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Unshed tears sparkled at Delia’s eyes as she crashed back down to reality. She checked her watch, tutted to herself, andbegan to gather together the various cleaning products she had been using before the shop opened to the public.
‘Ah, here are Marcia and Iris now.’
The brass bell tinkled as Marcia reversed through the doorway, hauling her mother’s wheelchair backwards up the stone steps and parking her at the gigantic table. She dragged off her knitted, Inca–inspired hat complete with multicoloured pom-poms on strings. Her curtain of hair fell almost to her waist and her ears protruded through the sides like Noddy’s famous best friend.
‘Hi, Delia. We called at Wallington’s for a box of those cupcakes you recommended. They are gorgeous – today’s speciality is peppermint buttercream icing with raspberry stars and edible glitter. We got one for you too, Sophie,’ Marcia added shyly, having just spotted her crouching in the window display, but unable to meet Sophie’s eye.
‘Oh, thanks Marcia. Sounds like just what I need,’ said Sophie, smiling her thanks.Especially after the two huge croissants Delia had left for her breakfast,she thought. She stepped forward to accept the gem of culinary perfection from the proffered box. It was a masterpiece of sugar-fuelled artistry. Tom was indeed a genius confectioner.
Drawing out a chair to join the gathering at the table, she ran her eyes over the features of the young girl hunched before her. With not a trace of make-up, or a nod to the twenty-first century, Marcia’s face displayed the lacklustre pallor of those who did not enjoy enough sunshine or fresh air. Her skin cried out for one of Scarlet’s invigorating facial scrubs and her eyes, the same colour as Sophie’s, were obscured by a pair of overlarge reading glasses that lent her a studious countenance. Any curves she possessed had been well disguised beneath the hand-knitted, black-and-amber-striped sweater with the hint of a grey thermal vest evident at her neck and wrists.
Sophie experienced a burst of protectiveness for this caring young girl and realised belatedly that Marcia had been aware of her assumed-covert scrutiny. She watched guiltily as she self-consciously swiped away her glasses and stored them in the appliqued pocket of her jumper, cut in the shape of a daisy.
‘Oh, these are Mum’s old reading glasses. I borrow them occasionally.’ Marcia swung her sweep of hair forward across her face, anxious to escape from the uncomfortable inspection. ‘Is there tea in the pot upstairs, Delia?’ She scuttled away, the block heels of her candy-pink shoes clacking on the stairs.
Sophie glanced down at her own familiar attire, which could have done with a spin in the washing machine. She chastised herself for failing to pay attention to her sartorial elegance, especially as she was now the figurehead of a high-street shop. She only had to look in a mirror to be reminded that she would win no trophies in a beauty pageant. She, too, wore no cosmetics and she’d lived in her jeans and black polo-necked sweater since she’d arrived in Somersby. It was either that or rummage through her aunt’s wardrobe, which she hadn’t had the courage to do yet.
A few moments later, Marcia reappeared. She set down the cupcakes on one of Claire’s patterned china plate so they could feast their eyes on their perfection, and then their taste buds. They were, without a doubt, the most attractive things in the shop. In fact, Sophie had to admit the skill and artistry that had gone into their production was nothing short of amazing. The exquisite fairy cakes were definitely not what she’d expected to see produced by the old-fashioned baker’s shop on the corner of their row.
‘These are mini works of art, aren’t they? Too good to eat, really.’
Iris held her choice aloft for closer inspection, her soft features enclosed by a halo of curls the colour of ash, clearly reluctant to take the first bite and destroy its beauty.
‘They are beautiful. Not what I had expected from…’ Sophie let her voice drift off for fear of causing offence by revealing her true feelings and the extent to which she had outgrown this rural backwater.
Iris smiled. It was clear she knew exactly what Sophie had been about to say.
‘Me neither, Sophie. I thought the same thing when Tom became the third generation of Wallingtons to take over at the bakery. But Delia must have told you that he completed his training at Betty’s in Harrogate, after a three-year apprenticeship in one of those glamorous hotels in Paris, whose name, like so many other things nowadays, escapes my memory. These cupcakes are fit to grace any celebrity’s wedding reception, don’t you think, never mind the tables of the residents of Somersby?’ Small apples of red appeared on Iris’s cheeks. ‘If there had been a competition to make Lilac’s wedding cake, Tom Wallington would have blown the competition out of the mixer.’
All three faces swung towards Sophie, and she performed a wriggle of embarrassment under the scrutiny of the gathered ladies. She felt her face become suffused with heat and swore she would never again be caught scrutinising a fellow human being’s appearance.
‘Well, as you haven’t hung out the flags, I assume your own design didn’t get selected, dear?’ Iris asked.
Sophie nodded. She suspected that the time spent confined to her wheelchair had allowed Iris to become sharply attunedto other people’s disguised emotions. She saw her sweep a slow, analytical glance around the shop as though, despite having visited it almost daily for the last ten years, she was seeing it for the first time.
‘It’s not the same without your aunt, Sophie. The shop has lost some of its warmth, a piece of its soul. What will you do with the business?’
Sophie squirmed. Iris had clearly been endowed with the same down-to-earth character traits as Delia. She tensed her jaw muscles at the direct question, but she knew it was not only her own and Delia’s futures that depended on her plans, but many of her aunt’s old friends’ futures too. She just wished she had an answer to hand.
‘Well,’ said Sophie, ruffled by the inquisition about a personal decision. ‘First of all, Delia and I thought we’d spruce this room up a bit – maybe a splash of rose-tinted paint on the walls, peppermint green for the shelves, dip those wicker baskets over there in white paint. We could invest in a couple of leather sofas, a few mohair throws…’ She paused.
This was as good an opportunity as any to get the message around the village that her tenure at Gingerberry Yarns over the next few months would be a temporary reprieve only. One thing at least was still thriving in Somersby – the village grapevine.
‘But I think I will have to start marketing the shop when probate is sorted, hopefully as a going concern.’
‘Not likely, though, is it?’
Sophie stared at Iris. Her mobility may have ebbed away, but not her enquiring mind; that was still as sharp as a needle.
‘I mean, look what’s happened to Mr Greenwood’s grocery shop; look at old Mr Wainwright’s butcher’s shop – well on its way to becoming a weekend retreat fulfilling another richbanker’s Cotswolds fantasy. These people have no interest in what’s going on outside their freshly painted front doors beyond the village providing a charming backdrop for their nostalgic village scene – it’s like a film set for them. What they don’t realise is, they are the ones who are destroying our community, one by one. The lifestyle they find so charming? They are contributing to its decimation. Mark my words, Sophie, if you sell Gingerberry Yarns – it will go the same way.’
Sophie was surprised to find that, instead of irritation at being the subject of an economics lecture, she not only agreed with Iris’s astute assessment, but experienced a strong urge to protect the little wool shop from the encroachment of disinterested weekenders, and her aunt’s legacy from such exploitation. After all, hadn’t her aunt felt strongly enough about the subject to petition the local council’s planning department when permission was requested for change of use of the butcher’s shop?
They sipped the dregs of their tea, licked the sweet crumbs from their fingers and turned the conversation to the more palatable subject of the next WI meeting on Wednesday night. It was to be addressed by Dorri Mathews, a yoga enthusiast, who would speak on the benefits of veganism and a raw foods diet in the fight against every disease known to man.
Much giggling ensued when Delia and Marcia described how unhealthy, drawn and washed-out Dorri had looked when they last saw her, concluding that a good dose of home cooking, a balanced diet and chocolate was the source of not only physical, but emotional health – just look at Nigella Lawson, the epitome of a goddess of the kitchen. This observation in turn led the conversation to the subject of the baking craze sweeping the nation on a tsunami of powdered sugar, inspired by the BBC showThe Great British Bake Off.
‘Marcia loves to bake, don’t you, darling?’ Iris looked proudly at her beloved daughter who sat hunched forward, shoulders rounded to her chest, the ends of her hair sweeping the table. She had replaced her “reading glasses” on the end of her nose.
