Coming Home to Wishington Bay. Maxine Morrey

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СКАЧАТЬ to explore the village then?’ A man’s voice drifted out before a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman appeared from behind one of the large borders. ‘I hope my Eleanor hasn’t been interrogating you about your garden.’ His wife rolled her eyes but the love of decades showed on both their faces.

      ‘Bertie. Pleased to meet you.’

      ‘Holly, and you.’

      ‘This is Betty’s granddaughter.’

      ‘I thought it might be. You have your grandmother’s eyes.’

      ‘Doesn’t she?’ Eleanor said, turning to him. It wasn’t the first time I’d been told this. Personally, I’d never seen it. I mean they’d been the same colour but Gigi’s had always been full of laughter and mischief. Mine, not so much.

      ‘Stocking up the larder?’ he asked, indicating the basket.

      ‘Yes. It’s ages since I had a good nose around the village so I thought I’d take advantage.’

      ‘Capital idea.’

      I smiled at the slightly dated language, which seemed absolutely correct coming from this upright gent, with his military bearing and hair as white as his house.

      ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you both.’

      ‘And you, Holly. And don’t forget, we’re always around. If you need anything, just pop up.’

      ‘Thank you. I will.’

      We said our goodbyes and I headed on up the lane and into the village, pondering over the encounter. I’d been in my flat in London for over seven years and I could count on one hand the number of words I’d exchanged with any of my neighbours. I’d never even been inclined to. I, and they, were always in such a rush. Nobody had time to talk. But here in Wishington Bay, things were different. Very different. And worryingly, I rather liked it.

      Having found the café Carrie had insisted I try, I ordered a croissant and a decaf coffee. I’d begun to wonder if the symptoms I’d been getting, the shortness of breath, the tingling, panicky feeling as the room spun around me, might be something to do with the copious amounts of caffeine I funnelled into my system day after day. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. Probably the same thing my doctor would have told me had I been truthful on my last company check-up about the amount of caffeine I drank and the amount of exercise I did – or rather didn’t do. But still. I was trying now. I’d walked into the village and I was on decaf. Baby steps.

      The croissant was the softest, butteriest one I had had outside a bistro in France and I decided it was probably a good thing I wasn’t staying because having discovered this fact could be very bad for my waistline. The book remained in my basket but I occupied myself with watching the village awaken outside the window – shutters going up, awnings being wound down, ready to protect from the strengthening sun, and signs and tables being put out on to the pavements. There was bustle but unlike the chaotic type I was used to in London, this was gentle and almost calming. It was comforting.

      Leaving the café, I headed further into the village, peering in the windows of the shops, stopping in one that sold locally produced goods, including some of the cutest children’s wear I’d ever seen. Three baby outfits in my basket later and I was back on my way, passing The Lighthouse. I was glad to see the pub still thriving, having seen so many around the country fall into debt and close. A board advertised teas and coffees, as well as some delicious-sounding specials, and of course the inevitable sports matches. From what Ned had told me, they’d cleverly screened off one area for this activity so that it managed to maintain its country pub atmosphere while still doing what it needed to help bring in the custom. Holidaymakers especially didn’t like to miss a big game so although the owners had been somewhat hesitant initially to make this change, they’d done it well and reaped the benefits.

      ‘Morning!’ A man smiled and nodded as he watered the window boxes that lined all the sills of the pub on this side.

      ‘Morning.’

      ‘Going to be another beautiful day,’ he said, his Barbadian accent melodic while his smile, wide and bright, brought out my own.

      ‘It certainly looks that way.’

      ‘I’m never wrong on these things!’ He laughed and I couldn’t help but join him.

      ‘The window boxes look amazing.’

      ‘Well, thank you! They’re rather my pride and joy. We’ve won the village Best in Bloom award a few times over the years and I like to think I’ve helped a little in that.’

      I ran my eyes over the pub again, taking in the flowers bursting and spilling out of the boxes, their red and white contrasting with the pale blue of their containers.

      ‘I’m very sure you did, if this display is anything to go by.’

      ‘That’s most kind of you. Thank you.’

      ‘You’re very welcome.’

      ‘Are you on holiday here or just visiting us for the day?’

      ‘Actually I’m staying for a little while. In Betty Gardner’s house. I’m her granddaughter.’

      ‘Oh well then, welcome, welcome! There’s a drink here waiting for you whenever you’re ready. Betty was a wonderful woman.’

      ‘She was. And thank you.’

      ‘Anytime. It’s nice to know there’s someone breathing life into that place again. Gabe’s done what he can from the outside, of course, but a house needs love from the inside too. Kind of like people.’

      ‘You’re quite the philosopher.’ I smiled.

      He did the boomy laugh again, making me smile more. ‘My wife says the same thing. Usually before she gives me another chore to get on with.’

      ‘Perhaps she thinks it’s best to keep you busy?’

      ‘Have you been talking to her?’ He grinned.

      ‘No, but maybe I will when I come for that drink.’

      ‘Excellent! Excellent! Then we’ll look forward to seeing you …’

      ‘Holly.’

      ‘Holly. I’m Edward. My wife is Philomena, and we shall very much look forward to seeing you at The Lighthouse.’

      I shook the hand he offered, smiling as he laid his other on top and then waved as I left.

      Making my way through the small streets, I stopped at the butcher’s, bakery and greengrocer’s, filling my basket with fresh, fragrant produce and not a hint of a plastic bag in sight.

      ‘Mind those sausages,’ the butcher had cautioned once he realised I lived next door to Gabe – or more specifically Bryan. ‘He’s a fiend for sausages, that one. Certainly lives up to his breed name!’ I thanked him, assuring him that I would keep them somewhere the little dog wouldn’t be able to snaffle them before heading back out into the street and nipping through one of the tiny alleys that led through to the beachfront side of the village.

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