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And it wasn’t all pie in the sky, when you thought about it. Other women had done it before – made fortunes by making things – especially in the eighties. You could hardly pick up a magazine at one time without reading how so-and-so had begun by mixing pots of cream or make-up in their kitchen, or printing lengths of cloth in the spare room, and they’d ended up running empires. So why shouldn’t she do something similar? Of course it would mean having to suck up to that nauseating Reg Watts in the craft shop once more, but nothing ventured nothing gained, as the saying goes. Yes, that’s what she would do: she would hurry home right now, collect one of the other teapot stands … and sell it!
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_10ffa317-251d-53b6-ad1c-27aee1194bdd)
Harvey Webb prised himself from the warm leather interior of his Mercedes, set his face against the wind, and threw the door shut behind him. The discreet ‘clunk’ of the lock usually pleased him inordinately, only right now it hardly registered; his mind was on other things. How infuriating that he’d forgotten to get Julia something for her birthday in town!
He’d already bought her the main present – a garnet and pearl bracelet – but she liked to have lots of little things to unwrap. And the last thing he wanted right now was to disappoint Julia.
Oh, if only he had thought of it sooner. He could have scooped up armfuls of suitable tat in Bath, but all that talk with Jerry and Adam had put it right out of his head.
Or maybe too much lager had, he conceded, looking up and down the deserted village street, although to tell the truth he always seemed to be forgetting things lately. It wasn’t as if he had much to think about either. Bugger all, in fact. But these days it seemed that the more time he had to think – and the less he had to think about – the more forgetful he became. That was what redundancy did for you.
Turning up the collar of his trenchcoat he began to pick his way across the sodden grass verge in search of somewhere that might sell gifts, but all he could see ahead of him was a knitting wool shop with ugly yellow film stuck over its window and a bakery that had sold its last crumb. Unless … yes, he was sure he remembered correctly: across the green there was a craft shop of sorts. He’d spotted it the day he and Julia had moved into the Old Dairy and she’d sent him out to find milk.
And was that the biggest mistake they’d ever made, he wondered for the hundredth time as he pushed on the plate-glass door of Heyford Handy Crafts: moving out to a village, when all they’d ever known was the town?
‘It’s so, so pretty here,’ Julia had said when she’d first set eyes on the place, dancing up and down the narrow streets in unsuitably high heels, and he couldn’t help but admit that it was. Then. Hard to resist in mid-summer was the chocolate-box setting of Upper Heyford with its big round duck pond, its fourteenth-century church, its thatched public house and matching cottages – all grouped pleasingly round the obligatory patch of green.
But it wasn’t so pretty now. Harvey shivered. No, not in November. Gone were all the flowers that had spilled freely from countless basket arrangements; gone were the tables outside the Golden Fleece. The trees were naked, the grass clogged with leaves. It looked downright dismal under heavy grey skies, and he sighed, longing for spring to come round, as he elbowed his way into the shop.
Reg Watts leaned forward on his heavy arms and leered at Susannah on the other side of the counter.
‘Well, Mrs Harding,’ he said above the jangle of the old-fashioned bell, ‘what have you brought me this time? Dried flowers? Corn dollies? Or something I can actually sell?’
‘You did manage to sell some of my flower arrangements, Reg,’ Susannah replied with icy politeness. She glanced in the newcomer’s direction, annoyed at the untimely intrusion. This was the last thing she wanted: an audience to witness her battle with Reg Watts.
The man, she noticed, had strolled to the far corner of the shop and was pretending to examine china mugs. But somehow she just knew he was listening to every word.
‘Yes, I know I sold a few of your things,’ Reg moaned, taking a mangled handkerchief from his pocket and arranging it in a pad. Judging by his nasal twang he had a very bad cold indeed. ‘But everyone’s doing dried flowers these days,’ he went on, elaborately wiping his nose. ‘They’re all going to classes to find out how it’s done. The only thing they come in here for is to pick up ideas. No, there isn’t much call in these parts … Have you tried hawking them round the shops in Bath?’
The stranger had picked up a glass paperweight and was holding it up to the light. Or was he using it as an excuse, and really studying Susannah?
‘Coals to Newcastle,’ she snapped. ‘Every other shop in Bath seems to be stacked to the eaves with dried flower arrangements. But I didn’t come to talk about those, Reg. Take a look at this.’
Under Reg’s cynical gaze she pulled back layers of tissue from the parcel she had placed on his counter. ‘Now, you don’t have anything like this in your shop, do you?’
‘Hmm.’ Reg reached out reluctantly to grasp the item with both hands. He tipped his head backwards to view it from under his glasses, then ducked his head forward again to peer at it over the top. Susannah wondered why he bothered to wear the things when they so obviously didn’t help.
‘No,’ was the ultimate verdict. ‘No, I don’t stock anything like this. And do you know why?’ Reg beamed at his victim triumphantly. ‘Because there isn’t any call for the likes of this either.’
Susannah gritted her teeth. ‘But how do you know there isn’t going to be a demand for something,’ she persisted, ‘if you never actually display it?’
She glanced round the shop, avoiding the stranger’s eye. It was crammed with useless junk. In all honesty there was no room for more, and her teapot stand would be lost among the chaos. The world was full of hopeful artists, potters, and makers of useless knick-knacks. What chance did she stand? Then she saw the stranger’s hand reach out towards a rag doll.
‘Display it?’ Reg was muttering. ‘Well, I don’t know about that. The thing is –’ He twirled the stand in one hand. ‘Well, what I mean to say is … what exactly is it?’
‘It’s a teapot stand, of course! Or any kind of pot stand for that matter. Anyone can see that.’
Susannah whipped round in amazement; Reg’s only other customer had come up behind her and stolen her very words. She found the man smiling disarmingly above her head – and rewarded him with a hostile stare. Oh, how she already hated him for his suave, easy-going confidence. Clearly nobody had ever made him feel small, insignificant, and utterly, utterly useless. It was going to take more than a frozen expression from her to knock him off his perch.
‘Harvey Webb,’ he told her, nodding at her agreeably and reaching across to pick up the stand for a closer look. He turned it over in his hands while Susannah cringed. She now wanted nothing more than to throw the thing in the bin, forget the whole project, give up the idea of doing Something and being Someone. Criticism from Paul was bad enough; criticism from the rest of the world was unbearable.
‘This is really rather nice,’ Harvey murmured eventually, his thumbs sweeping the mosaic surface in obvious appreciation. In silence he studied the frame. ‘You made the whole thing yourself?’ he asked, slanting Susannah a glance.
‘Yes!’ she hissed back, taking them all by surprise, and she snatched the piece from his hand. There was one thing worse than criticism, she decided, and that was male condescension. Arrogant sod. At least Paul had been honest. ‘Yes,’ she went on, lisping childishly, ‘I made it all by my little self. Now isn’t that just amazing? And Daddy didn’t help me at all.’
The two men gawped at her as she thrust the stand back in a carrier bag.
‘Now,’ she said, her voice normal again as she dusted off her hands, ‘if you’ll both excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll take up no more of your time. I’ll just run along home and amuse myself some more.’
She pulled open the door, stumbled over the threshold, and let the door clang closed behind her. Reg and Harvey were left still gaping, their eyebrows raised in bewilderment at the swinging ‘Closed’ sign.
Outside on the pavement Susannah ducked her head into the wind and headed blindly down the street, feeling hot-cheeked, light-headed and unreal. She wiped her forehead with a shaking hand. What had got into her lately? She had never behaved like that before in her entire life. Well, not often. She could take a lot of ‘aggro’, but sometimes something would snap and she would go hurtling over the edge. She wished she hadn’t made an exhibition of herself just then, though.
‘Hey!’ a voice said behind her, ‘you forgot to pick this up.’
She stopped. Harvey what’s-his-name hadn’t actually followed her, had he? Not after the things she’d said? But he had. And he was holding out her black leather handbag with SWH stamped on the flap in gold. She had forgotten she had put it on the counter.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, taking it sheepishly from his outstretched hand, and expecting him to go straight back to the shop. But he didn’t. Somehow he had managed to position himself ahead of her so that he was standing in her path, and she realised for the first time how stomach-churningly good-looking he was, in a Richard Gere-ish kind of way. He stood looking directly at her, his hands now stuffed into the pockets of his trenchcoat for warmth, an infectious smile twitching at the corners of his lips.
Time kicked its heels while she eyed him back belligerently, but eventually she felt that one of them had to say something, so nodding at the doll he carried tucked under his arm with its felt feet sticking out, she said, ‘I hope Reg doesn’t take you for a shoplifter. Hadn’t you better go back?’
‘What?’ He looked vaguely at the shop, then at the upturned doll. ‘Oh, it’s all right, don’t worry. I chucked a plastic card at him on my way out. I’ll go back and settle up properly when we’ve had our cup of tea.’
‘Our –?’ She looked at the hand on her arm – a moderately large hand with broad, straight fingers.
‘Well, I could certainly do with one.’ His eyes roved over her face. ‘And I rather think you could too.’
There was no question of refusing; he didn’t give her a chance. He hustled her down a cul-de-sac before she could even begin to think what was happening. And in no time at all they were sitting opposite each other in the Copper Kettle with the doll propped against a sugar bowl as chaperone.
‘Not as comfortable as I’d hoped,’ he remarked, grimacing as he tried to settle himself on his chair. ‘One of those places that looks better from the outside than it actually is, I’m afraid. I haven’t sat on one of these horrible things since my Sunday school days.’
As he bent to examine the cane seat she saw that his hair grew thick and strong down the back of his head and was hardly streaked with grey at all. Paul’s was entirely grey and it didn’t grow right from the forehead like it used to either. There ought to be a way, she mused silently, of telling a man’s age by the amount his hair had receded. Like the rings on the trunk of a tree. A decade per half-inch perhaps? But that wouldn’t work; it would make this man young enough to be her son, which he was patently far from being.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, coming up a little flushed, ‘I suppose that dates me horribly, doesn’t it, talking about cane seats in Sunday schools?’ It was as if he’d read her mind. ‘In this day and age it’s probably pre-formed plastic, if they have them at all. I mean, I don’t know … do kids still go to Sunday school these days?’
Susannah hesitated. She didn’t want to sit drinking tea with a perfect stranger, making polite conversation about chairs and Sunday schools, of all things. And he hadn’t even asked her if she’d wanted to come; just assumed she’d be delighted to have his company. She firmed her lips and stuck her jaw out a little, making up her mind to answer him only in monosyllables. But he was a difficult sort of person to dislike and she relented almost immediately.
‘Mine went to Sunday school for a while –’ she told him, smiling faintly in spite of herself – ‘until they learned to vote with their feet, that is. But – that’s going back quite a few years now. I don’t know what goes on these days either. Anyway, if it’s any comfort to you, I remember having chairs like this at Sunday school too. So there; that dates me as well.’
And don’t you dare come out with any pat little ‘Oh, surely you’re not that old’ nonsense, she silently warned him. But he didn’t and she felt disappointed. Nor did he pick up on the mention of children, from which she deduced that he didn’t have any of his own or he would have leaped at the chance to talk about them, which was a shame because he looked as if he would have made a nice dad.
But now he seemed to be gazing about him and wondering what to say next. No doubt he was already regretting having brought her here and couldn’t wait to get away again.
‘Ugly little trollop, isn’t she?’ he came out with in the end, the laughter lines round his mouth deepening good-humouredly. ‘Our friend here, I mean –’ he inclined his head in the direction of the doll and added in a stage whisper – ‘not the waitress.’
Susannah glanced at the elderly waitress shuffling from table to table and allowed herself another small smile, then she smoothed creases from the doll’s dress with hands that she didn’t know what to do with. She suddenly felt warmer than she had all day. This man was turning out to be quite a charmer. But – she pulled herself up sharply – didn’t she know better by now than to put trust in charming men?
‘Why did you choose this doll,’ she wondered out loud, ‘if you really think she’s awful?’
‘Well –’ he watched Susannah’s deft fingers tweak the doll’s clothes into better shape – ‘there was another one sitting beside her, dressed in a creamy lacy underthing and a coat of green – um –’
‘Velvet.’
‘Is that what it was? Yes, I suppose so. Well, I’d have preferred that one if it had been up to me. Much more tasteful, I thought. But I knew Julia wouldn’t agree with me. She never does. She’s more a frills and ribbons type, you see.’
‘Uh-huh. Julia being your … daughter?’
‘Wife.’
They leaned back to accommodate the arrival of the tea things.
‘So,’ Susannah said lightly, happy to leave the stirring and pouring to him since the tea had been his idea and he seemed to want to take charge, ‘you don’t think much of Lucy-Ann, I take it?’
‘Lucy-Ann?’ Glancing up from his teabag dunking his eyes followed Susannah’s back to the doll. ‘Oh lord. You don’t mean to tell me … not more of your handiwork, surely?’
‘I made them both, Mr – er –’
‘Webb,’ he had to remind her, ‘Harvey Webb.’
‘– and I made them different to appeal to all tastes. Not that it made a scrap of difference,’ she added bitterly.
‘Sorry?’ He looked puzzled.
She drew a long breath, wishing she’d not made the comment. Now she would have to explain. ‘They’ve travelled the length and breadth of the country with me over the years, those dolls, moving from shop to shop on sale or return. Just about anywhere my husband’s work has taken us, they’ve gone too. Yes –’ she sighed, putting down her cup – ‘Paul’s spectacular promotions have taken us all around the country – abroad as well on two occasions – while my sad little failures have trailed along behind us.’ She forced a grin. ‘Congratulations, Mr Webb –’
‘Harvey.’
‘– you are the first mug ever to actually buy one.’ And, she thought, surprised at herself, you’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.
He appraised her gravely – as gravely as a face like his would allow. ‘I think,’ he said after a pause, ‘I’m beginning to see why you were a bit touchy back there. But they’re beautifully made, those dolls. And so is the Roman teapot stand. I meant what I said about that.’
Inadvertently – or not, she couldn’t be sure – he had covered one of her hands with his as he spoke, and holding her eyes with his own he went on, ‘I think, Mrs Harding, you’re one hell of a talented lady. And don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.’
She gazed back at him with obvious pity. Men were so utterly transparent it was unbelievable. Did he really think she was going to fall for this stupid malarkey? Any minute now he would conjure up a huge shipping order that he was sure he’d be able to get for her: a thousand teapot stands, he would reckon, for someone he just happened to know in the business. In return, of course, for … well, really, he must be desperate, the dirty old so-and-so!
Frustration that had only been lightly tamped down since its last eruption swept her to the edge again. She slid her hand from beneath his, grabbed hold of her bag and stood up.
‘And you, Mr Webb,’ she replied as coolly as her wavering voice would allow, ‘are one hell of a patronising bastard.’
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_4a8a3ea4-ea96-5075-b351-1538e7f376dc)
The flowers shivered in their cellophane as Paul walked past. He stopped and looked down at them, arrested by a flash of remorse. He had only come to the service station for petrol and perhaps the evening paper, but should he buy flowers for Sue?
‘’Scuse me,’ a young woman in a green coat rasped in his ear as she attempted to dance her way around him. She might as well have bawled, ‘Get out of the flaming way!’, her tone was so full of irritation.
Paul stood his ground for a moment, blocking the woman’s path and treating her to a hostile stare before politely holding open the door for her. Women these days! What on earth was the matter with them? Bolshie. Aggressive. They’d stab you in the back as soon as look at you.
And what was the matter with Sue? What did she think she was playing at? She’d damn nearly killed him last night. If that mosaic thingy had caught him on the head, goodness knows what might have happened. He was certainly seeing a side of her just lately that he’d never seen before, and he didn’t like it one bit.
When had things begun to change? When Katy went to live in London, he supposed. But at first it had all seemed for the better. Susannah didn’t appear to be one of those women who pined over an empty nest – unless she was doing her best to hide it. But he didn’t think that was the case. And they had both thought it a good idea to go for the cottage too; so it couldn’t be that.
No, everything had been great to begin with. If retirement was going to be like this, he’d thought, then let them chuck him out of his job tomorrow! One of these pushy power-hungry young women could bash their brains out in his place, and the best of British luck to her.
Next thing he knew, Susannah had wanted to set up a work room for herself. Fair enough, he’d said, a hobby would be nice for her. He had helped her organise the room and not batted an eyelid at the cost of stocking it with materials. Meanness had never been one of his failings, and he’d quite enjoyed the project. But what he hadn’t bargained for was the amount of time she ended up spending in the room when it was finished.
At first it had been the odd hour or so. Then he would find her, in the middle of TV programmes, stealing out of the room for what he thought was going to be a trip to the fridge for an apple, or a brief visit to the loo, and not coming back for hours. He even woke up a couple of times in the night to find the bed stone cold beside him.
And then she started making excuses for things like not going out for a walk with him, or to the pub for a drink. She would always have ‘something to do in her work room’.
Gradually, day by day, he was losing her.
‘Oh, er, number four,’ Paul muttered to the forecourt attendant. Taken abruptly from his wool-gathering he began ferreting for his wallet while a queue built up behind him. At last, anxious to be out of the place and alone again with his thoughts, he threw down two twenty-pound notes, though by the time the assistant had checked the notes for forgery and slowly counted out a handful of small silver change he realised it would have been quicker to use his credit card.
But at last he was free to go – except that someone was blocking his way.
‘’Scuse me.’
Paul found himself glaring into angry blue eyes again. The woman in the green coat, having helped herself to a free read of one of the magazines on display, had dropped it back on the shelf and made for the exit at precisely the same moment that Paul reached it.
He sighed, pulled the door open and let her pass through ahead of him.
‘Women!’ he snarled. Not only had he received no thanks whatever for his chivalry, he had been rewarded with a two-finger sign.
The flowers were still shivering in their cellophane as he stomped past them. But Paul had made up his mind. Susannah would not be getting a bunch. She simply didn’t deserve it.
Black. Something black. It had to be something black.
Susannah yanked the hangers along the rail, setting her teeth on edge. Black suited her mood just fine. What a shambles she’d made of things that afternoon! If she’d kept a cool head she might at least have had the satisfaction of selling one of her dolls: cause for celebration indeed. Even Paul would have been forced to concede that. As it was, Harvey Webb, if he had any sense, would probably have marched Lucy-Ann straight back to her shelf in the shop, demanding the return of his credit card. He might have been genuine, too. He might have been a useful contact. He might even have bought her teapot stand, had she not flown off the handle.
But now she had really burned her boats. She would never be able to face Reg again, and the likelihood of finding other suitable outlets was pretty remote. Of course there were plenty of likely shops in the area, but she knew from experience that very few would show any interest in her work; and it would take her for ever to get round to them all. She simply didn’t have time. She would try as soon as she had a spare moment, of course – but her most immediate priority had to be her Uncle Bert’s funeral.
Her father had phoned her late one evening with news of the death, his voice revealing shock, for all its bluster, because his brother had been two years his junior.
‘Bert’s next-door neighbour,’ Frank May had thundered down the line, ‘a Mrs Wardle – ever met her? Well, she thought you might like to go to the funeral. Apparently you always sent Bert a card at Christmas. Can’t think why,’ he’d added with a sniff of contempt, because he’d never had much regard for Bert himself.
‘He taught me to play Canasta,’ Susannah had tried to explain, remembering how her uncle had sat opposite her at his little card table for hours at a time, sucking placidly on his pipe while the more boisterous members of the family cavorted around them. That was how she had always thought of him, if she’d thought of him at all: as something of a loner; a bit of an odd-ball whom nobody understood, except maybe herself. Perhaps she took after him, she mused, lifting a black satin party dress from the wardrobe rail.
Of course, black satin was entirely unsuitable for a funeral, even supposing she could still get into the dress, which was doubtful, but it had long been one of her favourites and she couldn’t help holding it against herself, recalling happier days. Days when she had been content with her lot and this madness about wanting fulfilment hadn’t seized her. What had happened to change things? Was Paul right? Should she really see a doctor?
She turned her head from the mirror to listen to a sound outside. As if conjured up by her thoughts, Paul’s car had squeaked to a halt on the drive. And that was him coming into the cottage. Now he’d stopped on his way through the kitchen – no doubt to look at the day’s mail – and silence fell once more.
Susannah pretended absorption in her task, dreading the coming confrontation. Another battle, she thought wearily, because she no longer felt inclined to apologise. And the likelihood of Paul suddenly seeing the light and showing understanding towards her was very remote indeed.
Eventually – after what seemed like decades – Paul creaked up the steep little staircase to their room in search of her. She didn’t have to look round to know that he had come into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed, his jaw tense and truculent as he slowly pulled off his tie.
But suddenly he was behind her, much closer than she had imagined, his hand coming up to knead the back of her neck.
‘Susie,’ he sighed into her hair, ‘I’d forgotten all about your old Uncle Bert. And I’m sorry. No wonder you’ve been so uptight. It must have been a bit much, coming on top of the kids flying the nest and us selling up the old family home.’ He turned her round to face him, his hand still massaging imagined knots at the top of her spine. ‘There’ve been too many changes in a short space of time,’ he told her, smiling down at her indulgently. ‘I think perhaps I should have been surprised if you hadn’t blown your top. Don’t you?’
