Chapter Twelve
Imogen wanted to hold onto the feelings the Story Time session had given her – the sense of belonging – for as long as possible, and on Friday morning she sprang out of bed the moment Birdie called up the stairs.
She didn’t want to stay in her pyjamas, and she didn’t want to stay inside: she was desperate for more of what Mistingham had to offer.
She had arranged to help Sophie with the notebooks on Saturday evening, but today stretched ahead of her, empty.
She didn’t even want to go to the bakery this morning, because she had started to enjoy seeing Dexter a little too much, and things were complicated enough inside her head as it was.
‘Where are you off to?’ Birdie asked, when Imogen headed for the front door rather than stopping for coffee or toast.
‘I need to go and …’ She searched for a good reason why she was running out of the house like a scalded cat. ‘You don’t want to do our usual meditation? Have a rosehip tea?’ Birdie held up her earthenware mug, eyeing Imogen over the top.
‘I need fresh-air therapy today, I think.’ She waited for the disappointed sigh, but it didn’t come. Birdie was not like Stella Rowsell.
‘It’s good that you’re starting to know what you want.’
‘It’s just one day.’
‘One day, one step. They all lead to more.’
‘Thanks, Gran.’ Imogen gave her a tight hug.
‘See you later.’ She flung open the front door and ran down the steps.
Then she almost turned around and bolted back inside because it was drizzling, the rain more like iced fuzz against her skin than actual drops.
But she couldn’t let a bit of fuzzy rain defeat her.
‘Hello,’ said a voice, and Imogen jumped, her hand pressed to her chest. ‘Your coat is very green.’
‘Lucy!’ The girl had Artichoke on a bright red lead at her feet. ‘It is green, isn’t it? How are you?’
‘I have to go to school,’ Lucy said with a sigh.
‘Every day except the weekends. Artichoke goes with Dad, but he always gets stressed because he can’t have her at the bakery, and he usually leaves her with Fiona and Ermin, except they’re in London today because they’re seeing a musical, and he’ll need to keep going home to check on her, and Fridays are always busy, and Artichoke is small and Darkness and Terror are big and so … ’
Her words trailed off, and Imogen waited for the punchline.
Lucy thrust the lead towards her. ‘Would you like to look after Artichoke? She likes you, and she rescued you when you were in your wedding dress.’
Imogen fought to hide her smile at Lucy’s honed emotional blackmail skills. ‘I’m so glad she likes me. What do I need to do with her?’
‘Keep her company. Make sure she stays out of trouble, that’s what Dad always says.’
‘I don’t have the best record for staying out of trouble.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t run away with her, it should be fine. And you can take her to Dad at lunchtime, and he’ll feed her.’
‘Right.’ Imogen would rather not do that because of her self-imposed Dexter ban, but Lucy’s explanation about how the puppy was an extra complication in his already complicated life, but he’d still let his daughter have her, made her realize that this was the very least she could do.
‘I can look after Artichoke. I’ll take her for a walk, then she can come back here and read with me. ’
‘Yay!’ Lucy did a little dance on the spot, then ran up the road, presumably back to Dexter and then school.
‘Right.’ The puppy was already bedraggled, and Imogen wondered how kind it was to take her on a walk in the drizzle, but then Artichoke strained at her lead, interested in something further up the road, and she sighed.
Wrapping the lead around her wrist for added security, she followed the dog away from Birdie’s house and in the direction of Perpendicular Street.
Imogen couldn’t help noticing all the mistletoe adorning the buildings.
It was on shop fronts, door knockers, and hanging from the tops of door jambs, waiting for unsuspecting people to walk beneath it.
It wouldn’t last until Christmas, but this was to celebrate Sophie and Harry’s wedding, and that was only a week away.
‘I wonder how many kisses the post people have had to have?’ she said to Artichoke. The dog glanced up at her then went back to sniffing the ground.
Imogen started to count the sprigs, got lost after about thirty, and gave up when she reached Two Scoops. There was an ‘Open’ sign on the door, and she pushed it open and went inside.
‘Is it OK to bring dogs in here?’ she asked.
The dark-haired man behind the counter turned and gave her a warm smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes. ‘That’s not a dog though, is it? Artichoke’s more of a squeaky toy, so no problem having her in here.’
Imogen gasped, mock-outraged. ‘Don’t listen to him, Artichoke!’ Inevitably the dog squeaked instead of barking, and the man behind the counter laughed. ‘Shush.’ Imogen tried very hard to keep a straight face.
‘What can I do for you? Is it “National Dress As a Pea Day”, and you’ve come to tell me off for not complying?
’ The man rested his forearms on the glass counter, above the display of all the flavours that were making Imogen’s mouth water.
‘I don’t think that’s a real day, my coat is very warm, thank you, and I would like an ice cream, please. ’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not one to turn down business, but you do realize it’s ten in the morning on a cold-in-your-bones day in November?’
‘Just about,’ Imogen said with a grin, because the days had blurred somewhat, without the routine of work to guide her. ‘But you know when you have a craving for something? I just really want an ice cream by the sea today.’
‘Fair enough. What flavours? If you have lime sorbet, it won’t show up when you drop it on your coat.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘I would like cinnamon, and rum and raisin.’
‘Good choices. I’m doing proper Christmas flavours – mince pie and brandy butter – starting next week.’ He got a waffle cone, and took his scoop out of the water it was resting in. ‘Are you the runaway bride?’
‘That’s me. Imogen Rowsell. I’m Birdie’s granddaughter.’
‘I’m Jason. I run this place, and my husband Simon is the mastermind behind Batter Days.’
‘Mastermind?’
‘Have you had fish and chips yet?’
She shook her head.
‘Do that, then tell me he’s not a mastermind. His batter is second to none.’
‘Biased, much?’
‘Always.’ He grinned, and Imogen couldn’t help returning it. ‘Here you go.’ He handed over her ice cream. ‘Good to meet you, Imogen.’
‘You too.’
‘I expect you’re going to go paddling now, aren’t you?’ he called as she stepped outside.
‘What a great idea,’ she said over her shoulder, and Jason laughed.
She sat on the sea wall, Artichoke beside her.
The dog’s fur was damp, but she wasn’t shivering, and seemed content to snuggle up to Imogen while she ate her delicious ice cream, the sugar probably not ideal for breakfast, but so worth it, because the flavours were rich and the cinnamon tingled on her tongue.
The sea was slate grey with silver accents, its usual blues and greens subdued, though Imogen could see flashes when a wave crested or a bird dived in, disrupting the surface.
The sky was flat, the windmills on the horizon hidden behind its cloak of cloud, but it was still one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever seen.
‘OK,’ she said, after she’d finished the final crunch of her cone and sucked her fingertips clean.‘Do you fancy a paddle, Artichoke? We’ll have to go home straight afterwards to get dry, but it sounds good, right?’
Artichoke squeak-yapped, and Imogen took that as assent.
She unlaced her new walking boots, courtesy of Hartley Country Apparel, pulled off her socks, then let her bare feet sink into the soft, freezing sand.
‘Is this really a good idea?’ But Artichoke was already straining at her short lead again, desperate to fight the tiny, lapping waves.
Imogen went with her, hissing as the November North Sea met her unprepared toes, but soon they were numb and she was confident enough to follow Artichoke into roughly four inches of water.
‘We’re basically Olympic swimmers,’ she told the little dog.
‘We could swim the Channel if we put our minds to it.’ She squinted at the horizon, where a massive tanker looked roughly the size of an ant.
‘Maybe,’ she amended, but Artichoke was too busy trying to catch waves, and Imogen’s heart ached at the simple pleasure of it, the puppy’s soggy fur.
When she thought they’d both had enough, she led Artichoke back up the beach, then had the uncomfortable task of putting damp, sand-encrusted feet into socks and then boots. The two of them had just made it to the promenade, Artichoke’s wet fur like bristles, when she saw Sophie.
‘Are you OK?’ Sophie asked, her eyes alight with amusement. ‘You didn’t fall in, did you?’
Imogen followed her gaze to Artichoke. ‘No, all intentional. We were paddling.’
‘Good time of year for it.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I’m not really, but Harry and I did something similar last year. I’m pretty sure it was December.’
‘Wow. Even more hardcore than me. How are you feeling?’
‘Feeling?’ Sophie frowned.
‘About the wedding.’
‘Oh – I’m excited! A bit nervous, because I want everyone to have a good time, but mostly I can’t wait to be married to Harry.’
‘That’s good. Exactly how it should be.’
Sophie’s expression softened. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know.’ Imogen glanced at the sea. ‘I’m trying to sort everything out in my head, which works better when I’m distracted. So I’ve had an ice cream, I’ve paddled with Lucy’s puppy who, by the way, is completely impressionable – she didn’t even try to stop me.’
Sophie grinned.
‘I’ve been in Mistingham for three weeks, and it’s made me realize that everything about London feels …
doom-laden. Things here are all gold-frosted mistletoe and fish and chips, the rasp of the waves when you open your window, even in the middle of the night.
That’s much nicer than the shouts and sirens you get in London. ’
‘Birdie’s house is pretty near the Blossom Bough,’ Sophie said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard the shouts of people being kicked out after last orders, especially on a Saturday.’
‘Gentle country folk having a few pints isn’t the same as London finance bros who’ve been drinking vodka and Red Bull since four o’clock.
’ She shook her head. ‘And I get to help you with your notebooks, and you’ve invited me to your wedding.
I love a good wedding – except, it turns out, when it’s my own.
’ She grinned, because she didn’t want Sophie to feel sorry for her.
‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer of help with the notebooks, and if there’s anything I can do … though I don’t know what.’
‘Being able to talk about it helps, but so does focusing on other things. Birdie is wonderful – I knew she would treat my whole situation with no-nonsense kindness – and Mistingham is beautiful. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of exploring it.’
‘Or eating Dexter’s pastries,’ Sophie said, and Imogen blushed.
She thought of a passage she’d read in Northanger Abbey that morning, lying in bed with the window open, the mizzle and the whisper of the waves drifting in. She took a breath and recited it to Sophie.
‘After an agreeable drive of almost twenty miles, they entered Woodston, a large and populous village, in a situation not unpleasant. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it, as the General seemed to think an apology necessary for the flatness of the country, and the size of the village; but in her heart she preferred it to any place she had ever been at, and looked with great admiration at every neat house above the rank of a cottage, and at all the little chandler’s shops which they passed. ’
‘Oh, wow,’ Sophie said.
‘It’s from Northanger Abbey,’ Imogen explained. ‘It made me think of Mistingham.’
‘You recited it so well.’
‘I did some drama training – quite a few years ago, now – but I’m still good at memorizing passages of text, lines and poems and things. It’s a habit I haven’t got out of.’
‘Right.’ Sophie sounded determined.
‘Right …?’ Imogen asked with a laugh.
‘I need to speak to Harry, but would you be happy to do a reading at our wedding, on top of the notebooks? Or is that too much?’
‘Seriously? A reading?’
‘That was completely off the cuff, but your voice … I was captivated. I would love you to read something. In fact, I’m not going to tell Harry. Can you do it, sort of as a gift from me to him? I’ll have a think about the piece, but if you have any ideas then I’ll be guided by you.’
‘I would love to do that.’ Imogen’s eyes were threatening to leak. ‘I’ll have a think about readings, too.’
‘This is so exciting.’ Sophie squeezed her arm. ‘Thank you, Imogen. I’d better rush – I’m already later than I said I’d be, and Jazz will be climbing the walls. See you tomorrow? At the shop?’
‘Sure, I—’ but Sophie was already hurrying away, and Imogen and Artichoke were left standing on the promenade, in the drizzle.
Somehow, she had become an integral part of Sophie and Harry’s wedding.
Trying not to feel too puffed up about it, she picked the dog up and hugged her, forgetting about Birdie’s green jacket or what the consequences might be when it met with sandy paws.