Chapter 17
On Friday morning, Marnie started work at 3 a.m. in plenty of time to make the Tea Lady’s cheesecakes. She was surprisingly nervous, ridiculously so. Why are you worrying? You have my special ingredient to help you. It was as if Mrs McMaid’s voice had drifted into her head like smoke. Her eye glanced up at the square tin on the shelf, the one she had taken on the day she found the lovely old lady had died. She’d filled it back up many times over the years and what was inside never failed to work its magic, adding that little something that everyone tasted but no one was quite sure what it was.
She got to work: stewing the apples, crushing the biscuits for the base, whipping the cream to a soft peak, melting the chocolate slowly so it was smooth and glossy and not grainy and stiff. A sprinkle from the secret ingredient tin went into the mix before the cream and the cheese met. By seven o’clock, all the cheesecakes were in the new tall fridge in their boxes ready for the van to collect, which it did, exactly on time. It was a black van with blacked-out windows and no signwriting. The driver wore black sunglasses to add to the air of mystery. Marnie waved goodbye to her first consignment of cakes then collapsed at the kitchen table with a strong coffee that didn’t have a chance of keeping her from sleep. She was woken up two hours later by a loud knock on the door. She opened it to find Herv Gunnarsen there, looking taller and wider than the door frame.
‘Good morning.’ He was holding a letter. ‘I met the postman at the end of the road.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ smiled Marnie, taking it from him.
‘You’ve been cooking,’ he said.
‘What gave it away?’ said Marnie, sounding more sarcastic than she meant to.
‘You have sugar on your face. And the apron of course.’ He grinned and Marnie wiped where he pointed to. There was loads of it. She must have been resting on a sugar pillow on the table.
‘Thanks,’ said Marnie, for want of something better to say. ‘And thanks for the post.’
He wasn’t making any attempt to move from the doorstep, she noted. Well, she wasn’t going to invite him in for a cuppa and a cosy chat after what Lilian had told her. That would have been blatantly encouraging him, leading him on. Better to err on the side of rudeness than politeness, then he knew where he stood with her. ‘Was there something . . . you wanted?’
‘Lilian would like to know if you’d lunch with her. She sent me to ask you.’
‘Oh, right, er . . . yes, yes. That would be lovely. What time?’
‘Twelve. Can I tell her that would be okay?’
‘Yes. I’ll be there,’ said Marnie, catching sight of a figure walking past the end of the lane – the woman who had been adjusting Ruby’s hair at the May Day fair. Her mother, Kay, presumably. Bloody marvellous.
‘Good.’
‘Thank you . . . Herv.’ God, his eyes were ridiculously blue and they were trained very intently on her.
‘Oh and Velkommen til landsbyen, as we say in Norway. Welcome to the village.’
He really did have a nice smile. She felt something inside her chest respond to the curve of his lips and wanted to slap it.
‘Oh, cheers.’
‘A pleasure.’
‘Bye then.’
She shut the door on him, literally and figuratively. No, she was not going to give any man an inch for him to take a mile for a very long time – possibly ever. Not even a paragon of virtue such as Herv Gunnarsen. Lilian was right though, because if the way he had been looking at her was any indication, he had definitely taken a shine to her. His pupils had been so dilated that she could have climbed in them and cadged a lift up to the manor. Whilst she stayed away from men, her life was uncomplicated and stable. Let them in and chaos ensued. Message received and understood. Finally.
She went upstairs to wash the ‘sugar pillow’ properly off her face, wondering why Lilian had sent Herv down to ask her in person and hadn’t just phoned herself. The minx.
Marnie called in at the shop on her way to the manor for a bottle of wine, because she didn’t want to turn up empty-handed. A large woman with ankles so fat they looked as if the skin was melting over her shoes was talking in a low voice with another woman standing behind the counter – her second viewing of Kay Sweetman that day. Their conversation snapped off as soon as Marnie entered so it wasn’t difficult to guess what the subject matter had been, especially as the last words she heard were ‘. . . feet under the table’.
Marnie browsed around the small wine section whilst the air crackled with a silence so pregnant, it was calling out for gas and air. Ankle woman had finished shopping but she wasn’t going anywhere, probably because she couldn’t wait for Marnie to leave so they could carry on with their theories of why she was staying in Wychwell, and what Herv Gunnarsen was doing on her doorstep this morning.
Marnie lingered for far longer than she needed to out of mischief, forcing the two women to strike up a staged conversation to fill the silence.
‘Are you feeling all right now, Una? Derek said you had another one of your migraines at the weekend,’ asked Kay.
‘Yes. All that drum banging didn’t help. And he can’t do anything without making a noise. He’s like a carthorse. When he dusts it registers on the Richter scale.’
Ah. Una Price. The woman who put the mass of frown lines on lumbering Derek’s face. So that’s who ankle woman was.
Marnie eventually approached the till, feeling Una’s eyes sliding up and down her.
‘That’ll be eight pounds ninety-nine,’ said Kay with a shop smile that looked more like a grimace. It wasn’t hard to see who Ruby had inherited her string-thin, sneery lips from. Marnie slowly took the purse out of her bag, giving the questions time to rev up. She could feel them pushing at the starting gates in the women’s throats. When none were forthcoming, she turned to Una, looked her straight in the eye, smiled and said,
‘Phase Eight and Zara.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Una appeared puzzled.
‘You were staring. I presumed you were curious where my clothes came from: Phase Eight top and my jeans are from Zara.’
‘I wasn’t . . .’
‘Was it my hair? Leeds then – Russell Eaton. Or my shoes – Office. Or was it my make-up? Clinique foundation. It’s very good. This one is Vanilla.’
Una was flustered then, her cheeks started loading with pink.
Kay fumbled in the till for the change and dropped a pound coin on the floor.
Marnie stared silently at Una who clearly wasn’t used to face to face confrontation, preferring to operate behind people’s backs. Say what you like about Café Caramba, but they didn’t half send you on some really useful psychological tactic courses. It was amazing what havoc an intense gaze could cause. Equivalent of a laser gun when used properly.
Kay rose up from behind the counter and put the money into Marnie’s waiting hand.
‘Thank you,’ Marnie said, smile fixed on with superglue. She walked out of the shop with a swagger in her step and knew that she’d given the two women enough to chatter about for the rest of the day probably. You didn’t get that in a town corner shop, Marnie giggled to herself.
A man was watering the cheerful hanging baskets that hung at either side of the pub door. As soon as he spotted Marnie, he climbed down from the ladder and walked towards her, holding out a meaty paw.
‘Hello, we haven’t met,’ he said. ‘I’m David Parselow and you must be Marnie.’
He looked more like a butcher than a publican, thought Marnie, with his stout physique and fuzzy red sideburns.
‘I am. Nice to meet you, David.’
‘I heard that the vicar has been trying to bribe you with his bilberries,’ he grinned.
‘Oh the wine, you mean,’ said Marnie, after a moment’s confusion.
‘Don’t let yourself get acclimatised to his rot. I’ll leave you a bottle of my rhubarb and ginger on your doorstep later so you can try some proper stuff,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Marnie. ‘That’s very kind.’
He looked with disdain at the bottle in her hand, ‘I tell you, you’ll never drink that shop-bought stuff again.’
‘I shall look forward to being converted,’ Marnie replied.
As she walked past the green, she mused how strange it was that she liked some people on sight and usually got that sort of judgement right. It was when she fancied people that she got it so wrong.
Johnny Oldroyd was cutting the grass on the green with a drive-on petrol mower. He was wearing headphones and his mouth was moving as if singing to a track. He looked at total peace working in the sunshine as if he was content that Wychwell was the extent of his world and he wasn’t bothered about anything beyond those collapsed village walls.
She passed Emelie coming out of her sweet little cottage with a parcel as she walked up the hill towards the manor. Emelie was delighted she’d come to stay, she said, because Lilian was over the moon. Made a change to have a positive effect on someone, thought Marnie. More intoxicating than Lionel’s bilberry wine. When she reached the manor, Herv was on his knees at the side of the porch, weeding. He even looked tall in that position.
‘Hello again,’ she said, wondering if Kay Sweetman had a pair of binoculars trained on her ready to report back to her daughter.
‘Hello.’ He took an exaggerated look at his watch. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’ve been socialising with my fellow villagers,’ Marnie replied, not stopping to chat. ‘Enjoy the sunshine.’
‘Marnie.’ He called her name and when she turned, she found him standing. His body language suggested that he wanted to tell her something in confidence.
‘I am not sure that Lilian is so well. She was fine first thing this morning but since . . . She’s having one of her spells.’
‘Oh,’ said Marnie, wondering what ‘one of her spells’ consisted of. ‘Is she sick? Should I call in and say hello or . . . go back home?’
‘No, she wants to see you, she was most specific.’ Marnie noticed that his accent was thick when his voice was quiet. ‘Bodily she’s okay, but she’s confused again. She has called me Griff three times this morning and she has never done that before. Please let me know what you think of her.’
‘Okay,’ Marnie nodded, doubt in her voice because she hardly knew Lilian really. Would she notice things out of the ordinary more than he or Cilla or anyone else who saw her more often might? ‘I’ll report back.’
She rang the bell and Cilla answered the door, her features etched with worry. Nevertheless, she smiled at Marnie and told her to go straight through to the conservatory where Lilian was waiting for her.
Lilian struggled to her feet with the aid of her beautiful greyhound stick as soon as her visitor entered.
‘Dear Marnie, how lovely of you to come. How are you settling in?’ Then she leaned in to whisper, ‘Have you started making your secret things yet?’ and she tapped the side of her nose.
‘The first batch this morning. If I’d known I was coming for lunch, I would have made an extra one.’ She sounds on the ball to me, thought Marnie.
‘What a shame,’ said Lilian, ‘next time. Come and sit down. Sheila has made us another wonderful lunch.’
‘I brought you some wine; it’s just from Plum Corner but I didn’t want to come empty-handed,’ said Marnie, thinking, who is Sheila?
‘Thank you, Marnie. That’s kind of you but you really didn’t have to. We will have it later at the party.’
Cilla walked into the room with a plate of warm pastries, still wearing that worried look on her face. Then Marnie remembered from reading the Wychwell book that Sheila had been Cilla’s mother, her previous housekeeper. Cilla looked at Marnie as she gave her head a little shake that said, she’s not right.
‘This all looks lovely, Cilla,’ said Marnie, emphasis on the name.
‘Sheila, dear. Cilla will still be at school,’ Lilian corrected her, patting the chair at the side of her. ‘Come and sit down and let’s eat. How did you sleep in Little Raspberries?’
Marnie poured out some tea from the large silver pot.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Like the proverbial log.’
‘It was always my favourite of all the cottages,’ said Lilian, clapping her hands. ‘I knew you’d like it.’
‘I do. It’s very cosy,’ said Marnie, but concern for Lilian was nagging at her too now.
‘Isn’t it a lovely day, Marnie. I feel very content today.’
Lilian started chewing delicately on a pastry whilst staring wistfully out of the window, not at the garden and the lake, but at somewhere far beyond them. Marnie studied her and thought her profile rather beautiful.
‘I’m so glad I found you,’ Lilian said at last and turned slowly to Marnie. ‘It is my greatest joy that you came back into my life.’ She reached over for Marnie’s hand and squeezed it hard, desperately affectionate.
Marnie smiled and wondered if she should ask what she meant. She didn’t want to upset Lilian. She looked happy in her confusion. She tried gently.
‘What do you mean, my dear friend? I haven’t been away. Are you mixing me up with someone else?’
‘From Ireland,’ Lilian said, as if it were Marnie who had forgotten. ‘I knew it was you. I told Lionel. Have you met Lionel yet?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Marnie.
‘He never married,’ said Lilian with a laboured sigh. ‘What a waste. Some lady missed out on a wonderful husband there.’
Cilla walked into the room to check that everything was all right and if Lilian wanted anything else.
‘No, I think we are fine, Cilla,’ said Lilian and Cilla’s face relaxed into a smile. Lilian was ‘back in the room’.
‘They worry about me,’ said Lilian to Marnie when the housekeeper had gone. ‘And they also worry that when I pop my clogs they won’t be safe. But they will. Safer than ever.’
Lilian seemed fine after that, episode over, as sharp as if she’d spent all night in the knife drawer, as Mrs McMaid used to say. After a jolly lunch, she took Marnie into the very large formal drawing room to show her the treasures that were exhibited in the glass cabinets there. Marnie wasn’t a great lover of pottery but she did think Lilian’s collection rather impressive. They were all very different but what they had in common were lines of gold criss-crossing over them.
‘They were broken and then mended Japanese-style,’ Lilian explained. ‘There’s a name for it that escapes me. I’ve collected them for years. Wonderful, aren’t they?’
‘They are indeed,’ agreed Marnie. It was entirely believable that Lilian would rescue broken things.
When Marnie came to leave Cilla rushed out to speak to her.
‘You’ve brought magic with you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen her laugh like she has today in a long time.’
The next few weeks passed in a blur. Marnie settled into her routine of cheesecake making three days per week. Mrs Abercrombie increased her order by a third and seemed very impressed by the arrangement. Marnie had a rather cursory email from Café Caramba asking when she intended to return to work. Fortified by a glass of David Parselow’s rhubarb and ginger wine, she replied in a similar tone that she wouldn’t be back and also she wouldn’t be working her notice. She was shaking when she pressed send. She had jumped off a cliff and had to pray that the landing was softer than it looked. But what else could she do? She couldn’t go back so the only way was forward.
She had swapped power suits, high status and traffic-heavy journeys into the city for slow-paced, anonymous baking in a sleepy Dales village. She didn’t know how long this present arrangement would last because Marnie was a doer and she knew she would get very bored very quickly here in Wychwell. She enjoyed thinking up and implementing new ideas, improving the status quo, seeing results, feeling that surge of adrenaline rushing through her veins. Even so, she was enjoying the sunshine and sitting on the bench down by Blackett Stream reading books and newspapers. Film rights to the first three Country Manors books had been bought by Hollywood, according to the Skipperstone Trumpet. Marnie had been equally fascinated by the story behind the novels. The first two books had been out on shelves and the third half-finished before its touch-paper found the match. Then – boom – shops couldn’t buy the books in fast enough, with the result that the author Penelope Black had just climbed onto the ladder of Britain’s richest people – and she hadn’t entered on the bottom rung either. Or he. The identity of the author was a secret which only added to the coffers as people bought into the mystery. Marnie wondered if she should write a book now that she had all this spare time. She’d tried once but given up by page three and decided that she was destined to be a buyer and a reader rather than a seller and a writer.
Exactly a month to the day after Marnie had moved to Wychwell, Laurence sent her a personal letter, surprisingly. Not surprisingly it wasn’t very complimentary. If she’d lived at Hogwarts, it would have been a howler. Her unprofessionalism in quitting her position without the proper notice period had been recorded officially, he said, by which she read that she’d get a shit reference. She’d been too conditioned to expect the worst when it came to people.
It became a regular event that Lilian came to her for lunch on Tuesdays and they talked for hours about anything and everything. Marnie loved to hear the stories about the Dearmans, for there seemed to be no end to their iniquity. Gambling, whores, murder, sexually transmitted diseases, bestiality, madness . . . the Dearmans made the Borgias look like the Osmonds. Marnie set a table down by the stream and they ate cheese and pickle and egg mayo sandwiches and the ‘cheesecake of the week’. Marnie read Country Manors aloud to Lilian as they drank a glass of David’s or Lionel’s wine – as bottles appeared on her doorstep as if they had been delivered by an alcoholic fairy.
Sometimes, Marnie made Lilian laugh lots by exorcising the ghosts of her doomed relationships with her witty narrative. Except for the Justin Fox episode, because she couldn’t forget the sight of pregnant Suranna Fox reduced to doing what she’d felt she had to, and there was nothing funny in that. And sometimes, when it felt safe to do so, they touched on those things that sat deep under the seabed in Marnie’s heart, things that never failed to cause her pain when they were exposed to the salt of the water. Sometimes Lilian cried with her, for her.
On Saturdays Marnie would lunch with Lilian at the manor. Often they took a walk around the gardens which had been artfully created to appear wild.
‘Griff Oldroyd was a master gardener,’ Lilian told her one day as they watched Herv dredging the lake, ‘but Herv is something even more special. The Picasso of horticulture. Teaching’s loss is our gain. Thank God that bloody woman of his broke his heart and he fled her and found us.’
He was a nice man, Marnie had to agree. Always polite, kind; always with a smile playing on his lips. But he was a man all the same, and was therefore to be avoided. Her heart was not at home to callers, even if they were as perfectly perfect as Herv Gunnarsen.