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“The thing is...” I struggle to keep to the point and not get dragged into more discussion of my own projects. Something tells me anything she learns from me, will soon be common knowledge everywhere. Honestly, the BBC could take lessons from her. “There’ll be a number of large, very large deliveries, and I wondered how we can arrange this without overwhelming your storage space.”
She glances down at her ledger. “When exactly would you be expecting these?”
If only it were that easy, I’d have gone to meet them from the harbour myself. Suppliers only give approximate dates. The prefabs should be here in ten-to-twelve days, the wood for the landscaping sooner and the electrical cables on Monday. “They’ve not given me exact times or dates.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I brace for whatever she is going to charge me for the added inconvenience.
“Then your best bet is talk to Seabury, the harbourmaster. He can offload them from the ferry and get Tyrrell to come for them directly, he has a horse-drawn caravan and can transport them directly to you.”
It’s a fantastic idea and solves all kinds of problems; I can hardly believe it. “Would the harbour-master agree?”
“Why not? It’s his job, and he will have to offload any cargo anyway, so why waste the time and effort sending it up here only for you to collect from us.”
“Thank you, Mrs Parker.” My voice must show how heartily grateful I feel.
“And this must be yours.” She hands me the small package. The smell tells me instantly it’s my specialist coffee. Now that Elodie has also become addicted to my favourite Costa Rican blend, we go through this much more quickly and I’ve already had to double the frequency of my online subscription. I will cut all other costs, but not my coffee. The one luxury that I will allow myself because giving it up would be symbolic of failure. When we were poor, Mum who loved cheese, adored cheese, gave it up because we couldn’t afford it. It’s why, ever since I started earning a regular salary, I always get her a gourmet cheese hamper for Christmas.
When I’m out of the post office and away from Mrs Parker, I hold the coffee package to my nose and take a sniff, closing my eyes. This day cannot get better.
Then I see the cheese shop in the village square.
And perhaps because of my recent thoughts about Mum, I stop outside to look at the baskets of cheeses and jars of chutney.
“Hello.” The shopkeeper greets me with a smile. “Young Hal, isn’t it? I’m Eileen.”
Eileen a middle-aged woman with fading blond hair in a low bun, wipes her hand on her blue and white apron. “We haven’t met properly, but I’ve seen you around.” Her manner is friendly. but her eyes linger on my face.
“I was just looking.” I make a vague gesture towards the nearest of the square wicker baskets, lined with the same blue and white cloth.
“The blue-veined brie?” she comes out and picks out a wedge. “My husband makes this.” Then she meets my eyes. “It was your ma’s favourite.”
My mouth opens and shuts. Does she mean… “My mother?” I finally ask.
“Yes.” She nods. “Your ma loved her cheese. Always came here, every Friday like clockwork when we had the delivery, and tasted anything new.Sharper than usual.” Her voice dips lower, imitating Mum. “She could always tell if we tried a different goat to sheep blend. A true connoisseur, your ma.”
I know. I still remember the look of bliss on her face when she tasted a new cheese. And not even the best in the Harrods Food-Hall has ever made her close her eyes and smile the way she used to in this little shop twenty years ago. It’s why I’d been avoiding the place for the last two months.
“How is she?” Eileen asks.
“Mum? She’s well, thank you.”
“Will she come for a visit, now you’re here.”
“I’m only here for another six to eight weeks. And Mum won’t …” I just smile politely, there’s no need to discuss my family with the woman.
Eileen rests her hands on her hips. “I know how things were before. My husband always said it was disgraceful the way your dad lost his job. And he said so to anyone who would listen. There’s always people with nothing to do but make trouble. But whenever we were busy and needed to take on extra hands, my husband always gave the first job to Harry Hemingway.”
“Thank you.” The words are automatic because this is so unexpected.
“When we saw your ma at the funeral, we ‘spected her to stay a few days, but she left that same afternoon.”
“You mean my father’s funeral?” So, Eileen and her husband where the other two mourners. The only ones besides Mum and the vicar.
“He was a strong proud man, your da, never complained.” She shakes her head sadly. “You know, a few years back, the farm was in a lot of trouble, we nearly lost it. We had no money to pay staff and your da helped for free during the season.”
This hits me like a bucket of water in the face. My father did that? When he had no money, he still helped for free?
“I didn’t know that.”
