Saving Saffron Sweeting (33 page)

‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’ I said.

Doubt crossed his face. ‘Can we do this at your place,
where it’s warmer?’

I looked up at the malt house, looming above. I had the
impression it was protecting us from the wind. I shook my head.
‘Ask me here.’

‘Well, okay. I know it’s been difficult spending
time together recently.’ He smiled. ‘I’m busy,
you’re busy.’

I wasn’t too busy to whisk egg whites into a
soufflé and whisk myself into fancy underwear, I thought.
But I said nothing.

‘So I was thinking, if you’d like, we should go away
properly together. For Christmas. No work, no distractions, just
you, me and a five-star hotel.’

‘Somewhere else you’re buying?’ I lifted my
chin in irritation.

‘No. Gosh, no, definitely not. I was thinking maybe
Prague. Or Vienna?’

I couldn’t help it, my eyebrows climbed of their own
volition. ‘Wow.’

This was serious stuff. I had visited Prague years ago on a
backpacking trip, but never Vienna. I pictured snow-dusted castles
and glossy horses pulling carriages. I saw string quartets and a
roaring fire in an ornate, gilded hotel suite. Oh, and I saw
elegant tiered plates of delicate European pastries. It was hard to
imagine anything more romantic.

Scott put a gloved finger under my chin and tilted it so he
could see my face. ‘Well?’ In the darkness, his face
was shadowed, but he looked as charming and confident as ever.

I licked my lips to say
Yes
and kiss him, but was
stalled by a new vision. I saw myself, on Christmas Eve, dressed in
a new coat and snug fleece-lined boots. I was standing in a
check-in hall at Heathrow Airport, with one eye on the flight
departures board and one eye on my silent phone, as throngs of
hurried travellers swarmed around me. I was waiting for a man who
wasn’t going to show up. Again.

I took a step backwards and said a reluctant goodbye to the ride
in a horse-drawn carriage.

‘Grace? Will you come with me to Vienna?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I
won’t.’

Christmas was grim. Having turned down the
festive allure of Austria, my next best option was to spend it with
my parents in Norfolk. Sometimes, the familial hearth can be the
loneliest place in the world.

The creations of the Gilling kitchen were worthy of an
international culinary festival. For three days before Christmas,
ingredients were seared, simmered, sautéed and steamed.
Smells which would have driven Mungo insane wafted through the
house, from fresh bread in the morning to herb-laden soups at
lunchtime. By afternoon, cinnamon and vanilla scents could be
detected, and each evening, slow-roasting meats thrilled our noses
with their promise of juicy tenderness.

My parents, competitive in the kitchen at the best of times,
were in heaven. Between them, they lugged in mounds of vegetables
and visited the butcher’s shop daily. Their narrow fridge
couldn’t cope, so an extra one was rigged up in the garage,
beside the golf clubs and long-forgotten camping gear.

Since I was so clearly single, I decided I might as well eat to
keep warm. The relentless heat of the kitchen meant the central
heating was turned down and the rest of the bungalow was nippy.
Most of the time I was wearing two jumpers and a scarf, even
indoors. Yet, in spite of the extra layers, I can’t ever
remember feeling so cold at this time of year. I helped
half-heartedly with the food preparation but mostly stared
mindlessly at repeats on television. Whenever Radio 2 played
‘Last Christmas’, I left the room before I began
crying.

Jem, glowing so much that I wondered if she might be pregnant
again, arrived with my brother and Seb the day before Christmas
Eve. But no: she said, ‘This time of year just suits me.
I’m thrilled to bits to get my meals cooked for five
days.’

She was right; the season, with its gold, crimson and teal, did
suit her dark colouring.

‘Don’t you miss being with your family?’ I
asked.

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘There are so many of us, I
always wonder if Seb’s going to get trampled underfoot. They
won’t miss three.’

‘Are you sleeping better?’ I wanted to know. I, for
one, was not, and the sofa bed in dad’s study wasn’t
helping.

She smiled. ‘Not much. But I seem to have more energy.
Getting past Seb’s first birthday was a milestone.’

‘That’s great,’ I said.

‘Didn’t I tell you? I’ve started doing a bit
of freelance work.’

‘Really? Like what?’

‘I’m calling it HR consulting, although between you
and me that’s a bit of a grand title. But I can do it from
home, answer questions, give policy advice, that kind of
thing.’

‘That’s fantastic!’ I hugged her.

‘So far I’m only doing it for one company –
they’re small and don’t want a full-time person.’
She started attacking the bowl of nuts on the living room table,
shelling them with the nutcrackers that we only saw at Christmas
time.

‘Still, I’m impressed.’

‘Yup. It beats minimum wage at Tesco. I woke up one
morning and decided to just try and create the life I
want.’

‘Good for you,’ I murmured, moving my feet out of
the way of flying nut shrapnel, while noting it was the second time
this week I’d heard that concept.

‘And how are you doing?’ Jem asked quietly.

I had called and told her that Scott and I had broken up, but
hadn’t shared details. I’d simply said, ‘He lives
life completely on his own terms. I don’t think he gives any
thought to the people around him.’

I made out I was okay, but in reality I was angry with myself
for getting swept up in a hollow relationship. Amelia was right:
Scott had been a total rebound guy, and I was beginning to think
his only purpose had been to soothe my shattered ego.

Even so, I couldn’t help thinking wistfully of that hotel
in Vienna, romantic, snowy walks, and warm arms around me at night.
But as I mooched around the house, observing my parents’
gentle harmony and Harry and Jem’s joy at Christmas with Seb,
I wondered whose arms I was really missing.

‘C’mon, Grace,’ Scott had said when I told him
I wouldn’t go to Austria. ‘I said I was sorry.
What’s the problem?’

I’d backed away from him and folded my arms. ‘I just
don’t think we share the same values.’

‘Like what? Pretending a village that’s stuck in the
last century isn’t going down the pan?’

‘It’s not stuck in the last century. It’s a
way of life. You grew up here, for heaven’s sake!’

‘Which is precisely why I can see the writing on the wall.
You’re being naive.’

‘And you’re being mercenary.’

He laughed. ‘No, I’m just going after what I want.
You should try it, rather than drifting around playing nice the
whole time.’

I’d glared at him.

‘So you won’t come away with me?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Fine.’ He turned to get back in his car. ‘I
know plenty of other women who’ll do the Viennese
Waltz.’

That had been a cheap shot. Had he ever really cared about me,
or had I just happened to be around buildings he fancied? I thought
back to his loft apartment, where pride of place had been given to
framed blueprints, not framed faces.

Not counting tiny Seb, there would be six
mouths to feed on Christmas Day: mum and dad, Harry and Jem, me,
and Aunt Dotty.

My father’s sister and a retired traffic warden, Dorothy
Gilling lives in King’s Lynn and has acted eighty years old
for the past three decades. She makes much drama of the weather and
considers the thirty-five mile trip to Holt to be equivalent to
crossing the Himalayas. Dressed accordingly in a sensible tweed
skirt, walking boots and thick woollen socks, she allows at least
two hours for the journey and grips the wheel of her Ford Fiesta
with unblinking intent. Despite all that, she’s fun to have
around, especially once she’s had a couple of sweet sherries.
A colourful character, I was relying on her to take the burden of
the family’s curiosity off my shoulders.

Still, as I sat at the Christmas lunch table wearing a lopsided
paper hat and a fake smile, I couldn’t help gazing at Dotty
over my glass of Sauvignon Blanc and wondering if this was how I
was going to end up: eccentric and alone.

We had feasted royally and quaffed even more. Smoked salmon
salad was followed by turkey, stuffing, parsnips, roast potatoes,
Brussels sprouts and sweetcorn. Secretly, I liked the bacon-wrapped
mini sausages the best, but I tackled the bird with as much gusto
as I could manage, grateful we weren’t feasting on one of
mum’s chickens.

Crackers had been pulled, silly jokes told. I tried not to think
about last year when James had been here. He knew all the cracker
jokes off by heart but had humoured my father by playing along.
He’d also peeled five pounds of potatoes without a word of
complaint and had been first on hand with a damp tea towel when it
looked as if the flames around the Christmas pudding might take out
the dining room curtains.

This year, there were no pyrotechnics, at least, not visible
ones.

Dotty waved her spoon, laden with pudding and brandy sauce, in
Jem and Harry’s direction. ‘I like to see the next
generation looking so happy,’ she pronounced.

Harry raised his glass to her. He, too, seemed more relaxed than
usual, confident that the banking world could do without him for
seventy-two hours. He had been buried in the
Radio Times
,
plotting how many classic action films he could fit in. Now, he
looked at Jem and smiled. She leaned her head into his shoulder for
a moment, before glancing at Seb, docile in his bouncer seat. My
mother looked as if she might get teary and even dad nodded
proudly.

Dotty turned her wizened gaze to me. ‘And what about you,
Grace? You’re awfully glum for Christmas Day.’

‘She’s fine,’ mum said quickly.

‘I noticed your wedding photo’s been relegated to
the loo,’ Dotty said, with a meaningful twitch of her
head.

I had seen that too, and remembered thinking it would have been
easier if my mother had hidden it completely. But now, I just
shrugged, unable to craft a witty comeback about my marriage going
down the toilet.

‘Terrible shame.’ My aunt, bossy at the best of
times, had had far too much to drink. ‘Throwing a good man
away, just because he had a fancy woman.’

‘That’s enough, Dot,’ my father muttered, as I
gazed down at my red paper napkin and started tearing its corners
off.

‘Well, Geoffrey,’ his sister popped more pudding in
her mouth and continued cheerfully, ‘it’s not as if
she’d be the first Gilling to pick up the pieces and carry
on.’

I was so mortified, her words didn’t register immediately.
By the time I looked up, Harry was staring fixedly out of the
window, my father’s eyes were huge as he glared at Dorothy,
and Jem was gazing at me in disbelief. I turned in slow motion to
my mother, who had gone white except for two small blotches of red
burning on her cheeks. She stood up and started gathering bowls,
even though most of us hadn’t finished our pudding.

‘Right,’ she said, clattering her best china as
though it had come from the bargain bin at Oxfam. ‘Who wants
cheese?’

Nobody dared say anything further, right
through the Queen’s speech, the inevitable
Two
Ronnies
repeat and most of
Titanic
. Dotty sat in the
best chair, first looking pleased with herself, then rubbing her
stomach for indigestion, and finally nodding her head in gentle
slumber.

As Rose and Jack’s new-found love faced the looming
iceberg, I followed Harry and Jem to the kitchen where the carnage
was breathtaking. Exuberant and creative cooks, my parents
didn’t believe in tidying up as they went along. While Jem
busied herself transferring mountains of leftovers to Tupperware,
Harry bravely rolled up his sleeves at the sink. I squeezed a few
more things into the dishwasher then picked up a Royal Wedding tea
towel – Charles and Diana, not William and Kate.

‘Will you say something?’ I said to Harry, after
he’d sudded and scrubbed diligently for a few minutes.

‘What?’ He pretended not to know what I meant.

‘You know what. Dotty. That stuff she said, about picking
up the pieces.’

I saw Jem glance at Harry’s back but she said nothing and
carried on spooning sprouts into a container.

‘You and James are none of my business,’ my brother
said, working on the crystal wine glasses.

‘What about mum and dad?’ I said. ‘Was that
what she meant?’

‘I don’t know anything about mum and dad.’
Harry adopted a blank expression.

‘Yes, you do,’ I said. ‘Is it – them
– that Dotty meant?’

‘Look, Grace, I honestly don’t know.’ Harry
started on the stainless steel serving dishes which Jem had piled
up beside him. Then he gave me a sideways look. ‘There might
have been something around the time we moved to Norfolk. But I
don’t know anything for sure.’

I processed this. I had been fourteen when we moved from
Cambridge. I didn’t remember anything special about it,
although I had stayed with Dotty for most of that summer. Harry was
two years older; he’d had a temporary job or something.
Quickly, I did the maths. This was twenty years ago. Who knew what
wounds had opened and healed?

Jem came over to me now, putting her arm around my shoulders.
‘She was awfully tipsy, you know.’

I nodded. ‘I know.’ I looked at Harry again.
‘I just wonder what she meant.’

He wouldn’t meet my eye.

It was on Boxing Day morning, after Dotty had
left, that I finally cornered my mother outside the chicken run.
She was whispering sweet nothings to her brood.

‘I’m surprised you can still eat poultry,’ I
said to her. I was out of my pyjamas, but feeling crummy in
tracksuit bottoms and a jumper stolen from Harry. The extra guests
and limited bathroom facilities meant I hadn’t yet had a
shower today.