Page 19 of The Second Chance Supper Club

‘Sorry, my lovely, that’s something we don’t stock. Tried them in the past and they didn’t really sell, so we had to withdraw them,’ Dan explained.

Helen’s eyebrows shot up angrily. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. I thought that’d be a standard.’ Her tone was sharp. Cath felt a bit embarrassed.

‘You’ll be sure to find some over in Kirkton. There’s a pharmacy there.’ Andreas was trying to be helpful.

‘Humph. And how far is that?’

‘Oh, not far. Five miles.’

‘Five miles?’ Helen didn’t disguise her huff. ‘Cath, you’ll have to take me … I can’t cope with this all day. What with my hay fever kicking off and the stench from the fields. It really is the back of beyond here.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘I’m sorry. We’re just a small concern, our stock is limited,’ Dan tried to explain further.

Helen’s response was to ‘tut’ heavily.

How rude. Cath, Andreas and Dan shared a look, with Cath mouthing a ‘sorry’ behind her old friend’s head. Feeling rather awkward, and trying her best to divert Helen’s grumpy attention on to something more positive, Cath moved towards the cake display – looking for a little pick-me-up treat to go with their morning coffee. After Helen’s ill-mannered outburst, she also wanted to give the lads some custom.

‘Cake?’ Cath said in a forced cheery tone. ‘These lads do the best bakes in the area by far. The moistest of sponges, Greek-style baklava, you name it.’

‘Hmm, well. Won’t do my thighs any good … but yes, why not,’ Helen conceded. ‘I am on holiday after all.’

Her attention was then duly diverted by the gorgeous-looking cakes (Helen had always been a big fan of an afternoon tea, Cath remembered), she and Cath each choosing a slice. As Dan carefully wrapped them, Cath enquired how the lads were getting on, and they chatted briefly about village life. Helen remained quiet, which was unusual. Cath hoped she’d bloody well cheer up soon; they had the whole day and night to fill before her return journey tomorrow.

The cakes – a slice of Dan’s white chocolate with raspberry, and one of St Clements – went down well with their coffee back at the cottage kitchen, and the mood between the ladies lifted a bit. Cath suggested a tour of the countryside in the Mini, with a pitstop at the pharmacy at Kirkton, before heading up into the hills for some scenic views. She thought they might then cut back in a big loop via the coast.

Helen seemed to have calmed down a bit after the Kirkton stop. She sat in the passenger seat, her antihistamines now taken and a bottle of water to hand, and the conversation rolled on easily, thank heavens, much like the rolling hills around them.

They were up a narrow lane when a guy on a quad motioned them to wait, as he backed out from a muddy field entrance.

‘Hold on there, lass.’

He made a few hearty whistles, and then ‘baah-ing’ noises could be heard which got louder, as a herd of sheep scurried and trampled their way out of the gate and up the lane ahead of them. Tens, then, it must have been hundreds, scattering giddily, some backtracking until the quad revved at them to turn them around. So many sheep with their biggish lambs, pooing merrily as they went. More and more … Cath was actually entranced. It was no problem really, even though they must have waited well over five minutes already. The farmer had a job to do after all.

‘For Christ’s sake, when are the bloody things going to stop?’ Helen was pulling a face. ‘Ah, look, they’re shitting everywhere … your car’s going to be in a right state. Shall we just turn around? There can’t be a lot up this way, anyhow? Haven’t seen a shop or a tea room in ages.’

There was in fact the most beautiful view at the top of this valley, where you could stop and see the tops of the bracken-covered Cheviot Hills one way, and turn to look over the undulating countryside towards the inkiness of the North Sea the other, but Cath didn’t feel like explaining that. Helen just wouldn’t get it, she could tell. So that was it, they made a U-turn and headed back.

Returning to Tilldale, Cath hoped her plan of Sunday lunch out might prove more successful. On walking into The Star Inn in the village, Helen couldn’t help herself, noting rather loudly that the décor was ‘a bit dated’. Yes, the bar was made of dark wood in a traditional style. And when the middle-aged sandy-bearded landlord, dressed in his well-worn country tweeds, came across to serve them with a ‘Good aft’noon, ladies’ and introducing himself as Bill, she saw Helen smother a chuckle at his thick Northumbrian accent. Then she muttered, not in the least subtly, ‘Blimey, he looks like something out of Last of the Summer Wine.’

Bloody hell, Cath wanted to be accepted as part of this village, not be seen to be sniggering at the locals. The tension she had been feeling went up a notch. It was like everything Helen said or did was intended to put a nail into her new life, every comment feeling like a little dig at her. She was trying to stay patient, but she wasn’t quite sure what was going on. After all, the two of them used to get on okay back in Roundhay. It was like her old life was clashing with the new.

They chose a table in the bay window, and ordered the Sunday roast and a couple of glasses of Merlot.

‘Well, that was an eventful morning …’ Cath was thinking of the sheep and the stressful village shop visit, saying the words rather tongue in cheek.

‘Well, nothing much has happened really, has it? We trooped off into the middle of nowhere and got stuck behind a herd of sheep.’

‘Well, if you look at it that way …’ Cath suddenly felt extremely tired. How many more hours of this were left? She took a sneaky glance at her watch: 1:15 p.m. Still another evening at home to fill – too many hours by far. She sipped her wine and gazed out of the window at the cottages opposite, unable to feign interest in conversation any longer.

The food came fifteen minutes later, and was delicious. A tasty roast beef dinner that hit the spot, with crispy Yorkshire puddings and veggies aplenty, served by a friendly waitress.

‘So, this must be the only place you’ve got to eat out then? It’s all right, I suppose. Food’s okay, but the décor, well, it’s so back in time. I feel like I’ve re-entered my childhood in the Yorkshire Dales.’ Helen was harking back to that again.

‘It’s a traditional country pub, Helen, there’s no need for it to look like a city bistro. The staff are great, and the food’s more than okay, it’s bloody lovely,’ Cath pointed out, before tucking into a crispy roast potato dripping in gorgeous gravy. She found herself sticking up for her little village and its pub.

The pair then ate in silence for a while, the air crackling with tension between them.

Later, back at the cottage, things came to a head.