Part 6 (1/2)
”What do you mean, fancy dress?” Henrietta glanced over at Jack Tinton. He looked like any other fifty-year-old in jeans and corduroy jacket.
”They've just taken it upon themselves to dress up as Elizabethan characters and walk about the place for tourists. They charge a pound to have their photograph taken. Can you imagine paying a pound to be photographed with those two clots! The castle pays them five pounds an hour. They rake it in. If you want a laugh, go up there on a weekend and watch them prance around in long skirts and breeches. It's better than pantomime.”
”Better than the castle, too,” said Cate drily. ”Why anyone wants to pay good money to wander around a pile of old stones is beyond me. Go to Hampton Court or the Tower of London, now that's proper history. Not an old ruin that claims to have had Elizabeth the First as a visitor.”
”Bah!” exclaimed the colonel from the corner. He folded his paper and stood up crossly. ”Nothing good about the world these days.” The vicar and her two companions stopped talking and looked up at him in surprise. ”Dirty hospitals, congestion, underpaid, overworked, ill-educated, foulmouthed, thugs, graffiti, gang warfare, exposed midriffs, skinny models, obesity, poverty, terrorism, war, murder, abduction, rape.” He snorted in fury. ”I tell you, nothing good about the world. b.l.o.o.d.y lucky my number's nearly up. Can't be doing with it all.” He moved stiffly across the room. Only the two old ladies continued chatting as if he wasn't in the room. He threw some change on the counter and shuffled out, replaced by a gust of damp wind.
”Ah, so that's why he hangs around after church,” said the Reverend Beeley, chuckling good-naturedly. ”At his age, it's hardly worth going home.”
Cate put the change in the till and returned to her chair, smoothing down her white ap.r.o.n.
”I wonder if he'll come back,” sighed Henrietta. There were precious few attractive single men in Hartington.
”He's in every morning. Takes the same table and grumbles about the same things. Negative people are so trying!” Cate complained, clamping her small mouth in displeasure.
”No, I mean the Frenchman. Do you think he'll be back?” said Henrietta.
”Who can say? Just pa.s.sing through, I should imagine. He was delicious, though. His eyes were the softest brown I've ever seen. He gave me quite a look when he left.” Cate always had to bring the conversation around to herself. ”You know that lazy, bedroom look.”
”How old was he?”
”Early fifties,” said Cate. ”He might come back.” She nodded knowingly. ”A man like that appreciates good coffee.”
They all turned as the door opened, letting in another gust of cold air. ”Told you,” said Cate triumphantly. ”They always come back.” She stood up and greeted Miranda as if she were an old friend. ”What can I get you?”
”A coffee with hot milk on the side, please,” said Miranda. She turned to the notice board and ripped off the piece of paper advertising the two job vacancies.
”Found someone, have you?” said Cate.
”Yes,” replied Miranda cagily. ”As a matter of fact, I have.”
”A cook and a gardener? That's quick,” said Troy.
”Not in this town. Everyone pa.s.ses through my cake shop.”
Miranda didn't have the heart to tell her that neither Mrs. Underwood nor Jean-Paul had seen her notice board.
She greeted Troy and Henrietta with a polite smile-she didn't want to encourage them-and went to sit by the window beside the Reverend Beeley's table. No sooner had her bottom touched the wood than the vicar leaned over, heaving her large bosom across the gap between their chairs. A pair of spectacles on a beaded chain swung over the ledge like a helpless mountaineer. ”h.e.l.lo,” she said in a fruity voice. ”I'm Rev. Beeley, your vicar. I gather you're new in town.”
”Yes.” Miranda realized that she had been stupid to think there was such a thing as a quiet coffee in Cate's Cake Shop.
”As the vicar of Hartington I'd like to welcome you. I'd be delighted to welcome you to church, too, if you feel the desire to attend our services. You should have received the parish magazine. It lists all our services and special events. I do hope you'll come.”
”Thank you,” Miranda replied, pulling a tight smile and wondering if she could claim to be Jewish. Admitting she was agnostic wouldn't be good enough for the zealous Rev. Beeley.
”It is a pleasure. The Lightlys were very devout. They attended every Sunday. The church really came to life when Mrs. Lightly arranged the flowers. She had a magic touch. Her gardens were the most beautiful...”
”So I've been told,” Miranda interjected briskly. She was fed up hearing about the Lightlys' beautiful gardens. If it weren't for the miraculous arrival of Jean-Paul she would shout at them all to shut up. In fact, she felt quite smug, as if she were guarding a delicious secret. ”If they had the most beautiful gardens in England, why did they move?”
”I suppose they didn't want to rattle about in a big house. The children had grown up and moved away, except the youngest who inherited her mother's green thumb. Then, what with Phillip's illness...” The vicar broke off with a sigh and shook her head mournfully.
”Phillip?”
”Mr. Lightly. He's much older than his wife. He suffered a stroke.” She hissed the phrase as if it were a heavily guarded secret. ”She looks after him herself. She's a good woman.”
”Where did they move to?”
”I don't know. They left quietly. They didn't want a fuss.” The vicar inhaled, lowering her lids over bulging brown eyes. ”A most respectable couple. An example to us all.”
Cate brought Miranda her coffee. ”I met your husband on Sat.u.r.day,” she said, watching Miranda pour hot milk into the cup.
”He enjoyed your coffee.”
”Of course. He was very friendly, talking to everyone in here, making lots of new friends. He's very charming.” Miranda half-expected her to finish with the words: not like you. Cate hovered a moment, waiting for Miranda to continue the conversation, then moved away with a little sniff. Miranda didn't mind if she was offended: she didn't want everyone knowing her business.
She turned her thoughts to her children, hoping Gus was behaving himself at school. Storm had been in a bright mood that morning, chattering away about the magic in the garden that Jean-Paul was going to show her. Miranda had found her in her playhouse talking to her cus.h.i.+ons, telling them all about a special friend she had found by the river. Miranda was surprised he had made such a big impression. Storm talked of nothing else but Jean-Paul, the magic, some sort of tree and returning to see the cows. ”They know me now,” she had told her mother. ”They'll recognize me when I go back. Jean-Paul said so.” Miranda recalled the kind expression in Jean-Paul's eyes, the deep crows'-feet that cut into his brown skin. The way his smile had illuminated his face like a beautiful dawn. He didn't look like a gardener. Mr. Underwood looked like a gardener, but Jean-Paul looked like a film star.
Miranda paid for her coffee and left, striding purposefully into the bright, sunny street. She pulled her Chanel sungla.s.ses out of her handbag and walked up the road towards the car park. The air was crisp, the shadows inky blue from the rainfall in the night. She felt a spring in her step. Was it the coffee or the knowledge that Jean-Paul was returning by the end of the month?
”She didn't even say thank you!” Cate exclaimed when Miranda had gone. Troy looked at Henrietta and frowned.
”For her coffee?” he said.
”No, for finding her a gardener and a cook!”
”You don't know that you did,” said Troy.
Henrietta watched him in awe; she would never have dared talk to Cate like that. Cate who was always right. Cate who knew everything.
”Of course I did. Thanks to the notice on my board. How very rude!” She cleared away the cup and milk jug from Miranda's table with an impatient huff. ”I told you she was snooty. Can't think what that delightful husband is doing married to her.” She walked past Troy and leaned over. ”Forget the Frenchman, darling. Miranda's husband is gorgeous and if she continues to walk around with a face like a boot, he'll soon be free.” She tossed Henrietta a look. ”Lose a stone and you can have him, too!” Troy put a hand on his friend's and waited for Cate to disappear into the small kitchen behind the counter.
”Don't listen to her, Etta. She's in one of her moods. I love you just the way you are. If I were straight, I'd marry you in an instant.”
”Thank you,” said Henrietta, her eyes glistening with grat.i.tude.
”Imagine the bruises poor Nigel suffers from having to lie on her night after night. You'd be delicious to lie on. Soft and warm. No bruises from protruding bones.” Henrietta blushed. ”Some man is going to be very lucky indeed to find you.”
”I don't think I'll ever find anyone,” Henrietta sniffed. ”I'm fat and dull.”
”Fat and dull!” Troy exclaimed. ”Listen to yourself! You're neither fat nor dull. You're lovely and sweet, with no side. You shouldn't let her treat you like that.” He patted her hand again. ”Come on, let's get out of here before she comes back. She's a poisonous old thing with a hairy face.” Henrietta looked confused. ”Haven't you noticed? She's got a face as furry as my cat's underbelly. She's chucking up after every meal. You don't think she stays that thin naturally, do you? She's got more problems than you've got insecurities.”
”She must have a lot then!”
”Riddled, darling. Positively riddled. Why don't you come in at five and I'll give you a blow dry. Nothing like a hairdo to lift the spirits.”
”But I've got nowhere to go.”