by Liz Eeles
‘I’d love to know more about her and her writing, but there doesn’t seem to be any information out there.’
‘How curious,’ says Katrina. ‘And how clever of you to make a feature of the mystery. Oh dear!’ Alan has appeared outside the shop window and is gesticulating for her to follow him. When he calls her name, his voice penetrates the glass and echoes around the shop. ‘Duty calls,’ she sighs. ‘Thank you so much, Flora, for the coffee and the book. And congratulations on securing S.R. Kinsley for Charter Day. Very impressive.’
When she’s gone, I stand at the window, watching the two of them walking along the High Street. What first brought such disparate people together? Maybe they were more alike when they first knew one another – more in tune with each other; more in love? Have they grown apart over the years, like Malcolm and me?
I breathe a sigh of relief as the odd couple turn the corner into Weavers Lane and I slip off my sandals which are rubbing my toes. We seem to have survived our VIP inspection intact and news that S.R. Kinsley’s visit will likely be the highlight of Charter Day is exciting, though scary too. It really is more important than ever that our plans for the day go well.
That reminds me, Becca needs more card to print bake-off posters. I’ve just grabbed my bag for a trip to the newsagent when I spot a group of children, in purple sweatshirts from the local primary school, spilling out of the market house. The youngsters are hard to miss because they’re all wearing luminous yellow tabards, which are stark splashes of neon colour against the weathered stone.
A young man and woman shepherd the children into a straggly line and they all start walking towards my shop, their excited high-pitched chatter piercing the mid-morning air. The snaking crocodile is on the other side of the road but I suddenly spot Caleb, bringing up the rear. He’s slightly apart from the other children and so deep in thought that he doesn’t see me when I go to the shop door and wave.
I could call his name, but I remember from early experiences with my mother that this would be classed as ‘embarrassing behaviour’. I used to beg my mum not to show me up in front of my friends, which basically meant no calling, no hugging and absolutely no kissing. Poor woman.
The children come to a halt at the bus stop and start jumping around, laughing and shouting. Coaches often pull up here and disgorge tourists, but there’s no transport waiting to take the youngsters back to school.
Caleb is standing quietly, staring at the pavement. He’s still the new boy, I guess, and no one is paying him any attention. As I stand watching, he draws up his little shoulders and tucks his chin into the neckline of his sweatshirt, as though he’s trying to disappear. Poor lad. I know what it feels like to be the out of place newbie who doesn’t quite belong.
The young female teacher is looking at her watch and talking into a mobile phone now, presumably chivvying up the absent coach driver. She and her colleague seem distracted and neither of them are paying attention to what’s happening at the back of the sprawling line of children.
A tall boy with short brown hair suddenly approaches Caleb and cuffs him across the top of his head. Wow! I flinch on Caleb’s behalf and watch, feeling helpless, as a couple of the boy’s friends circle the smaller child like wolves. Without a word, Caleb reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a small package wrapped in greaseproof paper. The tall boy looms close and snatches it. The package holds the sandwiches that Luna shoved into Caleb’s hands this morning as he and Daniel were heading out of the cottage. Those bullies have made him hand over his lunch.
Without stopping to put on my shoes, I run out of the shop and over the road towards the huddle of children. A flicker of relief in Caleb’s sad eyes when he spots me approaching is swiftly replaced by alarm as I get closer.
‘All right, Caleb? I thought it was you,’ I say, giving the bullies a hard stare. The taller boy sneers at me but backs off sharpish, sandwiches still in his hand, as the male teacher wanders over.
‘The coach will be here in a few minutes, children.’ He turns to me and glances at my bare feet. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I know Caleb and I had to come over when I saw…’ Caleb gives a slight shake of his head and swallows hard. He clasps his hands together as though he’s praying and opens his eyes wide at me.
‘What did you see?’ asks the teacher, sighing with relief when he spots a coach turning slowly into the narrow High Street.
‘I saw…’
Caleb looks as though he’s about to cry. His lips are pressed so tightly together they’ve gone white. He flicks his eyes towards the bullies and gives another almost imperceptible shake of the head.
‘I saw that Caleb was here and I remembered that he’d forgotten his lunch. I was going to bring it into school later but he may as well have it now. Here you go.’ Delving into my bag, I pull out the chickpea and avocado sandwich I made for myself on Luna’s home-made bread, and I thrust it into Caleb’s hands.
‘Are you Caleb’s mum?’ asks the teacher, before realisation dawns. ‘Oh no, we were told that his mum… well… that she—’
‘I’m a friend of Caleb’s family,’ I interrupt, before the teacher ties himself up in knots. ‘I offered to drive to the school later and deliver his lunch.’
‘It’s lucky that you saw us, then,’ says the teacher, shepherding the children away from the pavement edge as the coach pulls up beside us. ‘They’ll all be starving after a morning outside the classroom. We’ve been doing a history tour of the town as an end-of-term treat.’
‘Excellent! This place positively reeks of historical significance.’ Reeks of historical significance? That makes Honeyford sound slightly dirty.
The teacher gives me a sideways glance as he pulls one child back from the coach wheels. But I wasn’t concentrating on my words – I was far too busy wondering if it’s sensible to keep a bullied child’s secret.
Caleb clasps the sandwiches to his chest and sticks to the teacher like glue as the children troop onto the coach and take their seats. Then he presses his forehead to the window and watches me until the coach pulls away. My heart suddenly aches for the poor child, who seems to have the weight of the world on his small shoulders.
Should I have told the teacher what I’d seen? I’m so busy deliberating over whether I did the right thing that I don’t notice Malcolm standing outside the bookshop until I almost fall over him.
‘Who was that?’ he asks, pushing another bunch of flowers into my arms. This bunch is lily-free, thank goodness, and looks as though it’s been hastily bought in a local garage. The sticky residue of a badly removed price sticker is visible on the gerberas’ cellophane wrapping. ‘And why are you barefoot? You’re not turning into a hippy like that Luna woman, are you?’
He stares at my feet with thinly disguised distaste. Malcolm likes to be well dressed on all occasions and has always expected the same of me. Bare feet, in his book, are the start of a slippery slide into drug-fuelled psychedelia.
‘I was hot,’ I say, pushing open the door and letting Malcolm go in ahead of me.
Actually, again today he’s looking rather less well dressed than usual. His shirt has a few creases down the arms and there’s stubble across his usually clean-shaven jaw. In spite of myself, my stomach clenches at the thought he might not be looking after himself properly.
‘Who was that child you were giving something to?’ he asks, nodding hello absent-mindedly at Becca, who’s standing by the shop window.
‘Was Caleb all right?’ asks Becca. ‘I saw him getting on the coach and he looked a bit upset. I thought—’
‘Who the hell is Caleb?’ butts in Malcolm.
He’s the son of the man I almost kissed last night and now I keep thinking of Daniel and me, a tangle of arms and legs, under the trees at Honeyheaven Lake. For one weird Luna moment, I worry that Malcolm can read my mind. But he leans against the counter, looking puzzled rather than horrified.
‘Well?’ he demands.
‘He’s Daniel’s son,’ says
Becca. She spots a flicker of alarm pass across my face and blushes deep pink. ‘Um, I’d better go and clean the coffee machine.’
She scoots off while Malcolm narrows his eyes and smiles. ‘So this Daniel’s got a son, has he? Daniel’s married, then. I thought as much.’
I should leave it there. Let Malcolm think what he wants to think and carry on with my life – perhaps with our life. But it’s the smug smile that gets under my skin. It’s the smile of a man who’s confident that his betrayed wife couldn’t possibly be getting up to any hanky-panky because she’s far too ‘sensible’.
‘He was married,’ I say, slowly, ‘but, sadly, his wife died a few years ago.’
‘She died,’ splutters Malcolm.
‘That’s right, so Daniel’s on his own with Caleb.’
I know it’s wrong but I suddenly want to inflict just a little of the same upset on Malcolm that he’s inflicted on me. Does that make me a bad person? Right now, I don’t much care.
Malcolm does a double take at Millicent’s magnificent chrysanthemums and scowls. ‘And I suppose he bought you those.’
I shake my head because I can’t take this too far. Malcolm’s likely to turn up at Luna’s after having a few too many and challenge Daniel to a duel, or something equally ridiculous. He sometimes turns into a bit of an arse when he’s been drinking.
‘Millicent brought me the flowers,’ I tell him.
‘Millicent?’
‘A woman who belongs to The Cosy Kettle’s afternoon book club. I’m sure you’ve seen her – tallish, tends to wear gilets, looks like she owns a horse, though she doesn’t. At least, I don’t think she does.’
‘It doesn’t really matter who she is, but why is she buying you flowers?’
‘They’re to impress Alan, who runs the Honeyford Heritage Society. He paid us a visit this morning to discuss the Charter Day celebrations.’ When Malcolm looks blank, I point at one of Becca’s bake-off posters on the wall near the biographies section. ‘We’re a part of the community in Honeyford, so we’re a part of the celebrations.’
‘Have you worked out what you’ll be doing on the day?’ He runs his hand along the reading glasses for sale and starts leafing through the book-cover postcards we stock.
‘More or less. We’re finalising the programme at the moment but the day culminates with a talk by S.R. Kinsley.’
Malcolm’s head flicks up. ‘You’ve got the S.R. Kinsley coming to your shop?’
‘I have. He lives in London but he’s promised to be here that afternoon if we cover the cost of his train fare. He knows Millicent, apparently, and loves the Cotswolds.’
Malcolm thinks for a moment and smiles. ‘That’s quite a coup, Flora, and he’ll be a great draw for your shop and café. Well done for bagging such a big name.’
My shoulders soften at Malcolm’s encouragement. ‘I know. It’s a big deal for me, the shop and for Honeyford, and I’m desperate for it all to go well. It’ll kind of prove that I do belong here.’
‘I want it to go well too and for your shop and café to be a great success. You know you have my one hundred per cent support, don’t you? I admit that I haven’t always supported you as much as I should have, and I hadn’t realised quite how much being a part of Honeyford meant to you. But that all changes from now on.’
When I don’t reply, he pushes his hands through his hair. ‘How can I prove to you how much I value what you’ve done here and how much I want you to succeed? I shouldn’t have tried to tie you to the restaurant and what I want. You need to be your own woman, Flora. So you can decide what’s best for you – which I hope is coming home so our life can go back to normal.’
Malcolm is saying all the right things and I so want to believe that he means them.
‘Please, Flora. You can’t keep me on a string with all this wavering. Are you trying to be cruel?’
‘Have you ever known me to be cruel?’
‘No. But I need to know one way or the other what’s happening. Are you coming back?’
As Malcolm waits for my answer, I notice a dull throbbing just beyond my hairline and realise I’ll have a cracking headache before long. Bombastic society chairmen, children with secrets and needy husbands are just too much to cope with in one go.
‘Look, Malcolm. I’m not trying to be difficult but I honestly don’t know what to do. I’m confused about the whole situation and there’s so much going on here with Charter Day, I can’t think straight at the moment.’
‘OK, I get that you see Charter Day as a watershed moment for you and your business, and you’ve got a lot on your mind. But once the celebrations are over, surely you can decide one way or the other if you’re coming home?’
‘Yes, that seems only fair.’
‘That’s sorted then. You’ll give me an answer on’ – he peers at the Bake-Off poster – ‘the third of August.’
‘And if I promise to give you an answer then, you won’t keep on badgering me about my decision?’
Some breathing space, without Malcolm’s constant texts and unannounced visits with garage-bought flowers, seems inviting.
‘I hardly think it’s badgering,’ pouts Malcolm, but then he smiles. ‘Of course I’ll give you all the space you need, Flora, and to show you how much I want you to succeed on your own terms, why don’t I help you out by providing hospitality for Mr Kinsley? I can pick him up from Oxford Station, give him a lovely lunch at The Briar Patch and then drive him over afterwards.’
‘I don’t know. There’s no need. I was going to arrange for someone else to collect him.’
‘Someone else like Daniel?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Just let me do this for you, Flora.’ Malcolm grabs hold of my hands. ‘Let me help your day to be a great success so I can prove how proud I am of you. And then you can give me your answer.’
‘All right. Thank you. It would be helpful if you could meet Mr Kinsley and bring him to the bookshop fed and watered.’
‘It’s the least I can do,’ says Malcolm, and he looks so concerned and contrite, I feel rather guilty about last night’s kiss that never was.
Malcolm seems happier after his offer of help has been accepted and he busies himself pushing his flowers into Millicent’s arrangement, even though the browning roses and wilting carnations look horribly out of place.
He doesn’t hang around because he has to pick up supplies for the restaurant. But as he’s leaving, he twists his mouth like he always does when he’s considering a problem, and asks, ‘Does that man have any more children?’
‘Who, Daniel?’
He nods.
‘No, he just has Caleb.’
‘But I imagine even one’s too many as far as you’re concerned. You never did want children, did you.’
‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want them. It just never happened. Being childless wasn’t a definite choice.’
We were always too busy with Malcolm’s latest restaurant venture and it never seemed the right time to have a family. He always said we were happy, just the two of us.
‘No, of course not. I wasn’t implying that it was,’ blusters Malcolm, one foot inside the shop and the other on the pavement outside. ‘I just know that you don’t like children much.’
‘I don’t feel particularly comfortable around children. But I’m very fond of Caleb and he’s had a lot to cope with in his short life.’
An image of the tall boy laughing in Caleb’s face flashes into my mind and I wonder again if I’ve done the right thing.
‘I’m sure. But think about how lovely and peaceful it’ll be back in our flat, without children yelling and running about. You can concentrate on building up your business, with my help, obviously. You will always have my support. I promise.’
I watch him stroll back to his car, which is parked on double-yellow lines outside the town pharmacy. You need to be your own woman, Flora. Malcolm hasn’t sounded so heartfelt or looked so vulnerable since… I don’t know when. As he revs his c
ar and screeches off along the High Street, I vow that I’ll get myself sorted out and give him an answer on Charter Day.
Chapter Seventeen
Caleb is in his bedroom when I knock on his door before tea.
‘Yeah?’ He opens the door a crack and pokes his pale face through. There’s a trace of surliness in his expression that hints at the teenage years to come. Good luck, Daniel!
‘Can I have a quick word with you?’ I ask, smiling broadly to show I come in peace.
‘What about?’
‘About what happened this morning.’
‘Oh.’ His face falls and he suddenly looks sad, as though he was expecting this conversation but not looking forward to it. He opens the door wide without another word.
‘I just want to make sure you’re OK. That’s all.’
Stepping over the plastic action figures scattered across his floorboards, I walk into the centre of the room and go to sit on his single bed, with its X-Men duvet cover. But it reminds me of sitting on his father’s bed – what was I thinking? – and I veer off towards the window. Outside, thick grey splodges of cloud are nestling on top of the hill and spots of rain are splattering the glass.
‘The weather’s too rubbish for you to play outside this evening. That’s a shame.’
Caleb shrugs and sticks out his bottom lip. ‘It’s all right. There’s no one to play with,’ he says, without a trace of self-pity.
‘Couldn’t you invite someone round for tea one night? I’m sure Luna wouldn’t mind. She could cook one of her lentil stews or her fabulous apple pies. They’re even better than the apple pies we sell in The Cosy Kettle.’
‘No, you’re all right. I don’t mind being on my own. It’s better really.’
Caleb picks up a Horrible Histories paperback off his bed and starts leafing through it.
‘Can we talk about what I saw this morning, outside my shop?’ I ask him, gently.
He carries on leafing and mumbles, without looking up from the pages, ‘I just forgot my lunch, that’s all.’
