Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
On Monday morning, Beatrice had her head in her wardrobe and was scrabbling around inside it hunting for her comfiest pair of jeans to wear to work, when Sadie appeared at her side.
‘Mummy, I feel sick and I’ve got a tummy ache.’ The plaintive note in her daughter’s voice tugged at Beatrice’s heartstrings.
Sadie’s complaints of feeling sick were becoming a daily occurrence, usually when Beatrice was nagging the girls to get ready for school. She was beginning to fear that Sadie disliked school and was saying she felt ill in order to get out of going. However, she’d read somewhere that in young children mental distress could cause actual physical symptoms, so she wasn’t about to accuse Sadie of making it up.
Sadie had loved nursery and she seemed to have settled into full-time school, but gradually, over the last few weeks – since October half term, in fact – she’d started to mention not feeling well. The usual culprits were feeling sick, and/or pain in her tummy. The symptoms didn’t last long though, and Sadie more often than not perked up considerably by the time she arrived at school.
To Beatrice, it seemed as though Sadie disliked the thought of going to school, but didn’t mind it when she was actually there .
Beatrice could sympathise with that. She used to feel the same about the exercise classes which she used to force herself to attend in the hope of staying slim and keeping fit. Maybe having a week off school at half term had disrupted Sadie and had made her decide she preferred being at home. Or perhaps something had happened at school that had upset her?
Beatrice crouched down beside her daughter, ignoring the nagging voice in her head reminding her that they were going to be late for school if she didn’t get a move on. ‘Where does it hurt?’
Sadie put a hand over her belly button. ‘Here.’
‘How sick do you feel?’
‘Very.’
‘Too sick to eat a biscuit?’
Sadie nodded.
Beatrice held out her arms and Sadie cuddled into her, saying, ‘I won’t be too sick for a biscuit in a minute.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Uh-huh. Has a minute passed yet?’
‘No. How about you put your shoes on? That’ll take a minute.’ Beatrice didn’t usually allow the girls biscuits this early in the day, but she was trying to gauge just how real the sicky tummy ache was.
‘Do I have to go to school, Mummy? Can’t I stay here with you?’ Sadie asked, her face buried in Beatrice’s neck. ‘I promise I’ll be good.’
‘I won’t be here, sweetie. I’ve got a job, remember? All the time you are in school, Mummy will be working in the shop at the farm.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
Bingo! That was it! It wasn’t the change in routine brought about by the half term break that was the issue, it was Beatrice’s new job. Maybe Sadie starting primary school and Beatrice going out to work for the first time in Sadie’s young life, was proving to be too much too soon for her little daughter.
Reassured that there wasn’t anything more serious troubling her child, and knowing that Sadie would soon get used to this new routine, Beatrice gave her a squeeze and stood up. ‘Go put your shoes on and I’ll get you a biscuit.’
‘A Party Ring?’ Sadie asked hopefully.
Beatrice had been thinking more along the lines of a plain Rich Tea, not a biscuit covered in lurid-coloured icing sugar.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she told her, relieved when Sadie bounced out of the bedroom, her tummy ache clearly gone.
Beatrice went back to her hunt for her jeans, and as she did so her attention was caught by the dress she’d bought in the sales last January and had never worn. Should she wear it to dinner with Mark? Black, figure-hugging to a certain degree, but not too much, and covered in a layer of black lace dotted with the occasional tiny diamante beads, it was both partyish and sophisticated – a typical LBD. But was it too over-the-top for a quiet dinner in a small restaurant with a man she shouldn’t feel the need to impress?
This was not a date. She was doing him a favour and getting to enjoy a nice meal at the same time. As long as she didn’t look like she’d just been cleaning out the chicken coop on the farm, did it matter what she wore? Mark wouldn’t notice. So why did she feel this need to look her best?
‘Mummy, I want my biscuit!’ Sadie called, and Beatrice sighed.
She sighed again when Taya cried, ‘Why does she get a biscuit and I don’t? That’s not fair!’
Grabbing the first pair of jeans she laid her hands on, Beatrice yanked them on, then went downstairs to distribute the biscuits before she had a full-blown mutiny on her hands.
‘Mr Stafford? Mr Stafford!’
Mark halted in the middle of the pavement and glanced around. A plump middle-aged woman wearing a multicoloured voluminous coat and a pink knitted hat was waving frantically at him from the opposite side of the high street.
Mark had no idea who she was.
She darted across the road, and he winced when a car screeched to a halt as she stepped out in front of it. It missed her by a hair.
‘It is Mark Stafford, isn’t it?’ she panted as she hurried towards him.
‘It is,’ he confirmed.
‘Thank god. I’d feel awful accosting a total stranger.’
He didn’t like to point out she was doing precisely that. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Oh, I do so hope you can. My class would love you.’
‘I’ve already visited the school,’ he said. Maybe she’d been off sick or on a course and had missed it.
‘I know, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I hear you’re a very amenable chap, very generous with your time.’ She was trying to butter him up.
He said nothing and waited for her to continue, a polite smile on his face.
‘I’m Melanie Parker and I run an art class at the community centre. We do all kinds, from watercolour to acrylic, landscapes to nudes, although it’s probably best not to mention that, ha ha. Would you be kind enough to give a talk? A demonstration would be even better. I understand you do all your own illustrations.’
‘I do, but I’m primarily a digital artist.’
‘That’s what I’d like you to talk about.’ She leant in and lowered her voice. ‘Some of them can’t paint for toffee, bless them, so I was hoping they’d do better with an app.’
‘Admittedly, it’s a different skill set,’ he replied, his voice guarded. App or not, he still had to draw the image, he still painted it: the only difference was the medium. Instead of paint and paper, he used a stylus and a screen. And he often perfected the initial drawing on paper first.
‘I’m sure my students would be fascinated. They’ll be interested to learn how you put a picture together.’
Mark wasn’t sure what to say. He was used to giving interviews and talking about his books, and was used to going into schools and reading to the children. But this was the first time he had been asked to demonstrate the illustration side of his books.
He said, ‘I’m not sure how it would work. I’d need an internet connection and an interactive whiteboard, so I can share my screen.’
Melanie Parker beamed at him. ‘I’m sure we can cobble something together. Can you do tomorrow? We meet every Tuesday at two p.m. in the community centre. I’ll be there from one thirty, setting up. Thanks ever so much. Toodle-oo.’
And that was how Mark Stafford, successful children’s author, found himself trying to explain the ins and outs of digital art to a group of pensioners who thought the term ‘graphic art’ meant drawing people with no clothes on and appeared to be quite put out when they discovered it wasn’t.
The coffee was mud-coloured and had a plasticky taste, but the Jammie Dodgers were nice. As biscuits went, it was one of his favourites. Mark helped himself to two.
Melanie said, ‘I think that went well, don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve converted anyone.’
She laughed. ‘Possibly not. The older you get, the more stuck in your ways you become. This lot – me included – grew up believing that drawing and painting involved pencils and paints. One or two might give it a go, though. But even so, I don’t think I’m going to be out of a job any time soon. It’s the next generation I worry about. Everything is electronic and digital these days – they won’t know what a paintbrush is. Not when it comes to art. Houses still need to be painted. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody somewhere doesn’t invent a way to digitally change the colour of your sitting room walls. Anyway, like I said, I think my students found it interesting. And thank you for signing my grandson’s copy of The Elephant Who Forgot . I love the way all your books have a message. I think that’s why they’re so popular.’ She paused for breath, and Mark took a deep one of his own.
Melanie was lovely, but she couldn’t half talk!
She was off again. ‘How is the new one coming along? I heard you’d come to Picklewick for a bit of peace and quiet to write it. I bet you haven’t found the village as quiet as you’d like if that’s the case, what with dressing up as the Grinch at the farm, visiting the school and now this.’ She chuckled. ‘I wonder what you’ll get up to next? Helping with the nativity play at the stables? They have one every Christmas, you know. The old people love it.’
‘Old people?’ He had a worrying vision of a group of OAPs on horseback.
‘Yes, the kids at the stables put on a play and the residents of Honeymead Care Home go every year to watch – the ones that can manage it, that is. They have a lovely time. And the ones that can’t, are shown it via the internet, on the TV. The staff are ever so good. I should know because my mother is in there. Dementia. So sad. That’s why The Elephant Who Forgot is so special. It helps Joey, that’s my grandson, understand why his Gan-Gan doesn’t know who he is sometimes.’
Mark smiled. ‘Glad it’s of help.’ He hoped his next book would be as useful. They weren’t just for entertainment: he wanted to help educate young minds, too.
‘How are you enjoying being back in Picklewick?’ she asked. ‘I understand you grew up here. From what I can gather, it hasn’t changed much. Mind you, villages like this don’t, do they? That’s their charm. I used to live in Thornbury, but I moved here a couple of years ago when I retired. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m busier now than I was when I was working. I’ve always loved art. Would have liked to do it full-time but it didn’t pay the bills. Now I’ve retired, I can paint all day if I want. Apart from Tuesday afternoons, when I run this art class, and Mondays when I—’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt but I’ve got to get back. A call with my editor.’ Mark was fibbing, and he felt bad about that, especially when Melanie was so nice about it.
‘Of course, I mustn’t keep you. You’re a busy man and you’ve been so generous with your time. Thank you, again.’ She clasped her hands over her heart. ‘We really appreciate it.’
Despite Melanie chewing his ear off at the end, Mark found he’d enjoyed giving the demonstration. They had been an enthusiastic and interested group, and had made him feel very welcome.
In fact, everyone he’d met in the village had been friendly and welcoming. He was beginning to wonder why he’d ever left!
Why was she so nervous? This was ridiculous. It was only a meal.
‘You look nice, Mummy.’
‘Thank you, sweetie.’ Beatrice glanced at Sadie through the mirror and smiled.
‘Are you going out with Aunty Lisa?’
‘No, with Mark, the man who writes the books, the one who we had a meal with on Friday.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’
‘No!’ Realising she’d said that rather sharply, she smiled at her daughter again. ‘He’s not my boyfriend. I’m doing him a favour, that’s all.’
‘What kind of favour?’
‘I’m having a meal with him in The Wild Side, that nice restaurant on the high street, because he doesn’t want to eat dinner on his own.’
‘Is he lonely?’
‘Maybe.’ Beatrice hadn’t considered that.
‘Doesn’t he have any friends?’
‘Not in Picklewick.’
‘ We can be his friends. He can eat dinner here, then he wouldn’t have to eat on his own.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? Doesn’t he like us?’
‘He likes us fine. Get into your pyjamas before Nana and Grandad arrive.’
Her mother had raised her eyebrows when Beatrice told her the reason she was asking her to babysit. ‘Is there something going on I should know about?’ Deborah had asked.
‘Definitely not,’ Beatrice had replied, then went on to explain why she was going out to dinner with him, and that it was purely platonic.
Her mum hadn’t been entirely convinced. But why should she be, when Beatrice wasn’t entirely convinced herself? Her feelings for Mark Stafford hadn’t been platonic back then, and they weren’t platonic now.
She put the finishing touches to her make-up and sat back to check her appearance. She couldn’t do anything about the fine lines around her eyes (whatever claims they made, no creams were able to reverse the effects of aging) but she looked okay. She’d done her best, and she just had to accept that she wasn’t twenty anymore. Or even thirty. She’d be happy with thirty. Thirty wasn’t even halfway. Forty, on the other hand, could very well be.
She’d already laid out her dress, and she shimmied into it, contorting herself into odd shapes as she struggled to do up the zip. With the addition of a clutch bag and a pair of heels, she was ready.
Hearing her parents let themselves in and Sadie’s excited voice, she hurried downstairs, hanging onto the handrail, worried she might fall. Maybe she should change into her boots? The heel wasn’t as high, but they didn’t really go with the dress.
‘Hello, darling, you look nice,’ Deborah said, scanning her from head to toe.
‘I said that!’ Sadie cried.
‘Thanks, Mum.’ Beatrice turned to Sadie. ‘Where’s your sister?’
‘Here.’ Taya was slouching against the living room wall. She didn’t look happy. Beatrice wanted to ask her what was wrong, but she didn’t have time because the doorbell rang.
Mark was here.
Her heart leapt, missed a beat, then thudded as it caught up with itself, catching her by surprise and she coughed to cover it.
Lifting her coat off the hook in the hall, she hurried to open the door. Sadie was right behind her, and the child managed to squirm through it before it was fully open.
‘Would you like to see my toadstool costume?’ she cried, launching herself at Mark.
Mark gave her a hug, his eyes meeting Beatrice’s. She shook her head. ‘Your mum and I will be late if we don’t get a move on. Another time,’ he said.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Anyway,’ Deborah piped up, ‘it’s not finished yet, young lady.’ She was gazing curiously at Mark.
Beatrice sighed. ‘Mark, you remember my mum and dad?’ Her dad was hovering in the background.
‘I do. Nice to see you again.’
Deborah said, ‘You too, Mark. How are your parents? Well, I hope?’
Beatrice stepped in, saying, ‘We’ve got to go,’ and she ushered him away from the door. ‘Bye, girls. Bye Mum, Dad. I won’t be late.’ She pulled the door shut behind her and blew out her cheeks, wishing she had arranged to meet him at the restaurant.
They fell into step, their breath clouding in the cold air, and Beatrice hunted around for something to say. ‘How did the art class go?’
He glanced at her. ‘You heard?’
‘It’s all over the village.’
‘Oh, god. Nothing bad, I hope?’
‘The class loved it, but did you? ’
‘I did, actually. I’ve never really thought about the process before – not consciously – so I think I learnt something too.’
‘Melanie is a hoot, isn’t she? She’s been singing your praises.’
‘She’s lovely.’ He glanced at her again. ‘So are you. I mean, you look lovely. Very nice.’
Beatrice spluttered and began to laugh. ‘Very nice? ’
‘Beautiful. You look beautiful.’
‘Okay, there’s no need to overdo it.’
‘I mean it. You do. You always did.’
What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She blushed furiously, and it made her cross. He wasn’t supposed to compliment her: this wasn’t how this evening was supposed to work.
They walked along the high street in silence, Beatrice feeling embarrassed. Mark didn’t appear at all bothered. She concentrated on the festive displays in the windows and the lights twinkling overhead, and told herself that he was just being friendly. She also told herself that even if he wasn’t, he would be gone before Christmas, his time in Picklewick fleeting.
Then she told herself for the second time that he was just being friendly.
Arriving at the restaurant, Mark held the door open for her. ‘After you.’
She smiled politely and stepped inside, the warmth making her cheeks glow.
Otto came forward to greet them. He was wearing chef’s whites, and Beatrice hoped their arrival hadn’t taken him away from his kitchen duties.
‘If you’re out here, who is in there?’ she asked, after he’d shown them to a table.
‘Actually, I was hoping Mark could give us a hand,’ Otto replied with a chuckle. ‘The Wild Side appears to be the only place that hasn’t nabbed him for one thing or another. I bet you never thought you’d end up being a Grinch?’
Mark shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t, and I can’t believe I did it twice . Please don’t tell me Dulcie is short-handed again?’ he pleaded.
‘Relax, you’re safe. Let’s get your drinks sorted and I’ll send your server over with the menu. Enjoy your meal.’
‘Thanks, I’m sure we will,’ Beatrice said. She opened the menu and kept her eyes firmly on it. Everything sounded delicious, but she was having difficulty focusing. Her mind was stubbornly on the man sitting opposite. Did he really think she was beautiful, or had he just been saying that?
When their server arrived to take their order, Beatrice picked the first thing her eyes landed on. She was sure it would be delicious. Whatever it was.
With the menus whisked away and the starters yet to arrive, Beatrice was once again left with no idea what to say.
Luckily, Mark did – although after a while she began to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
It began innocently enough. ‘Being back in Picklewick, is like I’ve never left. I can’t believe where all those years have gone,’ he said.
‘Me, neither. They’ve flown by.’
‘Whenever I thought about the people I knew, Lisa, you…’ He lingered on the word. ‘I always thought of you as the way you were back then.’
‘Sorry to disappoint,’ she quipped, her heart fluttering.
‘You don’t disappoint. You never did.’
‘You dumped me!’ Oh, hell. Why was she bringing this up? What an idiotic thing to say.
‘I did.’ His voice was gentle. Regretful? Surely not. ‘I hurt you,’ he added, gazing at her intently.
Beatrice looked down and fiddled with the stem of her glass. ‘Nah, it was fine . I was fine. I think. I can’t really remember.’
‘I think you can.’
‘No, honestly, I can’t. Obviously I remember you dumping me, but I don’t remember how I felt.’
‘Yeah, you do.’
‘Are you on some kind of ego trip? Like, do you think that you’re the one who got away, and I’ve been pining for you ever since? I’ll have you know I’ve got two kids. They have a father. I slept with him. Twice. More than twice. A lot. So I haven’t been pining for you.’ She became aware that the gentle hum of conversation in the room had dimmed considerably. Oh god, had everyone heard?
‘He was an arse,’ Mark reminded her.
‘I loved him.’
‘But he turned into an arse. You said so yourself.’
‘So were you.’
‘I was not!’ Mark looked affronted. ‘Just because I ended our relationship doesn’t mean I was an arse.’
Beatrice gritted her teeth. ‘What are you playing at, Mark?’
‘I’m not playing at anything.’
‘Okay, I’ll try again. Why are we here? You could have eaten here on your own – or not dined here at all. Dulcie wouldn’t have minded. Why were you so insistent that I accompany you?’
‘I wanted to talk to you, on your own.’
‘What about?’
He huffed, and ran his hand through his hair, muttering, ‘I don’t know anymore.’
‘I’ll ask again; what are you playing at?’
‘Bea, I—’ He pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how it happened, but you’ve got under my skin.’
‘Is that right?’ Pull the other one, she wanted to add, but was interrupted by her starter being placed in front of her.
‘Parmesan?’ the server offered.
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘Sir?’
‘No. Thank you.’ He stared at his food but made no move to eat it, his fork lying untouched. When the server moved away, he said, ‘We were very young. Barely more than kids.’
‘So?’
He shrugged, lifting one shoulder. ‘We weren’t ready for anything heavy.’
‘ You weren’t.’
‘No…’ He chewed on his lip. ‘I did care for you, Bea. More than you realised.’
‘You had a strange way of showing it.’
‘I didn’t think you were into me as much as I was into you.’
Beatrice snorted. ‘We spent ten months in each other’s pockets. We were bloody inseparable. I’m surprised you didn’t enlist the help of a surgeon to cut us apart. How could you not think I wasn’t,’ she quoted with her fingers, ‘ into you? ’
‘And three weeks.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Ten months and three weeks.’
That took the wind out of her sails. ‘How—?’ she began. ‘You kept count? ’
He shrugged again, looking away.
Could she have got it wrong? Had he ended the relationship because he’d thought she didn’t care? Confusion pulsed through her, beating in time with her heart, rushing along her veins.
However, she refused to let it show.
‘Why are we even discussing this?’ she persisted. What was the point? The past was done and dusted. Whatever they once had, or might have had, was over. Long gone.
‘Because since I’ve been back in Picklewick, I can’t get you out of my mind.’
‘But you… This can’t… ’she stammered, then tried again. ‘You’re leaving soon.’ She squeezed her eyes shut, opening them slowly.
‘I can stay for as long as I want. As long as you want.’
Incredulous, she said, ‘You’re serious.’
‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we’d stayed together?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed.
‘Is everything alright with your meals?’
Beatrice jumped. ‘Um, yes, fine, thanks.’ She had yet to taste a single morsel.
Mark waited until the server was out of earshot. ‘Shall we start afresh, see where it takes us? No promises, no recriminations.’
‘I knew it,’ she muttered.
‘Knew what?’
‘That this was a date. I thought you said it wasn’t?’
‘Do you want it to be?’
‘Do you?’ she countered.
‘I do. Very much. Can I kiss you at the end of it?’
‘Don’t push your luck, buster,’ Beatrice growled, but inside she was singing. This could be the start of something wonderful – for the second time.
Beatrice clung to Mark’s arm, giggling as she tried to get the words out. Walking whilst laughing fit to burst wasn’t easy, especially in these heels, even with him propping her up.
‘What about that time…?’ she began, then doubled over, tears running down her face.
Mark was laughing too, but she had a feeling he was laughing because she was. ‘What time?’ he asked.
‘You know, when you— Oh god, I’m going to wet myself.’
‘Please don’t. You’ll ruin your shoes.’
Beatrice crossed her legs, wheezing as she tried to breathe through her laughter. ‘Stop, you’ve got to stop. I can’t take any more.’
She blamed her state of silliness on the wine. Since having the kids she’d become a lightweight. Two glasses and she was anyone’s.
They had begun reminiscing during the main course, and by the time they’d finished their coffees and were heading out of the door, they’d been laughing hysterically. It was a wonder Otto hadn’t thrown them out: trust her to bring down the tone of the place.
And now she looked like a drunk who needed help to get home. Thankfully there weren’t too many people strolling along Picklewick’s high street this evening to witness her debauchery.
Gradually she regained control and straightened up, uncrossing her legs. The control was fragile though, and she was likely to lose it at any moment. She could feel the giggles bubbling away beneath the surface, waiting for a chink in her armour to explode into hysterical life again.
‘I must look a mess,’ she said, dabbing at the skin underneath her eyes with the pad of her ring finger. The mascara was probably all down her face by now, and she bet her nose was red.
‘We used to have fun, didn’t we?’ Mark said softly.
‘We did.…’
‘We still could.’
Her eyes flew to his face. He wasn’t joking. His expression was serious.
He said, ‘I meant it when I said we could start again.’
‘I know.’ She didn’t. Not for certain. But she wanted to believe him.
He held her gaze. The atmosphere had abruptly changed. It was charged, electric, like the air before a storm. She couldn’t breathe. He was close, coming closer, his eyes filling her vision, his breath warm on her face.
And then he kissed her.