by Liz Eeles
‘That was a lovely meal. Thank you,’ I say, pushing a small pile of leftover stew under my runner beans, so it doesn’t look like so much. The food really was fabulous but my appetite is still under par. Cheating husbands plus deceased wives don’t do a lot for the digestion.
Luna stares at the bulging beans and tuts. ‘You look in need of a good meal. Young women these days don’t have enough flesh on their bones. I blame the pressures of social media and all this constant oversharing of impossibly perfect bodies.’
With that, she gets to her feet and leans across the table to reach my plate. Her wide sleeve flaps perilously close to the candle and Daniel pushes it out of the way.
‘I’ll do the washing up,’ I say, pushing back my chair and reaching for Caleb’s plate at the same time as Daniel. When our fingers touch, we both pull back our hands as though we’ve been burned.
Luna looks at the two of us and smiles. ‘So much buried energy! Why don’t you both tackle the washing up while I do my meditation practice?’ She throws a tea towel towards Daniel as she leaves the room.
‘Is there a dishwasher?’ I ask, hopefully, but Daniel shakes his head.
‘Afraid not. My mother believes the house is a living entity that doesn’t approve of anything too new-fangled. Fortunately, she draws the line at having gas lighting and an outside toilet.’
Is he making a joke or stating a fact?
‘Does Luna do a lot of meditating?’ I ask, stacking up pots and pans on the chaotic kitchen counter.
‘She meditates for at least half an hour every day. Apparently it feeds her inner serenity.’ Daniel snorts and turns the hot tap on full pelt, spraying water droplets in all directions.
‘You’re not into meditation then?’
‘I don’t have the time, what with work and looking after Caleb.’
‘Your mum does seem pretty laid-back. She’s quite—’ I pause, at a sudden loss for words.
‘Unusual? She’s always been one of a kind, even before she became Luna and found her inner goddess.’
Who was Luna before her inner goddess was located? Daniel doesn’t elaborate but squirts so much washing-up liquid into the water that bubbles start climbing out of the sink. They coat the plate he slides into the water and cling to the china when he places it on the drainer. He has his back to me and he’s really going for it with the washing-up brush.
Luna’s not the only one who can feel hostility coming off him in waves. Though, to be fair, I’d probably be annoyed if my home was invaded by someone who’d been narky to my motherless child.
‘Look.’ I dry a plate and place it on the table because I have no idea where it’s kept. ‘I’m very sorry you didn’t know about me staying here and I can appreciate it was a surprise, especially after… well, what happened in the café. But Luna came into my shop this morning and her offer of somewhere to stay was all very spontaneous.’
‘That’s Luna all over – spontaneous and always trying to make the world a better place.’ Daniel breathes out slowly and stops pummelling dirty crockery. He turns to face me, splashing water across my dress. ‘So what’s your sob story, then?’
‘It’s hardly a sob story,’ I bristle. ‘I’ve left my husband because…’ I falter for a second because those were words I never expected to say. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter why. It happened a few days ago and I’ve been living above my shop ever since.’
‘Is there a flat above the shop?’
‘Nope, just an attic, with a put-you-up bed and lots of spiders.’
‘Ah.’ Daniel frowns. ‘Contrary to what you probably think, I’m not unsympathetic to people’s troubles. But I know how trusting my mother is and I don’t want her to be taken advantage of.’
‘I can assure you that I won’t be taking advantage of anyone. I’m paying my way and I won’t be here for long. It’s a short-term stopgap while I find something else.’
I’m not sure that referring to his mother as a stopgap is the best idea but he doesn’t pick me up on it. With a tight nod, he turns back to the greasy pots and we complete the washing-up in awkward silence. Fortunately, Caleb bowls in from the garden before I have to ask where to put everything I’ve been piling up, and he starts banging through cupboards and putting things away.
Figuring that my work is done, I decide to head for my bedroom but pause at the doorway and look back. How does Daniel manage being on his own? I wonder. Does he feel as scared and lost as I do right now? Um, where is Daniel?
There he is, on his knees, with his head in the saucepan cupboard. All I can see of him are long legs and – I can’t help but notice – a very nice tight backside in snug-fitting black trousers.
Is that what a married woman should be noticing? I’ve hardly looked at another man for twenty years and now, three days after leaving my husband, I’m having lascivious thoughts about a man I don’t even like. My head is so all over the place. Closing the kitchen door quietly behind me, I go upstairs to my new bedroom to have a little cry.
Chapter Five
I have no idea where I am. I yawn, in that relaxed state between waking and sleep, and stretch out my legs. But there’s no reassuring warmth as my feet slide under Malcolm’s legs… and no bed. My toes are poking out from under the single duvet into the cool morning air.
When I open my eyes and take in the bare stone walls, reality hits me, as it has done every morning since I left Malcolm. My marriage is on the rocks because my husband cheated and lied about it. Shock, grief and humiliation wash over me. It’s a wave of emotion that’s fast becoming familiar, but at least I don’t have an aching back from the attic put-you-up adding to the toxic turmoil.
I stretch again and roll out of bed, my feet landing on the blue cotton rug. Sun is filtering through the thin curtains and there’s an increasingly familiar smell wafting in through the open window. Yep, the farmer’s definitely up early.
I wrinkle my nose, half-open the curtains and drink in what must be the best view for miles. Trees are ghostly shadows in a wispy mist caught at the bottom of Honeyford valley and, above them, grazing in pale sunshine, sheep are white dots in emerald-green fields.
I’m still taking in the glorious countryside when a child’s laughter drifts upwards and Caleb runs around the side of the house. He’s wearing a purple polo shirt and being chased by a black kitten that winds itself between his legs as he yells with delight. His enjoyment makes me smile and I raise my hand when he glances up and spots me. He hesitates slightly before giving me a shy wave back. Poor lad, growing up without his mum.
Caleb goes back to playing with the kitten as Daniel strides out of the back door towards his son. He’s smartly dressed in a navy blue suit and his ebony hair has a slight curl from the shower.
‘Hey, Caleb,’ he says, his deep voice floating through the open window. ‘Give your dad a hug before work. I’m just heading off.’
Caleb runs over and flings his arms around his dad’s waist, the kitten following him like a dark shadow. He hugs his father tight and it warms my heart to see how much at ease with one another they are.
‘You be a good boy at school and work hard,’ says Daniel, stroking his son’s fair hair with long fingers. He bends his head over his son’s, revealing pale skin at the nape of his neck, and starts gently rubbing Caleb’s back. It’s such a tender moment, I can’t bear to look away.
‘I don’t want to go to school today. Can’t I stay home?’ Caleb’s excitement has suddenly disappeared and he sounds truculent.
‘Not today, mate. I know switching schools is hard but it’s not long now until you break up for the summer, so hang on in there.’ Daniel glances at his watch and starts pulling away.
‘I don’t want you to go, Dad.’ Caleb is holding on tight and Daniel squeezes back before removing Caleb’s arms from his waist and stooping down to his son’s level.
‘Everything will be fine. Honestly. I’m always here and together we’re a team. Don’t forget we’ve got superpowers and we can face an
ything, right?’
When Caleb nods solemnly, I feel tears pricking at my eyes. He seems so grown-up in some ways, and yet so vulnerable beneath it all.
‘Promise me you’ll drive carefully, Dad?’ mumbles Caleb, his lower lip wobbling.
‘I promise that I always drive extra-specially carefully, and we’ll both be back home before you know it.’
Daniel’s head suddenly jerks up as though he can sense that he’s being watched. I step further back behind the billowing curtains and pray that he didn’t see me in my grey satin pyjamas. The last thing I need is Daniel accusing me of spying as well as being a sponger. I suppose I was spying, really. But only because I got caught up in what was happening beneath my window. Seeing Daniel and Caleb share a loving moment was so touching, it strangely made me feel both happy and unbearably sad at the same time. My emotions are so unsettled at the moment.
Daniel can’t be all bad if he cares so much for his son, I decide, peeping out of the window to make sure he and Caleb have disappeared indoors. And being a single parent must be hard work. I pull the curtains fully open to let in the sunshine, and vow to give Daniel Purfoot a little more slack. We’re all dealing with our own heartaches.
My drive to work from Starlight Cottage is along quiet country lanes and only takes ten minutes. This, for two reasons, is so much better than having to battle across the jam-packed centre of Oxford. It means that I don’t start my day with a swear-fest that would shock a rugby team. And I also have far less time on my own to think.
It’s become apparent to me over the last few days that thinking is highly overrated and only serves to makes a dire situation even worse. Trying to make sense in my head of what’s happened to my marriage has led to nothing other than waves of sorrow that catch me off-guard, jagged fear that makes me sweat, and bubbling anger that keeps me awake at night.
My mind is also filled with X-rated images of Malcolm putting his back out as he tries to keep up with Marina’s rampant sexual urges. And nobody wants to think about that. So I turn on Radio 2 as I drive down ridiculously pretty lanes edged by beech trees, and try to drown out my thoughts with loud music and cheerful banter. At least I’m not hungry. I often left our Oxford flat without breakfast because I was in such a hurry, but I couldn’t resist Luna’s home-made bread this morning.
Honeyford is awake and ready for business as I drive along narrow Weavers Lane and turn into the High Street. Cottage doors are flung open to let in the morning breeze, colourful flowers brighten grass verges, and shops are ready for visiting tourists and local customers.
Ahead of me, the medieval market house stands guard over the town. The stone floor beneath its arches has been worn into dips and grooves by centuries of market stalls and shoppers. Some of them must have dealt with heartbreak and deception and learned to live with it.
Sighing, I reverse into a parking space near the war memorial that’s etched with far too many names for such a small town. Yes, people here have carried on with a broken heart. They coped, and I will too, I tell myself as I grab my bag from the back seat and lock the car.
I’ve almost reached the bookshop and Cosy Kettle when I spot a poster in the window of Amy’s sweet shop that attracts tourists like bees to a honeypot. The poster is stuck to the glass in between jars of sunshine-yellow sherbet lemons, peanut brittle, wine gums and rainbow jelly beans.
Your town needs you! Take part in the 900th anniversary celebrations of the Honeyford Charter and help to put our town on the map. Planning meeting – all welcome – in Honeyford Market House, 15 June at 7.30 p.m.
That sounds intriguing, though I doubt Honeyford really needs me – a newcomer who’s never even heard of its ancient charter. What could I offer? But it’s heartwarming that this community is keen to celebrate its heritage. I snap a quick pic of the poster on my phone, just in case, and head for the bookshop.
‘The charter celebration? It’s some dreadful community thing that’s being organised by the town’s heritage society,’ Millicent informs me when she comes into The Cosy Kettle for our afternoon book club.
Callie set up the afternoon book club a few weeks ago – along with an evening book club more recently – and both are doing well.
‘The society holds litter picks and an old-ee world-ee Christmas fayre, spelled with a “y”.’ Millicent raises her eyebrows to the heavens. ‘I can’t bear these pseudo-archaic spellings, myself. Anyway, apparently the organisation is run by a dreadful jumped-up committee who claim their events engender a community spirit.’ She leans forward over her cappuccino and inspects my face. ‘You’re still looking peaky, Flora. Are you ill?’
‘No, I’m fine – just a bit tired.’
‘Are you sure that’s all?’ Millicent, for all her sturdy stomping around, can be irritatingly perceptive at times.
I shrug. ‘There are a few problems at home but nothing I can’t handle.’
Callie’s head pops up. She’s bent over the coffee machine, waiting for her espresso and I just hope she didn’t hear me. I still haven’t told anyone what’s happened. Even Becca, who gave me a hard stare when she saw my car heading out of Honeyford yesterday in the opposite direction I’d be going if driving home to Oxford.
Maybe I’d have ended up telling Callie if she was still working full-time in the shop and café. But our time together has been a victim of her success at the hotel coffee house. I’ve got a minor financial stake in the place, so I’m pleased that Callie is running it and doing so well. But I’m always happy to see her when she pops back to give us a hand at the book club.
‘Problems, you say?’ prompts Millicent.
I pretend I haven’t heard her, and Millicent doesn’t ask any further questions. But she watches me as I pop in and out of the café while Callie hosts the book club. And, from the snatches of conversation I overhear, she doesn’t lay into the poor author of the club’s current thriller as much as she usually does.
Our evening book club is growing but the afternoon club is still only attended by a select few: Millicent and Becca, seventy-something Phyllis in her wheelchair, a new mum who will forever be known to us as ‘Knackered Mary’ – even when her baby son hits puberty, Stanley in a black T-shirt and over-tight jeans, and his elderly friend Dick, whose long white beard compensates for the lack of hair on his shiny pink head.
They’re very different people, but they’ve gelled as a group and they look out for each other. In fact, they’ve gelled so well, their fortnightly book club now sometimes meets weekly, at their request. And one thing is plain – they absolutely adore Callie. But I’m not sure they’ve gelled with me.
To be honest, I often feel out of shape around them – kind of spiky and the wrong fit. And though I really like them, I’m not sure that the feeling is mutual.
In between serving customers in the shop and café, I track down a book on Cotswold history on our shelves and search for the Honeyford Charter. There’s a paragraph about it, along with a grainy black-and-white photo of the quaint almshouses that lead down to the river.
Honeyford, a typically attractive small Cotswold town, was granted a charter in the year 1119 by King Henry I. This granted it the right to hold a weekly market in the town centre and permission to roast oxen in the town square.
The town must have hosted a lot of markets! There’s still an organic market held every Friday but it’s moved from beneath the arches of the market house to the Memorial Park in summer and to the town’s small community centre in winter. As for oxen, I haven’t seen a single one since I came to Honeyford. Sheep by the dozen, but oxen, no.
‘Hey, Flora.’ Callie has crept up on me and is reading over my shoulder. ‘Ah, are you going to the Charter Day meeting?’
‘Maybe, though I’m not sure what I can contribute, being so new to the town.’ I close the book, push it back onto the shelf and turn to take a good look at Callie. She’s looking fabulous in skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt, with her wavy blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail.
&nb
sp; Callie’s fifteen years younger than me but there’s a calmness about her that’s soothing, especially when your life is going to hell in a handcart. I take a deep breath as though I might inhale some of her peace.
‘How are things with you?’ I ask, though the answer’s obvious – loved-up happiness is seeping from her every pore. Callie is glowing and has been since she and her old flame Noah settled their differences and became an official item.
Did I ever glow with Malcolm? I wonder. I remember being desperate to see him when he used to call at my parents’ house and take me to the cinema or the pub. I thought I’d die if he ever left me and I would never have believed that, one day, I’d leave him.
‘Things are brilliant,’ says Callie, wrapping her arms around her waist as though remembering her last hug. ‘Noah was able to leave his job without working any notice. His employer threw a hissy fit and just told him to leave. So he’s back from New York now and we’re both living with Gramp.’
‘I heard as much. How’s it going with Stanley?’
‘Ah, you know.’ Callie grins. ‘He’s delighted that Noah and I are together and he enjoys having us both around. Finn offered us a room at the hotel but Noah’s happy to stay with Gramp and keep him company.’
‘Was the hotel room offered free of charge?’
‘What do you think?’ Callie snorts at the thought of Noah’s brother – the owner of Honeyford’s new hotel – offering anything for nothing. ‘But it’s fine living with Gramp for the time being, even though he wants us to sit and watch TV with him every night. Honestly, if we have to sit through another repeat of Midsomer Murders, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Though at least if Gramp’s at home with us, he’s not getting into trouble.’
‘I don’t want to worry you but I did spot him reading a book on extreme sports the other day.’
‘Hell’s bells! That’s like skiing down glaciers and jumping off skyscrapers, isn’t it?’
