Pansy grumbled something into his neck and then pushed herself out of his arms and jumped down onto the pavement.
He missed the days when she was little enough for him to carry her in the backpack. Now she was independent, he worried she would wander off on a job, or onto the street and be hurt by a car.
Although he had to admit, this street didn’t seem to offer any cause for concern. He hadn’t seen a car pass yet, and when he peered inside the window of the tearoom, it looked sad and lonely.
The bakery had a little more promise, with some delicious-looking apricot tarts in the window and the scents coming from the slightly opened door was enticing.
‘In here, Pans,’ he said and pushed the door open.
Yes, he’d made the right decision. The bakery was warm and smelled good, exceedingly good, he thought as his stomach rumbled.
There wasn’t much on display but what was looked wonderful. Rabbit pies and sausage rolls and plain scones and cheese scones and some nice-looking jam tarts and little butterfly cakes.
‘Can I help you?’ A young woman in a pink apron was at the counter. She had a drawn face with dark circles under her eyes, and a nasty bruise on her cheekbone.
Henry got a shock at the sight of the bruise and took pause to not show his response. ‘Hello, yes please, everything looks lovely.’
Pansy was looking at the cakes in the counter display.
‘I want one of those,’ she said, pointing to the butterfly cakes that were beautifully arranged with whipped cream and a dusting of icing sugar.
‘And a sausage roll please, and a rabbit pie,’ he added. The woman put the items into bags as Pansy stood up and looked at the woman.
‘Why do you have a blue mark on your cheek?’ She asked the question Henry had wanted to ask but didn’t wish to be rude. ‘Were you painting and leaned on your hand? I did that once but with green, so I looked like a monster,’ said Pansy with deep concern on her little face.
‘I hit my cheek on a cupboard door,’ said the woman, handing the bags to Henry in exchange for the money.
‘That’s a silly cupboard door to do that to you,’ said Pansy, looking cross on behalf of the woman’s cheekbone.
‘Yes,’ said the young woman handing the change back to Henry but not looking him in the eye.
He took the packages from her and took Pansy’s hand.
‘Let’s go, poppet,’ he said. He looked at the woman, who was looking at Pansy – dare he say it – almost wistfully.
‘Take care,’ he said to her, wishing he could say more to help. But what could he say? He was making an assumption that it wasn’t the cupboard door but a man who did the injury. Naomi would have known what to say to her, probably would have got the story out of her and found a solution for the whole mess and that would be that.
He sighed as he pushed open the door of the shop and held Pansy’s hand on the way back to the van to eat their lunch.
The woman had something happening in her life and it wasn’t his business, he told himself. But as he sat in the van, eating the best rabbit pie he had ever tasted, he couldn’t stop thinking about the bruise on her face and wondering how it came to be there.
He looked at Pansy and hoped to God Naomi would protect her from any pain and heartbreak. He decided he would teach Pansy how to throw a punch, just in case any boy ever tried to hurt her. He knew Naomi would be furious with his thoughts but sometimes he didn’t have all the answers and if anyone hurt his girl, he hoped to God she had enough strength to walk the hell away – but only after hitting him square on the nose.
He glanced out the window of the van and saw a curtain twitch in the house they were parked out the front of. He laughed to himself. There were always old women who were busybodies, ready to push him and the van out of the village. The number of times old biddies had told him to move on was more than he could count on his fingers and toes.
He flicked the shutter closed so whoever the old dear was, she couldn’t see in as they ate. The sooner he quoted this cottage, the sooner he could be on the road again with Pansy and Naomi.
3
Merryknowe Bakery and Tearooms was the most visited shop in the tiny village, which wasn’t a point of pride – not when the village was dying a slow death from lack of visitors and actual inhabitants.
It wasn’t the prettiest village in Wiltshire and Rachel Brown tried to bring some elegance to the window of the bakery with her baked goods.
Sometimes she made cupcakes with pink iced roses or chocolate eclairs with satiny icing but today she had cream-filled butterfly cakes on the silver tray.
She watched the man and his child walk away from the shop until they were out of sight and she felt herself turn red when she remembered the way he’d looked at the bruise on her cheek. It’s not what you think, she had wanted to say to him.
She knew people thought it was a man who did this to her, but it wasn’t a man. Rachel had never been close enough to have a man touch her in passion or anger. There was no way she could even meet a man, not with what she had to do every day. She was a slave to her existence. Her routine was exactly the same day in or out.
Wake at four in the morning. Do the baking. Help upstairs. Wash and dress. Serve in the shop. Clean up the shop. Make dinner and clean up upstairs. Go to
