Chapter 2
As Bill let himself in through the back door, the silence that greeted him when he walked into the kitchen informed him that the washing machine had finished its cycle.
He bent down to unclip Patch’s lead from his collar, then pointed to an old towel he had laid out on the floor before they’d left for their morning walk. Patch obediently stood on it. With a grunt, Bill lowered himself into a kneeling position, his knees protesting vigorously, and wiped the dog’s paws. It hadn’t rained in a while so they weren’t muddy, but Patch loved trotting through the dew-damp grass and Bill wasn’t taking any chances. Satisfied that the terrier’s paws were clean and dry, he heaved himself to his feet, removed his lightweight jacket, then freshened Patch’s water bowl.
As the dog lapped eagerly, Bill filled the kettle. By the time he had pegged his washing out it would have boiled, and he’d have a cuppa while he did the crossword – if they’d delivered his newspaper.
Opening the washing machine door and removing the damp sheets, his thoughts drifted to his impeccably made bed. He vividly remembered being in the army when he was a young man, and squaring away his bunk for the first time after having been taught (for all of thirty seconds) how to do hospital corners. A subsequent inspection by the drill sergeant hadn’t gone well. His sheets and blankets had ended up being dumped on the floor, and he’d been told to make his bed again. And again.
That was what he meant by discipline. Kids today wouldn’t be able to cope with it, especially the youffs who hung around the park. Although, to be fair to a couple of them, they had stepped up to the mark not so long ago. And so they should, considering they had been the ones responsible for demolishing Molly and Jack’s lovely flower beds. The little gits. It had taken the near drowning and subsequent rescue of one of them by Jack, to shame them into helping make the park a nicer place.
Bill lifted the washing basket and opened the back door. ‘Coming?’ he asked Patch. His dog liked to supervise Bill’s activities in the garden. Patch trotted out ahead, squeezing between the door and Bill’s legs.
‘Careful!’ he admonished. ‘You almost knocked me over.’
The dog glanced back at him and wagged his tail. Bill took it to mean that Patch realised he had been a bit careless in his haste to reach the garden and that he would be more considerate next time. A bit fanciful, Bill knew, but he and his dog had an understanding that few non-dog-owners could appreciate. Patch could tell a whole story with one look.
‘Hello, Mr Greaves,’ a little voice sing-songed from next door’s garden.
Bill glanced over the low hedge to see seven-year-old Tamsin beaming at him. Patch, on hearing the child’s voice, squeezed through the hedge to greet her.
‘Spending the day with Nanny and Grancha?’ Bill asked.
Tamsin nodded, squealing as Patch tried to lick her face.
Bill winced. Why were children so loud? They couldn’t do anything quietly, this one especially. He didn’t know how Ray and Mary coped with it. Bill didn’t think he could. Mind you, he conceded, he wasn’t used to children, having never had any of his own. It was his one big regret: that and Tracey. She had been the love of his life and at one point he believed he would spend eternity with her. Tracey, unfortunately, had had other ideas.
More squealing made him wince for a second time as he placed the basket on the path and gave the washing line a quick once over with a clean damp cloth to remove any dirt before he began to peg out. The kid had a bell on every tooth. A memory popped into his head of getting a clip around the ear for being too noisy, and his grandad telling him that children should be seen and not heard. How times had changed, and in a way he was pleased they had. She was a breath of fresh air, was Tamsin, being a happy, sunny little thing.
‘Mr Greaves, would you like a sweetie?’
Bill paused and turned around. Tamsin was holding a lurid, suspiciously fuzzy gummy bear out to him.
‘No, thank you,’ he said quickly, with a shudder. ‘You eat it. I’m too old for gummy bears.’
He turned back to his pegging out, feeling a boop on his calf as Patch let him know he was back on his side of the hedge, and when he looked into his neighbour’s garden he saw that Tamsin had gone indoors.
A short time later, when Bill heard Tamsin loudly ask Ray, ‘Why is the man next door so sad ?’ and Ray’s reply of, ‘I don’t know, my lovely,’ Bill realised that he probably did come across as miserable. He didn’t mean to be, but he was too old to change his ways now.
***
Fiona’s head was all over the place. By the time she had left Molly locking up the old cafe, she was thoroughly confused. So much so, that she regretted meeting with her in the first place. If she was honest, she had been flattered when Molly had asked for her thoughts about reopening the cafe, and when Molly had suggested that running it might be something for her to consider, Fiona had been tempted. That was before common sense had kicked in and she remembered that she had retired for a reason: running the cafe had become too much.
She had never minded hard work, but those last couple of years before she had sold the business had been exhausting. What with cooking and baking, the government’s ever-changing rules and regulations, employing staff, and dealing with the finances and accounts, she had been run ragged. And working six days a week from seven in the morning until five thirty in the evening had taken its toll.
Putting thoughts of the cafe to the back of her mind, Fiona headed towards the park’s main entrance with its tall wrought iron gates.
The path took her past Molly’s cottage and she paused to admire it.
The little house looked even better now than she remembered it from when she was a girl. The window frames were freshly painted, the glass sparkled in the morning sun, and the garden was a riot of colour from all the shrubs and flowers Molly had planted. A white picket fence marked the boundary between the cottage and the park, and mature trees provided a backdrop, plus shelter and privacy from the road that ran behind it. The cottage had been transformed from a sad, empty, and unloved house, into a pretty, lived in and cheerful home.
And now Molly wanted to perform the same trick on the cafe in the park.
But Bill was right (even though Fiona hated to admit it). It was going to take money and hard work. Hard work wouldn’t be a problem for Molly, Fiona thought – Molly was no shirker, and neither was Jack – but funding it could be an issue. She hoped Molly wouldn’t be daft enough to use her own money to do up a building owned by the council, because she had a feeling Molly wouldn’t be able to convince the council to dip into its pocket. Renovating the cafe would be so far down on its list of priorities, you’d need to dig to Australia to find it. And even though Jack worked for the council, Fiona strongly doubted he’d have any say in the matter.
As she was about to walk out of the gates, Fiona glanced to her right and the children’s play area caught her eye. She remembered taking her son there when he was little. It had looked different then of course, and she wasn’t just referring to the way the play equipment had changed over the years. Gone was the see-saw and the roundabout, and in its place was a wooden climbing frame. The swings were still there though; however one was wrapped around the top bar, one was missing its seat, and the third was missing entirely. And as for the climbing frame, it was so dilapidated that it was positively dangerous. No wonder there was a padlock on the gate leading to it, despite the fact that no mum or dad in their right mind would let their kids play there. It didn’t stop teenagers from getting in and hanging around causing mischief, though.
Which brought her back to Molly’s plans for the cafe. Was there any point in going to all that time and effort to reopen it, with the play area in its current state and the bandstand in danger of falling down? People still didn’t linger long in the park, except for the teenagers (or youffs , as Bill called them). And Bill: he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in the park walking that little terrier of his.
Mind you, his garden backed onto the park (as did hers, but her house was on the opposite side) so it was very convenient for him. She just wished he was as friendly as his dog. For an older man, he was quite nice looking, she conceded, and he evidently took pride in his appearance, which she approved of. It was just a pity he was so crabby.
Fiona was happy to amble into town today. It wasn’t far to the high street, and she had no reason to hurry, having nothing to dash home for. As she strolled down the road, her thoughts turned to Bill again. He might be right about the cafe, but he needn’t have been so peevish about it. She had never met such a crotchety, miserable man in her life. If his mum could see him now, she would be appalled. Fiona remembered Connie Greaves as being a lovely woman. She had been so proud of her son when he went into the army, and just as proud, if somewhat surprised, when he’d come out and joined the merchant navy. Especially since he’d never shown the slightest interest in going to sea – apart from wanting a blow-up dingy when they’d had a caravan in Porthcawl when he had been about eleven. Old Mrs Greaves used to recount the story to anyone who’d listen, especially when she had become a bit doddery and had kept repeating herself.
Despite how proud Connie had been of him, she had always hoped he would marry and settle down on dry land with a wife and a house full of kids. But Bill was still wifeless and childless when he had finally run aground in Sweet Meadow after he’d retired from the national fleet and moved into his mum’s old house, and from the day he’d moved in he’d been a miserable sod
Fiona swung between believing he was grumpy because he didn’t have a wife, and thinking that he didn’t have a wife because he was grumpy. Today, she was convinced it was the second option.
‘All right, Fiona? How are you?’
Fiona had only just stepped onto the high street before she was greeted by someone she knew. ‘Not so bad. Yourself?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’ The woman lifted her arm, drawing Fiona’s attention to the bag of shopping she was holding. ‘Can’t stop; got frozen stuff in here. Chips and what not, for the grandkids.’
Another few steps and Fiona was hailed again. She didn’t mind, it was nice to have a chat, even if it wasn’t for long. And she supposed it was to be expected that she would know so many people considering she had lived in Sweet Meadow all her life, and had run a cafe which had once been everyone’s favourite place to stop off for a coffee and a natter.
After picking up the bits and bobs she needed, Fiona found herself sauntering towards the little square with the metal statue of a miner holding a pickaxe and a lamp in the middle of it. It was a nod to the heritage of the town, and to its history as a former coal mining community.
She skirted around it, her feet taking her past Clover Cafe – or Best Bites, as it was now known – and she frowned in displeasure as her attention was caught, as it always was, by the garish highlighter-pen colours of the plastic chairs and plastic tablecloths inside. The chairs, as she knew to her cost from the one and only time she had ventured into the cafe after she’d sold it, were as uncomfortable as sitting on a brick. And the tablecloths might be wipe-clean vinyl, but they had felt sticky to the touch.
Fiona had never gone for tablecloths. She would have liked proper linen ones, but she hadn’t been able to face the additional laundry. Instead, she had bought good-quality tables and had given them a squirt and a wipe-over between customers. It had served her well for thirty-odd years.
As far as Fiona was concerned, Pamela had changed things for the sake of it. The woman had changed a lot of things for the sake of it, and absolutely none of them for the better in Fiona’s opinion.
The cafe was busy though, she had to give Pamela that. Mind you, she thought to herself, Best Bites was the only cafe in town, so it wasn’t as though Sweet Meadow’s residents had any other option. It was either that, or the pub.
The lack of competition was one of the reasons the cafe had been such a success, and why it still was, despite the lurid tablecloths and fake friendliness of its new owner. Fiona never had to pretend to be friendly. It had come naturally to her. It was only since she’d given up the cafe that she had grown surly. She didn’t enjoy being cranky, but recently it had become her default setting.
Her eyes widened and she let out a small gasp as a realisation hit her. Good gracious! She was almost as curmudgeonly as Bill!
‘Yes, I know,’ Glenys Sidwall said at Fiona’s elbow, making her jump, and for a moment Fiona feared she’d said it aloud. But Glenys’s eyes were on Best Bites and her mouth was pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
‘That Pamela Edwards can’t keep staff for love nor money,’ Glenys said, and Fiona realised the woman was staring at a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the cafe’s window. ‘I heard that Madeleine left because Pamela wouldn’t let her have the afternoon off to go to her eldest’s leaving ceremony.’ She turned to Fiona. ‘They do that in schools these days, have leaving ceremonies when a kiddie goes from primary up to the big school. We never had anything like that, did we? Nobody made a fuss when we were that age. We were just expected to get on with it.’
‘I think it’s quite nice,’ Fiona said. ‘It’s a huge step for a child to move to secondary school.’
‘Oh, I agree. Which is why I think Pamela should have let her go. It’s not as though Madeleine expected to be paid for the time she had off. Anyway, there was some shouting, a few choice words and Madeleine walked out, leaving Pamela shorthanded. Serves her right.’
Fiona’s blood began to boil. She had employed Madeleine several years ago after Nathan, her youngest child, had started school full time. The woman was a good worker, and a damned good baker, and often used to step in to cover Fiona when she had the occasional day off.
Glenys snorted. ‘And don’t get me started on her poached eggs on toast.’
Fiona resisted the urge to ask what was wrong with them: she didn’t want any part in rubbishing Best Bites. She would keep her opinions to herself and hope that Pamela didn’t wreck the cafe’s reputation – a reputation which Fiona had worked hard to achieve.
‘Ooh, I wish you were still behind that counter,’ Glenys said. ‘You’re sorely missed, you know.’
‘It’s been eighteen months,’ Fiona pointed out. Not that she was counting.
‘That long?’ Glenys looked surprised. ‘I could have sworn it was only about six. Gosh, doesn’t time fly!’
Personally, Fiona thought it had dragged. She had gone from not having enough of it, to having more than she knew what to do with.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Glenys carried on, ‘But I have no idea how I managed to work as well as fit everything in now that I’m retired. There aren’t enough hours in the day.’
Fiona experienced a flash of irritation: there was no need to rub it in. ‘Do you miss it?’ she blurted.
‘Nursing? Sometimes. I miss the job – caring for patients, and the like – but not the hours.’ She leant in and chortled, ‘I tell you what I do miss though – all those fit young doctors.’ She gave Fiona a nudge that nearly knocked her sideways.
‘Are there any?’ Fiona asked, after she had recovered her balance. None of the doctors she had come into contact with had ever made her want to look at them twice. Saying that though, since she’d lost Bradley all those years ago, she hadn’t looked at any man twice.
‘Oh yes, the young ones definitely, although some of the consultants were rather hot.’
Hot? Did Glenys just say hot? Good grief. Anyone would think she was in her twenties, not her sixties, and late sixties, at that. Fiona narrowed her eyes. Glenys had always enjoyed a reputation as somewhat of a man-eater. And Fiona really did mean enjoyed, because Glenys revelled in it. The woman had never made any secret that she liked male company, or that she wouldn’t be averse to marrying husband number three if the opportunity arose. Leopards don’t change their spots, Fiona mused, so why had she assumed retirement would see Glenys calm down?
Glenys said, ‘Is there no one on the horizon for you, now that you’re no longer tied to the cafe?’
Fiona snorted. ‘Not blimmin’ likely! No one can ever replace my Bradley.’
With a sympathetic head tilt and a pitying smile, both of which set Fiona’s teeth on edge, Glenys said, ‘It was terrible what happened and of course you’ll never replace him, but don’t you wish you had a companion to keep you warm at night?’
Crumbs, that was a personal question. ‘A hot water bottle will do me fine. And if that doesn’t work, I could always get a dog.’ Her reply was sharp.
Glenys didn’t appear to notice. ‘You could borrow Bill’s.’
Fiona narrowed her eyes. ‘Why would I want to borrow Bill’s dog?’
‘To see if it suited you to have a pet. There’s no point in going into dog ownership with your eyes shut.’
‘What do you know about it? You’ve never had a dog.’
‘No, but I went out with a man last year who had three. Yappy little things they were, and don’t get me started on all the hair. Ugh.’ She shuddered theatrically.
Fiona made a note that there seemed to be a lot of things she shouldn’t get Glenys started on.
‘Ask Bill if you can borrow his,’ Glenys persisted. ‘You and him get on all right, don’t you?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Oh? I thought you did. I could have sworn I saw the two of you in the park earlier.’ Glenys gave her a keen look. ‘Why were you in the old cafe, anyway? Are you thinking of doing it up?’
‘Not me. Molly’s got plans for it.’ Fiona had enough of the conversation. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got errands to run.’
‘Me, too. I can’t stand here gabbing all day. Nice to see you, my lovely.’
And with that Glenys hurried off, leaving Fiona to stare after her with a vague sense of disgruntlement and more than a little envy, as she’d guessed that Glenys genuinely was busy – whereas the rest of Fiona’s Saturday would be even more disheartening.