Chapter 5
‘I suggested a jumble sale,’ Fiona began, as Bill tucked into a generous slice of cake.
His eyes almost rolled back in his head in delight – damn, this woman knew how to bake.
‘We could hold a raffle as well,’ she continued.
‘What would we raffle?’ he asked, his mind still on the cake as he chewed.
‘I’ll bake a cake, for a start, and I thought we could ask local businesses for donations.’
‘What sort of donations?’
‘A hairdresser might offer a cut and blow dry, for instance. Or a beautician could offer a facial.’
‘We’ll need several things to make it worthwhile,’ Bill said, forking another mouthful of delicious cake into his mouth.
‘Let’s make a list of who we can ask,’ she suggested, getting up to fetch a notepad and a pen.
Patch, who was sprawled at Bill’s feet, raised his head and then dropped it down again with a sigh. The dog was bored.
‘One of the pubs might offer a meal,’ Bill mused, as he reached down to scratch the terrier’s ears. ‘And we could ask the supermarket if they’d like to donate a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates.’
‘A bouquet from the florist, and a fruit basket from the grocers?’ Fiona suggested.
‘A leg of lamb from the butcher?’ Bill added.
There was a pause as Fiona stared at him.
Bill stared back.
Then they burst out laughing.
‘Maybe not a leg of lamb,’ Bill conceded with a chuckle, imagining a hunk of meat sitting on a table next to a tin of shortbread. ‘Perhaps a voucher instead.’
‘That’s a better idea.’ Fiona’s eyes widened. ‘I think we might be getting ahead of ourselves. Where would we hold it? Not in the park – if it rained it would be a washout.’
‘St Hilda’s church has got a nice big hall,’ Bill said. ‘I believe they hold mother and toddler sessions in it.’ He squinted as he thought. ‘The Bowls Club has a decent function room, too.’ But after this morning’s debacle, he wouldn’t ask Morris to throw a bucket of water over him if he was on fire. ‘The church hall is the better option. Do you want to speak to the vicar, or shall I?’
‘I’ll do it. He’s partial to my scones. I’ll take him half a dozen.’
Bill experienced a twinge of envy. No one had ever baked him scones. He took a gulp of tea and told himself off for being silly. The scones were hardly a declaration of friendship: they were more akin to a bribe.
After agreeing that they should sort out the venue first, Fiona pushed the notepad and pen across the table and got to her feet.
For a second, Bill thought that their impromptu meeting was over and disappointment nipped at him. He had been enjoying himself.
‘I may as well make them now,’ she said. ‘You can carry on taking notes.’
Ah. Good. So that’s what she was doing. She wasn’t kicking him out after all. And he might get to taste one of the scones, if he was lucky.
He watched her retrieve a mixing bowl from a cupboard, along with flour and baking powder, before she took butter and milk out of the fridge. Patch was watching her too, and Bill guessed that the terrier was hopeful of being offered a morsel of whatever Fiona was making.
‘I’ll pop to the vicarage in the morning,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, do we have any other ideas?’
The thought of scones with jam and clotted cream reminded him of something, and a fleeting memory of women in nice dresses and men in suits dancing on a rainy afternoon in Baltimore fluttered at the edge of his consciousness. Why was he thinking about—?
‘A tea dance!’ he cried, making Fiona jump.
The bag of self raising flour she had been holding plonked onto the counter, releasing a cloud of fine white powder.
Patch whined.
‘We could hold a tea dance,’ Bill continued in a more normal tone. ‘Not only would it raise money for the repairs, you could also showcase your cakes and so on. It would be a kind of free advertising for the cafe.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ she said, wiping away the fine layer of flour that coated the workshop, before measuring the correct amount into the bowl. ‘Do you think we could hold that in the church hall as well?’
‘I don’t see why not, if the vicar is willing.’ Bill chuckled. ‘You might want to take him some jam and cream when you give him the scones, to sweeten the deal.’
‘I’ll pick up some cream in the morning on the way.’ She smiled happily. ‘I love that idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a tea dance. What made you think of it?’
‘Scones.’
She gave him a quizzical look, but he didn’t explain. The tea dance itself wasn’t the issue. The woman who he had attended the dance with, was .
To change the subject, he said, ‘Do you think we should have something for the kids? I don’t think a jumble sale will enthuse them much, and I can’t see anyone under forty attending a tea dance.’
‘What do you suggest?’ She poured some milk into a glass jug and popped it into the microwave.
While she waited for it to ping, Bill wracked his brains for an idea.
Fiona asked, ‘Has the newt that Reuben found got a name?’
‘It’s a great crested newt, I believe.’
‘I know, but that doesn’t trip off the tongue, does it? It needs a name.’
‘Fred?’ Bill suggested. ‘Or Warty?’
Fiona took the milk out of the microwave, checked its temperature, then added a few drops of something out of a small brown bottle, and squeezed in the juice of half a lemon. ‘Do you think we could run a competition to name it?’
‘Name That Newt?’ Bill chortled. ‘I don’t see why not. We could charge 50p a go, and Reuben could choose the winner. Shall I ask him what he thinks?’
‘It can’t hurt.’
‘I’ll do it now.’ Bill took his battered mobile out of his pocket and peered at the screen. Even with his reading glasses on, he struggled to see it properly sometimes. Finding Reuben’s number, he dialled it, and after explaining, he ended the call with a smile. ‘He thinks it’s a great idea. He’s looking at it from the conservation side of things, of course. Says it’ll highlight the plight of the newt, and so on. He also suggested that the winning name could be put on a plaque by the pond, and so the pond would be known as Warty Pond, for instance.’
‘I’m sure the kids will come up with a better name than Warty,’ Fiona laughed. She had just put the scones in the oven. ‘Another cup of tea?’
‘Go on then, if you insist.’ He tapped the notepad with the pen. ‘Is that enough to be going on with, do you think?’
She said, ‘I’ve got another idea, one that I hope will encourage people to continue to take pride in the park – and that’s to have a plant-a-thon.’
‘A what?’
‘A plant-a-thon.’
‘Is that where people plant as many plants as possible in the shortest amount of time?’
‘Hmm, it does sound like that’s what it should be, but I was thinking more in terms of teams being responsible for planting up one of the flower beds that Molly and Jack haven’t managed to get around to yet. There are quite a few of them. This way, the beds would look pretty and the event would raise a bit of money.’
‘How?’ Bill asked. ‘Plants aren’t cheap.’
‘I was hoping to tap up the garden centre for a few freebies. Then there’s the allotment behind Lavender Lane. I’m sure they’ll have a plant or two to spare, and I know Molly’s mum has got loads of seedlings that will be ready to go in the ground soon.’
Bill wasn’t sure it would work as a fund-raising activity. ‘It sounds like we should be paying people to plant them, not the other way around,’ he said.
Fiona deflated. ‘You’re right; we can’t expect people to pay to stick a plant in the ground.’
‘It’s still a good idea, though. The area around the cafe could do with prettying up. Perhaps we could ask people to help with the planting and call it ‘Adopt a Bed’?’
Fiona giggled. ‘That sounds a bit risqué. How about Strictly Come Planting?’
Bill slapped his thigh and let out a bark of laughter. ‘That’s great! What a name! I don’t think anyone will be able to resist Strictly Come Planting,’ he chortled.
He was still chuckling as he and Patch strolled through the park on their way home, Bill having been sent on his way with two scones in a bag, and a piece of paper with a to-do list on it, in Fiona’s neat handwriting. The next few weeks promised to be interesting.
***
As Fiona was walking back from the church the following morning, she wondered whether she should have invited Bill for Sunday lunch today. She had put a small chicken in the oven to roast before she’d gone to speak to the vicar this morning, but there would have been plenty for Bill, and Patch. Was it too late to phone and ask?
She checked her watch: it was just gone eleven, so she decided to ring him.
‘Bill? It’s Fiona,’ she began.
‘Have you spoken to the vicar? Is there a problem?’
‘No, no problem. I just wondered whether you would like to come to lunch? Or have you got plans? Don’t worry if you have, it was only a suggestion.’
Bill was silent for so long that she wondered whether they’d been disconnected. She was walking home from the church, so it was quite likely that she’d lost signal.
‘I’d love to,’ he said, just as she was about to hang up and try again. ‘Can I bring some new potatoes from the garden? I’ve got some runner beans as well.’
‘Lovely! Shall we say twelve o’clock?’
‘Can Patch come with me? I hate leaving him at home.’
‘I fully expected him to.’ Never once had Fiona seen Bill without his dog. With Bill, it was very much a case of love me, love my dog, and she had a feeling that Bill would give short shrift to anyone who didn’t accept the little terrier.
Luckily, she liked dogs, and Patch was gentle and well-behaved. Unlike next door’s cat, who had hissed and spat at her this morning when she’d clapped her hands at it because she’d discovered it doing its business in her dahlias. Maybe Patch’s scent in the garden would prove to be a deterrent? She could live in hope.
As soon as she got home, Fiona checked on the chicken then set about making an apple tart for pudding. She had just put the pastry in the fridge for thirty minutes when her doorbell rang.
Smiling, Fiona wiped her hands on a towel and hurried into the hall. ‘Come in, come in,’ she urged. It felt good to have someone to cook a meal for: David didn’t visit nearly often enough.
‘This is for you,’ Bill said, handing her a bag.
Expecting to see new potatoes and runner beans, she was surprised to discover that there was also a bottle of wine. ‘I thought we could have a glass with lunch, or you could have one later, if you don’t want to open it now,’ he said.
She passed him the bottle. ‘You can do the honours. The glasses are in there.’ She put the potatoes and beans on the draining board.
Feeling quite decadent, although she was a little concerned that Bill might make a habit of drinking during the day, which she didn’t approve of, Fiona placed a pan of salted water on the hob, then turned her attention to cleaning the potatoes.
He said, ‘I was going to have them for my tea last night, with the beans and a couple of rashers of bacon, but I didn’t think I could manage a big meal plus a scone, so I just had a bacon sarnie. The scone was delicious, by the way.’
Fiona inclined her head. She expected nothing less, considering she had been making scones since she was a teenager. If she hadn’t got it right by now, there was no hope for her.
‘Did you grow these yourself?’ she asked, scraping the delicate skin off one of the potatoes.
‘I did. Most of my garden is given over to vegetables, with only a little bit of lawn for Patch. I’ll bring you some tomatoes next time.’
Fiona lowered her head, concentrating on her task. Did he mean next time he came to lunch? If so, that was rather presumptuous of him.
‘Reuben dropped these off earlier,’ Bill was saying, and Fiona only realised he had brought a kind of satchel with him when he tapped the bag and put it on the countertop. He eased a sheaf of paper out of it.
Fiona popped the newly cleaned potato into the pan and dried her hands. Picking the top piece of paper off the pile, she read it whilst Bill opened the wine, and a grin spread across her face.
It was a leaflet with the words Name the Newt written across the top, followed by a photo of a great crested newt (maybe Bill’s suggestion of Warty wasn’t too far off the mark), and a bit of info about the newt in the park and how its discovery had saved the pond from being filled in. At the bottom of the leaflet were spaces for the entrant’s details and their suggestion for a name.
‘This is brilliant!’ she exclaimed.
Bill wasn’t finished. ‘That’s not all. When we know the date and venue of the tea dance, Reuben said he will do the posters for that too. And for the jumble sale.’
‘That’s so kind of him.’ Fiona beamed. ‘I’ve got a provisional date for both, but I wanted to run it past you, Molly and Jack before I confirmed it. The vicar was most accommodating.’ She grinned again as an image of the pleasure on the face of Reverend Jenkins popped into her head when she had presented him with the scones. He used to love her scones, and when she owned the cafe he often used to call in for one for his breakfast.
Whilst she carved the chicken and dished up, Bill spoke to Molly on the phone and brought her up to speed with their fund- raising progress so far. Fiona was relieved that Molly was happy with the dates, so Bill sent a quick message to Reuben.
As he took a seat at the table, a steaming plate of food in front of him, he said, ‘I’ve just spoken to Reuben, and he is going to print out some posters. He’s promised to have them ready for this evening, so we can ask people to put them up tomorrow at the same time as we give the Name the Newt leaflets out.’
Fiona picked up her knife and fork, butterflies fluttering in her tummy. ‘This is really happening, isn’t it?’
‘You bet it is.’
She put her cutlery down without taking a bite, having abruptly realised that the butterflies weren’t caused by excitement: they were caused by worry. The fundraising didn’t bother her – delivering a few leaflets and making some sandwiches for a group of fox-trotting pensioners was neither here nor there. What bothered her was the thought of being in charge of a business again. Because, regardless of whether the cafe was a not-for-profit organisation, it would have the same issues of managing staff rotas (albeit volunteers), keeping meticulous accounting records, ordering stock, and ensuring that food hygiene standards were met.
And that was just for starters.
Managing a cafe wasn’t as simple as popping a pinny on and shoving some cakes in the oven. There was so much more to consider, and she didn’t know whether she was up to it. Not a second time. Both Molly and Bill seemed to believe that her involvement meant that she was. It was only fair that she shouldered some of the blame for that, because she had been swept away by the wonderful feeling of being needed, of being involved. Besides, she could honestly say that she was no longer bored.
‘I’m worried,’ she began, her eyes downcast as she studied her plate.
‘Don’t be. People will turn up. Everyone loves a jumble sale, especially with money being tight, and I’m sure the tea dance will be a big hit. And it’s not as though we have to raise thousands, is it? Both the electrician and the builder said they’d do the work for free, so we only have to raise enough money to cover the cost of the materials.’
‘It’s not that. It’s the cafe itself. I’m not as young as I was and I’m worried that it’ll be too much for me.’
Bill stopped chewing. Reaching across the table, he put his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. ‘You won’t be doing it alone. There’s me, Molly, and Jack, to name three, and I’m positive Molly will rope other people in to help. Not only is she very persuasive, but she’s also a very determined young woman. You’ll have lots of help.’
Fiona let his words sink in, then nodded. He was right, the responsibility for this cafe wouldn’t be on her shoulders alone: Molly simply wouldn’t allow it.
Feeling better again (what a rollercoaster this was turning out to be), Fiona picked up her knife and fork once more.
This lovely lunch that she had prepared wasn’t going to eat itself, and she’d be damned if she was going to let it go cold.