Alice Ross - A Summer Of Secrets

Reaching the high street, she parked and headed straight for the newsagent’s. Although scornful of her mother’s rigid routines, Jenny had long since slithered into a Wednesday afternoon one of her own, including purchasing a weekly woman’s magazine and packet of liquorice allsorts for her mother; and a history magazine and packet of pear drops for herself. Today, though, an unaccustomed surge of recklessness swirling about her, she swapped the pear drops for chocolate eclairs, and tempered the cold, hard facts of the history magazine with a frivolous celebrity rag. Not most people’s idea of life on the edge, these unforeseen changes nevertheless threw old Mr Russell, the owner of the establishment, into a state of bewilderment the moment she placed them on the counter.

‘Chocolate eclairs,’ he declared, in a tone which Jenny doubted would have sounded any more amazed had she plonked a bucket of tadpoles in front of him. ‘ And a different magazine. Not your usual reading matter, is it?’ He peered accusingly at her over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

‘It isn’t, Mr Russell.’ Jenny’s rebelliousness galvanised. ‘But I fancy a change today.’

The old man’s thick grey eyebrows shot up his forehead. ‘A change?’

Jenny nodded resolutely.

‘Hmph,’ he harrumphed. ‘Well, I suppose everyone’s entitled to one of those once in a while.’

‘Once in thirty years, actually,’ Jenny pointed out, before receiving her change, picking up the bag containing her purchases and waltzing out of the shop doing her utmost not to giggle.

Jenny rarely giggled. Nor had she ever waltzed anywhere before. She found the combination invigorating, and resolved, as she walked towards Annie O’Donnell’s cake shop, to do both again – very soon.

‘Hello, Jenny. I’ve put a ginger cake aside for you,’ said Annie the moment Jenny stepped into Crumbs. ‘And I’ve just baked a batch of chocolate and coconut cookies. I know your mum likes them fresh from the oven.’

Jenny nodded. Annie was absolutely right. Everyone in the village, in fact, knew of Phyllis’s preferences, but today Jenny really didn’t feel like pandering to them. ‘That’s really kind of you, Annie, but would you mind very much if I swapped the ginger for one of those delicious-looking madeira cakes and, rather than the chocolate and coconut cookies, took four lemon limoncello cupcakes?’

Annie’s emerald-green eyes grew wide. ‘Oh. Of course not. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. But you always –’

‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ Jenny flashed the younger woman a smile. ‘I just fancy a change.’

Annie nodded understandingly. ‘Well, we all deserve one of those once in a while,’ she chuckled, shovelling the cupcakes onto a paper tray. ‘And they do say it’s as good as a rest.’

‘Don’t they just,’ agreed Jenny. Not that she would know anything about that. Other than visiting relatives with her parents when she was younger, she’d never had a holiday.

The delicious-smelling confectionery paid for and snugly tucked in her basket, Jenny headed to the florist next.

‘Afternoon, Jenny. Got some lovely red crysanths in,’ said George Carey, the ageing florist. ‘Put the best bunch aside for you first thing this morning. I’ll just pop to the back and get them for you.’

Jenny smiled her thanks.

As the old man scuttled off, she gazed longingly about the shop. Shiny buckets crammed with a vibrant rainbow of blooms lined the wall: orange roses, purple alstromeria, blue matsumoto asters and hot-pink miniature gerberas. Why on earth, she wondered, would anyone choose chrysanthemums over these other gorgeous flowers? And why red? They looked so … dated. Even the yellow ones were an improvement, resembling little orbs of sunshine on stalks.

‘There you go,’ declared George, reappearing with the crysanths.

As Jenny looked from the red bunch in his wizened hand to the yellow ones in the bucket, she wondered if she might just dare …

‘If I die of a coronary this evening, it’ll be your fault,’ wailed Phyllis, as Jenny crudely jabbed the red crysanths into the crystal vase on the lace-covered dining table. She’d bottled out of buying the yellow ones, deciding, after much deliberation, that the switch from cookies to cupcakes would be enough to contend with for one evening.

How right she’d been.

‘Self, self, self, that’s all you think about,’ Phyllis raged. ‘It was selfishness that killed your father. And it’ll be the same selfishness that finishes me off.’

This rant having been regurgitated with depressing regularity over the last thirty years, Jenny’s usual response of biting her tongue and saying nothing seemed particularly cowardly today. And today she was in no mood for cowardice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother,’ she batted back. ‘All I’ve done is buy cakes instead of cookies. I thought, rather idiotically it would appear, that you might fancy a change.’

‘A change?’ barked Phyllis. ‘You know fine well I can’t abide change. Lemon limoncello cupcakes, I ask you. What are they supposed to be when they’re at home?’

‘Why don’t you try them and see.’

‘Because I don’t want to, that’s why. There was nothing wrong with those cookies.’

Jenny shook her head in exasperation. ‘If you recall, it took me a year to persuade you to try the cookies, you not wanting anything other than Battenburg at the time.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Battenburg.’

Jenny sighed, her patience waning. ‘There isn’t. But it doesn’t mean there aren’t equally nice things out there. But if you’re not prepared to try anything new, you’ll never know. Now …’ she continued, shoving the vase into the middle of the table. ‘It’s the History Society meeting tonight, so I’m going to get ready.’ And with another waltzing manoeuvre, she made to leave the room.

‘History Society, indeed,’ muttered Phyllis, naturally having the last word. ‘I don’t know why you bother.’

Jenny had to admit – although obviously not to her mother – that she sometimes didn’t know why she bothered with the History Society, either – apart from the fact that it allowed her an evening out once a month. In fact, to call the gathering a “society” was erring towards the ambitious. The group consisted of Derek Carter, the vicar; Judith Minter, the librarian; Mona Hargreaves, a plump mother of six; Edward Fowler, a retired headmaster; and Eleanor Fowler, Edward’s wife and a retired midwife.

The meeting venue was the church hall. All other members walking there, Jenny was surprised to find a car outside – a brand-new, shiny, powder-blue Jaguar she didn’t recognise. She parked behind it then scurried inside, trying not to wince at the particularly strong stench of sweaty plimsolls that flooded her nostrils the moment she stepped over the threshold.

The group was already seated around the two folding tables they always pushed together, Edward presiding in his role as president, everyone else in their usual places. Except that Jenny’s usual place was already occupied – by a handsome man in, she estimated, his mid-fifties, wearing a gleaming white shirt, yellow silk tie, and what looked like a very expensive navy-blue wool suit.

‘Jenny, this is Len Ratner,’ announced Edward. ‘He’s just moved into the neighbouring village and would like to join the Society.’

After all Jenny’s wrong-footing of others that afternoon, the shoe now lodged well and truly on the other foot. ‘Oh,’ she muttered, aware the entire group, including the handsome new marecruit, were gazing at her expectantly. ‘Well, er, welcome, Mr Ratner.’

The man’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, causing a warm flush to steal over Jenny’s cheeks. ‘Len, please,’ he said.