Chapter Eight
Cricket. It wasn’t her favourite sport, but Vicky felt she deserved a break from sorting through Molly’s things. And rattling around in the cottage by herself, there was a risk that she might begin to have second thoughts about Jeremy.
The cricket club was down a rough path just past the church — the number of cars parked along the hedge and in the car park told her that the match was a popular event.
A wooden gate stood wide open — apparently there was no charge to get in. The pitch was a wide green oval, ringed by trees in their early summer leaf, providing welcome shade for the spectators ranged around the boundary line on deckchairs and picnic blankets.
The game had already started. The two teams seemed to be made up of whoever they could scratch together — grandsons and granddads, some who looked as if they might risk a heart attack if they tried running between the stumps, and several women. Some of the players wore traditional cricket whites, the others an assortment of shorts and T-shirts and baseball caps.
She recognised the figure on the far side of the pitch at once. Tom, on the fielding team. He had glanced briefly in her direction, but she wasn’t sure if he had noticed her. She wasn’t going to watch him — of course not. She was just here to watch the play.
The bowler ran in and threw his pitch, and the umpire called, “No ball.” There was a bit of mild grumbling, then the wicketkeeper tossed the ball back to the bowler.
He walked back to his start point and ran in again. The batsman got his bat to it, but it wasn’t much of a hit — it bounced and rolled, and one of the fielders picked it up. The batsmen hadn’t even bothered to try running.
The pavilion was a wooden hut with a veranda along the front, and wooden benches where the rest of the batting side were awaiting their turn at the wicket. A long trestle table had been set up in front of it, with plates of sandwiches, finger rolls and cupcakes, rows of cardboard cups, and a stainless-steel tea urn.
Debbie was pouring tea. As she spotted Vicky she waved. “Hi! Come to cheer our boys on?”
“I didn’t think you were supposed to cheer at cricket matches — isn’t it just a smattering of polite applause?”
Debbie laughed, shaking her head. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.”
A cheer went up as the batsman scored a single. “Ah, that means George Evans is up. He’s their best player.”
That was soon apparent as he began racking up runs on the makeshift scoreboard — a double and two boundaries in one over.
“Come on, lads — get him out,” Debbie urged, bouncing excitedly.
Vicky smiled to herself. Sweet, shy Debbie? Not when it came to the village cricket team, apparently.
A couple of customers had arrived, keeping Debbie busy for a few moments serving tea and sandwiches. When it was quiet again she came back to stand with Vicky. “Didn’t your sister and your boyfriend want to come and watch the cricket?”
Vicky shrugged in careless dismissal. “Oh, they’ve gone home.”
“Oh . . .”
If Debbie had noticed that she wasn’t wearing her ring, she made no comment.
“How’s your mum?” Vicky asked to divert the conversation.
“Feeling a bit better.” Debbie lifted a cake tin from under the table and unloaded the contents to fill another plate with her fresh, home-baked scones. “She’s getting very restless — she always likes to be doing, she was never one to sit watching telly and doing her knitting.”
Vicky laughed. “So who’s minding the café today — or are you closed?”
“We close on Sundays during the low season. Once it starts to pick up, around the middle of June, we open every day. But it’s nice to get a day off.”
“So instead you’ve set up shop down here. A busman’s holiday!”
“Oh, I enjoy it.” That was clear from the glow in her eyes. “Anyway, I can watch the cricket.”
“Is Bill playing?” Vicky asked, all bland innocence.
“Yes.” A vivid blush. “He’s the wicketkeeper.”
Vicky smiled. “You really do like him, don’t you?”
Debbie couldn’t even look at her. “Yes,” she admitted in a small voice.
“Well?”
A long hesitation as Debbie fiddled with rearranging the scones on the plate. “I’m... thinking about it.”
“Good.”
Someone else had come to ask for two cups of tea and some cupcakes. Vicky moved away — she wasn’t going to push the subject anymore today. And how ironic, that she was trying to matchmake for her friend when her own love life had gone down the tubes. No fiancé, and attracted to a man who was married.
Ah, well.
She took her cup of tea, strolled over to an empty deckchair and sat down. She had never really understood the joys of cricket, even when Jeremy had tried to explain it to her. ‘Short leg’... ‘silly mid-off’ — it all seemed so arcane.
But there was something very relaxing in watching a village match. The warm sunshine on the green grass, the soft rustle of the breeze in the trees, the thwack of leather on willow. The occasional shouts of protest or approval, the smattering of applause for a good hit or a good stop.
She let her gaze wander lazily around the spectators. The age range was as diverse as the players on the field — it seemed the match was a family day out for the locals. Bright summer dresses and rolled-up shirt-sleeves were the predominant fashion.
Which one was Tom’s wife? The petite blonde in a yellow sundress? The attractive redhead chatting to a middle-aged woman over to the left?
A group of children were playing with a bat and ball under the trees, mimicking the adults’ cricket. She wasn’t sure, without his Wyatt Earp outfit, but she thought the little dark-haired lad who was bowling was Tom’s son.
Apparently she had been wrong with both guesses about Tom’s wife. As the children’s game broke up, the junior Wyatt Earp ran to the young woman who was helping the scorekeeper, hugging her leg and begging for something from her bag. She ruffled his hair and produced a packet of crisps. He took it and ran off again to share with his friends.
Vicky studied the woman from behind her sunglasses. Tall, with dark hair in a neat French plait — Vicky envied her the ability to do that; she’d never been able to manage it. Not really beautiful, but there was something very attractive about her smile.
And she was heavily pregnant.
Oh.
Girl Code:
Rule #1: You never mess with another woman’s man.
Rule #2: You NEVER mess with another woman’s husband.
Rule #3: You never ever EVER mess with another woman’s husband when she’s pregnant.
So that was it. Tom Cullen couldn’t be more off limits if he’d had a barbed-wire fence, a minefield and a few radioactive warning signs around him.
Resolutely she focussed her attention on the match again. The away team’s top batsman was still at the crease, clocking up the runs. And then he took a wild swipe, and the ball soared towards the outfield.
There was a collective holding of breath all round the pitch as Tom ran, his eye on the ball as it arced across the sky. He reached out, dived sideways, rolled... and came back to his feet with the ball held high in his hand.
Vicky leaped up, joining in the cheering. So much for a smattering of polite applause! A little embarrassed and hoping Tom hadn’t noticed her slight overreaction, she sat down again. The elderly man in the next deckchair was chuckling.
“Good catch. That’s our Tom! He could have played for the county if he’d stuck with it.”
Vicky smiled. “I don’t know much about cricket, but that did look like a good catch.”
“One of the best players we’ve got, is Tom.”
“You’ve played yourself?”
“Oh, ah.” He nodded slowly. “More’n sixty years, from when I were just a lad, up till me knees wouldn’t let me run no more.”
She glanced across at him. She’d guess he was almost as old as Aunt Molly. His face was all creases, his pale eyes overhung by bushy white eyebrows, which seemed to have won a competition with the sparse white hair over his freckled skull.
“O’ course I had a couple of years out for me National Service.” He chuckled. “Just copped right for that, I did. Off to Korea, to fight for the king. Though why I could never work out — thousands of miles away it is and none too happy about us being there. But I says to meself, Arthur Crocombe, it’s not for you to question what the king wants. So I did me bit, and managed not to get meself shot.”
Vicky listened with interest as he reminisced about times long past. He was rambling a bit, as elderly people often would, his memories disjointed and skipping from one thread to another. But she was fascinated — any period of history fascinated her, even as recent as the Korean War.
He seemed to enjoy chatting to her. There didn’t seem to be anyone with him. He was probably lonely — as Aunt Molly had probably been. She still felt guilty that she had let her aunt down — maybe she could make up for that a little by sitting with Arthur.
If the old man had seemed absorbed in memories of his younger days, he was still alert to what was happening on the pitch. “Ah — that’s forty overs.” He rubbed his hands with glee. “Time for lunch.”
“Would you like me to fetch you something?”
“Oh, no, my luvver — I want to see what they’ve got. But you can help me up out of this damned deckchair. Stupid things — who designed them? You get your thumbs caught when you try to put them up, then when you want to get out of them you can’t.”
Vicky laughed as she helped him carefully to his feet and offered her arm as they walked up to the pavilion.
The trestle table had been laid out with more selections for lunch. Plates of traditional sandwiches, sausage rolls, bacon baps, pizzas and paninis. Several other people had come to help serve — including Tom’s wife.
She greeted Arthur with a warm smile. “Hello, Arthur. What can I get you?”
“Those sausage rolls — are they proper home-made?” he demanded.
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll have a couple.”
“You want ketchup on them?”
He chuckled. “What do you think? And give ’em plenty — don’t stint it.” He turned to Vicky. “What about you, my dear?”
“Oh, but . . .”
“You’re my date,” he insisted. “The gentleman always pays for dinner.”
As Vicky was about to protest again, Tom’s wife shook her head discreetly. “Let him,” she mouthed, smiling.
Vicky couldn’t help smiling back. “Okay — thank you. I’ll have a panini, please.”
“We’ve got chicken, pulled beef, or mozzarella with tomato.”
“I’ll have the mozzarella.”
“And two teas,” Arthur added.
“Coming right up.”
As she bustled away, Vicky felt a hand on the small of her back, and a voice murmured close to her ear, “So you’re a cricket fan then?”
She glanced up sharply. Tom was smiling down at her — and he was standing much too close. Fortunately, his wife was at the far end of the table, slathering Arthur’s sausage rolls with generous dollops of ketchup.
She flashed him an icy glare and turned her shoulder on him, and stepped away from his hand. She sensed his flicker of surprise — apparently he was accustomed to women welcoming his attention.
“Your sister didn’t want to come down to watch the game?”
She took a pause to ensure that her voice would be ice-cool. “She’s gone home.”
“Ah...” A brief hesitation. “Hi there, Arthur. How are you keeping?”
Arthur’s pale eyes lit with mischief. “All the better for having this pretty young thing to take care of me.”
Tom laughed. “Enjoying the game?”
“I will if you win. That was a lucky catch.”
“Lucky?” Tom feigned indignation.
“Lucky. Ah, thank you, my dear,” he added as Tom’s wife brought their lunch order.
“Enjoy.” Her smile suddenly thinned into discomfort, and she eased her hands down her back.
Debbie was there immediately. “Now then, Mrs Cullen,” she scolded, bringing a wooden chair. “You know you shouldn’t be on your feet for so long. Come along, plop yourself down on this.”
“Stop fussing,” Tom’s wife protested, laughing merrily. “I’m not an invalid — I’m just pregnant.”
“Do as you’re told.” Tom’s voice was warm with affection. “Make the most of it — you’ll be dying for a sit-down once the baby comes.”
“Okay, okay — I’ll be a good girl.” She eased her bulky frame onto the chair. “There — you can all stop nagging me now.”
Vicky had stepped back, watching. It seemed that Tom was fond of his wife, even while trying to set up something on the side.
And she seemed to be a really nice person. Damn.
“Here you are, Vicky — you can use this for a tray.” Debbie had brought the lid of a cardboard box and set their paper plates and cups on it.
“Thanks.” She managed a smile, glad to get away while she still had a little sanity left.
Arthur tottered along beside her as she carried their lunch over to their deckchairs and set it on the ground beside them while she helped him to sit down. He grinned up at her, mischief dancing in his pale eyes.
“Ah — it’s been a long time since I’ve had lunch with a pretty girl.”
Vicky laughed. “I bet there were plenty of them in your day.”
“Oh, ah — that there were. But not a one of them could hold a candle to my Betty.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes, God rest her. Near on sixty-five years we were wed.” He lapsed into a moment of melancholy silence.
“How did you meet her?” Vicky prompted, handing him his sausage rolls and a paper napkin.
He smiled in fond reminiscence. “We were childhood sweethearts. She used to help me with my sums in school — I always had trouble with ’em. And we used to go bird-watching up on the moors — we’d walk for miles. Not like your youngsters today, with their noses always glued to their phones.”
“You must have been very happy.”
“Oh, happy... yes, we were — very happy. Mind, we quarrelled often enough — she could certainly say her piece, could Betty. But we always made up — we never went to sleep in bad blood.”
“That’s a very wise policy.” She took a sip of her tea. “Did you have any children?”
“Just the one boy — our Simon. We’d have liked more, but it never happened. He lives in Canada now. Works in television — produces one of those quiz shows. It’s very popular.” There was a note of pride in his voice. “I don’t see him that often. Well, he’s very busy with his work, and then there’s the kids and the grandkids. But he rings me every weekend.”
“That’s nice.” It seemed that she wasn’t the only one who was neglectful of their older relatives. And she had less of an excuse than Arthur’s son.
It was pleasant to while away the afternoon sitting in the sunshine as the fat bumblebees hummed gently in the long grass under the trees and the runs clicked up on the scoreboard.
Tom was third in to bat. He had a good eye, swiping the ball away with ease, running between the stumps with a long, athletic stride. He stayed in for nine overs until one fierce strike too many got him caught out, to groans from the home team and wild cheers from the opposition.
He waved genially to the players who had dispatched him, and strolled back to the pavilion. Vicky refused to let herself watch him go.
Arthur had dozed off and was snoring gently. The match ended in a draw. She couldn’t work out how that had happened — another of the incomprehensible rules of the game that Jeremy could probably have explained to her at length.
The two teams had gathered beside the pavilion to toast each other with cool beers as the spectators picked up their deckchairs and brought them over to be stored until the next match.
A couple of people were helping Debbie stack the remains of the buffet in boxes and carry them back to her van; the trestle table had been dismantled and put away in the pavilion.
Tom was helping his wife take down the hanging number plates from the scoreboard, their son eagerly helping them by placing them in their storage box. Vicky turned away from them as Arthur roused himself.
“Well, that was an excellent match,” he declared. “Best I’ve seen in a long time.”
Vicky smiled to herself — she didn’t bother pointing out that he had missed most of the second innings. “Time to go home.” She offered him her arm and together they walked back up the path to Church Road.
A short distance past the convenience store they came to a short lane, trees on one side, the other lined with a row of narrow terraced houses. Arthur stopped by the gate of the second one. “Well, here we are.” He fumbled in his pocket for his door key.
Vicky glanced along the row. The other houses all had gravel front gardens and UPVC front doors — what in her former life she would have called ‘easy maintenance’. And they all looked empty. Second homes.
Arthur’s stood out like a bad tooth.
“Is there anything you need?” she asked, opening the gate for him.
“No, no, my dear. I’m absolutely fine. You go on home — your husband will be waiting for his tea.”
“I don’t...” But no, there was no need to correct him — he’d probably forget anyway. Instead she gave him a little wave. “Goodbye then.”
“Goodbye.”
She hesitated, watching as he opened the door and stepped safely inside, then she turned back up the hill.
* * *
It was nice to have the cottage to herself again. Vicky brewed herself a cup of coffee and took it into the sitting room, settling down on the sofa to phone her mother.
“Hi, Mum — how’s everything?”
“Oh, it would be fine if this rain would just stop. Honestly, it’s supposed to be coming on for summer, but it’s been pouring down all week.”
“Really? It’s glorious down here.”
“Oh, yes — Jayde said it had been nice.”
Vicky drew in a breath between her teeth. “Did she?”
“Jeremy just dropped her off. I thought you’d be coming home with them.”
Oh? Eight hours for a journey that should take around four — five at the most? They must have taken quite a detour. Or maybe stopped for a long lunch?
“Uh, no, Mum.” Vicky kept her voice as casual as she could. “I won’t be home till the weekend. There’s a few things I need to sort out about the cottage.”
“Oh. But what about work?”
“I’ve another week’s leave.”
“Oh, right. By the way, you remember Mrs Simmonds at number twenty-three? Her Alison is getting married again. That’ll be her third time! Can you believe it? Mind you, apparently this one’s got a good steady job, so at least she’s being a bit sensible this time.”
Vicky laughed, relieved that her mother had diverted the conversation herself. “Sensible isn’t the only criteria for a happy marriage, Mum.”
“Of course not — but it doesn’t hurt.”
They chatted for a while — Vicky was relieved that her mum didn’t mention Jeremy. She could just imagine her response when she told her she was breaking off her engagement — the word ‘sensible’ would definitely be in there somewhere.
At last, her mum had exhausted all the local gossip. “Well, I’d better be going — I’ve got the tea on.”
Vicky smiled to herself, imagining the quiet house in north London, with its bright white net curtains and comfortable three-piece suite, the kitchen where her mother enjoyed her baking, the smart wooden front door.
“Bye then, Mum — I’ll speak to you again later in the week.”
“Goodbye, dear. Look after yourself.”
“And you.”
Vicky closed the call and put the phone down. She hadn’t mentioned Molly’s mysterious poet to her mother. Thinking about it, it seemed unlikely that Molly had ever told her mother about him — they hadn’t had that sort of relationship.
She hadn’t told Jayde, either — and certainly not Jeremy. She had kept the poem in the book, tucked in her suitcase among her own things.
The late afternoon sun was slanting in through the French windows, soft golden rays warming the room. A light breeze was ruffling the leaves of the apple tree, and somewhere a robin was singing.
The roses she had put in the fireplace were fully open now, their fragrance sweet and heady. Strange how a scent could take you back in time, stir up memories so vividly that closing her eyes she could almost be a child again, tired and happy after a long day at the beach.
A child again, sprawling out on the sofa with her head on her mother’s lap, her feet on her dad’s. Aunt Molly in the recliner, her dad chuckling at some comedy on the television.
But those days of innocent contentment were long gone. And the problem with having the cottage to herself was that there was nothing to distract her thoughts. There was nothing on the television that she wanted to watch, and she didn’t feel like reading.
Tom... She didn’t want to think about him. About that smile, that rich, deep voice, the smattering of dark, curling hair across his wide chest. But he was stuck in her head and she didn’t know how to get him out.
In his cricket whites, grass stains on one hip, reaching for that catch, lithe as a panther. That low, husky laugh, those dark eyes...
If she was honest, a small part of her had been hoping to find that he was separated from his wife, even divorced. But that hope had been thoroughly extinguished by the sight of them together after the match, with their little boy.
With an impatient sigh she shook her head, rose to her feet, and went into the kitchen to sit down at the table with her laptop. Maybe it was time to take advantage of this quiet time to get on with the book she had been planning to write.
At least it would give her something else to think about.
* * *
It really wasn’t working. Reading over the chapters she’d managed to write so far, she had to admit that it was falling flat. The characters weren’t coming to life, the backstory about battles and political intrigue was dragging it down.
Resting her chin in her cupped hand she stared at the screen, her mind blank. Elizabeth and Edward — their secret wedding, at her family home, with only her mother and two other ladies present. It should be a really romantic scene — easy to write. You’d have thought.
But even a short break to cook herself some supper didn’t help. By ten o’clock she was ready to give up. Saving her work — though it hardly seemed worth it — she closed down the laptop, washed up her supper things and climbed the stairs to the bedroom.
But she wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she surveyed the room. She had finished sorting Molly’s things — there were two large bin bags to go to the dump, and a couple of suitcases she had found in the attic packed with the better items to go to the charity shop.
The only thing left was a couple of hatboxes on the top shelf of the wardrobe. She lifted the first box down and opened the lid.
Inside, carefully layered in tissue paper, was a hat. A cream straw hat with a wide bell-shaped brim and a scarlet ribbon around the crown. Very chic, very Audrey Hepburn.
“Oh, wow!”
She hurried over to the mirror to try it on. It was gorgeous. She turned her head from side to side to view it from different angles. She could just imagine Aunt Molly wearing it — maybe on afternoon walks in Paris between performances at the Moulin Rouge.
But unless Debbie and Bill got married it was unlikely that she’d get much opportunity to wear it herself, she acknowledged wryly. With a sigh she took it off and put it back in its box.
The second box was heavier and when she moved it, she heard things shifting inside. She carried it over to the bed, lifted the lid, and gasped in delight — inside was a treasure trove of photographs and magazine clippings.
Any thought of sleep was forgotten. The photographs were a jumble of sizes, some spotted or creased with age. Some were black-and-white snaps mostly taken around Paris — the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe in the background left no doubt of that. Groups of young women, all of them beautiful, chic, laughing at the camera.
And among them, unmistakeably, a young Aunt Molly.
Oh, wow — she had been stunning! Tall and slender, with a dancer’s grace. Dark glossy hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders or twisted into a neat chignon at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were dark and lustrous, her soft lips painted scarlet, her cheekbones carved from creamy ivory.
Some of the photos were clearly professional shots — on the backs were the stamps of the studio. Studio Lenoire. The dates were from 1948 to 1955, many of the same young women, but in sumptuous costumes of beads and satin and feathers — just like the ones they had found in the trunks upstairs.
The setting was just as sumptuous — a brightly lit stage draped with richly coloured satin curtains. And above the proscenium arch, spelled out in scarlet lights, the words Moulin Rouge.
Her heart leaped with excitement. So Aunt Molly really had danced at the Moulin Rouge! How incredible was that?
And the clippings... fashion plates, Molly, modelling lingerie like the pieces they had found in the drawers, and fabulous dresses — gold brocade, black velvet, elegant columns and corselet bodices and sweeping skirts.
Most of the images were labelled Elyna Chastain Couture, Paris. There were a few others, names she recognised — Schiaparelli, Balenciaga. She shook her head, bemused. What else was she going to find out?
At the bottom of the box was a dark blue velvet bag, embroidered with gold thread. She loosened the draw-cord and tipped the contents out onto the bed.
Jewellery.
Gold and silver, diamonds and emeralds and garnets and pearls, earrings and bracelets and rings. A watch in a marcasite surround; a choker necklace of rich red garnets with matching earrings and bracelet; a brooch in the shape of a dragonfly, its wings set with diamonds.
And a gorgeous ring — two intertwined hearts set with pavé diamonds, and, in the centre of each heart, a clear, vivid emerald, which sparked fire as they caught the light from the lamp on the bedside table.
She slipped it onto her finger — it fitted perfectly.
She stared at the pile as it lay shimmering on the bedspread. She had no idea of the value, but with luck she could sell them and put the money towards the cost of the renovations to the cottage. Maybe even with a little bit left over.
“Oh, Aunt Molly — where did you get all these? Were they gifts from your poet?”
There was something left at the bottom of the bag — an old copper coin, a penny... or... no, it seemed to be a medal — there was a bar at the top where a ribbon would be threaded.
On one side was a cross with an extra cross-bar — she recognised it as the Cross of Lorraine. Around the edge was a set of Roman numerals. On the other was a raised inscription in Latin: PATRIA NON IMMEMOR. She held it in the palm of her hand, frowning.
The numerals looked like a date — 18 June. She couldn’t work out the year — she’d have to look up what the letters meant. And the inscription — something about the unforgotten country, perhaps?
But for now... where to put this stuff, to keep it safe? It made her edgy to have such valuables lying around. Tomorrow she’d drive into town and see about selling it. But tonight... scooping the jewellery back into the bag, she tucked it under her pillow, and hurried off to the bathroom to get ready for bed.