Saving Saffron Sweeting (3 page)

‘You haven’t let yourself go.’ Jem shook her
head fiercely. ‘And even if you had, I don’t think
James would cheat just because of that. You two were a
team.’

I wriggled my shoulders in the hope that the stubborn knots
caused by tension and cattle-class travel would melt.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I mucked up
somewhere.’

‘What will you do now?’ she asked.

‘I dunno. I really don’t know.’ I sighed.
‘I told James I wanted to spend time alone in England and
think things through. Frankly, I was working so hard and the
business was in such a mess, I’d love to just have a
break.’

‘You walked away from your design work too?’ Jem
seemed surprised.

‘I asked another designer to finish off a couple of things
for me. But I literally had almost no clients so there wasn’t
much to hand over.’ If I was honest, one reason the thing
with Rebecca hurt so much was because she’d walloped me not
just as a wife but as a professional too. She’d been the only
glimmer that clients liked my work and that my business could
succeed.

‘And, um, where will you stay?’ Jem wasn’t
saying what she meant. Three adults and a baby in a flat this size
would be impossible. She and Harry didn’t have space for a
dishwasher and Sebastian’s room was smaller than the walk-in
closet I’d taken for granted in California. There was no
dining room or even a dining table, and the sofa bed was the only
option for guests.

‘Don’t worry, not here. At least, not after
tonight.’

‘So you’ll go to your parents?’

This made me screw up my nose. ‘Yikes, I don’t think
that would work.’

I have a cautiously affectionate relationship with my family and
I know they love me from top to toe. But we never discuss tricky
issues or emotional stuff. I hadn’t even told them I was
flying back, let alone what had happened with James. And, since
retiring, my parents had developed some quirky habits that would
drive me round the twist.

‘In any case,’ I added, ‘there’s
something so predictable about women running home to their
mothers.’ I gave a small smile. ‘I’d rather avoid
becoming a total cliché.’

Jem looked at her watch and got to her feet reluctantly.
‘I need to give Seb his feed. The bottle steriliser is broken
so that’s a whole extra hassle.’

I followed her through to the postage stamp kitchen, which, due
to the influx of baby paraphernalia, now seemed even more cramped
than before.

‘So where, then?’ She returned to our previous topic
as she juggled bottles and gadgets in the microwave. I hadn’t
been around babies much and James and I had talked in only vague
terms about a family of our own. Sebastian hadn’t been any
trouble so far, but the amount of kit he required looked pretty
daunting.

‘Dunno.’ I shrugged. ‘I just want to go
somewhere very quiet, very English, and hide for a while. The
Cotswolds, maybe?’ I fancied the poetic imagery of heartbreak
under a thatched roof, perhaps including country pursuits like long
misty walks and picking flowers. To be totally upfront, the scenes
inside my head bore a distinct resemblance to a Jane Austen
novel.

‘The Cotswolds are pretty. Would cost you an arm and a
leg, though.’ Jem was now doing something with powdered baby
milk. Breast-feeding had not gone well for her and for
sanity’s sake, she’d eventually given up. ‘And
presumably, your mum and dad are going to want to see
you.’

‘True.’ I put the kettle on, thinking another cup of
tea might keep me awake until we ate dinner. ‘But I can
hardly pick Norfolk and not stay with them. They’d be
hurt.’

Meanwhile, sounds like a mewing kitten were reaching the
kitchen. I was about to ask if they’d adopted a cat, when I
realised I was hearing the first stirrings of a hungry baby.

‘And I’d be hurt ’cause it wouldn’t be
so easy to meet up for calorific treats.’ She squeezed my
arm. We’d missed each other and our afternoon tea ritual
while I’d been in San Francisco. Earl Grey with our husbands
just couldn’t compete with dainty cucumber sandwiches, or
scones topped with jam and cream, and girl talk. ‘So
that’s easy,’ she continued. ‘Just find a hotel
halfway between here and Norfolk.’

The mewing kitten had turned into a screeching hyena. Jem
scooped up some baby gear and headed out of the kitchen.

Later, after we’d microwaved a
Tesco’s lasagne and I had unwisely downed my share of a
bottle from Harry’s wine collection, I asked for a map. This
sparked a hunt down the sides of the bookcases, during which we
found a baby rattle and a dusty relic that had started life as a
sock. Eventually, we unearthed an out-of-date road atlas. It seemed
the straight line from my parent’s home to Ealing ran just
east of Cambridge.

‘There you go.’ Jem stabbed an unsteady finger at
the page. ‘That’s halfway. Go and lick your wounds
there.’

‘Where?’ I hoped it was only jet lag that was making
the map so fuzzy.

‘I dunno, it’s upside down. Under my finger.’
We had clearly overdone the Pinot Noir as both of us were
struggling with the small font.

‘Saffron Sheeping?’ I asked.

I wasn’t sure I wanted a load of smelly sheep in my scenic
Jane Austen fields. But the area around Cambridge was worth
considering: we’d lived in the city when I was young and I
remembered it was pleasant enough. Presumably, it was also less
costly for visitors than the picture-perfect Cotswolds.

‘No, wait, it’s Saffron Sleeping.’ She peered
at it and I’m sure her eyes crossed slightly.

‘That sounds better. Maybe if I sleep for long enough,
I’ll wake up and find this is all a horrible
dream.’

‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘And I can bring Seb up
there to visit. He might learn how to go through the night without
terrorising me every three hours. We should Google it, see what
it’s like.’

We failed completely to find Saffron Sleeping on the internet
and I assumed that was the end of the idea. Jem, however, consulted
the map again, which took a couple of minutes as she still had it
the wrong way up and began her quest in Cornwall.
‘Hah!’ she announced. ‘It’s not
Sleeping
, it’s
Sweeting
!’

‘What?’ I was digging through my suitcase, wondering
if my frenzied packing had included anything that could pass as
pyjamas. It was a good job Harry was away, as it seemed I might
have to sleep in an Alcatraz T-shirt and my knickers.

‘We had it wrong, it’s Saffron
Sweeting
.
Well, that’s an excellent omen,’ she declared.

One thing I find amusing about Jem is her belief in omens,
horoscopes and reading tea leaves. ‘It is?’ I yawned
back, starting to arrange pillows on the sofa.

‘Grace, it’s perfect! It’s a village named
after sugar. Definitely give it a try. After all,’ she beamed
at me, ‘how bad can it be?’

It’s a good thing Jem was no longer
breast-feeding, as our red wine consumption that evening would
probably have got Sebastian drunk too.

However, by ten the next morning, we were only slightly
hung-over as she drove me to a local car rental office. Squeezed
between a launderette and a branch of Barclays bank, they appeared
to have just three cars outside. Sure enough, I got the
midget-sized jaunty yellow one. Never mind: it would use less
petrol and inflict less collateral damage whenever I tried to park
it.

‘Are you okay?’ Jem looked anxiously at my pale face
as I heaved my suitcase from her Mini.

‘Yes, I think so.’ I tried to keep my voice brave
and normal. ‘Seeing you has helped no end.’ I
wasn’t generous enough to include Sebastian in this
compliment. He was, of course, now sleeping angelically in his car
seat, recovering from his nocturnal wailing which had roused Jem
multiple times. I had been glad of my freebie airline earplugs and
had stayed welded to the sofa bed.

‘I’m still not quite sure what the plan is,’
Jem said, as we made a cursory attempt to check my car for
scratches.

Our tipsy map reading of the night before had degenerated into
finding English villages with silly names. We’d started with
Six Mile Bottom and progressed via Ugley to Piddletrenthide.

‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘Bacon End was tempting, but
on balance I think Saffron Sweeting just has the edge.’

‘Really? You’re actually heading for a place
you’ve never been? I was just mucking around last night, you
know.’

‘It’s okay, I’m pulling your leg. I think
I’ll drive up through Cambridgeshire on the quieter roads,
and maybe stop for a look at some of the villages. If they’re
all horrible, I’ll swallow my pride and call my
mother.’

Jem handed me last night’s road atlas and a Kit Kat.
‘Okay, well, phone me, wherever you decide. And let me know
when you’re ready to meet for afternoon tea.’

‘Absolutely. Say hi to Harry.’ I leaned into her car
and gave Seb a parting wave. Jem gave me another of her big hugs
and I squeezed her back in silent thanks.

I don’t believe in fate, or omens, but I
admit that sometimes life moves in mysterious ways. Despite our
antics of the previous evening, I had no intention of spending the
night anywhere with a wacky name. Things didn’t quite work
out like that, though.

The London skies had been smoggy and oppressive, but as I turned
off the M25 to head north, the sun came out and I could appreciate
the green countryside. At Bishops Stortford, I left the motorway
and continued on the old Cambridge road. The gentle winding from
village to village was a soothing change of pace. Uneven hedges and
lush fields lined the road, a few rabbits were playing on the
verge, and I passed handmade signs including
Pick Your Own
Strawberries
and
Village Fête Saturday.

By the time I reached Saffron Walden, I was ready for a break
and some elevenses. I already knew the bustling market town was
named from growing the saffron crocus, which yielded an expensive
yellow dye. In our research the previous night, Jem and I had
learned that Saffron Walden’s success had overshadowed
Saffron Sweeting’s earlier fame. By the seventeenth century,
the newcomer was dominant while Saffron Sweeting languished.
I’m pretty sure yellow dye is no longer a big part of Saffron
Walden’s economy, but it still enjoys a cheerful
affluence.

Having inched my appropriately saffron-coloured vehicle into a
parking space, my first purchase was a new phone. My US cell phone
always refused to work in England and, in any case, a different
number would mean James couldn’t call. To be honest, I
desperately wanted to know if he had tried to reach me, but I
squashed that thought and headed for the tourist information
office. There, I armed myself with
Things to Do in East
Anglia
and some leaflets on local bed and breakfasts. These I
took to a cafe, to ponder my next move.

‘What would you like, love?’ The waitress greeted me
as she cleared my table of the debris from previous occupants.

I ordered a pot of tea and a sausage roll. The latter
wasn’t strictly necessary, but the stress of my business had
meant I’d skipped too many meals in recent months, and since
discovering James’s affair I seemed to have lost my appetite
completely. If I was going to keep morale up, I’d better eat.
The tea came immediately, strong and hot. As she returned with my
food, the waitress spotted the hotel information.

‘You’re visiting, then?’ She put down a fork
wrapped in a paper napkin.

‘Yes …’ I wasn’t about to share my
circumstances. ‘Just looking for a place to stay for a few
days. Somewhere near Cambridge, maybe.’

‘Ah, you’re visiting the colleges. Lovely.’
She’d made an assumption, but it didn’t matter.
‘You might look at the Red Lion in Whittlesford. My friend
runs it and it’s very good.’

‘Thanks.’ My attention was on the tempting sausage
roll. Sure enough, moist, spicy sausage meat was wrapped in warm,
golden pastry which was flaky on the outside but gooey on the
inside. Heaven. The tea was also reviving my spirits. We Brits
don’t really do therapy; we just put the kettle on. I turned
my thoughts back to my pile of literature. There it was: a leaflet
for the inn she’d mentioned.

The Red Lion was founded as a priory in the thirteenth
century
, I read.
Rooms are comfortably furnished and often
have character features such as low-level beams and wonky
floors.
Yes, they actually said ‘wonky’.
Eight
miles south of Cambridge, Whittlesford is a classic English village
where cricket is played regularly on the green. The Red Lion offers
a range of home-cooked food, but you may also enjoy the Tickell
Arms and the Bees in the Wall.

Jem would definitely get a kick out of pub names like that. I
studied the pictures and decided the Red Lion was perfect. I would
call them from my car.

The man who answered their phone, however, had other ideas.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked. There’s an air show
at Duxford.’

‘Oh.’ Nerdy plane-spotters had trampled all over my
cricket-gazing fantasy. I was deeply disappointed.

‘But I can recommend my cousin’s bed and breakfast.
Oak House. She’s just a few miles outside Cambridge, on the
way to Newmarket.’

‘Er, right.’ Did everyone in the English hospitality
industry know each other?

‘She does a first class breakfast. I can give you her
number.’

Well, I thought, for top notch bacon and eggs it might be worth
a try, especially to delay facing the music with my parents.
‘What village is that?’

‘Saffron Sweeting. Do you know it?’

I didn’t need Jem here to proclaim that this coincidence
was a huge omen.

‘No,’ I told him, ‘but I think I’m about
to.’

It was just after lunch time when I drove into
Saffron Sweeting, a little early for checking in, but I’d
phoned ahead and been told to come on over. Oak House was a wide,
cream-painted building, with pairs of latticed windows
symmetrically placed each side of the front door. I couldn’t
tell how old it was, but the front wall bulged a little and was
restrained by cross-shaped wall ties. Moss covered the patchwork
tiles of the roof, which sloped at a friendly angle over the eaves.
As I got out of my car, I caught a summery, floral scent, possibly
from the clematis which was climbing around the front door. To the
side of the house was an impressive tree – undoubtedly the
oak – and in the garden I glimpsed a handful of extremely
plump chickens.