The Cake Maker's Wish, page 15
Madeline’s reverie was broken by Burton’s coughing fit. She passed him a handful of tissues as he gagged and wheezed, his eyes streaming, and waited for it to pass; it was all she could do. First there was the accident, leaving his brain unable to recover, now lung cancer. Her brother had never caught a break in his life. Now with Olivia here in the village, all those memories felt close once more, and she wished she’d reached out to her old friend, no matter how difficult it might have been.
16
Less than a week since Clarence’s shoes had padded softly on the footpath as he headed down the hill in the dark to Raj’s shop, here he was again, on his way to another incident. What the hell was going on in this village? His breath misted the air and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled like antennae. Beneath his jacket, his heart banged in his chest, not from fear but anger.
The village was quiet in these early hours of Tuesday morning, a time quite aptly referred to as the dead of night because so many people did in fact die during these hours. It was when people were at their weakest.
He shivered, clutching the screwdriver more tightly. He carried no torch, not wanting to attract attention. If he hadn’t lived here for seventy years, if he hadn’t walked these streets every day of his life, he might have worried about landing a foot incorrectly, about straying off the path and tumbling onto the road, something that could be hazardous for someone of his age. But this village was written into his every cell. It was why he had to protect it. He was part of it and it was part of him.
He hesitated, approaching the bakery. The door was ajar just as Leanne had said it was, her words sharp and breathy with shock. The policeman was on his way but he was coming for Fahren Way so Clarence had said he’d go now, rebuffing Leanne’s protests.
‘Not on my watch,’ he’d said, reaching for his boots. The baker had run straight home again after finding the shop as it was. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll deal with it and let you know.’
Now, standing on the footpath, his eyes darting about, hunting for a perpetrator, the roots of his hair practically rattling in his scalp, he almost wished someone would appear, just so he could thump them.
Tentatively, he pushed open the black front door, and listened. There was nothing bar his own pulse in his ears. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and flicked on the torch, shining the beam into the store, sweeping over the black and white tiles and across the bread racks, before settling on the black wooden facade of the service bench.
His heart sank. There in white paint were the words Go home imports.
Hunched in a chair, Howard yawned and tugged at his ear, his other hand wrapped around a mug of black tea. Clarence felt a twinge of guilt for summoning his friend out of bed so early, especially with news of another incident relating to the Renaissance Project. Perhaps he should have left Howard to his sleep. But this was the way it had always been – Clarence and Howard, like Batman and Robin. Visionary, smooth-tongued Clarence, with quiet, knobbly-kneed Howard on hand to plug the gaps in his friend’s grand plans.
Clarence shifted against the dove-grey linen cushions piled behind his back on the sofa. They were yet another gift from Fallon. She’d always been like that – heavy-handed with the gifts. Over the years he’d felt embarrassed that she’d been spending money on him, but these days he wondered if she was trying to make up for the distance between him and Adrian.
‘So she didn’t see anyone?’ Howard asked.
‘No. She arrived at the bakery at three o’clock as always and the door was ajar.’
‘Is it possible that she just didn’t lock it properly?’ As Howard frowned, the longer hairs that sprouted randomly from his bushy eyebrows bowed down in front of his eyes, as if they too were half asleep.
‘It had been jemmied open. Randolph Wilson said it looked like the person had used a screwdriver. Besides, the graffiti is more the concern. Clearly an attack on our project and, I think, it now confirms what we were afraid of.’
‘That we have a saboteur.’
‘Yes.’ Clarence yawned then too, as the adrenaline of being woken in the wee hours began to recede. He leant forward on the sofa, his hand dropping automatically to rub Stuart’s head. The dog was gazing at him as though concerned, and thumped his tail in appreciation. ‘Leanne’s soldiered on, going back to bake and open at six as usual. Still, she’s understandably rattled.’
‘Shame,’ Howard said, shaking his head.
His friend ran this thumb rhythmically in the webbing between his thumb and the first finger of his other hand, a tick Clarence knew meant his friend was anxious. ‘Howard, you’re not losing your water on me, are you?’ he asked.
Howard met his eyes for a moment then looked up at the exposed timber beam in the ceiling and grunted.
‘Are you?’ Clarence’s hand stilled on the dog’s head. A fist had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. This had been their dream – the two of them had built this whole project from the ground up, the boys who grew up here and knew how productive this village could be again, if it was only given the chance.
Howard’s eyes dropped back to meet Clarence’s. ‘We expected people to be upset, I know that. But you ignored my concerns. You said once the imports were here, it would die down. It hasn’t.’
Clarence couldn’t speak. Howard was right, and he’d voiced Clarence’s own worst fear, bringing it firmly to light: the conflict hadn’t died down. The resisters’ unrest had moved on from vocal taunts and sneering to concrete acts of mutiny. Howard had tried to warn him, that was true, but Clarence had forged on, believing that all the ‘fuss’ would just go away, believing it simply because he wanted to.
But what if it didn’t go away? It seemed more likely now that the rat, the racial slur at Raj’s shop, and now this break-in were all related.
It didn’t help in the slightest that Ryan’s story had gone out in yesterday’s paper, starting fierce arguments in the comments section of the online version, mostly from anonymous commentators, many of whom felt comfortable enough to chime in, giving their voice to controversy. The story had caused enough of a storm that it had been picked up by The Sun online later in the day, spreading the debate across the whole country, where it had truly deteriorated into nasty comments, with accusations of the UK being overrun with ‘curries and Muslims’. Some spoke in their defence, championing the values of humanitarianism and compassion, reminding people that the UK was a wealthy country with plenty for all, but this only ignited more vitriol. It had made Clarence physically sick, and Raj and Sally had even kept their kids home from school for the day, hoping to shelter them from any potential negativity.
Chester Pepperworth was clearly delighted, messaging Clarence to crow about the inevitable failure of the Renaissance Project.
More and more, Stoneden appeared to be a village divided, and people on both sides were fearful and angry. Tensions over land, jobs, opportunity, money and even race: these were the sorts of things that led to civil wars. Howard’s words had just forced him to swallow his stupid delusions, and they burnt all the way down.
Hoping to offer more support to Leanne, Clarence ventured back down the hill to the bakery just after eight-thirty, when the school rush, such as it was, would have ebbed. But he encountered more people on the narrow footpath than he would have liked. He wove through the unexpectedly dense foot traffic, dodging flapping coats, umbrellas, dogs on leads, prams, and gloved hands on his elbow trying to force him to stop.
‘Such terrible news!’
‘Will the project survive?’
‘Do you think they’ll return?’
‘Stoneden was always such a safe place. Now look what’s happened!’
Time and again he smiled and nodded his head in greeting, or offered reassurance that everything was perfectly fine, it was all taken care of, and this was just a hiccup.
He was relieved to tumble into Leanne’s bakery and close the damaged wooden door against the faces he felt were pursuing him. Go home imports was still there, a horrible insult to the hard-working woman behind the counter. In one corner of the shop sat Mrs Wilson, her heavy brocade coat tightly buttoned up and a silk scarf over her hair, eating a warm cinnamon bun. On one level he was pleased to see her here – a staunch resister if ever there was one – but her grimly set mouth and derisive sniff in response to his raised hand did little to soothe his jangled nerves. She picked up the remains of her bun and her basket of breadsticks, cast a concerned frown at the graffiti, and stepped out the door, letting it fall heavily closed behind her.
Leanne stood at the counter. Her bread baskets, usually full of fresh goods, were leaner today as she’d obviously not had as much time to bake. Her usually tight bun of hair – twisted like one of her fancy iced scrolls – was dishevelled, wisps sticking out in all directions. Against her white baker’s shirt, buttoned to the neck, her pale skin had a tinge of grey. She looked as though she’d aged years in just five hours.
He stepped towards her. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve had better days,’ she said, resting her hands on her hips in a resigned, fatigued sort of way. ‘Keith had to see to a few horses this morning before the weather turns nasty but then he’ll be down to help me clean off . . . that.’ She gestured over the countertop to where the painted words sat, ugly and reproachful.
‘Have you been very busy this morning?’ he asked, wondering what sort of reaction she’d received from her customers.
‘Aye. Lots of stickybeaks. But lots of good customers too. A lot of support.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Keeping busy has been good, but as soon as a lull sets in, my mind starts racing. I keep looking over my shoulder and around corners,’ she confessed. Her eyes brightened alarmingly, and she bit down on her trembling lower lip.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Clarence said. It was completely inadequate, but it needed to be said.
Leanne stared vacantly at the doorway, clearly still in shock.
‘Please bring Keith and the kids down to the hotel tonight. I want to shout you all dinner by the fire. We can have a laugh and it might help you all relax a bit before you go to bed tonight.’
‘You don’t need to do that,’ she said, frowning.
‘I want to. Bring the family down at six? We’ll get your spirits up again.’
She nodded, swallowing hard. ‘All right then, thank you.’
He turned to leave, but she stopped him.
‘Thank you, again, for taking my call this morning.’
Her gratitude warmed him. ‘Of course – please call on me anytime. It’s what community is all about.’
‘You’re a good man, Clarence.’
He lifted his chin, accepting her praise. ‘I can meet you here at three o’clock tomorrow morning, happily. I want you to feel safe. This is your home now. I can bring Stuart to be our watchdog.’
She smiled briefly. ‘Ah, get away. I . . . I should be fine.’ But the hitch in her voice suggested otherwise.
‘Well, we’ll chat tonight. See you at six.’
He left the shop and forged back up the hill, full of motivation to fix this problem and, indeed, anything that wasn’t right in his life, starting with the fact that he had a five-month-old great-granddaughter he’d only met once. Little Arionna and her parents lived in London. Her father, Clarence’s grandson Mikey, worked in the City doing something technical that was beyond Clarence’s scope of understanding – something to do with SEOs and cookies and content management – while his wife, Lillan, was a fashion designer. The little he’d seen of them together, he couldn’t understand what they had in common, but now they had this gorgeous baby, maybe that would be enough.
Then again, it hadn’t been enough to keep him and Bethan together. They’d had two of their own and he’d barely coped, and he wasn’t even the one staying home with them. Bethan had done it all on her own. If he could impart one piece of wisdom to young couples today, it would be to get a nanny. Even if they didn’t think they needed one, they did. Kids could ruin a marriage, snatching away every moment of spare time and peace and energy, putting a literal wedge between a couple who’d genuinely loved each other when they’d had the freedom to do so. Those tribes in the forests had it right – share the care of children between as many people as possible. Clarence should have been round to Mikey and Lillan’s place, offering his help. It was just that the Renaissance Project had taken all of his time, every last minute, for the past year at least. He’d made it his whole focus, but now that his pride had copped a wallop or two, he realised that he’d done to Mikey and Lillan exactly what he’d done to Bethan and the kids all those years ago. He’d simply forgotten about them.
But he could change that today.
He phoned Mikey and Lillan’s number, conscious that it was barely nine o’clock but also well aware that there was never a good time to call someone with a baby. You just had to take your chances. The phone rang four times.
‘Hello?’
His smile faltered. ‘Bethan?’
‘Clarence? What a surprise.’ She did indeed sound surprised, but pleasantly so.
‘What are you doing there?’ he asked, feeling himself on the back foot.
‘Just doing great-granny time,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Honestly, I know we both said that having grandchildren was the best thing, but having a great-grandchild? My goodness. It was a gift I’d never even considered. I want to eat every one of her fingers and toes.’
He knew she wasn’t trying to rub in the fact that she was there and he was not, but he suddenly felt keenly the loss of these precious months of Arionna’s infancy. The sensation was accompanied by an odd, unexpected regret that he and Bethan hadn’t made it to this point in their lives together.
These days, Bethan still lived on the north coast of Cornwall, where she volunteered her time as a costume designer for one of the local theatre companies. Apparently her talents were in high demand, as sewing skills were something largely lost to the generations that had grown up being able to buy clothes for less than it would cost to make them. Both of their kids and their families lived in Cornwall too, which was probably an inevitable outcome given that Bethan had taken sole custody of the kids when the marriage ended. Adrian had been fourteen and Anne twelve. Divorce was still fairly unusual back then, and the children had been happy to leave a tiny village where gossip was passed around like the collection plate in church, and to start a new life somewhere with beaches and shops and eateries.
Bethan had relished being a grandma. She and Clarence were friends on Facebook – how very modern of them – and he’d observed the scores of photos she put up of the grandkids (some in their teens and a couple in their twenties) with just a tinge of jealousy. Now Mikey and Lillan were in London with the scrumptiously pink baby with masses of fine dark hair and huge brown eyes, who loved to grab her toes and stare at them as if they were the most magical thing she’d ever seen, and whose enormous smile was breathtaking.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was hoping Lillan might be there. I’d love to come down and see them all. I really need to give that baby a big cuddle.’ He lifted his chin as he spoke, firming up his voice.
‘I’m sure they’d love that,’ Bethan said generously. ‘Lillan is at yoga right now so I’m here with Arionna, who is smearing avocado around her highchair tray.’
‘Onto solids, already?’ he asked, riffling through his brain, trying to remember back to the stages of feeding their own kids.
‘Oh, yes. The research changes all the time, but they’re trying baby-led weaning, which basically just means that when the baby reaches for food, you give it to them. It encourages the baby to follow their natural instincts.’
‘Right,’ Clarence said uncertainly, suddenly feeling his optimism drain away. He had so much to catch up on. ‘Well, if you could just let Lillan know I called.’
‘I will.’
‘Anytime she wants to get back to me is fine,’ he said, feeling himself shrinking beneath his skin. ‘I don’t want to be a bother.’
‘It won’t be any bother at all. They’d love to see you.’ Her voice was kind.
‘Right. Well, I’ll be off now. Lots of work to do.’
‘Okay. Oh, wait! How is the village project going? I must come out for a drive to see all the new shops. Is it everything you hoped?’
‘Everything and more,’ he said with practised assurance.
‘Congratulations. You should be proud. I can’t wait to see the old village returned to new. And just think – you’re building something your grandchildren and now your great-grandchildren will be able to experience too.’
‘That’s what it’s all about,’ he agreed, her faith in the project helping to restore his hopes for it once more.
17
On her way to Rambling Rose on Friday morning, Olivia took the time to stop in at each shop and say hi to her fellow shopkeepers. After the break-in at Leanne’s bakery the other day, it was all the more important for them to support each other.
She started with Miguel, admiring his new stinky cheese from France and hearing about his wife’s ongoing drama with the immigration paperwork to bring her and the three kids to England. ‘Sorry to hear that,’ she said.
‘It’s because she’s my brother’s wife,’ he said miserably, leaning into the cabinet to rearrange his fancy cheese sprouting green froths of designer mould.
Olivia looked at him. ‘She’s . . . what?’
‘My brother died. They had no one to look after them so I did what needed to be done to help them have a good life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She and the kids need this new start here. My brother was the victim of an armed hold-up gone wrong.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘After that, Isadora was afraid. This is her chance to get away, to start over somewhere fresh, somewhere safe. But even though we are legally married, they are delaying her and the kids.’
