There was something about the way Della drove, Roxanne noticed. It was that rural politeness – ‘After you’, ‘No, after you’ – and it struck her every time she was a passenger in her sister’s ancient navy blue Punto. Even a manoeuvre as simple as exiting a car park necessitated a myriad of encouraging gestures before, finally, someone edged forward first amidst mouthed thank yous (‘No, thank you!’).
‘Sorry if the shop’s in a bit of a state at the moment,’ Della was telling Roxanne as they made their way along Heathfield High Street. ‘Knocking through to next door sounded so simple when I bought the place.’ Della glanced at her sister and grinned. ‘Knocking through – like, a few taps with a hammer and we’d be done.’
Roxanne chuckled. ‘Well, I’m here to help, okay? We can get stuck in together. Just ask me to do whatever you need …’
‘Oh, the guys are taking care of everything,’ Della said briskly. ‘The fitting out, the electrics – it’s all in hand and, amazingly, we’ve managed to stay open while all that’s been going on.’
‘What about painting?’ Roxanne asked.
Della threw her a quick glance.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ Della said with a smirk.
Roxanne could sense herself bristling already, mere minutes since she had stepped off the train. ‘Dell, I can paint, you know. I’m capable of moving a roller in an up and down motion without ruining your property or maiming myself.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Della said, insincerely, as if Roxanne were a child asking to ‘help’ with an electric carving knife. ‘But you don’t want to get paint all over that lovely cardigan.’
Roxanne scoffed and looked down at the soft pink cashmere. ‘This old thing?’
‘It doesn’t look old to me.’
‘Oh, it is,’ she fibbed, ‘and I have brought other clothes with me, you know.’ Roxanne glanced at her sister. Della was clearly tickled by the idea of Roxanne involving herself in anything practical, or indeed deigning to wear an outfit suitable for manual work. That was one aspect of her job that Roxanne didn’t enjoy so much: the assumption, by her siblings mainly, that she was permanently kitted out in designer attire. In reality, often entire weekends were spent in her comfiest old jeans and any old washed-out top.
‘Anyway,’ Della continued, ‘you don’t want to spend your time here up to your neck in DIY. Aren’t you here for a bit of headspace away from the hectic whirl?’
Roxanne hesitated. ‘We’ve been through all that, Dell. I’m not planning to drift around aimlessly. I can serve customers, keep the shop tidy, categorise new books …’
‘Oh, Frank and I tend to do all the categorising,’ Della said quickly.
‘Well, couldn’t I help?’
‘It is quite complicated,’ Della murmured, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
‘What’s complicated about it?’
‘Just my categorising system.’
Roxanne couldn’t help smiling at this. Categorising system? It was just cookbooks, not the entire catalogue of the British Library. ‘But you let Frank dabble with your “categorising system”,’ Roxanne teased, and Della laughed.
‘Only under my watchful eye and, even then, I double-check everything afterwards.’
Roxanne chuckled, feeling grateful now to be here as Della drove slowly through the thriving market town. Understandably, the period leading up to and following their mother’s death had been difficult, their brother Jeff cranking up the discomfort with his perpetual criticisms and put-downs. However, right now, he was at home in Manchester – or, more likely, in the global bank headquarters where he worked – and it was just the two sisters together, a rare occurrence indeed. Roxanne finally allowed herself to believe that it might bring them closer, and hoped Della was genuinely happy that she was here, rather than feeling obligated to have her.
Della turned on the car radio. They were out in open countryside now, surrounded by softly rolling hills.
‘So, how are things with Frank?’ Roxanne ventured.
‘Great,’ Della replied. ‘He’s … well, you know Frank. He’s lovely. He makes me very happy. I still fancy him like crazy and we’re best friends, if that doesn’t sound too disgustingly smug.’
‘Of course it doesn’t. I think it’s brilliant.’ Roxanne glanced at her. In fact, she hadn’t even needed to ask. Before the cookbook shop endeavour, when Della had still been married to philandering Mark, Roxanne had always thought her sister seemed rather put-upon. Lacklustre is the word she might have used: lacking in lustre. Nothing seemed to be lacking now, she noted. Della’s wavy chestnut hair shone – she was wearing it longer these days, and it suited her – and there was barely a line on her make-up-free face. At fifty-one, she could pass for a decade younger. Roxanne knew for a fact that her sister’s skincare routine consisted of soap, water and a brisk flannel rub; meanwhile Roxanne, who was frequently disappointed by the frankly outrageous promises spouted by premium skincare brands, had noticed recently how jaded her own face looked. She had to concede that country air might be more beneficial than anything that came out of a pot.
‘I’m so glad you’re happy,’ Roxanne added, ‘after everything you’ve been through.’ She paused. ‘Had much contact with Mark lately?’
‘No, thank God,’ Della said vehemently. ‘It would’ve been different if Sophie was still at home but, as it is, she sees me, she sees her dad – and she tells me little snippets about his lady-love …’ Della gave Roxanne a quick, amused look. ‘I know it’s naughty but she can’t resist.’
‘They’re still together, then?’
‘Yes, just about, although I get the impression that Mark hasn’t quite turned out to be the fabulous catch Polly thought he might be.’ Polly was the patient Mark had treated at his podiatry practice; a younger woman in expensively tailored dresses, and the reason for his countless lies and golfing alibis.
Roxanne crooked a brow. ‘Oh, really? Why’s that?’
‘Reading between the lines, it was more exciting for her when he was just nipping round to see her whenever he got the chance. He wasn’t criticising her home decor then. He wasn’t suggesting that her cerise bedroom was rather tacky, or that she might have her yellow kitchen repainted in Farrow and Ball’s Skimming Stone.’
The two sisters chuckled. ‘He always loved a neutral tone,’ Roxanne remarked, turning to Della. ‘So, d’you think you’ll move in with Frank? I mean, d’you ever talk about that?’
‘Well, he’s suggested I live with him and Eddie, but …’ She shrugged as they took the twisting lane that led them to Burley Bridge, nestling down in the valley. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Rox. We love spending time together, but we each have our own thing, you know? Eddie’s only nine; Frank’s still in the midst of the dad thing. Becca’s away at college but she still needs her father when she’s home in the holidays. And then there’s his work. Being a self-employed architect isn’t the easiest thing. Sometimes it’s manic, and other times it’s scarily quiet.’
‘And you have your life too,’ Roxanne pointed out.
Della nodded. ‘I do, yes, and I love being right in the village …’
‘In the thick of things.’
Della smiled. ‘Yeah. In the heart of the thriving metropolis! No, seriously – it’s so handy being above the shop. Frank’s place is gorgeous but it is out in the wilds – and maybe I’m just keen to hang onto my independence, after what happened with Mark.’
‘That’s just natural,’ Roxanne conceded.
Della looked at her. ‘I’m sorry about you and Sean, Rox. I know it must be really hard for you.’
Roxanne exhaled. ‘Maybe there’s nothing to be sorry about. He called me yesterday and came over, and well …’ She shrugged. ‘All seems fine. Hopefully he’ll come up, spend some time with me here – if that’s okay with you,’ she added.
‘Er, yes, of course it is,’ Della said lightly, a trace of uncertainty in her voice.
Roxanne glanced out of the window as the village came into view, deciding not to quiz Della on whether she might have a problem with Sean visiting. Perhaps any reservations were simply due to wanting as much time as possible together, just the two of them. Roxanne hoped so.
Burley Bridge looked so pretty today, so quaintly old-fashioned and well-tended. Perhaps it took a lengthy period away from the place to fully appreciate it. Stone terraced cottages hugged the edge of the road that led to the centre. On this bright and breezy Tuesday afternoon – the last day in May – window boxes and hanging baskets were already bursting with blues, pinks, yellows. Roxanne’s horticultural experience amounted to caring for a small cactus, the only present she could recall Ned Tallow ever giving her, and which she later discovered he had shoplifted from a garden centre as a joke (at forty-three years old. What a hoot!).
They turned into Rosemary Lane, the narrow street of shops and small businesses that formed the very heart of the village. Roxanne gazed out in wonder. Of course, it hadn’t always been as picturesque. The whole village looked brighter these days, as if it had been given a good hosing down. There were more people around than Roxanne ever remembered seeing – wandering in and out of the shops and gallery and giving the impression that they were visitors rather than locals. She spotted a couple of familiar villagers too; Nicola the hairdresser, and Len, the owner of the garage, whom her mother had once accused of putting the wrong sort of oil in her car, chatting on the forecourt. That was one thing that hadn’t changed. Len still dispensed petrol himself; if you stopped here for fuel you might be forgiven for thinking it was 1979. Irene Bagshott, who ran the general store and had been kind enough to take home-made chicken-and-leek pies to Roxanne and Della’s elderly mother, marched down the street laden with shopping and a huge bunch of cut flowers. Roxanne’s London friends would go crazy for this place – at least, in a weekend holiday-cottage sort of way.
‘Oh, there’s a new greengrocer’s,’ Roxanne remarked.
‘Yes, and it’s doing pretty well, I think. Remember when the only lettuce you could buy around here was iceberg?’
‘I do,’ she smiled. ‘Ooh, and that boutique’s so cute!’
‘I knew you’d spot that. Yes, they opened last month …’
‘There’s a bakery, too. That looks lovely …’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Della agreed.
‘It really is. Like something out of a children’s book!’ She peered out at the homely-looking shop with its red-and-white striped awning and windows filled with cakes and jaunty bunting. Terracotta pots of geraniums were clustered around its entrance. A vintage bicycle, its front basket cascading with pink blooms, was propped – clearly just for decoration – against the wall.
‘He opened last year,’ Della explained, ‘but you probably didn’t even notice. It’s only recently that he’s had the sign painted and it’s looked this inviting. You must try their soda bread. It’s the best …’
‘Soda bread in Burley?’ Roxanne gasped.
‘Yes – and amazing focaccia and feta and black olive plaits. We’ve got it all here now,’ Della said with a trace of pride. ‘In fact, I think there’s a sourdough workshop happening soon. Maybe you’d like to go to that?’
Roxanne spluttered. She would be no more likely to take up Morris dancing. ‘That’s not quite my thing, Dell.’
‘Well, there’s loads of other stuff going on in the village these days. A film club, belly dancing classes, book groups, a choir—’
‘Della …’
‘I’ve been having a look around,’ she added quickly, ‘to find out what’s happening, see if there’s anything you’d enjoy …’
‘Thanks, but I’m happy just to help you with the shop.’ Roxanne exhaled slowly, wishing Della wouldn’t regard her as she might a small child who needed to be kept occupied at all times. She could see Rosemary Cottage in the distance now, the house they grew up in, huddled down its single-track lane. It had been freshly white-washed, and the garden looked neatly tended. After their mother died, Della had overseen the sprucing up and selling of the house. Roxanne knew from Della that a young family had moved in, and that the house and garden were filled with children again. Roxanne hoped the atmosphere was somewhat happier than when she had been a young girl.
‘A sourdough workshop,’ Roxanne murmured with a smile. ‘Don’t tell me it’s gone all poncey around here. We don’t want things too posh, do we?’
‘Of course not,’ Della said firmly. ‘It’s still the same old Burley Bridge. But people do say my shop helped to revitalise things, and encouraged other people to try new things here …’
‘You’re incredible,’ Roxanne said, as Della pulled up in front of the bookshop. ‘You made all this happen. I’m so proud of you.’
‘Oh, don’t be crazy. I just gave things a little kick-start, that’s all.’
‘Come on, no need to be so modest. Look at what you’ve done here …’
‘I look at it every day,’ Della laughed as they climbed out of the car. She hauled Roxanne’s enormous suitcase from the boot, and the sisters stood side by side for a moment outside the shop.
The sign, which read simply The Bookshop on Rosemary Lane, was hand-painted in gleaming gold against bright cobalt blue. The window of the shop next door, which would soon be part of Della’s emporium, was obscured by newspaper to conceal the activity happening within. However, the existing shop’s window was an utter delight. Silvery fairy lights twinkled, and tissue paper flowers were suspended on fine gold threads. The display of vintage cookbooks looked so enticing, it would lure in someone who wouldn’t even know a potato rosti if it hit them in the face.
Roxanne glanced at Della, who was smiling at her and understanding, perhaps, how much she needed to be there. It wasn’t to learn to make bread, join a choir or take up belly dancing. It was just to be. Della opened the narrow door beside the shop, which led to a tiny hallway and the steep flight of stairs to the flat above.
‘C’mon, Rox,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s have some tea then you can tell me what’s really going on.’