Chapter Seven
“So anyway, sweetheart, don’t forget... Is that everything? You are a darling... to put your feet up whenever you can,”
said Imogen’s mother, alternately repeating her advice to Imogen for the fourth time that morning and directing operations
as the bemused minicab driver loaded ridiculously large amounts of baggage into the boot.
After some minutes, watches were checked, gasps of panic about train timetables were uttered, and in a final flurry of extravagant
waving through the window, her mother’s taxi rounded the corner and was gone.
For over a minute Imogen stood listlessly watching the bend in the road where her mother had disappeared from sight. Giving
herself a mental shake, she took another look at the little hatchback left behind in the driveway. I’ll never be able to drive
it, she thought. Gabriel’s right, I don’t even have the concentration to ride a bicycle at the moment. And then she groaned
aloud. To top it all, she remembered, I told bloody Gabriel I already knew how to drive. He’s bound to see me taking lessons
and know I lied. God, how embarrassing! He thinks I’m eccentric enough as it is.
Energized by her irritation, she went back into the house and grabbed her laptop. Bugger, no battery. Rather than drifting off toward another, easier-to-achieve task, she went through the hall to fetch the cord from the study, but was distracted by a square white envelope on the mat, which had somehow gone unnoticed in the flurry of saying goodbye to her mother. The envelope was bare save for her name, written and then underlined in a strong, decisive hand. Opening it, she found a stiff white card with the address and phone number for Middlemass Hall printed across the top. In the same hand as the envelope was a brief message:
Sorry again about the kiss. Totally inappropriate. I am a good driving instructor though. First lesson 9am next Tuesday, no
strings? It was signed Gabriel with a kiss.
Imogen took a deep breath and propped the card on the mantelpiece in the study, her heart pounding. She should get a proper driving instructor. As Gabriel implied, there could be—would be—nothing between them. That said, she didn’t have his cellphone number, and there was no way she was going to call the landline to ask to speak to the handyman, so she couldn’t even cancel. In all honesty, she was ridiculously excited at the thought she might see him again in just a few days. That was her hormones, she counseled herself. She needed to get a grip. Pondering, she was distracted by Tango, teeth chattering in excitement as he danced along the windowsill, chasing flies. Marveling at his ability to step around all the obstacles ranged across the sill at the same time as keeping his balance on his back legs, Imogen grabbed for a pencil and her notepad. Sketching furiously, she caught, with a line here and a smudge of pencil there, the shapes he made as he twisted and turned, thumping his front paws against the glass in an attempt to catch a noisy bluebottle. After a couple of false starts, he trapped it under his paw and transferred it to his mouth, crunching audibly, before licking his paws and washing his face with a fastidiousness completely out of keeping with his dietary habits.
“You are disgusting,” she said resignedly.
Her voice caught his attention, and he wandered haughtily over, jumping onto the table and making to rub his cheek on her
face.
“Ugh! Gerroff! You’re not kissing me after what you’ve just done,” she said, pushing him onto the floor, where he stalked
off, affronted.
Turning back to the drawings, she impulsively sketched in a city skyline beneath the cat’s feet, making it look as if he was
dancing across the sky like Fred Astaire on acid. Rapidly penciling in some stars and a smiling moon overlooking the bizarre
scene, she held the pad at arm’s length and sighed. She should never have told people she wanted to write children’s books.
But—if not that—what on earth was she going to do to earn money as a single mother?
If there was any doubt Imogen was failing to grasp the reality of the situation, the scan to date the pregnancy cemented the
news. Feeling exhausted, Imogen treated herself to a taxi to the hospital, which was a long, low 1960s building on the outskirts
of Portneath. She managed to maintain her composure when she first saw the squirming little creature on the screen, but—when
the sonographer told her she was having a little girl—the tears came.
“Dad not around?” the sonographer asked kindly as she passed Imogen a tissue. “It’s a lot to cope with on your own.”
A girl! Imogen hugged the secret to her as she stroked her tummy in the taxi home. For all his failings, this little girl
had been Nigel’s last gift to her, a miracle baby conceived in the final weeks before his death. This was now an irrefutable
fact that was both terrifying and thrilling. The future was a challenge that was going to happen whether she liked it or not,
but whatever it held, there was one thing that was in no doubt: Imogen was no longer alone.
After a series of sleepless nights, and desperately searching for a distraction to calm her racing mind, Imogen decided, after
a few hours’ work, to take herself for a brisk walk. She came out of the drive and followed the narrow pavement, heading for
the green and for the village shop. She was so dazzled by the blazing sun, the first she knew of anyone coming the other way
was when her right knee knocked into something solid. Looking down, she met the reproachful gaze of a fat chocolate-colored
Labrador, his eyes rheumy and muzzle almost entirely gray.
“Sorry, old boy!” she said, bending down to pat his head. “I was miles away.”
“You certainly were,” said an amused voice.
Looking up, Imogen saw that the dog was attached to a woman apparently in her seventies, but possibly older, with sensible
lace-up shoes and clearly a good-quality tweed skirt and jacket, their impeccable cut marred by a generous coating of dog
hair and a paw-sized smear of mud on one sleeve.
“I am so pleased we have bumped into each other,” the woman continued. “I really must speak to you about this fate of ours.”
“This fate? Our fate?” said Imogen, blankly. It seemed a surprisingly existential concern for a woman she had never met to
be raising with her.
“The church fate,” the woman elaborated.
Imogen was still confused. What on earth could she be expected to know about the future of the church? Did the old lady mean
the village church? Perhaps it needed a new roof or something. They almost always did, didn’t they? Or, heaven forfend, was
she referring to the future of Christian religion as a whole? In which case, what on earth could she possibly expect Imogen
to do about it?
“The fate of the church?” she inquired, hoping for further clues.
“Well, if you want to put it that way,” the lady replied, looking at her oddly. “Although I’m bound to say it’s unusual to
meet someone of your age who places such importance on syntax. Time is marching on. Of course, you have had to have some time
to settle in, but there is always so much to do, one can never start too soon, don’t you think?”
The lady looked hopefully at Imogen for signs of dawning comprehension, but her expression told a story of disappointment.
Imogen could only imagine what story her own expression was telling.
“My dear girl!” the lady exclaimed. “I am so sorry. You must think me quite mad. Do let me start again properly. The first thing is of course to introduce myself. My name is Winifred Hutchinson, and this is Arthur, by the way. Please call me Winifred, but for goodness’ sake, resist the temptation to call me Winnie. I’m not a teddy bear.”
“I promise I won’t.” She could give her that, at least. “I’m Imogen.”
“Yes, yes, dear, I know,” said Winifred with a dismissive wave. “Now, the thing is, we don’t need you to do very much yourself,
but of course, we will need access to the kitchen for the teas.”
“The teas?” said Imogen blankly, discomfited that after a promising flurry of proper conversation she had regressed to repeating
Winifred’s words with a stupefied expression on her face.
“Yes, dear, the teas,” she repeated, seeing the clouds failing to lift from Imogen’s expression, and starting to sound a little
tetchy. “For the fête,” she added, obviously feeling that repetition was a winning strategy.
“Ooh, the fête ! As in fête? As in jam-making competitions, coconut shies, bunting, and... and... vicars...” Imogen declared, fully
on point at last.
“Yes, dear, that’s right,” Winifred replied with relief. “What on earth did you think I meant? Now, I think the best thing
would be for you to come home with me, and we can talk about it all over a cup of tea and a scone. Look, I’ve just picked
up some lovely fresh ones from Muriel at the shop. She always keeps some back for me, the sweet lady.”
Imogen noticed Winifred had an old-fashioned wicker shopping basket on her arm. A brown paper bag was sitting on top of several
tins of dog food and a pint of milk.
By this time, the ancient Labrador had sized up the situation and had slumped onto the ground with a groaning sigh. At signs of movement, he staggered hopefully to his feet and began to plod along the pavement. Winifred was towed along behind him, throwing rallying comments to Imogen over her shoulder as they went.
After just a couple of minutes, Winifred and the dog turned suddenly through a low gateway. Following, Imogen found herself
on a narrow path, flanked on both sides by a waist-high box hedge closing in a charmingly blowsy cottage garden, with geraniums
and hollyhocks in abundance. The little path led to a perfect miniature thatched cottage complete with diamond-leaded windows
and a heavy oak door.
Settling Imogen in the sitting room, Winifred went off to make tea.
The room was cramped with a large stone fireplace at one side, a low ceiling, and several oak beams. Two large sofas—one with
horsehair poking out of a hole in the arm—were wedged at right angles along two walls; there was an exquisitely inlaid occasional
table, an overstuffed armchair, and a beautiful but threadbare Persian carpet. The impression was one of someone who was used
to living in grander circumstances having moved to a smaller house.
Imogen was standing, peering at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece, when Winifred returned with a laden tray.
“Is this you with your husband?” said Imogen, looking at an old photograph of a pretty young woman standing arm in arm with
a man in flares.
“Gracious, no,” said Winifred. “I was never married my self. That’s me with my brother, Graham. He’s no longer with us, sadly.”
“I’m sorry,” said Imogen, unsure whether she was expressing sympathy for the death of Winifred’s brother or for her single
state.
“Don’t be, my dear. I did meet somebody around the time that was taken. He was in the army,” she mused. “We got engaged while
he was on leave at Christmas and agreed to get married the following summer, but I never saw him again. He was killed in a
training exercise.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Imogen, appalled. “I’m so sorry... Was he... I mean, would he have been the love of your life?”
“Goodness no, certainly not,” replied Winifred. “It was all very well at the time, but in retrospect, we were quite wrong
for each other. Far too young, as well. Of course, we never did have a chance to marry and find out for sure, but I have always
thought it would have been the most dreadful mistake if we had. Anyway, my lovely brother, Graham—he had a learning disability,
you know—he could never have lived alone. I looked after him all his adult life, but then when he died a few years ago, I
upped sticks and moved to Middlemass. Didn’t need such a big house then, of course. Plus, I was keen to move somewhere less
remote. It’s good to be in the middle of a village. There’s lots going on, and it keeps me busy.”
All the while, Winifred was deftly pouring tea and milk before handing Imogen cup, plate, and knife, and offering the plate
of scones.
“Are you married?”
“I—no—I’m not,” Imogen stuttered, wondering when, if ever, it was going to get easier to tell people. She took a deep breath
and broke the news.
“Goodness, my dear. How absolutely awful for you,” said Winifred. “So now you are all on your own,” she continued with calm
compassion.
“Not for long,” said Imogen, and found herself telling Winifred all about buying the house just before Nigel was killed and
moving in after the funeral. She finished by telling her about the baby.
“My dear,” she said in dismayed concern. “Although I must say I hold modern women like you in absolute awe. In my day it was
never dreamt of that a woman would have to juggle work with having children, and then one had a nanny to look after them anyway.
Really,” she said wonderingly, “I just can’t think what women of my generation used to do with their time.
“Have another scone, my dear. If you don’t mind my saying so, you do seem awfully slight for someone who is having a baby.”
“I’m stronger than I look,” said Imogen automatically. “I’m so sorry to have gabbled on like that,” she added, feeling she
was making a habit of it. “I don’t think I like people to know about Nigel on the whole, because I hate the thought of people
being embarrassed and then feeling they have to behave differently in some way.”
“Quite right,” said Winifred robustly. “In my day, everyone said they were sorry just once and then turned a blind eye and expected you to buck up and get on with it. I just can’t see the point of all this navel-gazing everyone seems to go in for nowadays. It seems to me people do no more than stub their toe, and they have to have four years of counseling to recover from the experience.
“Now then,” Winifred continued briskly, pouring Imogen another cup of tea. “Back to the fête. It’s been held at Storybook
Cottage for years, you see, and now that your predecessor has sadly died, the general assumption is that the new resident
will continue the tradition.”
“Right,” said Imogen, “but wouldn’t the church fête usually be held at the vicarage?”
“Of course, it would be, but the vicarage was turned into a home for mad old dears absolutely years ago—there but for the
grace of God go I—then we held it for several years at Middlemass Hall. That worked very well until the family leased the
place to this ghastly conference center company. We went to book the date, and this flibbertigibbet child in a cheap red suit
with a short skirt had the audacity to start talking about hire charges and in-house catering—made the whole thing totally
impossible. Thank goodness we had Storybook Cottage to turn to, and of course the gardens plus the lovely orchard make it
absolutely ideal. We have the tea tables and the cake stall in the kitchen garden, put the bric-a-brac, white elephant, plant
stall, and tombola in the main garden, and then the orchard is free for the children’s games and the tug-of-war.”
“It all sounds wonderful,” said Imogen cautiously. “And, of course, you are all more than welcome.”
“Excellent, my dear. I knew you would agree.”
Just then, Imogen’s mobile tweeted loudly. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized as she reached for her bag. “It’s my phone, I’d better just check...”
There on the screen was a text from her mother:
Darling , it read, All fine here. How are you? Big jugs, Mummy xxx
P.S. Told you I could text!
“It’s from my mum,” she explained to Winifred, swiftly tapping a reply. I think you mean “big hugs” mum! :) Predictive text can be a minefield, can’t it?
“Sorry,” she told Winifred as she pressed send. “I must introduce you. I think you two would get on.”
Imogen was seriously thinking of ditching her landline phone as—yet again—she found herself thundering down the stairs from
the attic to answer it.
“Er, hello?” she said. Silence. Just as she was about to hang up, a tight little voice said, “Imo?”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“It’s me,” stronger now, but cracking slightly.
“Sally! My God, what’s the matter?”
“Hi! Oh, nothing. Just a bit tired actually, you know how it is. Unrealistic deadlines, impossible clients, staff crises,
and now—to top it all—my bloody husband’s behaving like an alien. Last night he got pissed and told me he loved me, but he
wasn’t sure if he was still in love with me,” she rattled, her voice rising and breaking into a mirthless laugh.
“That’s not like Alistair,” she said. “He’s devoted to you.”
“Believe it, honey,” said Sally, a little steel returning to her voice. “Anyhow, I completely overreacted. Made a massive tit of myself, and we had a big row. Ridiculous. Long story short, he’s gone off camping with Ed in Devon, and I stupidly insisted I needed ‘me’ time. Which means I’m now stuck here alone in an empty house, bored rigid.”
“Come and stay,” Imogen said. “You can have ‘me’ time with me. Sounds like you need a break, and I’d love to have you here.”
She could tell Sally about the baby.