Chapter Five
Tamara was at a loose end. After she’d finished making the puddings for Sunday lunch, Pixie had shooed her away.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll still get your full pay, but Christos is coming in to help me,’ her friend had said. ‘We don’t have a ton of bookings today, so it’ll be a good chance for him to get some more experience.’
So far, Tamara wasn’t impressed by Christos’s idea of ‘work’. It seemed to consist of chatting up the female customers, the youngest and most attractive ones, and being nowhere to be found when a barrel needed changing.
‘You could work on some more recipes for our Decadent December Desserts specials?’ Pixie suggested. The idea was to tempt customers with something new for each day of the month and prove there was more to festive treats than the ubiquitous mince pies.
‘I’m not really in a baking mood.’
Now, Tamara had already speed-cleaned the house and the week’s washing was out on the line, so what should she do with the rest of the day? She had no intention of turning up on Toby and Chloe’s doorstep to intrude on their rare free Sunday together.
There was the usual flea market in Par, but she needed to tighten her belt even further now and not fritter away money she didn’t have. It’d be fruitless to promise herself she’d only buy suitable items for reselling, because if she spotted a porcelain pig, all bets would be off.
Her obsession had started on her fifth birthday when her late Aunt Edith had given her a bright pink money bank, which squeaked a cheerful oink every time a coin was put in its slot.
Even Toby didn’t know the full extent of her collection because most of it was boxed up in the attic, ready to be displayed one day.
Some people would call it sad, but she logged her porcelain pig purchases in a special pink notebook and gave them all names, recording when and where they’d been bought and how much she’d paid for them.
There was no milk in the fridge so she could take a wander down to Vernon Bull’s shop, which opened on Sundays albeit for slightly shorter hours.
The shop was a lot smarter these days, thanks to Chloe’s success in persuading the stick-in-the-mud shopkeeper to make changes.
Toby’s partner had worked there full time for a while before starting her new university course and still picked up a few shifts whenever she could.
Tamara might even treat herself to a pizza if there were any fresh out of the oven.
The weather was mild for late October, so she didn’t stop to put anything on over her thin T-shirt.
She’d learned to swim in the cold Cornish seas, long before it was labelled ‘wild swimming’, has been part of a gig-boat racing crew as a teenager and still surfed whenever she had the chance. A little cool air didn’t bother her.
The sun warmed her shoulders and a straggle of puffy clouds dotted the almost Mediterranean-blue sky, making it hard to believe in only a couple of months it’d be Christmas.
Tamara ordered herself to stop being such an ungrateful cow.
She had her health, a roof over her head, a loving son and his partner, and great friends, and she lived in a beautiful part of the world.
Instead of heading straight to the shop, she impulsively turned onto Poltaire Road and strode past the doctor’s house and surgery to see what the new development looked like now.
The last time she’d checked, only two of the houses were finished, while the others were still in various stages of construction.
Despite lingering misgivings about whether places like this were an asset or a curse, it was clear that whoever had designed Trelawney Court had done an excellent job.
With the sympathetic use of local granite, typical Cornish slate roofs and mellow paint shades in light pinks, soft blues and pale green, the new homes blended in better than she’d envisaged.
Two sets of six houses, none of which were cookie-cutter identical, fanned out on either side of the entrance road.
‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ A well-built older man with iron-grey hair and a slight stoop strolled out from the nearest garden, or at least what would be a garden when it was more than a square of recently laid turf. ‘This one’s mine.’
‘It’s very nice.’
‘But you’re local and aren’t sure about more incomers. That’s understandable.’
Tamara shifted awkwardly under the strength of the man’s piercing blue eyes.
‘Villages that don’t expand eventually die, but those that do often end up losing the sense of community that drew people there in the first place.
’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a conundrum.’ Remembering her manners, she stuck out her hand and introduced herself.
He smiled. ‘Wilf Buckingham. My family were from these parts originally before they moved to the London area, so maybe that makes me a little more acceptable?’ His eyes twinkled.
‘More than a little.’
‘I’ve recently retired from the hotel business, but I’ll need to find something to keep me out of trouble.
My wife, Karen, is a great crafter, so she’ll be looking for like-minded people and she’d love to find a local choir to join as well.
Is there anything like that going on in the village at Christmas, perhaps? ’
‘There’s the Christmas Eve service at the church, and we have a free lunch on Christmas Day at the pub for anyone who’s on their own or simply needs a meal.’
Wilf nodded in approval.
‘A lot more people put up lights outside their homes these days, so the village looks really pretty at Christmas.’
‘What about a Christmas tree?’ Wilf asked and must’ve noticed her confusion. ‘I mean a village one.’
‘We’ve never had one. The parish council is always short of money, so I don’t think they could afford it.’
‘What about that tree?’ Wilf pointed to a nearby dark-green fir.
‘That’s got to come out because the builder says it’s too close to the house.
If you could think of a good central spot, I could have him dig it up and replant it.
We could put it in a large pot for the holidays and then plant it back in the soil somewhere afterwards. ’
Tamara’s brain raced. ‘There’s a patch of grass outside the church that would be perfect.’ Her face fell. ‘But lights are expensive and—’
‘If it wouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes, I’m happy to pay for them.’
It struck her that maybe this was what Penworthal needed — a burst of new energy and ideas. Just like Gage with his bookshop. A lot of the dyed-in-the-wool locals wouldn’t agree of course, but wasn’t that often the way?
‘That’s a wonderful idea and very generous. If you like, I could have a word with Vernon Bull who owns the village shop and is on the council?’
‘Great. Let me know what he says.’
‘I think you and your wife will be huge assets to the community.’
‘But don’t barge in and act all big-headed and try to take over, right?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Wilf chuckled. ‘Hotel business, remember. Good at reading people.’
Too good. ‘I’d better be off. You’ll have to pop into The Rusty Anchor so I can buy you your first pint at the village pub. And your wife, of course. I work there sometimes, so I might be behind the bar.’
‘We’d be delighted.’
With a cheery wave Tamara left, buoyed by the encounter, and headed back to Church Street. Another distraction kept her from Vernon’s shop and she crossed the road, lured by the new sign fixed to the front of Gage’s shop. She swallowed down a wave of regret at it not being the café of her dreams.
The Mighty Pen
New and Used Books
Talk about a transformation. The shabby building looked completely different already, with a fresh coat of white paint on the walls and a new, glossy, dark-green door.
The glass in the large bay window shone, and plastered across it was a large sign announcing that the shop would be opening soon.
It gave links, including a scannable QR code, to social media pages where people could check for updates.
‘What do you think of it?’
She turned with a start and felt her face light up like a Christmas tree. Gage had pulled up next to her in a white van and was leaning out of the driver’s window.
‘Looks great.’ Tamara tried not to sound too grudging.
‘Fancy checking out the inside?’
‘If you like.’
‘I could do with a second opinion before I go any further.’ He climbed out and pushed the van door closed.
‘Then you shall have it, Mr Bennet.’
After he’d left the pub on Friday she’d unashamedly pumped Melissa for a word-by-word account of everything that had been said, and Evelyn’s play on his name had amused her.
‘Very funny.’ Gage’s smile was tight and strained, as if from infrequent use.
As he walked over to join her, Tamara became aware for the first time of the pronounced limp in his left leg. Their eyes met, and her breath caught when his expression turned deadly serious.
* * *
‘Come inside, I’d much prefer to talk there rather than in the street.’ A tingle of resentment nagged at him. The last thing he needed was her pity. Gage stood back to let her go first.
‘Oh, wow, it’s going to be seriously gorgeous.’ Her face lit up. ‘The green-and-white colour scheme is perfect. Bookshops should be peaceful, welcoming places.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel.’
She wandered around and ran her fingers over the old wooden counter he’d retained from the shop’s previous evolutions. Tamara swung back to face him. ‘How’ve you done all this in such a short time?’