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‘I want you to rekindle some of the love and community spirit Claire and I were fortunate enough to enjoy, even if it’s just for a short time. The community’s support has been such an integral part of our lives, especially for your aunt after John passed away. She missed him terribly, as I’m sure you all did. Claire drew on the comfort and friendship offered by her many friends. Ithelped to heal her sorrow, if not her heart. And it could do the same for you, Sophie dear. Steer you through this miasma of grief and confusion.’
Delia paused, her eyes peering over the top of her glasses, their silver restraint glinting in the shafts of sunlight forging their way through the dirt-ridden windows.
‘Fate has a carefully drafted plan for us all, Sophie, but sadly it must remain confidential.’
‘I don’t believe in fate, Delia. I believe that we should mould our own destiny, not wait until it lands fully formed in our path.’
But she knew Delia had a point. She had to at least try to give the misfortune that had befallen her in the last few weeks a positive spin. Life did go on, and if her aunt could survive after the loss of her beloved husband, then she could stop acting like a puppet clipped of its strings. She needed to quit wallowing in self-pity and put some elbow grease into those filthy windows.
‘I think I’ll just give those windows a bit of a clean.’
Delia smiled. ‘Good idea.’
Sophie collected a cloth from behind the counter and tentatively rubbed at a small patch of the front window to reveal a sparklingly clear outlook over the road to Marietta’s and the scaffolding-bedecked ex-butcher’s shop. The honey-hued stone façades of the depleted row of shops, their painted doors and bay-fronted windows open to trade, spoke volumes. Sadly, the four shops which had thrived for the last fifty years had been slashed to two with the closure of Wainwright’s butchers and Greenwood’s grocers.
Delia joined Sophie in her toil, and they spent the day scrubbing, dusting and reorganising the shop. ‘The village high street is dying, I’m afraid. It’s not only the supermarkets’ advance that’s draining away our business to their neon-litcathedrals of consumerism; it’s the influx of the weekenders. Those wealthy families chasing the rural idyll for a few snatched hours of calm before they return to their hamster-wheels in the city to churn out more money for their masters or their pension pots. Claire despaired at every shop closure, every one a shining light extinguished along with the proprietor’s dreams. Our lives are wider than one, Sophie.’
All Sophie could do was nod; Delia had a point.
When the sky dimmed, signalling the end of the working day, Sophie smiled her gratitude to Delia as tears brimmed and choked her vocal cords. She waved her off and, as she secured the shop door behind her and pulled down the blind, she took a moment to survey the careworn contents of the shop again. The only thing she wanted to do at that moment was abandon herself to the onslaught of grief, mingled with a splash of nostalgia. The waft of her aunt’s favourite perfume still lingered amongst the multicoloured gems of synthetic yarn jutting from the stands like jewels on a Fabergé egg.
She mounted the stairs to her bedroom, cloaked in a shroud of loneliness. Happiness was a mere apparition that punctuated her life with decreasing regularity. Instead, anguish and heartache stalked her daily path to sleep, the relief in its oblivion always a delayed destination.
Fear gripped her heart as she realised she would now have to live her life without the safety net of her aunt’s, or anyone else’s, love.
Chapter Eleven
On Friday night, Sophie took a deep breath and pushed open the door of the Fox & Hounds, feeling like a seventeen-year-old about to order alcohol for the first time. The buzz of muted conversation and background music swirled through the air, producing a welcoming atmosphere. She had spent too many nights to recall drinking at the village pub and it was as familiar as an old pair of favourite boots.
‘Hey, is that you, Sophie? You look like you just walked off the catwalk!’
‘Hey, erm...’
‘Juliette? We were in the same art class at school?’
‘Of course we were. How are you, Juliette?’ Sophie cast her eyes over the barmaid’s fresh face, devoid of any scrap of make-up, her cheeks glowing with the flush of health and her lips a natural rosebud pink.
‘I love your top. Where did you get it? M&S?’
‘Erm, no, it’s one I designed myself…’
‘Ah, sorry, yes. I did hear you made clothes now. Sophie, I’m so sorry about your aunt. She was a lovely lady and we’ll miss her in the village.’ Juliette reached over and pulled Sophie into a hug. ‘Hey, you’re all skin and bone. Look at you, like a line prop, bones jutting from all angles. What you need is one of Gavin’s signature hotpots.’
‘No! Thanks. No.’ Sophie hadn’t eaten meat since she moved down to London. ‘Ah, Nessa!’
Relief at seeing her old friend swarmed through her veins. Sophie took in Nessa’s familiar features as she pushed her way towards her through the regulars hogging the bar, her long auburn hair flowing free from its usual clasp in honour of her escape from the strict regulations placed on gym teachers at St Hilda’s High School.
‘Hi, Sophie, great to see you. Come on – Seb and Archie are in the snug playing snooker.’
‘Is… is Noah with them?’ She prayed that the hint of hopefulness in her voice wasn’t too much of a giveaway. Sadly, her friend missed nothing.
‘No, but he might join us later. He usually does whenever he’s home. You okay with that? He said you’d thrown him out of the shop when he went to see you.’
‘A bit of an exaggeration, but that was always one of Noah’s charming quirks. I didn’t throw him out.’
‘Oh, Sophie, it’s so good to hear your accent’s back when you’re hyped up over Noah!’
‘I’m not hyped up over Noah, Nessa.’
