Gran had promised to make a tray of her custard slice for the Project Matchmaker meeting which was just as well since the cabinet was nearly empty, Isla thought, glancing over at it. One sausage roll and a piece of caramel slice looked back at her, and she could guarantee Annie would snaffle that when she got here. Well, she could have it, Isla was saving her appetite for her all-time favourite, custard slice. Gran didn’t make it nearly often enough. Mind you, she thought, glancing down at her midriff, it was probably a good thing. She bagged up the sausage roll for anyone who fancied it at the meeting.
She’d had a busy day here on her own at Nectar, Annie had taken a much-deserved Saturday off to spend with Kris. Although, she’d be calling in with him at five o’clock, when the café shut for the meeting. That gave her fifty minutes to get everything tidied up. Get cracking girl. She began to wipe the tables down, pausing only when the woman who’d ordered lunch and had moved outside to enjoy a pot of tea in the sun afterwards, popped her head in and asked if she could have a bit more hot water for her tea.
‘Of course,’ Isla said with a smile taking the jug from her. ‘I was just about to come out and see if you were alright, I’ll bring it out to you.’ She was very glamorous, she thought, noting her glossy bobbed hair, her big black sunglasses pushed up onto the top of her head and the bold red lipstick. ‘I love your dress, by the way; the colour really suits you.’
‘Oh, thank you. It’s nice to be able to give the summer wardrobe an airing at long last. Are you closing soon?’ Her eyes flicked over to the cloth Isla had put down on the table when she’d popped inside.
‘No, I’m just doing a spot of housekeeping, don’t mind me.’ Isla did not believe in rushing people. ‘You enjoy soaking up that sun for as long as you like. I’ll have this out to you in just a tick.’ She headed through to the kitchen and waited for the jug to boil. The two-piece pavement setting she’d invested in for the warmer weather was proving popular, especially on days as gorgeous as today had been. She’d wanted to put a few more tables outside, there was plenty of room, but it had been a no-go. It was the horrible little council man who Gran was having all the bother with over the festival arrangements, who had put the kibosh on the idea. He’d insisted any more furniture outside the café would be hazardous to passers by. Isla had been highly annoyed; even with the two extra tables she’d wanted, a five berth motorised scooter would have been able to get past.
She took the pot outside, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face as she put it down on the table for the woman. ‘Oh, I hope those kea birds are behaving,’ she said gesturing to where the two parrots she’d nicknamed Dennis and Menace were strutting up and down the pavement.
‘I’m enjoying watching them, they’re funny.’
‘They like an audience but they can be naughty, especially when it comes to windscreen wipers. They’re part of the place too, though. In fact, the café used to be called The Kea,’ she said with a smile. ‘Enjoy your tea.’ Isla turned to go, but the woman stopped her.
‘You’re the proprietor of Nectar aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. My name’s Isla Brookes.’
‘I’m Suzy Carmichael; I work for Southern Gastronomy magazine.’ She held out her hand, and Isla shook it, feeling uncertain as to where this conversation was heading. Southern Gastronomy, she knew was a popular foodie magazine.
‘I came here today to review Nectar for our Emerging Country Café Scene section. And look, I don’t normally do this, but I wanted to tell you personally how much I’ve enjoyed both the food and the service today. Ten out of ten, Isla.’
‘Oh! Oh wow, thanks.’ Isla’s smile was wide. Taken aback, she didn’t know what else to say. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard.
‘You’re very welcome,’ the woman said before turning back towards the sun and topping up her tea.
Isla felt like she was walking on air as she went back inside and continued the tidy-up she had fine-tuned over the months. Her mind, however, was racing, and she was desperate to share what had just happened with someone. It was still another half an hour before the others were due though.
‘Bye, keep an eye out for next month’s edition of the magazine, Isla,’ Suzy Carmichael called ten minutes later, popping her head inside the door once more and adding, ‘I probably shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea, it’s a long drive back to Christchurch.’
Isla laughed. ‘Oh, I will. Thanks so much Suzy, drive safely.’ She headed outside and watched as the woman got into her shiny black Jeep, waving her off.
She spied Ben bringing in the garage’s sign and remembered the sausage roll she’d bagged up for whoever fancied it. Ben, was partial to a sausage roll. In fact, they were his favourite. She raced back inside, grabbed the bag and slamming the door behind her; she ran the short distance down the road to the garage.
He saw her coming and waited in the forecourt. ‘Hey Isla, what’s the panic?’
She held up the paper bag, puffing.
‘You ran here to give me a—’ he took the bag from her and opened it. ‘A sausage roll. Were you worried it would get cold?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate such fine service of course. What do I owe you?’
She’d gotten her breath back and waved her hand. ‘No, no, it was left over, and I know you like them and I had to tell someone what just happened,’ Isla relayed what had transpired with Suzy Carmichael and when she’d finished Ben pulled her into a hug.
He stepped back quickly, looking at his overalls and then at her top. ‘Shit, I hope I didn’t get grease on you.’
Isla wouldn’t have cared if he had. Gran would undoubtedly have a tip for removing grease from garments like she had a tip for most things laundry-related.
‘Anyway, that’s fantastic and well-earned, Isla.’
Isla grinned. ‘Thanks. I can’t wait to tell Annie.’ She could see the genuine pleasure at her news in his eyes. They’d come a long way, her and Ben, she thought. From tiptoeing around each other awkwardly when she’d first come back, to that drunken encounter at the Pit. They’d both moved on from that, thank goodness! These days they quite often met up at the Pit for a drink at the weekend with Saralee and Callum, Annie and Kris making the numbers six.
‘Speaking of Annie, I’d better get back,’ she said.
‘Ah, the big meeting. I tell you Saralee’s been living and breathing this festival. I’ve sold a heap of tickets through the garage too. Mm, thanks for this,’ he said biting into the sausage roll. ‘It’s good.’
‘You’re welcome. To be honest, I haven’t had much to do with any of it, Nectar keeps my nose to the grindstone, but Gran said Saralee’s been an absolute marvel. It wouldn’t be happening but for her. I’m looking forward to hearing where everything’s at. I’ll see you.’ She gave him a wave and felt his eyes on her as she walked back to the café. She still felt something for him, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that. Who knew? Maybe she always would. It didn’t matter now though. She’d come to a conclusion that where Ben was concerned Gran was right and the past was best left in the past. He was obviously happy with Saralee.
As for her and Callum, well, they were more like friends with benefits, she mused. Not for the first time she told herself she needed to sort out what it was they were doing. They’d slotted into this easy routine together, but it was becoming a habit. It wasn’t that it was a bad habit, but it was a habit she probably should think about breaking if she didn’t want to take things further. She doubted she’d be breaking his heart were she to call it a day because Callum hadn’t shown any signs of being any more serious about her than she was about him. He was heading into the city for the weekend to catch up with some of his old mates, so that would give them a bit of breathing space. Her dad had asked her the other day what Callum’s intentions towards her were when he’d turned up at the café with two bunches of radishes.
‘Do you think you’ll marry this one, Isla?’ he’d said with a hopeful gleam. ‘He’s not a bad lad, Callum, much better than that Tim.’
‘MYOB Dad,’ she’d said relieving him of his radishes.
Gran still wasn’t here, Isla registered, as she and Annie rustled up coffee and tea for the others who had joined two tables together and were chatting amongst themselves. Bridget’s friend, Margaret, who was here in her Barker’s Creek Hall Committee member capacity was looking very lemon-lipped at her tardiness. The other two members had bowed out, she’d announced as she arrived. The meeting had clashed with a Country and Western concert being held at the Bibury Retirement Village. Now she tutted. ‘I have somewhere I have to be at six. I hope she fronts up soon.’
Isla was guessing she was chomping at the bit to join the others at the retirement village. Being late wasn’t like Gran, she thought, frowning, and especially not as she was the one who had organized this meeting in the first place. She’d give her two more minutes and then she’d head over the road and make sure she was okay.
Bridget was sitting at her kitchen table; she’d pop over to the café in ten minutes, she thought, glancing up at the clock. She had one eye on the Saturday paper open in front of her and one eye on the custard squares she’d made earlier. Coal was partial to custard, and she didn’t trust him not to launch himself on the tray given the opportunity. A knocking at the front door startled her. ‘Hold your horses, I’m coming,’ she said, getting up.
Her hip was a lot better these days. She picked up Coal, who was staring up at the bench trying to hypnotize the custard squares into falling within his greedy reach, and popped him in the laundry. Shutting the door on him, she muttered all the way down the hall that if it were the Jehovah’s witnesses come to tell her the end of the world was nigh again, she would not be responsible for her actions. But it wasn’t the Jehovah’s witnesses she saw on opening the door but rather the oddest little man she’d ever seen.
His face was ruddy like he enjoyed a tipple and his eyes were button bright. The snowy white beard that hung to the middle of his chest made her think at once of her favourite of Snow White’s Dwarves, Happy. But by golly gosh, he must be sweltering in that get-up of his, she thought, staring at his ill-fitting suit as he tipped his bowler hat and said, ‘Rohan Sullivan, at your service madam.’
Gathering herself, Bridget replied, ‘And what service might that be then?’ She was wagering he was a mobile chimney sweep albeit an overdressed one.
‘Matchmaking of course.’
Holding onto the door a little tighter, Bridget listened in disbelief as he told her that matchmaking was in his family. ‘I’m a direct descendant of Cathal Sullivan,’ he said thumping his chest proudly. ‘The first Matchmaker to arrive in New Zealand. My grandfather sailed here from Ireland in the late eighteen hundreds, so he did.’
That she was gobsmacked was an understatement, but somehow, Bridget found her voice and revealed her family’s connection to the matchmaking tradition.
Rohan smiled, revealing teeth that had seen better days. ‘Well now, isn’t that a coincidence.’
It was said in a way that left Bridget in no doubt that his being here now was no coincidence. For the first time since she’d opened the door to him, she noticed the leather-bound book he held under his arm. He followed her gaze and produced it for her to see. As he opened it, her nostrils were assailed by a musty smell, and she fancied she could see the dust motes fly up from the pages. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘This is what I do.’
She put her glasses on and ran her fingers down the yellowing paper with its neatly written entries in search of her grandparents’ paired names, but there were no entries dating so far back as Ireland. They began in New Zealand. Cathal Sullivan, Bridget knew, had to have been the man who matched her grandparents. Perhaps that was why she had the eerie feeling of already knowing Rohan even though she was certain they had never met. She shook her head; she was getting fanciful in her old age.
‘How did you hear about the festival Mr Sullivan?’ she asked deciding that being business–like was the best course of action.
‘Call me Rohan, and I heard tell of it on the wind. There haven’t been many calls for my services in a long while. I reckon it’s down to that thing they call the internet. So, I was keen to come and offer them to you for your festival in exchange for a night’s board and lodging in this fine town.’
Bridget assumed he meant he’d heard about it on the coastal grapevine and she simply could not believe her luck. A genuine Matchmaker standing on her doorstep offering his services for her festival! Hang on, she thought with dismay, she’d already given the job to somebody. But Rohan turning up like this well, it was fate, it was destiny. She didn’t know how she would break the news to Samuel West that his services as Chief Matchmaker would no longer be required, but she would not look this gift horse in the mouth. Samuel West would just have to get over it.
‘So tell me then, how would it all work on the day, Rohan?’
‘Well now, I won’t be needing much, just a table on which to rest my book and a chair for both myself and whomever I am talking to. Oh, and plenty of pens, please. I don’t want to be running out of ink. The lonely hearts take it in turns to tell me a bit about themselves, and as the day goes on and my list grows long, I can begin the important business of comparing my notes and making the appropriate matches.’
‘And then the people you match can get to know each other at the dance later that night. It sounds so simple.’ Bridget clapped her hands delightedly.
‘Ah now Bridget, you of all people should know the business of love is rarely simple. That’s why I do what I do.’
How right he was, she mused, thinking back on her complicated life and wondering why he should assume that she knew all about the complications love wrought.
‘Where do you live, Rohan?’
‘Oh, here and there but mostly over there.’
Bridget was bemused, but she took his outstretched hand nevertheless, and they shook on their deal. He promised her he would be back in Bibury on the eve of the thirteenth of February to carry out his Valentine’s Day matchmaking duties and Bridget promised she’d find someone who would provide suitable board and lodgings for him.
She shut the door, oblivious to the tiny green apples that fell from the tree in her front garden as a gust of wind suddenly blew through the town’s main street. She was in too much of a hurry to collect her tray of squares and to release Coal. It didn’t matter that she was running late for the meeting because what news she was bringing to it!