Chapter 3
Bill sank the garden fork into the soil, being as careful as he could not to spear a spud with the tines, and wiggled it back and forth to loosen both the earth and the potato plant alike. Gently, he angled the fork and put a bit of weight behind it, then grunted in satisfaction as several dirt-speckled ovals appeared. There was nothing better than homegrown potatoes fresh from the ground, boiled and eaten with a slather of salted butter. He would have them for his tea with bacon and runner beans, which he had also picked from the garden this morning.
After placing the new potatoes into a frayed and dusty trug, he was about to go indoors when a flurry of activity on the field below the meadow caught his eye. A group of boys were playing football, and he stopped for a moment to watch. He couldn’t see the whole field from his garden, but he could see enough of it to make him smile. He used to play footie and rugby on that very same field when he was a boy. He also used to spend hours in the meadow, searching for ladybirds, caterpillars and grasshoppers, and far too much time fishing in the pond. As far as he could recall he’d never had as much as a nibble, let alone caught anything, even though he and his friends had been desperate to hook the giant catfish that was rumoured to lurk in its depths.
With the benefit of age and hindsight, Bill highly doubted whether there were any fish in the pond at all, and he was almost positive that there hadn’t been a catfish. However, there were frogs, newts, insect larvae and pond skaters, and dragonflies swooped over the surface of the water during the day, with bats taking the night shift. Rabbits lived in the swathe of woodland, and sometimes he managed to spot a fox. There were birds and squirrels in abundance, as well as bees and butterflies.
Although Bill lamented the state the park had fallen into over the years he had been at sea, he suspected the wildlife had been more than happy with its gradual disuse – the wilder areas, at least, but perhaps not so much around the bandstand and the children’s play area, where teenagers preferred to hang around. Very few people ventured into the meadow though, fewer still went as far as the pond, and only one or two made it into the overgrown woodland, the snagging vicious thorns of the blackberry bushes made sure of that. Reuben, one of the volunteers, the one who had found the species of endangered newt in the pond, had recently cleared a path through the woodland, and Bill had to admit that it was a pleasure to walk through it. Patch certainly loved darting through the undergrowth and chasing squirrels up trees.
Realising he would be late for his Saturday afternoon game of bowls if he didn’t get his skates on, Bill called Patch and went inside. The spuds could wait. They would be fine on the draining board until he came back, as would the green beans.
He washed, got changed out of his gardening clothes and into something more suitable to wear to bowls, then after a quick check to make sure he had his wallet, he grabbed his keys, clipped Patch’s lead onto his collar, and headed out.
Never in a million years would Bill have thought he would enjoy bowls. But there was something about the genteel game that appealed to him; whether it was the flat expanse of perfectly manicured lawn, or the unmistakable clunk as a bowl hit the jack, or whether it was the slow but determined nature of the game, Bill couldn’t say. All he knew was that it filled an afternoon or two during the warm summer months. He had also been surprised to discover that the sport wasn’t solely the province of Sweet Meadow’s retired contingent. A fair number of younger men, and even some boys, were members of the bowls club, and several were in evidence today.
‘All right, Bill?’
‘Charlie.’ Bill nodded to the man who’d spoken.
‘Nice day for it,’ Charlie said.
‘It is.’ The afternoon was warm but not too hot, with barely a breath of breeze; perfect for a game or two, followed by a pint in the clubhouse. He would only have the one, then he’d be off to have his tea.
The members of Sweet Meadow Bowls Club were serious about the game and played in the league, but although Bill was a decent enough player, he played for fun and not competitively, and had a relaxed approach. Some blokes were very competitive though, so it wasn’t a surprise to Bill when one of them, a chap by the name of Morris (Bill had never been able to work out whether Morris was his first name or his surname), frowned when he spied Patch.
‘That—’ Morris jerked his chin at the dog ‘—shouldn’t be here. Dogs aren’t allowed on the green.’
‘He won’t be on the green. He’ll be on the terrace.’
The terrace was a grandiose name describing the strip of concrete immediately in front of the clubhouse. On it sat an assortment of white plastic chairs. Patch, Bill knew, would happily lie under the shade of one until it was time to go.
Morris wasn’t convinced. ‘Dogs aren’t allowed,’ he persisted.
‘I always bring him.’
‘You shouldn’t, that’s all I’m saying. Nasty creatures, are dogs.’
‘Not as nasty as some people I could mention,’ Bill shot back, irate.
Morris drew himself up to his full height of five foot two, and bristled like an annoyed porcupine. ‘I hope you’re not referring to anyone here.’
‘Just the one.’ Bill gave Morris a pointed look and Morris gasped, indignation on his florid face.
‘Well, I never!’ He bristled some more. ‘As stand-in chairman of this club, I order you to remove that dog.’
Bill became aware that everyone was watching and listening, and he couldn’t decide whether the shaking heads and the mutters were because the other chaps agreed with Morris, or because they thought the man was out of line.
Deciding not to find out in case he didn’t like the answer, Bill thought it best to leave. He had forgotten that the chairman was recovering from a hernia operation and that Morris had elected himself to the position, otherwise he wouldn’t have come today.
‘My dog is a damned sight nicer than you,’ he growled as a parting shot, then with Patch at his heels, he stalked off.
It would remain to be seen whether he would ever return. As far as Bill was concerned, if Patch wasn’t welcome, neither was he.
Hoping that the terrier hadn’t understood that he was being ejected, Bill consoled him by taking him for a sniff through the park.
As it had yesterday, some unusual activity around the decrepit cafe caught his eye.
Molly and Jack appeared to be clearing it out, evidenced by the several chairs and a couple of tables that had been put outside. They were an old-fashioned bistro style, with black wrought iron backs, seats, and legs in intricate designs. They were in need of a good clean and a cushion, because those seats were as uncomfortable as hell if you sat on them. Bill remembered them from his childhood, when the cafe had been the hub of the park and everyone used to gather there in the summer months for Italian ice creams and cups of coffee. He’d often suspected that the design would be imprinted on your bottom if you sat in them for too long.
Molly was staring up at the building, frowning, and Jack was scratching his head.
Bill said, ‘You’re going ahead with it, then?’
Jack pulled a face. ‘It looks like it.’
‘I’m surprised the council wants anything to do with it.’
‘They don’t.’ Jack sighed. ‘It’s complicated, but what it boils down to is that Molly has been granted a lease to operate a not-for-profit cafe.’
‘What’s the point in that?’ Bill was perplexed.
‘Any profits will be used towards the upkeep of the park.’
He was still confused. ‘But how can Molly run a cafe for free? And what about her job? Will she give it up?’ As soon as he’d asked them, Bill realised that the questions were rather personal. It was none of his business what she did.
‘I wish I could afford to give it up,’ Molly laughed, and Bill was relieved that she hadn’t taken offence. ‘The cafe will be run by volunteers, although there will probably need to be a salaried manager. Not me,’ she added quickly.
Bill didn’t say anything, but he had a feeling Fiona might be in line for the job. ‘It needs a bit of work,’ he observed. ‘I take it the council won’t be footing the bill for it?’
‘No, it won’t,’ Jack confirmed. ‘It’ll have to rely on volunteers. Would you like to help?’
‘Not with my knees.’ He wasn’t making an excuse either – he truthfully did have crock knees. If he used them too much, by God did he know about it, although walking on the flat at a nice gentle pace didn’t cause them to play up too badly.
‘Pity. We need all the help we can get,’ Jack replied.
Bill had no doubt of that. It was going to take more than a couple of locals armed with a paintbrush and a mop to knock it into shape, and even more time and effort to run the damned thing. And who would bother frequenting it, that’s what he wanted to know. No one would, not with the kiddie’s play area in such a mess.
Molly had worked wonders with the park’s landscaping, but Bill had the feeling she had bitten off more than she could chew when it came to giving the park its cafe back.
***
Another week had gone by, and Fiona had nothing to show for it. When she tried to recall how she had filled the intervening days between last Saturday and this, she couldn’t remember a single thing of note. Washing, ironing, cleaning, cooking and shopping. That was it. She remembered phoning the council about next door’s cat, but as usual she hadn’t had any joy. The woman in reception had done what she always did, which was to make a note of Fiona’s complaint and promise to pass it on. And Fiona, as always, refused to divulge her name, her email address, or any other piece of private information to the nosy madam. Why the woman couldn’t just put her through to someone there and then, Fiona didn’t know.
It had been the same when she’d phoned all those times to complain about the state of the park. Did it matter who was calling? The litter was a fact, and knowing who had reported it wasn’t going to make it disappear. There was considerably less of it now though, and that was mostly down to Molly. And Bill, too, Fiona grudgingly admitted. Molly because she had taken it upon herself to litter pick every morning when she took her dog for a walk, and Bill because he had rounded up people from the local community to help knock the park into shape.
It was nice to see that people were finally starting to take pride in the place. And, rather surprisingly, one of those was a youngster who used to run riot in the park with his group of loutish friends. They still did, to a certain extent and were usually to be found hanging around the bandstand, swearing, smoking and drinking, all of it done at the tops of their voices. Why were kids so loud?
There was a distinct lack of them on this Saturday morning, and she guessed they were probably still in bed. That was another thing that irritated her when it came to young people, their ability to sleep for hours on end. It was pure envy on her part, of course. The days when she could sleep for longer than three hours at a stretch were long gone.
However, there was something going on in the park, and her tummy swooped with unexpected excitement when she saw an electrician’s van parked outside the old cafe, and that the door to the cafe itself was wide open. She could see Molly and a woman who was wearing overalls inside.
Fiona couldn’t resist, and as she sauntered casually (so she wouldn’t look too eager) up to the door, she realised that Molly and the woman were discussing rewiring the place.
The woman said, ‘I can do it at cost, as a favour, and as the company’s contribution to the park’s renovation.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Harper, but how much is cost?’
‘I’ll have to get back to you once I’ve worked out how much I’ll need in the way of materials.’
‘Can you give me a ballpark figure?’ Molly asked.
The electrician moved deeper into the building, Molly following, so Fiona didn’t hear what she said. But as she crept nearer, she caught Molly’s worried response.
‘Raising funds to cover the cost of that, plus repairing the roof and the other things that need doing, isn’t going to be easy. I can’t ask people to put their hands in their pockets and chip in financially, even if it is for the benefit of the community. Everyone is so strapped for cash these days.’
‘Let me know if and when you want me to go ahead. The job will have to be done in the evenings and on weekends, so it might take longer than usual.’
‘Understood. I’m just grateful that you’re willing to do it at all. Thanks, Harper.’
Fiona edged away from the door and stood to one side as the electrician left.
Molly looked pleased to see her as Fiona explained, ‘I saw the electrician’s van. This place looks a lot bigger without all the tables and chairs. Where have they gone? I hope you haven’t thrown them out.’
‘Good grief, no! They’re in my dad’s garage for the time being. Leaving them in here whilst the renovations take place wasn’t an option.’
‘Good.’ Fiona’s gaze roamed around the room, taking in the ancient machine that used to spit out scalding clouds of steam as well as hot water and milk, the chrome soda fountain, and the Carrara marble counter.
When she was a little girl, the cafe had been owned by an Italian family (not the council), which probably explained the Italian counter and the marble-topped tables. Guessing they would be very easy to wipe down and keep clean, she smiled wryly, thinking you could take the woman out of the cafe but you couldn’t take the cafe out of the woman. It was in her blood. Actually, she mused, that may very well be true, because she was certain that somewhere in her ancestry there was Italian blood. From the late 1890s, Italian immigrants were responsible for opening a range of cafes and ice cream parlours in the region. If she did have an Italian cafe-owner ancestor, it would explain a lot.
‘You’ll have to do some fundraising,’ Fiona said absently, as she continued to gaze around the space, memories of the way it had once looked superimposing themselves on the dingy room. It would be marvellous to see it brought back to life.
‘Hmm, you’re right. Maybe a Fundscape campaign?’
‘I have no idea what that is. I was thinking more along the lines of a jumble sale. I’m happy to make cupcakes to sell on the day, and a celebration cake to raffle off.’
‘A jumble sale is a marvellous idea, and it’s so kind of you to offer to make cakes. I’ll pay you for the ingredients, of course.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Fiona was adamant. ‘Consider it my contribution to the cause.’
Molly gave her a look and raised her eyebrows, which Fiona interpreted to mean that Molly was anticipating more of a contribution from her once the cafe was open for business. Much more. Like, running it, for instance…
Despite having told Molly that she was off her rocker to even ask, the more Fiona thought about it, the more she was coming around to the idea. Not running it obviously, but she wouldn’t be averse to doing a spot of baking, and maybe even helping out in the cafe itself now and again.
The rumble of an engine disturbed the peace, and Fiona was surprised to see another van trundle into view and come to a halt outside the cafe. Gosh, the park had more traffic than the local supermarket this morning.
Fiona decided to hang around for a while longer and, as she watched, a rather nice-looking man climbed out of the van. The vehicle had the words Gavin Mitchell, General Builder written on the side, and she assumed that the man must be Gavin himself. He looked quite young to have his own business, though. But then, everyone under forty looked young to her these days.
Molly hurried to greet him. ‘Thanks so much for coming. You’ve just missed the electrician.’ She pulled a face. ‘It needs a complete rewire.’
‘I’m not surprised. How long has it been empty?’ Gavin was staring up at the roof.
‘At least forty years. Possibly longer.’
‘Hmm.’
Molly bit her lip and said, ‘It’s never good news when a builder says hmm .’
He turned to look at her. ‘To be honest, the roof doesn’t look too bad from here. I can’t tell for sure until I get up there and take a proper look, but I’m fairly confident it won’t need to be replaced. I might have a problem sourcing Welsh slates for the repairs, though. They’re not easy to get hold of and they’re expensive.’
Molly gave a small smile. ‘Oh dear, but at least it doesn’t need a whole new roof, so that’s good news.’
‘I can use other slates, but you might have to make do with whatever the builder’s merchant has in his yard.’ he told her, and her face brightened. However, it quickly fell again when the builder told her the inside of the cafe needed to be replastered.
‘Darn it, I was hoping it wouldn’t.’
Gavin tapped his knuckles along the nearest wall. It sounded hollow in places. ‘Hear that? The plaster has blown. It’s come away from the brick underneath.’
Molly sighed. ‘If it has to be replastered, then so be it.’ She looked so dejected that Fiona felt for her.
Why the girl had set her heart on reopening the cafe was a mystery, but Fiona had to admit that it would be lovely to see it selling teas and coffees once again. However, the cost of getting it up to standard would be considerably more than the amount a couple of jumble sales could generate. Raising that kind of money wouldn’t be easy.
Molly needed help.
And Fiona knew just the person who could give her that help – Bill Greaves.