Chapter Two
Tamara let the heated discussion swirl around her.
Tonight, her mind wasn’t on Wuthering Heights but her own troubles.
She had hoped to keep her job crisis to herself for a while yet, especially as Pixie had sworn her to secrecy until the official brewery announcement was made next month.
But they hadn’t accounted for Vernon Bull and his network of informants.
It irritated the curmudgeonly village shopkeeper no end that his premises were considered the gossip hub of Penworthal, but that didn’t stop him eavesdropping with admirable efficiency.
Added to this, he was a member of the parish council, another source of gossip disguised as conscientious service to the local community.
The upcoming changes to The Rusty Anchor were apparently public knowledge. Tamara’s phone had started ringing non-stop once the news had travelled around her friends, until she’d been forced to turn it off to save her sanity.
But she’d had no choice about facing them all tonight.
They usually held their book-club meeting on the first Tuesday of every month, but when half the group had been laid low by a nasty bug that had swept through the village, they’d been forced to postpone it for a fortnight.
So far tonight, she’d managed to stay brisk and cheerful when anyone raised the subject, but her resolve would melt away if anyone was too sympathetic.
‘If Evelyn catches you daydreaming, you’ll get a rap on the knuckles.’ Laura nudged her elbow.
Their leader (although she bristled when they called her that), Evelyn Taylor, was still every inch the teacher. Both the village primary school and Evelyn were now retired, but the former headteacher’s steely gaze could still put the fear of God in her former pupils.
Melissa, the sole American among them, was the only one who hadn’t grown up in Penworthal, but it didn’t make her any less vulnerable to Evelyn’s expectations.
Their seven-strong group had started about two years ago as a way to ease Melissa back into socialising after the death of her first husband.
Its tongue-in-cheek name, Back of Beyond, referred to Cornwall’s geographical remoteness, and the group had become even tighter after going through a lot together.
Now there was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other.
‘How’s Josephine?’ Tamara asked her friend.
‘She’s walking now and getting into everything.
Mum’s already warned me we’ll have to watch her at Christmas or she’ll have the decorations off the tree in no time.
’ Laura’s mild exasperation was totally put on.
She worshipped her little girl, the miracle baby she’d never thought she’d have.
‘Barry’s ever so good with her. Got the patience of a saint, he has.
He’s working all hours so I can stay home with her until she’s a bit older.
Hopefully then I’ll get my old job at the nursery school back and things will be easier.
’ She yawned. ‘This sofa’s so comfortable I’ll fall asleep in a minute. What’re you going to do when Pixie—’
‘Tamara. Laura. Are the two of you “yeses” or “nos”?’ Evelyn’s piercing stare fixed on them.
A prickle of heat raced up Tamara’s neck and she didn’t need a mirror to know she was bright red. Laura looked equally flustered.
Each year the club picked a theme, and this year it was books that’d been adapted for film or TV but hadn’t been read by many club members. They were discussing the adaptations too, to see how faithful, or not, they were to the book.
‘We didn’t quite catch the question.’
‘You do surprise me. I’m doing a poll to find out who is glad they’ve now read Wuthering Heights, or re-read in some cases, and who prefers what I would describe as the more sanitised versions beloved of cinema and television.
’ The neatly phrased question made it clear where her sympathies lay.
‘It’s a mystery to me how they’ve managed to turn Heathcliff, who was a deeply disturbed man, into a romantic hero. An absolute abomination in my opinion.’
‘I thought the book was proper creepy,’ Laura said decisively. ‘I saw it once on the telly and had nightmares for a week. Didn’t make me want to go to those bleak Yorkshire moors either. Kate Bush’s song was good though.’
Evelyn’s neatly plucked brows shot up.
‘Well, I loved it, Evelyn.’ Tamara decided to go for it.
‘I hadn’t read it before, but I can see it must’ve been such a shocker when it was written.
The book doesn’t flinch away from exposing the darkness that’s in all of us.
We tend to see love as selfless, but this story shows it can be the most selfish of emotions.
That’s part of what makes it a hard read.
I’ve always been a fan of Gothic literature and this is the pinnacle for me.
’ Several people stared as though she’d grown two heads.
‘I think the fact it was written by a woman who lived a very isolated life makes it even more pertinent.’
‘Those are very perceptive comments.’ It stung her to hear Evelyn sound so surprised. ‘I’ll put you down as a yes, you’re glad you read it, and Laura as a no?’
They both nodded. Melissa was the only other one siding with Evelyn and Tamara. That was no great surprise because as a book editor she read a wide range of genres.
Josie, an intensely practical nurse, said she had better things to do with her limited spare time than read about a bunch of dysfunctional people, several of whom needed mental-health evaluations in her opinion.
Tamara had wrongly assumed that Amy might appreciate Wuthering Heights because the paralegal tended to favour more serious books, but not this time.
Good, sensible, motherly Becky said it wasn’t her sort of thing, but she could see why some liked it. That was her polite way of saying it was a load of rubbish. Ever the peacemaker.
‘If anyone is interested, a new film adaptation is coming out next year.’ Evelyn’s dismissive tone implied she wouldn’t be watching it. ‘Has anyone any further insights to share?’
Josie spoke up. ‘I think we’re ready for whatever treats Melissa has in store.
’ It was a given that the host for the month laid on drinks and snacks, any sort of cake being a perennial favourite of the group.
‘Then I, for one, want to see the fancy new bathroom Nathan says would make his father turn in his grave.’
They all knew about the deal Melissa had made when she’d married Nathan.
He’d been her late husband’s best friend, and a rather traditional dyed-in-the-wool bachelor when they’d got together.
She’d agreed to move into his beautiful old Victorian house if she could make some changes.
Old Mr Kellow, Nathan’s dad, had been a stickler for treating the place like a museum exhibit to be preserved at all costs, whereas in Melissa’s view there was a huge difference between respecting tradition and being a slave to it.
Tamara didn’t consider herself an envious woman, but would happily give her soul for this house.
Melissa’s updates were already making it shine and she had more planned.
Sympathetic double glazing had been fitted to the original sash windows.
Boldly painted walls showed off the ornate white ceiling mouldings.
A colourful piece of striking modern art hung above the black cast-iron fireplace instead of a dingy fox-hunting scene.
Tamara’s absolute favourite space was the kitchen and she dreamily imagined herself baking there.
Modern appliances were interspersed with free-standing cabinets painted in a soft duck-egg blue and gleaming copper pans hung from the ceiling.
The newly installed open-shelving showed off charming pieces of china and glass, authentic to the period, that Tamara had helped to track down.
It’d been sheer bliss to indulge her love of poking around car-boot sales and flea markets with someone else’s money.
‘A bit different from our cramped terraces, isn’t it?’ Laura glanced around the spacious living room. She and Tamara lived in two of the village’s many former council houses.
‘You could say that.’ Tamara playfully rolled her eyes.
‘Come on, it’s time to get down to the serious business of the night.
I’m starved. I gave up dinner because I heard there’d be brownies.
Not that brownies are very Wuthering Heights.
’ She grinned. ‘Heathcliff seems more like a “crust of mouldy bread and hunk of cheese” sort of guy. Ripped apart with his sharp teeth.’
The noise level rose as everyone swarmed into the kitchen.
There was a lot of chatter about Christmas, along with a little good-natured competition as to who’d started their festive shopping and who hadn’t given it a thought.
Tamara belonged to the latter group, as opposed to the super-organised Amy who fanatically raided the post-Christmas sales for bargains to gift people the following year.
‘Are our cakes homemade again, Tamara?’ Laura asked.
‘Of course they are.’
At least she didn’t have to puzzle over what to buy her book-club friends.
A couple of years ago, Josie was complaining that a decent Christmas cake was wickedly expensive to buy these days and she certainly didn’t have time to make her own.
Tamara had offered to make one for her and before she knew it, everyone wanted one.
‘You know I always bake them the first week of October. They get a dousing with brandy every week until early December. Then they have to dry out a bit before the marzipan goes on and they’re iced.’
Icing them was the fun part, because she personalised the decorations. Sometimes they’d be linked to a hobby or interest, and on other occasions they reflected a significant event that had happened to that person during the year.
‘You’re so awesome to do that for us. It’s my favourite gift.’