessie. ‘Have people been coming to the village?’
‘Yes,’ Nessie replied. ‘The pub is full of them right now, in fact.’
Something akin to panic crossed his pallid features. ‘I’m not ready to see them yet.’
‘Of course not,’ Nessie said. ‘You need to get your strength back first, get back on your feet. There’s no rush.’
He looked down at the tray on his lap. ‘I need to arrange the funeral. People will want to come.’
‘Don’t worry about that tonight. Father Goodluck can help when you’re ready.’
‘She’d want me to do it properly,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Make it a celebration as well as – as a goodbye.’
He struggled again, clearly trying to fight back a wave of emotion.
Nessie gave up her own battle and let tears fall unchecked onto her lap. ‘It’s okay to cry,’ she told him. ‘I found it helped, as long as you remember to stop eventually.’
‘I know,’ Henry said, and she saw his cheeks were wet. ‘It’s the stopping part that worries me.’
Nessie managed a tremulous smile. ‘It gets easier.’
Pressing his lips together, he nodded, sending tears cascading downwards. Nessie didn’t move, simply let him cry until, at last, he took the napkin that was still tucked into his shirt and dabbed at his face.
‘Thank you,’ he said, once he’d regained control. ‘I know you understand.’
‘I do,’ Nessie murmured.
He let out a long shuddering sigh and sniffed hard. His nose wrinkled. ‘And now, do you think you might take this tray? Something tells me I’m long overdue a shower.’
Relief coursed through Nessie as she swallowed a laugh and got to her feet. ‘I didn’t like to say.’
‘Franny wouldn’t have been so delicate,’ Henry said. ‘She’d have told me straight.’
She would, Nessie thought; tact was never Franny’s strong point. But she’d usually meant well. ‘Shall I leave you in peace for a while? Micky’s due to pop in later.’
Henry looked around, seeming to see the mess for the first time. ‘That would be useful, yes. I seem to have some housekeeping to do as well.’
‘I can do that,’ Nessie offered.
‘No, no. Franny would have my guts for garters if I let you clean up my mess.’ He paused and gave her a grateful look. ‘Thank you, Nessie. She always said you were a good girl.’
A bittersweet shiver swept down Nessie’s back; the words were high praise coming from Franny. ‘Thanks, Henry, that means a lot. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow – with another little something from Gabe?’
He gave the question some thought, then nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
Satisfied that progress had been made, Nessie took a moment to load up the tray and headed for the door.
‘Oh, and Nessie?’ Henry called, just as she reached the front door. ‘Leave the second bottle of Bishop, will you?’
She grinned and balanced the bottle on the hallway table. Yes, progress had definitely been made.
*
The church was warm, but Sam still felt a chill as she gazed over the packed pews towards the flower-strewn coffin in front of the altar. She found it impossible to believe Franny was inside; it seemed too small to contain everything she had been. Father Goodluck clearly felt the same way, because his sermon had been full of fond anecdotes and tales of Franny’s influence around Little Monkham and beyond. He described her as a force of great good, whose passing left a void that would take some considerable time to fill. By the time he had finished speaking, there was not a dry eye to be seen, but Sam saw plenty of smiles too.
‘Beautiful,’ Nessie whispered beside her. ‘Franny would have loved that.’
She would have loved all of it, Sam thought, as the choir’s voices soared in the final hymn and the pallbearers began their solemn procession down the aisle and out to the graveyard. There was no question that Franny would be buried anywhere other than St Mary’s, where she could continue to keep an eye on the village; Sam imagined she’d come back and haunt them all if they laid her to rest anywhere else.
She’d known Joss was among the mourners; they’d exchanged several messages in the days following Franny’s death and she’d seen him several times during the ceremony. But it wasn’t until the black-clad crowds began to make their way back to the Star and Sixpence that she found herself near enough to speak to him.<
br />
‘Hello,’ she said, as he fell into step beside her. ‘How are you?’
He shrugged. ‘Still a bit shell-shocked, to be honest. I’d always assumed Franny was immortal.’
Sam smiled in spite of herself. ‘I know what you mean. I don’t think anyone can believe she’s gone.’
His gaze travelled down to her coat, beneath which her baby bump could be clearly seen. ‘You’re looking well. How are things going?’
‘Better,’ she replied, tipping her head. ‘Nessie and I have sorted out a few things. Did you hear she’s been headhunted by McBride?’
Joss’s blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘No! Has she said yes?’
Sam sighed, conscious of another thing in her life that was both terrifyingly real and unimaginably distant at the same time. ‘I think she’s going to.’
‘But where does that leave you?’ Joss asked, his eyes flitting downwards again. ‘You’re in no position to take over running the Star and Sixpence.’
‘That’s true,’ she conceded, although the observation still rankled. ‘But I’ll have lots of help. Gabe will be around and Laurie is keen to step up his responsibilities.’
‘I bet he is,’ Joss said, frowning. ‘Look, not to be rude, but Gabe is a chef. What does he know about managing a pub?’
‘He founded his own restaurant, Joss,’ Sam said, trying not to sound defensive. ‘I think he’s got a handle on what it takes to run a business.’
Joss’s frown deepened. ‘Laurie, then – he’s got no experience at all, except for working behind the bar.’ He rubbed his beard and gave her a concerned stare. ‘I’m worried it’ll be too much, Sam. The last thing you need is work pressure on top of a new baby. Maybe I should come back and take over the reins.’
Sam felt her jaw drop. Who did he think he was, Sir Joss of the Shire, galloping in to save the day? ‘I don’t need rescuing.’
He waved an impatient hand. ‘Of course you don’t. But be realistic, Sam. You can’t run the pub and look after a baby at the same time. You must know that.’ His voice softened. ‘Look, I know the Star and Sixpence like it was my own business. Which it practically was for several years, when your dad’s drinking got worse. And since I’m going to be moving back to Little Monkham soon anyway, why don’t you let me help?’
Last Orders at the Star and Sixpence Page 25
