The cottage that Rosie and Jenna had once dubbed ‘the witch’s
house’ wasn’t far out of her way back home.
She drove out of Aldeburgh, past Snape, and turned off the Orford road
towards Butley. Once through the
village, she headed towards Woodbridge, along an open unfenced road, lined with
oak trees, and wide flat fields on either side.
Tiny whirling grains of ice rustled against the windscreen, and the sky
loomed heavy and grey. The trees on her right began to grow closer and closer together,
interspersed now with huge stands of holly, so dense and dark a green that in
this light they seemed almost black.
Gnarled, twisted branches grasped at the air, or lay tangled and
decaying on the ground, meshed over with dead bracken and brambles. In the depths of winter, it was a bleak, even
sinister place, and easy to imagine witches living here – or wolves. Not for the first time, Jenna thought that it
would be even creepier after dark.
She’d forgotten exactly where
Fran’s house was, and missed it. Racking
her brains, she seemed to remember that the entrance was next to a footpath
sign on the edge of the woods, and did a u-turn at the next junction. Fortunately there was no traffic on the road,
though she’d earlier passed a couple of cars heading for Butley, so she could
drive slowly, determined not to miss the turning again. The snow, or sleet, was falling harder now,
blurring her vision, and she turned the wipers on. Where was the bloody entrance? There,
by the sign at the end of the fence. She
swung the little red Peugeot through the opening on her left, and hard left
again down a rutted track. A couple of
rabbits sprinted into the undergrowth as the car jolted along. Jenna peered through the increasingly
obscured windscreen, and then suddenly jammed the brakes on as another car appeared
in front of her.
Fortunately, it was stationary,
and already sprinkled with a dusting of snow.
She turned the engine off and got out.
The witch’s house, built of brick
and flint with gothic windows and a pointed thatched roof like a hat, was
twenty yards away. Back in the warmth and sunlight of summer,
when she and Rosie had walked along that path and looked through the trees at
the ancient half-derelict cottage, sinking down into the shrouding trees and
undergrowth, it had seemed sad and unloved, yet also utterly at one with the
landscape in which it was set. Now, the
foliage gone, the thatch renewed and the window frames freshly painted, she
hardly recognised it. Encouragingly,
there was smoke rising from one of the two chimneys, and lights inside. Jenna walked gingerly up to the front door,
which was painted a soft green, with a bull’s eye circle of thick glass set
into it at eye level. It was protected
by a tiny thatched porch with a bench on either side, under which stood two
pairs of wellies, one large and black, one much smaller and decorated with blue
and pink flowers. She raised her hand to
knock, but before her hand could make contact with the wood, it was flung open
and Flora stood in front of her, rather flushed, her hair back in the severe
plaits which she had worn at their first meeting. “It is
you!” she said. “Have you come to
help? Da said you could, and we couldn’t
think of anyone else, except Mrs. Carroll of course, but we don’t know her
phone number or where she lives.”
“How about, ‘Hello, Jenna, how
lovely to see you, do come on in,’” said Fran’s amused voice behind her. “Hurry up and shut that door, lass, before
all the heat disappears.”
Flora stood aside, and Jenna
walked past her and into the cottage.
She had expected a quaint, country-style interior, and was so surprised
by what she saw that she stopped abruptly, looking around her. The whole ground floor had been opened up
into one huge room, light and warm and spacious. To her left, a cavernous fireplace hosted a
wood-burning stove, substantially larger than her own, cheerful flames glowing
behind its glazed door, and two big sofas and a couple of armchairs were
grouped round it. There were ranks of
bookshelves on either side of the hearth, and above it a blown-up photograph of
a Scottish landscape, full of sunlight and shadows marching across a hunched,
brooding range of mountains. To her
right lay the kitchen, separated from the living area by a long beech table,
scattered with papers and coffee mugs.
“Gosh,” she said, rather inadequately.
“What a lovely room.”
“Not what you were expecting?” Fran came forward from the table,
grinning. “Don’t tell me, chintz and
floral and beams.”
There were no beams at all, just
walls and ceiling in a rich shade of cream.
The room smelt of woodsmoke with undertones of paint and varnish. Jenna said, “How did you guess?”
“It’s the classic English
cottage, isn’t it? From the outside,
anyway. I felt like doing something
different with it, and it’s not listed, so I had it turned from four pokey
little rooms into one big one.”
“I’d have thought it would have
been listed,” said Jenna, still looking round.
There was a rather battered guitar propped up on the further sofa, beside
a sheaf of sheet music. “Isn’t it really
old?”
“Mid-nineteenth-century,
masquerading as Tudor Gothic. Its real
name is Keeper’s Cottage, which is a bit of a giveaway. But it does mean that it’s built solid. Most of what needed doing was just cosmetic –
apart from the damp proofing, the plumbing, the electrics, the insulation... Tea?
Coffee?”
“Tea, please.” She followed him round the table, which was
strewn with books and text books that must be Flora’s, and into the kitchen
section. Everything was plain,
functional, and simple: no fuss or frills.
The kettle, though, was transparent, and blue LED lights glowed round
the base when Fran switched it on. As
bubbles began to rise through the water, he took two mugs from hooks below the
wall cupboards and dropped a tea bag in each.
“Can I have chocolate? Please?
As it’s snowing?” After shutting the door, Flora had
followed them and was looking pleadingly at her father with large blue eyes very
similar to his.
“What’s the fact that it’s
snowing got to do with it?” Fran asked, entirely reasonably in Jenna’s opinion.
“Because it means it’s cold, and
hot chocolate warms you up,” Flora said.
After a term at a Suffolk school, there was little trace now of her
American accent: instead, an interesting mix of Fran’s soft Scots and the
harsher local tones infused her voice.
“And I’ve worked very hard,”
she added.
“Indeed you did, once I’d
cracked the whip. Be off back to your
books, and I’ll bring it over.”
“Thank you, Da!” said the child,
and sat down at the table with an expectant look on her face.
“I think I know why you need my
help,” said Jenna, with a smile.
“Homework causing problems?”
“Aye, there is that, and my
maths isn’t a lot better than hers. But
there’s something else as well.” He
poured milk into the mugs, removed the tea bags and made another mug of instant
chocolate with the water left in the kettle.
“Here you are, hen. I’m just
going to show Jenna the rest of the house, then we’ll be back, so make sure
you’re ready for us – it’s very kind of her to help, so we don’t want to take
up more of her time than’s absolutely necessary, OK?”
“OK, Da,” said Flora, and began
shuffling her work books into some sort of order. Fran led Jenna to a door at the back of the
kitchen. Through it was a flagstoned
utility room, with the usual appliances, and two more doors, obviously original
ledged and braced, though they had also been newly painted in the same soft
green as the one at the front of the cottage.
“Downstairs toilet and shower,” Fran said, giving it a cursory wave of
his hand, “and stairs up – three bedrooms, bathroom, en suite.“ His
voice dropped. “Since they’re in a state
of considerable disarray, I’m not going to give you the guided tour, but I
wanted to explain without Little Miss Long-Ears listening in.”
“OK, fire away,” Jenna said
cautiously.
She'd thought she knew what was
coming, but she was wrong, and his words took her by surprise. “It’s Krystal,” he said. “She’s just signed a contract for two more
series of this cop show – it’s been a big ratings hit – and she wants Flora to
go to a private school, preferably with a scholarship. So she’s in something of a panic, asking me
to give her tuition, especially in maths.”
“Ah. A private school here?”
“No, in the States. For obvious reasons, she’s thinking of a
boarding school – they’re not as usual over there as they are here, and they
tend to be very difficult to get into, and very expensive. Hence the need for intensive coaching.”
Jenna had only met Flora three
times, but somehow she couldn’t see her at an exclusive private school. However, she had no right to criticize or
object, so she said neutrally, “What are your thoughts?”
“My thoughts?” Fran looked
surprised, and ran his fingers through his hair, making it flop over a
different part of his forehead. Then he
grinned. “You’ve never met Krystal, of
course. Anyone else’s thoughts won’t come
into it.”
“Not even Flora’s?”
“Well ... I haven’t told her
yet. I really haven’t had the
heart. She’s been doing so well at
school here, loves it, made lots of friends – I did suspect they all thought
she was glamorous, being American and having a mother who’s been on TV, but some
of them have been here for tea and they seem really nice kids, all just being
normal and giggly together. And their
mums are very friendly too, I had to go up to London to demo some stuff before
Christmas and there was no problem finding someone to have her after school
until I got home.”
I bet there wasn’t, Jenna thought wryly. Single dads always attracted sympathy and
offers of help, as if they must be totally clueless without a woman to manage
them.
“Anyway,” Fran went on, “when
Krystal dropped this bombshell yesterday, I thought you might be able to
help. I know you said you didn’t fancy
going back to private tuition, and I won’t be offended if you say no. I’m sure there are lots of others out
there. But we’re old friends, and I’m
not asking for a favour – Krystal will be paying, and paying handsomely. And Flora likes you, which makes it a lot
easier, because if she doesn’t like you, there’s usually trouble. As some of her teachers in the past have
discovered, to their cost.”
“I assume she likes her present
teacher?”
“Aye, Mrs Carroll stands no
nonsense, but she’s got a good sense of humour and knows how kids tick. She has the gift of making learning fun,
too. Anyway, Flora’s having a bit of
trouble with the maths homework she’s been given for the holidays, so I thought
you might be able to give her some help with that and see how the two of you
get on one to one.” He gave her an
appealing grin. “OK, I know it’s a bit
of a cheek, but you can feel free to tell me to sod off if you like.”
“I can’t,” Jenna pointed
out. “You’ve already told her I’m going
to help.”
“Oh, Christ, sorry, so I
have.” He ran his fingers through his
hair again. “I’ve really cocked this one
up, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to put you on
the spot.”
His contrition was so obviously
genuine that she took pity on him. “Of
course I’ll do it, idiot. Anyway, bright
girl like Flora, it shouldn’t take long to sort her out for next term – when
has it got to be handed in?”
“Officially they should have
gone back today, but the school’s closed for an extra couple of days,
apparently the boiler's broken down and won’t be fixed until Thursday. But you’re right, it’s only a few sums,
shouldn’t be a problem – I just wanted to see how the two of you got on,
really. Just don’t mention anything
about the American school idea yet, please – I need to think quite hard about
how I’m going to tell her.”
“Wouldn’t Krystal do that?”
Fran grimaced. “She’s going to be filming twelve hours a day
for the foreseeable, apparently, so she won’t have much opportunity to talk to
her on the phone, given the time differences.
So she left it up to me.”
Jenna was beginning to take an
active dislike to the woman, even though they’d never met. She wondered what Fran, who seemed so
sensible and grounded, had ever seen in her.
The usual story, probably. She
said, “Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word.
Shall we go back in? The tea will
be getting cold and Flora will be suspicious if we stay out here too long.”
She did indeed eye them
assessingly when they returned to the kitchen.
Jenna picked up her mug of tea, now cool enough to be drinkable, and
went to sit beside her. “What have you
been doing? Can you show me?”
Flora was having trouble with
decimals, a problem with which Jenna was completely familiar. She went over all the various strategies and
methods, and the child listened intently and asked a couple of pertinent
questions. It took a couple of minutes
to jot down a selection of ten increasingly difficult sums, so that she could
check that it had all sunk in, and then she joined Fran on the sofa by the
stove. “I think she’s got it, but I gave
her some work to do to make sure. You’d
be amazed how many bright kids get flummoxed by place values. I remember one of my colleagues said when she
retired that she’d taught for more than thirty years and the children in her
last class still didn’t know where to
put the decimal point.”
Fran chuckled. “Thanks.
I knew you’d sort it.” He looked
at her sideways over his mug. “Sorry
again.”
“What for?”
“For taking advantage of your
good nature.”
“Shut up. I like doing friends favours. I like Flora.
I know I said I didn’t want to do tutoring again, but this is
different. Anyway, I get a nice cup of
tea and a nose round your lovely cottage.
As for the other ... I’ll think about it, but I’m not sure it’s
...” She paused, trying to think of a
phrase that wouldn’t alert Flora in any way, though she seemed intent on her
maths book. “I’m not sure it’s a good
idea, long term. But that’s not up to
me.”
“Nor me, unfortunately. When a certain person has a bee in their
bonnet, it’s very hard to dislodge it. Rather
like another certain person, in fact. I’ll
let you know what happens.”
“Thanks.” She was about to say
more, but Flora suddenly leapt up from the table, waving a piece of paper
triumphantly. “Finished!”
“Already? All ten?”
Jenna got up and went over to inspect.
Yes, Flora had indeed completed them, and on checking, every single one
proved to be correct. She used a thick
red felt-tip to put a jubilant tick against each answer, and handed the paper
back to the girl with a smile. “Well
done, that was great. Do you think you
understand it properly now?”
Flora nodded. “Sure do.
Da, it’s still snowing, please can I go outside?”
“God, is it?” Jenna had completely forgotten about the
inclement weather outside this snug and welcoming cocoon. She went over to the nearest window and
peered out. It had probably been half an
hour since her arrival, and snow had obviously been falling lightly but
steadily ever since. There was now a
generous covering on the grass outside, and the bare branches of the oak trees
surrounding the house, so sinister and bleak a little while ago, were now
delicately traced in frosted silver, as if dusted with icing sugar. She said, suddenly anxious, “I’d better set
off home now, before the roads get any worse.”
“Oh.” Flora, half way to the front door already,
halted, her face a picture of disappointment.
“Can’t you stay? Please, Jenna? We could build a snowman.”
“Sorry, I really can’t. I don’t want to end up in a ditch, or stuck
in a snowdrift, and anyway the kittens need their lunch, they’ll be getting
hungry.” She glanced at Fran, who was
looking at her quizzically. “And yes,
I’m well aware that to you this is nothing compared to the Cairngorms in
January, but I’m not used to driving in any kind of snow, so I’d like to take
it easy.”
“No worries,” Fran said, getting
to his feet. “It was really good of you
to come in the first place. Thanks for
helping.”
“A pleasure,” said Jenna,
meaning it. “I enjoyed it. Nice to have a pupil so quick in the uptake,
believe me.”
“Thank you!” called Flora, already eagerly grasping the door handle.
“I never understood decimals before and now I do! And can I come and see the kittens
again? They’re soooo cute! Bye!” She waved
enthusiastically as Jenna, her hair already sparkling with snowflakes, hurried
back to her car. As she drove cautiously
down the track, she could see the child in the porch, hopping with excitement as she thrust her
feet into the flowery wellies, while Fran vainly proffered a coat and hat.
Halfway home, driving slowly and
cautiously, Jenna was visited by an idea, and pulled up in a farm gateway. She extracted her mobile from her bag and
quickly composed a text. ‘Tell her it might be a bit like Hogwarts,
but without the magic.’ It would
possibly do the trick, though she doubted it.
Flora, with her abrupt, spiky manner, wasn’t the sort of child to take
kindly to institutional life. She could
foresee trouble ahead, but it was none of her business. And if Fran did ask her to be his daughter’s
tutor, would she decline? Or would she
swallow her scruples for the sake of friendship and a bit of extra cash?
It was a tricky one, and she
knew what Saskia would say, if asked.
“Take the money, darling, and do your best by the brat. Boarding school’s not so bad, once you get
used to it.” Her friend’s father had
been an engineer in the oil industry who worked in the Far East for long
periods, and Saskia had been sent back to school in England at the age of
eleven. She had a fund of lurid and
amusing stories which made St. Trinian’s look about as exciting as a vicarage
tea party, but, tellingly, had failed to inflict a similar education on her own
offspring.
By the time Jenna arrived back Wisteria
Cottage, the snow had almost stopped, and a feeble sun had appeared low in the
southern sky, above the marshes.
Relieved to have reached home safely, she turned the key in the lock and
was instantly greeted by Apollo and Artemis, tails vertical, voicing their
pleasure at her return. She fed them,
made a sandwich and a cup of tea for herself, and was just about to sit down
next to the comforting warmth of the woodburner, when her phone rang. She looked at the screen, saw that it said
‘Unknown number’, and pressed the reject button. It was bound to be some dodgy firm trying to
sell her solar panels, or compensation for a fictional accident. Then, too late, she realised that although
she and Andrew had exchanged phone numbers, his had been on a business
card. When it cuckooed again, a few
minutes later – she really must change that bloody ring tone before people
thought she was cuckoo too – she hastily picked it up and said cautiously,
through part of a thick ham and pickle sandwich, “Hello?”
Instead of an automated voice offering
to help her claim for the accident she hadn't had, she heard a man’s voice saying
tentatively, “Hello? Is that Jenna? Jenna, er, Johnson?”
“Yes, who’s this?” She hastily swallowed her mouthful, almost
choking in the process.
“Oh, hi, Jenna.” The man sounded pleased and relieved. “I wasn’t sure if I had your number right – I
just jotted it down quickly at the party. It’s
Marcus here, Marcus King.”
“Hello! Sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice. Nice to hear from you.” Jenna glared at Apollo, who was eyeing the rest
of her sandwich, and wagged her finger.
He stared back innocently, obviously trying to pretend, without success,
that larceny hadn’t crossed his mind.
“I just phoned to say how much I
enjoyed the party the other evening. It
was good fun. Thank you for inviting
me.”
“Not at all, it was great that
you could come. I’m glad you enjoyed
it.”
“Good. Good.”
There was an awkward pause, during which Jenna became aware of a swift
movement out of the corner of her eye.
She turned, just in time to see Artemis, who had sneaked up along the
top of the sofa behind her, leap down and snatch up the sandwich. “No!” she shouted, and made a grab for her,
but the kitten was too quick. She leapt
onto the floor and vanished into the kitchen, bread and ham clenched in her
jaws. Apollo hurried after her, and
Jenna heard a sudden wailing growl: evidently Artemis was defending her prize
to the death.
“Jenna? Are you all right? What’s happened?” Marcus sounded quite alarmed.
“It’s OK, everything’s fine –
just that the bloody kittens have nabbed my lunch.” Jenna sat back on the sofa, laughing at the
absurdity of it.
“Kittens? I didn’t know you had kittens – I didn’t see
them at the party.”
“We had them shut away
upstairs,” Jenna said. Drat, she was
still hungry, and she’d made the sandwich with the last of the bread. “Saskia and the children gave them to me for
Christmas. They’re Burmese, and very naughty.” She began to laugh again. “The sheer ingratitude of it – I’d already
given them their lunch, and then they go and pinch mine!”
“I didn’t know kittens ate
sandwiches.”
“This was a ham and pickle one,
so they might decide they don’t want it.
Or sick it up on the kitchen floor.
You must think,” Jenna added, still grinning, “that I’m a sort of animal
misbehaviour magnet. First Sammy and now
this.”
“I don’t think anything of the
sort!” Marcus laughed, but it sounded a
bit forced: she’d already noticed that he didn’t seem to have a very
well-developed sense of humour. “Look,
Jenna, I’ve got something to ask you – just say no if you don’t fancy it – but
would you like to come out for dinner one night this week or next? There’s a great Indian in Woodbridge if you
like curries, or if you’d prefer fish how about the oyster place?”
“Oh, gosh.” Jenna, taken by surprise, couldn’t think of
anything. “That would be lovely. But I’ve only just moved here, I’ve no idea
where the best restaurants and pubs are.”
In her past life, she would have loved a meal at the Oysterage, but now
she knew she couldn’t afford it. “I do
like Indian, though, or I know the pub just down the road from me does nice
food – well cooked and unpretentious.”
“We’ll go there,” said Marcus,
with the easy, sweeping manner of one who is used to making decisions. “And then neither of us will have to
drive. Foul weather today, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I went to Aldeburgh this
morning and it was a bit hairy coming back.
But it seems to have more or less stopped now.”
“Still snowing here in
Woodbridge,” Marcus commented. “Well,
I’ve got a patient due any moment, what about setting a date? Would Friday evening suit you? I’ll book it for seven thirty, shall I? Great!
Ah, that’s her at the door, better go.
See you then!”
He hung up, and Jenna stared at
the phone in some perplexity, feeling she’d been railroaded into something she
really wasn’t ready for. She wasn’t
annoyed about it, exactly, but Marcus was obviously accustomed to making plans
for other people – just like Rick, in fact.
And she’d tamely gone along with it, just as she’d done when she was
with Rick.
All sorts of potential
complications crowded into her mind. A
meal in the pub fifty yards away would mean she couldn’t very well bid him
goodbye on her doorstep. It would be rude
not to ask him in for a coffee, and all the connotations that supposedly simple
invitation would bring in its wake made her head spin. One thing, though, was abundantly clear to
her: she emphatically did not want to embark on another relationship. Rick’s betrayal was too raw, and far too
recent. And besides, she had spent the
past twenty-three years being Rick-and-Jenna, or The Twins’ Mum, or Rosie’s
Mum. She badly needed to get back to
being just Jenna again, to connect with the real self that had been buried for
a very long time under the demands of domesticity. Here at the cottage, as she made it truly her
home, filling it with things she loved, doing what she wanted, beginning to
make new friends and looking forward to the prospect of a new job, she had felt
that essential Jenna beginning to surface.
She wouldn’t ring him back and
tell him she’d changed her mind. But she
would have to be very firm and very determined.
It was obvious that Marcus King was a man it was hard to say ‘no’ to,
and she knew she must do her best to keep him at arm’s length for the time
being.
Another spine-chilling growl
from the kitchen reminded her of the fate of her lunch. She went in and discovered Artemis crouched
next to the feeding bowls, fur starkly on end, so intent on keeping her brother
at bay that she hadn’t yet had the opportunity to devour her prey. She didn’t notice as Jenna swept
up to her and whisked the sandwich out of her jaws. The expression of astonishment and dismay on
the kitten’s face when she realised what had happened, was comically human.
“No, you’re not having it.” Jenna dropped the sucked and saliva-clogged
remains into the bin. “And neither am I,
unfortunately. Time for a brisk walk, I
think.”
She left Artemis vainly
searching the floor for her vanished sandwich, and went out into the hall. Once well wrapped in her padded jacket, a
woollen hat pulled down over her hair, a matching scarf round her neck, gloves
on and her feet in warm fleece-lined boots, she felt almost ready to do battle
with the weather. With a quick look
round to ensure that the kittens hadn’t followed her, she shut the door to the
sitting room and cautiously stepped outside.
Quay Street ran down towards the
river and the sea, and the east wind surged up it in a flurry of stinging
sleet. Jenna turned her back on it and
strode up the hill towards the centre of the town. She wasn’t looking forward to the walk back,
but if the cafe was open she could get a warming cup of tea to fortify her.
Unfortunately it wasn't, and a sign informed her that it was closed until next week, due to staff holidays. She went into the shop, remembering that she might need some more kitten food, and put
some pouches and a carton of biscuits into her basket. As she paused by the newspapers, debating
whether to treat herself to a magazine to read later, a
familiar voice hailed her. “Ah,
Jenna! I thought it was you!”
She turned, and saw the
formidable figure of Paula Holland emerging from behind the shelves of cereals. “Hi,” she said, aware that she could have
sounded more enthusiastic. “How are
you?”
“Could be better,” said
Paula. Her basket held several wrapped
items from the deli counter, an expensive bottle of wine, and several tins
which looked as though they might be rice pudding. Jenna wondered if they might be for John:
Paula didn’t really seem like a rice pudding sort of person. “It’s the cold,” the other woman
continued. “Horrible day, absolutely
horrible, but then it’s January, so I suppose we should be thankful that the
snow doesn’t actually seem to be lying.
Oh,” she added, looking at the contents of Jenna’s basket, “I didn’t
know you had a cat.”
“Two, actually,” said
Jenna. “Kittens, brother and sister.”
“Ah.” Paula managed to imbue the single syllable
with a complex wealth of meaning. “Never
had cats, myself – allergic. Now, you
haven’t forgotten book group, have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” said Jenna, who
had completely forgotten it right up to the moment when she saw Paula
approaching. “Next Wednesday, at yours,
and it’s Bleak House. Which I won’t have had time to read,” she
added, wishing to make this salient point quite clear.
“That doesn’t matter, the more
the merrier, just come along. Splendid,
so glad you could make it, I’ll see you then,” said Paula, and sailed
majestically off to the checkout. Jenna
retreated to the furthest corner of the shop and took an unwonted interest in
the shelves of nappies and baby milk until a ting from the door indicated that
Mrs. Holland had left, whereupon she returned to the newspapers, chose a
magazine and a couple of loaves, a nice one for the bread bin and a sliced
wholemeal for the freezer, and went to pay.
“Hi,” said the girl on the
checkout. She was about Rosie’s age,
with a nose stud, a tattooed, vaguely Celtic pattern just visible above the
neckline of her uniform, and bleached hair strained back into a pony tail. “Are you on holiday?”
“No,” Jenna told her, with a
touch of pride. “I live here. Down on Quay Street.”
“In one of them holiday
cottages?” said the girl. “Thought I
hadn’t seen you before.” She rang up the
cat food, bread and the magazine with expert speed. “You want to watch Mrs. Holland,” she added,
with a wink. “If you don’t join her book
group she’ll have you any way she can – WI, Museum Committee, Orford in Bloom,
you name it. That’ll be twelve pounds
fifty five, please.”
Well aware that she was paying a
considerable premium for the convenience of doing her shopping five minutes’
walk up the road, Jenna handed over a twenty pound note and received her
change. As she went to the door, her
phone sounded, and she gave the surprised checkout girl a wry grin before going
outside to answer it, in a gust of icy wind.
She’d seen it was from Marcus and didn’t want to be overheard. “Hi!”
“Hi! Just wanted to say that I’ve booked the
table.” Marcus’s voice sounded so close
and loud she involuntarily looked round, expecting to see him standing next to
her, but there wasn’t anyone in sight.
“Great,” she said, trying to
sound enthusiastic. “When for?”
“Friday, half past seven. I’ll call round five minutes beforehand, we
can walk down together.”
Jenna opened her mouth to
protest, and then stopped. There was no
reason why she should object to this, but she would have preferred to meet him
at the pub. “That’s fine,” she said,
thinking that he was probably the sort of man who came over all protective at
the thought of a grown woman on her own in a licensed bar. “I’ll see you then. Look forward to it.”
“So will I,” he said, more
warmly than she found comfortable. “See
you on Friday! Bye.”
She walked back to the cottage,
so wrapped in her thoughts that she hardly noticed the wind stinging her face. He seemed very keen – too keen. It would be sensible, and kind, to tell him
that she wasn’t interested in a relationship, not for the foreseeable
future. Friendship, yes, she could deal
with that: it was what she had rediscovered with Fran, that comfortable, easy
relationship which didn’t presume (or not too much) and was founded on mutual
liking and respect, not to mention a shared history. Of course she didn’t have any history with
Marcus – you couldn’t really spend a whole evening reminiscing about the time
Sammy gave him a cold shower – and she hardly knew him: they’d only met twice. The thought of getting better acquainted was not unpleasant, though she’d
already noted that he seemed slightly lacking in the sense of humour department. Or maybe he wasn’t at all, just lacking in her sense of humour, which had always
been slightly left-field thanks to Nana May.
Nana May. It was five months since her death, and Jenna
still felt an acute sense of loss. She
could have discussed her dilemma with her grandmother, something which would
have been impossible with Patricia, or even with Saskia (‘I never turn down a tasty single man,
darling, they’re like hen’s teeth at our age.’). And Nana May, with her forthright opinions
and the wisdom of ninety-five eventful and sometimes scandalous years, would
have understood.
She’d also have told Jenna to
stand up for herself and be more assertive, to stop hiding her light. And that was something that she fully
intended to do. Just by moving here, and
beginning a new life, she had taken her future into her own hands rather than
Rick’s, or her mother’s, or even Saskia’s.
And, of course, there was her new job, however long it might last, not
to mention the research on the casket to think about: she was still excited at
having taken the female line back another generation. With all this, she didn’t want the
complications and turbulence that embarking on a new relationship would
inevitably bring. It was bad enough
trying to keep the kittens in order.
With a grin, Jenna let herself
into the welcoming warmth of her cottage, made herself another sandwich and a
cup of tea, and settled down on the sofa with her laptop. Artemis and Apollo had curled up together in
front of the wood burner, looking deceptively innocent, and she took some
pictures on her phone to send to Saskia, Rosie and the boys. Then she checked her emails. There was a message informing her that Tom
and Joe had added another page to their blog, and another saying that someone
calling themselves ‘OldBrit’ wanted to be her friend on Facebook. Suspecting a Saskia wind-up, she deleted it,
and spent the next half hour happily looking at the twins’ photos of their
latest exploits, snorkelling off the Queensland coast. “And we actually saw a Great White!” Joe had
commented, next to a picture of a large expanse of impossibly blue ocean,
punctuated by a very small but sinister fin in the far distance. “Are we bovvered? No way!”
Jenna considered what their
reaction might be if she messaged them with strict instructions never ever to
go into the water if there was the slightest prospect of sharing it with a ton
of top predator, and decided on a more passive-aggressive approach. “Glad to see it’s a long way off!” she typed
into the comments box. “Stay safe,
guys!” They’d just dismiss her concerns
as Mum-being-fussy, but at least she’d tried.
And although Joe threw himself into everything with gusto (Nana May had
always referred to him as ‘Gung-ho Joe’), both the boys had a cautious streak
and she hoped that, despite the air of testosterone-fuelled bravado, they
wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. She had
tried her best not to worry, but the fact that they were so far away didn’t
help.
For the rest of the afternoon,
she surfed the internet, looking at her mother’s cruise liner, which seemed
fabulous even if it did look like a vast white brick sitting on top of the sea
– as impossibly blue in the company’s photos as it was in Tom’s pictures of the
Pacific – and at the website for Andrew’s shop.
She also looked up the photographer whose picture she had bought – she’d
already measured it for a frame, and propped it up on the bookshelf so that she
could study it. Claire Stephens proved
to be a woman of about her own age, to judge by the picture of her on her home
page, and as well as a gallery of her work, which was beautiful, there were
also details of the classes she ran, on both the creative and technical aspects
of photography. Jenna stared at them, a
sudden sense of possibilities surging inside her. She hadn’t done anything artistic since
school, apart from working with her pupils, but she had always wanted to create
something. She couldn’t draw, had never
potted, she hadn’t the talent for needlework that the mysterious MJ
had possessed, but photography was different, it required no particular skills or draughtsmanship to get started, but an eye for possibilities and potential, and a flair for composition and design.
And she had a nice camera, a digital SLR, that Rick had bought her one
Christmas after a particularly successful year – had it been the product of a
guilty conscience? she wondered now – and which currently sat, unused and
neglected, in a box in the understairs cupboard, because it was just so much
easier and simpler to take quick snaps on her mobile.
On impulse, she emailed her details
to Claire Stephens. There might not be any
suitable courses running at present, but it was something she could wait for, and they weren’t
expensive. Taking up a new hobby would be
one more strand in the new tapestry she was beginning to weave for herself, one
that was more intricate, more brightly coloured and above all more fun than what had gone before. Then she found the camera in its hiding place,
took the manual out of the box – it was as thick as a small paperback – and began
to study it with a sense of rising anticipation.
