‘What do you recommend?’ asked Clara, noticing her bitten nails, but her eyes were drawn back to the bruise.
Probably a boyfriend did it, she thought angrily.
‘Are you a sweet or savoury person?’ the girl asked in a small voice.
Clara laughed. ‘A bit of both, depends on which way the wind is blowing.’
The girl didn’t smile. ‘I can bring you some pinwheel sandwiches and a plate of iced fancies for afterwards?’
Clara paused. ‘I think something hot would be nice, what sort of pies do you have?’
Rachel looked around as though someone was listening. ‘I have a chicken and leek pie out the back you might like. It’s a new recipe.’
‘Oh delicious, perfect. And I will take an eclair afterwards.’
The girl disappeared and Clara checked her phone. Nothing from Piles or Judy. Traitorous bastards.
‘Hello.’ Clara heard a voice and realised it was the old woman behind her.
‘Good morning,’ said Clara with a smile and went back to her phone.
‘Come and sit with me,’ the woman said and Clara sighed. Old people and children loved her; it was just the ones aged in between who broke her heart.
‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude,’ said Clara politely.
‘Intrude on what, my dear? My general decaying? That will happen whether you are here or not. I would like the company.’ It was as though the woman had decreed that she wanted Clara’s company and she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Clara found herself standing up and picking up her bag.
She moved to the woman’s table and put her hand out. ‘Clara Maxwell. New to Merryknowe. Regretful owner of the Acorn Cottage, just near the church.’
The old woman’s eyes narrowed as she spoke and seemed to turn darker as she looked at Clara closely.
‘Tassie McIver. Former schoolteacher when the village still had a church and now the oldest resident of Merryknowe. I live across the road in the house with the geraniums in the window boxes.’
Tassie put her hand in Clara’s and she was surprised at how strong the grip was for such a tiny hand. She had pale pink hair, pink lipstick and pink nails and eyes as dark as ebony.
The old woman spoke in a frail voice. ‘Acorn Cottage. I knew the woman who lived there. Sheila Batt. Like name, like person. She was an old bat. Died in her bed upstairs. I am surprised they didn’t find her hanging from the eaves by her toes.’
Clara made a face of horror but Tassie shrugged. ‘We all have to go sometime. Better to be in your bed than on the toilet like Elvis.’
Clara burst out laughing as Rachel brought over the tea and then the pie, which smelled like heaven. Clara cut it open and the creamy filling oozed onto the plate a little, then she tasted the first bite.
‘Best pie in the area,’ said Tassie. ‘Unfortunately no one knows about them.’
Clara had to agree that it was truly the best pie she had ever eaten. She demolished it quickly, wishing there was more of it on the plate.
Tassie leaned over the table and whispered, ‘She’s a sad thing, that girl. Her mother is something else. Breaks my heart to watch the way she’s treated.’
Clara nodded as she watched the girl moving about behind the bakery counter. She was anxious and nervous. Clara knew those behaviours; she had seen them in her own mother before they left Clara’s father. Constantly trying to be ahead of the criticism, constantly trying to make improvements to the minutiae of life. Clara wanted to tell her that it would never be perfect enough for who she was trying to please.
She tried to guess the girl’s age. She looked like she was in her early twenties but dressed like she was seventy and she sighed as though she was about to take her last breath.
‘Does she have a boyfriend?’ she asked Tassie who shook her head.
‘No, no, the mother wouldn’t allow it.’
Rachel cleared the plates and then brought Clara an eclair, so Clara seized her moment. ‘You know, I’m new here. I’ve moved to the village today, at Acorn Cottage up past the church. Do you know it?’
The girl suddenly lifted her head, as though surprised at Clara’s words.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said, but Clara thought she was lying. She glanced at Tassie who raised a painted-on eyebrow.
‘I’m the new owner and I don’t know anyone here; it would be lovely if we could be friends. I’m Clara, Clara Maxwell.’
The girl paused. ‘Rachel Brown,’ she said. Her voice was low and careful, and Clara felt a shiver up her back.
‘Perhaps we can have a drink sometime? Go to the pub? Here’s my number.’ Clara had written it on the back of a receipt from her purse and she pushed it into Rachel’s hand. Rachel scuttled away as though she had been handed an illegal substance, shoving it into the pocket of her apron.
‘She won’t call. She never asks for help,’ said Tassie. ‘They came fifteen years ago when the father died. Never quite made a go of it. The village was bigger then and the shops were all filled up but now, there is barely anything. I rely on deliveries as I can’t get into Chippenham. But they’re so expensive to have sent up here.’
Clara wasn’t really paying attention as the eclair was a such a delight but she was trying to understand who gave the girl the bruise. Not her mother, surely? There must be a boyfriend. Probably a cheating, lying, absolute shit of a boyfriend who would ruin her life, like Piles tried to ruin hers. One who Rachel kept secret from her mother.
‘Who gave her the bruise?’ she asked Tassie, who looked over at the door as it opened, the bell giving a hollow tingle in
