by Katie Fforde
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ If William didn’t know the story she didn’t want to waste time telling it to him now.
Gilly became totally absorbed in looking at the fields and villages, woods and hills spread out beneath her like toys. She could see the escarpment and where it dropped to the Severn plain.
There were sheep dotted about like blobs of cotton wool, cows in groups next to hedges splashed with blossom – blackthorn, she reckoned – and hawthorn. Smaller rivers, canals and ponds flashed silver. She saw a group of deer near a spinney and sighed with happiness.
The twenty minutes was over very quickly. The landing was very smooth.
‘I’ve been on scheduled flights that bump more than that,’ said Gilly, hoping her legs hadn’t stopped working while she’d been airborne. ‘I really hate the airline that plays that horrid cock-a-doodle-do thing if they arrive on time. I’d rather be late.’
Her legs had weakened a bit and she was glad of William’s supportive presence as she extracted herself from the tiny space and got to the ground.
‘So,’ he asked, looking down at her in a fond and proud way, ‘do I gather you liked that?’
‘I loved it! I never thought I’d be able to get through it without having some sort of fit but it was magical!’
‘Next time, we’ll stay up longer, go a bit further.’
‘So there’ll be a next time?’ Gilly asked, feeling like a child asking for a treat.
‘There will be if I have anything to do with it!’ William put his arm round her and together they walked back to the clubhouse.
‘That went well, then?’ asked one of the friendly men.
‘I loved it!’ said Gilly. ‘I never thought I would. I’m such a coward about these things normally.’
‘What things?’ asked the man.
‘You know – roller coasters, scary things generally.’
‘So, are you up for a breakfast?’ the man went on.
Gilly looked at William. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, ‘although I hate to break with tradition, I have to get to work.’
‘I have to work too,’ said Gilly. Her work involved hanging sheets on the line. It seemed mundane but when you washed as many sheets as she did, good drying days became very important.
‘I’m so glad you liked it,’ said William as they neared her house.
‘So am I!’ said Gilly, unaware until very recently how very important it was that she did like gliding. She wanted to like it for William’s sake. ‘And I didn’t just like it, I loved it!’
William didn’t speak but smiled across at her when he’d parked the car. He looked very happy, Gilly realised.
‘Have you time to come in for a coffee?’ she asked him.
‘No, I’ve got to rush back to the office,’ he said, but got out of the car. He was at the passenger door in an instant and handed her out.
‘Thank you so much for taking me,’ said Gilly.
‘It was my absolute pleasure,’ he said, and kissed her cheek; then he cupped it with his hand, looking into her eyes without saying any more.
As she watched him disappear down the drive she felt that these two simple gestures were somehow more meaningful and touching than the most full-on kiss would have been.
Chapter Nineteen
Gilly wanted to see William again but didn’t quite know how to go about it. She had written him a card after he had taken her gliding, taking care with it so he would realise how much she had loved the experience of seeing the landscape from the sky. He hadn’t responded and that was over a week ago. On the other hand, she was delighted that she hadn’t heard from Leo.
She looked at her calendar, the mocked paper ‘family calendar’ that caused mirth or disapproval depending, and saw something she thought could be useful: an opportunity to see him again without looking needy. No woman ever wanted to look needy, especially one of a certain age.
She composed an email, inviting him to Helena’s upcoming show, implying he would be a guest of the family group. Later she would ask him for a lift – her car was going in for a service at the perfect time.
But while Gilly was writing her email, Martin rang.
‘Hi, Mum! Just making plans for going to Hel’s show.’
Gilly was surprised at his enthusiasm – surprised he planned to go even, let alone make plans. ‘Oh? Are you and Cressida going?’
‘We certainly are. We have to support the old skin and blister, don’t we?’
This didn’t sound like Martin. He wasn’t usually bluff and friendly when he referred to anything his sister did. ‘That’s great! Really glad you can make it. She’ll be thrilled.’
‘So we’ll pick you up on our way through.’
‘Oh – I was going to go early, so I can give Helly a hand setting up—’
‘But Mum! Your car is due for a service! I arranged it, don’t forget.’ It was the one helpful thing he did for Gilly and as she could have perfectly easily done it herself she was never that grateful.
‘I was going to rearrange the date …’ Another lie: they were falling from her like beads out of a beanbag.
‘And now you don’t have to. If you want to help Hel, you can stay later and get a lift back with her.’
When Gilly disconnected her phone a little while later she felt bulldozed. Martin did that to her sometimes. She was sure he meant well – fairly sure anyway – and wished she’d been able to tell him she could make her own arrangements. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Perhaps William would get in touch, offering to pick her up, then she’d cancel Martin.
It was the day of the Springtime Show and it was five o’clock when Helena finally decided to get up. She’d woken every hour since 3 a.m. and thought she may as well avoid the agony of trying to get back to sleep again. Her alarm was due to go off at six, anyway.
Amy was going to meet her at the venue and show her the ropes before she sorted out her own stall. That was OK: once the setting up was done, the hardest part was over.
She made a quick cup of tea, trying not to wake Jago whose bedroom was just next door, and then she surveyed her list. She’d been tempted to pack Jago’s pickup (she was so grateful to him for swapping vehicles for the day) the night before, but then she worried about it raining or the truck being stolen or indeed anything she possibly could worry about. At least now she didn’t need to worry about being late. She spent longer than usual getting herself ready. Moving boxes around was likely to disturb Jago and she preferred to do that at a less unearthly hour.
There were so many boxes. There were boxes of stock (quite a few of those, to her relief), there was her loom, the small one that she didn’t have to assemble if the space really was as small as Amy insisted it would be; there were yarns, a selection of shuttles, beaters, combs and needles. She was aiming to make her stall look so interesting people would come over even if they had no interest whatsoever in buying a scarf. And although she had intended to only sell her silk scarves (Amy had got her in on this high-end product) she’d also brought all the rugs and throws she’d made for World of Wool which was later in the month. She wouldn’t sell them in this posh venue, she was sure, but they added life and colour to her stall. Then there were the boxes of cheese straws, tiny savoury scones and little vol-au-vents her mother had insisted she brought with her.
‘You never know when you may need a snack,’ Gilly had said, ‘and knowing you quite well, you need one quite often.’
‘I have my sandwiches!’
‘You may need to offer other people a nibble.’ There had been a pause. ‘To serve with the Prosecco someone may bring.’
Helena hugged her mother. ‘Someone is so very kind! The best someone in the world!’
It was a really beautiful May morning. The early sunshine shone through the new green leaves sending dappled light on to the road. As the show was nearly an hour’s drive away, Helena had time to enjoy the countryside that she didn’t often see quite so early. Espe
cially recently when she’d been working so hard.
But as she got nearer, Helena began to get nervous. Would her products look clunky, homespun and rustic next to all the other exhibitors? She was used to exhibiting at shows where the handmade chunky look was not only permitted, it was obligatory.
This was very different. Everything would be sleek, highly finished, shiny, totally professional. Like many creative people Helena suffered badly from ‘fear of being caught out’, as if she was someone who didn’t know what they were doing and just loved doing it, like any old amateur creative.
Also, she wouldn’t know everyone else exhibiting. At one of her usual shows she would meet loads of old friends, fellow weavers, spinners, knitters and producers of wool and yarn. Apart from Amy, she wouldn’t know anyone at Springtime. The other people could be snooty and not deign to talk to a humble worker in wool.
At least the event was really well signposted, she thought with relief as she arrived. She found the exhibitors’ car park, near the back entrance to the building, and waiting for her was Amy.
‘I knew you’d be early,’ she said as Helena got out of the pickup. ‘So I made sure I was earlier. Jago not with you?’
‘No. He had to be somewhere else. He lent me his pickup though.’
‘I can see that,’ said Amy.
Helena felt a bit on the defensive. She thought she ought to defend Jago for being an unsupportive boyfriend when he wasn’t actually her boyfriend and was actually very supportive. ‘Let’s get into the building,’ she said instead.
Helena’s stall was in a long gallery, with floor-length windows all down one side. The other side was panelled wood with a stuccoed ceiling. It was incredibly beautiful and originally designed (said a helpful notice) for women of the house to walk in for exercise when inclement weather made the garden unsuitable. Helena was very pleased with her spot. It was near enough the entrance so people wouldn’t be tired by the time they’d got as far as her and yet not so near the door that people would just plunge on past, assuming the better items were further in.
‘I’m afraid I have to push off to my stall when we’re set up,’ said Amy during one of the trips from the pickup to Helena’s spot. ‘But mine won’t take as long. We’ve got time to make it all look nice.’
Helena smiled. She didn’t say that she was perfectly capable of making it all look nice herself because Amy was very good at it and she was grateful for her help. And Amy had got this gig for her and although Helena was fairly terrified at the moment, she knew she’d settle once she was in. As far as she could tell (no one was fully installed yet) she had a goldsmith on one side and a leather worker on the other. Both of her neighbours had really lovely pieces on display.
‘Would you like me to look after your credit card for you?’ she said to Amy before she left to set up her own stall. ‘How else will you avoid losing control of your spending?’
Amy looked longingly at a bright yellow handbag in butter-soft leather with gold buckles. It was open, revealing a contrasting silk interior. ‘I may have to buy that right now.’
‘Why don’t you wait until the end of the show?’ said Helena. ‘If it’s still there – and not everyone wants a yellow handbag – you could probably get a bargain.’ She felt obliged to help her friend save money.
‘Will you negotiate for me?’ asked Amy.
Helena laughed. ‘Of course!’
‘You’ll be best friends with the maker by then,’ said Amy.
The public were due to arrive in half an hour and everyone was set up and waiting. Helena had tried a few tentative smiles at her fellow artisans but hadn’t got a lot of response. Then she decided to bring out her secret weapon: her mother’s well-filled Tupperware boxes.
‘I know it’s a bit early,’ Helena said to the creator of the yellow handbag, ‘but would you like a snack?’
The woman, who had deep red hair cut in a very elegant curly bob, looked in the box Helena was holding. ‘Blessed be the day when we can have a cheese straw for breakfast. Thank you!’
Everyone Helena offered snacks to was equally grateful. ‘We none of us had time for breakfast,’ said one, ‘so a sausage roll is bliss!’
‘I’ll do a coffee run when they’re open,’ said a third, having had two cheese straws and a vol-au-vent. ‘So sensible to bring food!’
‘It’s my mother,’ Helena explained. ‘She hardly lets me leave the house without a food parcel – certainly not her house anyway. She’s a feeder.’
‘I love her already,’ said the handbag maker, whose name was Venetia.
‘She’s coming so you’ll be able to tell her,’ said Helena, relaxed and happy now.
A slight rumble of conversation was heard. ‘Oh! To your places, it’s show time!’ This was said by a wonderfully camp jeweller whose pieces made even Helena’s abstemious heart beat faster. He was as kind as he was camp and had made Helena feel extremely welcome.
Helena greeted her first potential customer, hoping she didn’t have flaky pastry down her front. She had dressed up for this occasion, put on make-up and tonged her hair into fat curls that fell over her shoulder: she didn’t want the effect spoiled by a moment of carelessness.
She and Amy had made her stall look great. The loom, which was already threaded with the beginnings of a scarf on it, was now assembled. It was the centrepiece, and all around hung her creations. She put the big mohair blankets destined for World of Wool at the back. They were monochrome but the shades were vibrant, bright yet subtle, and made a very colourful background to her more subtle and vastly more expensive silk scarves.
‘What a lovely stall!’ said the woman. ‘I love your scarves! I am a bit addicted,’ she went on. ‘My husband says I have the largest collection of them in private hands. How he would know, I have no idea.’ She frowned. ‘Unless he found my private stash of them under the spare bed.’
The woman didn’t add to her collection by buying one but she took a card and promised to keep an eye on her website. Helena was grateful she’d remembered to bring her cards as she nearly always forgot. They were important, Amy was always telling her. Although she made most of her money through weaving workshops, she did sell things online.
But a member of the second group of people did buy a scarf and draped it round her neck. It looked stunning on the woman’s rather formal black jacket, giving it the lift it needed.
‘What’s so good about these scarves,’ the woman said while Helena was processing the purchase, ‘is that they do for men and women.’
Helena smiled as she handed the woman her receipt. ‘True.’
‘And what’s good about that is,’ the woman went on, ‘a woman can buy it for her husband – men are always so hard to buy for – and then wear it herself if he doesn’t appreciate it.’ She looked down at the scarf. ‘In fact – can you wrap this up for me after all? Alexis has a birthday next week. That makes the scarf practically free!’
‘Do you want a quick whizz round the other stalls?’ asked one of Helena’s neighbours an hour or so later. ‘My friend has come and can mind my stall and it’s a shame not to see what other people produce.’
‘Oh, that is very kind! I was expecting my mother but she’s coming with my brother and his wife and they’re obviously delayed. I’d appreciate a trip to the loo as well. If you’re sure.’
After a quick chat with Amy, whose stall was right up the other end, Helena took her tour of the show.
There were some exquisite things to see. Even if one wasn’t intending to buy anything, just seeing the skill and beauty of the items made it very worthwhile for visitors. It could be a museum of the future, Helena thought.
There was a furniture maker who was an artist in marquetry. His jewellery boxes were like puzzles, full of secret drawers with hidden springs. She instantly thought about Ismene. She would love one of these boxes and she was so difficult to buy for. Helena considered for a few minutes and then, although the boxes were way above her normal budget for presents, chose
a small oval box. There was a picture of a running horse and the secret compartment was very well concealed. While she would never be able to spend so much on her niece, Gilly, the ultimate indulgent grandmother, would have no trouble.
Having taken up time buying the box, Helena hurried past a violin maker, a glass blower (although not blowing currently) and a ceramicist.
Her purchase having been admired and approved by Jennifer, who’d been minding her stall, Helena said, ‘The standard here is really high, isn’t it? I was so lucky to get in.’
‘But your work is lovely,’ said Jennifer. ‘I sold two of your blankets while you were away. Cash sales, thank goodness.’ She handed Helena a wodge of notes.
‘Oh, thank you! I’m only here because someone else dropped out.’
‘Was that the woman who made garden ornaments?’ asked Venetia from two stalls down. ‘Rather a second-rate artisan if I may say so.’
Helena laughed. ‘As long as you don’t call me that the moment my back is turned.’
‘Of course not!’ said Venetia, horrified. ‘Your work is of the highest standard! I’m talking casts of gnomes with wheelbarrows and unfortunately placed fishing rods. From the back they looked horribly vulgar.’ She bit her lip. ‘They were quite funny though.’
Reassured, Helena smiled. ‘Oh! Here’s my mother.’
‘Will she be bringing more snacks?’ said Jennifer.
‘Quite likely. As I said, she is a feeder.’
‘Excellent. Anything she wants to buy from me she can have at a discount.’
But Helena’s initial pleasure at seeing her mother, who was with her brother and sister-in-law, was dimmed when she spotted Leo marching across to join the party. He kissed her mother’s cheek and stood beside her while they waited for a gap in the throng.
Honestly, thought Helena, how many times did she have to tell her mother he was a not a good person? But then she noted that her mother didn’t look at all happy about his possessive attitude and guessed Leo’s presence was something to do with her brother. She wondered whether, if she told Martin what a bad lot Leo was, he’d stop being his friend. But Martin was quite likely to say, ‘I’ll make my own judgements about people, thank you,’ and carry on as before.
