CHAPTER TEN
Over the following few weeks, as March drifts into April, I manage most of the time to stay out of Zak’s way.
I’m out of the flat early, practising my yoga routine in the little back garden, then it’s a quick shower and off to the bakery until three. Then I grab a sandwich back at the flat. On the days I’m not visting Mum, I help Sylvia out in the café. Not that there’s much to do, but both Zak and I are worried about her; although she’s back to work, she still seems a little fragile. Zak told her she should rest at home a little longer but Sylvia just reached up to pat his cheek and told him to stop fussing.
I’m warming to Zak more and more, and it’s very inconvenient.
Driving back from seeing Mum one night, I reflect that he really has put a spanner in the works of my master plan. I came to Sunnybrook to lick my wounds and give myself some breathing space. I wanted to feel the calm after the storm – but somehow I’ve managed to sail into more choppy waters!
But then I remind myself that in a week or so, he’ll have disappeared back to London, leaving me to return to a relatively calm existence.
I ignore the annoying little pang of sadness that creeps in, and step determinedly on the accelerator.
Speeding on to a brand new life - without Zak Chamberlain to muddy the waters!
*****
On Friday morning, I arrive at the bakery to find Fen in tears.
‘What’s happened? Is it Madge?’
She sniffs and dries her eyes, then she attempts a smile. ‘Yes, but I’m fine.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Capitalising on Madge not usually arriving until after ten, I hustle Fen through to the back and make her sit down while I put the kettle on. Once she has a mug of sweet tea in front of her, I sit beside her and demand to know what Monster Madge has done now.
She takes a sip and makes a face. ‘How many sugars?’
I shrug. ‘Not sure. Three? Four? It’s apparently good for shock.’
She manages a watery smile. ‘I’m not shocked, Ellie. Just angry.’
I do a comic double-take. ‘Hold the front page! Fen Harding is angry? Well, it’s high time, too, if you want my opinion. So what happened?’
She swallows. ‘I asked her for a small advance on my wages and she just laughed and said she was running a business, not a charity.’
‘Typical.’ I shake my head incredulously. ‘How much did you ask for?’
‘Twenty pounds.’
‘Is that all? The mean old cow! She knows fine well you’d pay her back the following week, so what she’s doing is just plain spiteful.’
‘I know.’ Fen gives a grim smile. ‘It’s not as if the money is for me – not really. It’s mum and dad’s silver wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and my brother and his wife will be splashing out on some really luxurious gifts. I know I can’t compete, but I wanted to get my parents something nice. You know?’
I nod, diving into my bag. ‘I’ll lend you the money.’
She looks horrified at the thought. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine.’
‘Please?’ I hold out a twenty.
‘No. Put it away. I couldn’t possibly take it.’ I’m about to insist but she looks as if she might have a panic attack.
‘But why not? You’re my friend. And friends help each other.’
She colours up and smiles. ‘That means a lot. But no. I’ll manage somehow.’
I sigh inwardly. Fen is lovely but sometimes I just want to shake her. She needs to get some spunk, as Sylvia pointed out the other day.
Fen presses her lips together and stares at her nails for a moment, deep in thought. ‘I’ll find a way,’ she murmurs. ‘I’ll definitely find a way.’
My heart goes out to her. I don’t think she has many friends, even though she was born and brought up in the village. She’s told me that she spent practically her entire childhood devouring books, curled up on a squashy sofa in a corner of the drawing room, which was hardly ever used except for the Harding family’s big parties.
‘Come to zumba on Wednesday!’ I say impulsively, to cheer her up.
‘What? No!’ She looks at me as if I’m bonkers. You’d think I’d suggested we tackle Mount Kilimanjaro in our lunch hour.
‘Why not? Zumba’s great fun.’
She twists her face doubtfully. ‘You’ve got to let it all hang out. That’s what puts me off. Plus I’m not a natural mover on the dance floor.’
I grin. ‘Neither am I. My style tends to be enthusiastic jigging combined with a hint of “dad dancing”? Not a great look.’
‘You’re just trying to make me feel better.’
‘No, believe me, it’s true. But the point is, it really doesn’t matter how bad we are. Everyone just does their own thing anyway.’
I’ve already told Jaz I’ll go and it would be great to have Fen there for moral support. Because how awful would it be if I was the only one who turned up!
It all came about when I found myself standing behind Jaz in the post office queue the other day. I was trying hard to be invisible, but she turned and recognised me, and she asked me outright if I’d come to her first zumba class. I was so taken aback, I said I would, but now I’m regretting it. It would be so much easier with Fen there.
But Fen is staring into the distance, a slightly anguished look on her face. Perhaps she’s imagining herself ‘letting it all hang out’ at the zumba.
Her eyes light up. ‘Can I get drunk first?’
*****
When I mention to Mum on Saturday that I’m bringing her over to Sunnybrook the next day to meet Sylvia for afternoon tea, her response is exactly what I was dreading.
She gives me one of her radiant, sunshine smiles and says calmly, ‘No. I think I’ll just stay here.’
My heart sinks. Mum might be the sweetest dementia sufferer ever, but she’s also surprisingly strong-willed. If she decides she doesn’t want to leave the house, wild horses won’t be able to shift her.
I’ll have to try another tactic.
Remembering the memory book, I dig it out of the magazine rack, thinking I’ll show her pictures of the tree, which might just spark a memory of living in the village.
I sit beside her and leaf through to find the photo to show her. She smiles brightly at me but I can tell she’s just smiling to please me. The photo could be of any old tree.
Sighing inwardly, I go through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I’ll just have to turn up tomorrow and hope she’s in a different mood and I can persuade her to come with me. If not, I’ll have to phone Sylvia and tell her it’s a no-go.
When I return with a tray of tea and biscuits, Mum is staring at the open album on the table. She looks up at me and says, ‘That’s Harrisons.’
I discard the tray and sit down beside her. Sure enough, it’s the photo I took of Harrisons department store. It’s a very traditional-style shop that probably hasn’t changed much since Mum was a girl.
‘Yes, Harrisons!’ I smile excitedly. ‘That’s where you bought that beautiful dress you refuse to part with! Remember?’
I flit into the bedroom and find the dress in her wardrobe, then I go through with the hanger looped over my head, pretending I’m wearing it. Her face lights up, so I do a pose and a little twirl then a comical curtsey, and she bursts out laughing. ‘Where did you get that? It’s my dress,’ she says in astonishment.
‘It was in your wardrobe, Mum.’
I go over and sit beside her, and her beautiful brown eyes shine as she strokes the fabric. I’d love to know what recollections are surfacing for her. She’d have difficulty telling me, but it’s enough to know the dress and the department store have sparked some joyful memories.
‘Shall we go to Harrisons?’ I point at the photo.
She turns to me and smiles – and this time, I catch a definite flicker of understanding. ‘Yes.’
I hug her tightly, breathing in her familiar perfume. ‘It’s a deal, Mum.’
‘It’s a deal,’ she repeats.