She glared at Seymour. ‘I’ll start back at the farmhouse on Monday, Mr Stratton, and do three days a week. With a 50 pence rise in my hourly rate, mind. Drop the key through my letter box, there’s no need to ring the bell. Tomorrow would be convenient day to start.’
And she shut the door.
Carefully laying the flowers on the draining board, she reached for the scissors. The flower heads danced in her shaking fingers. As she cut the stems, tears rolled over her cheeks. They dripped down her neck and soaked into her cardigan. She cried hard for several reasons: because Seymour had treated her badly, embarrassment that she’d caved in and done what he wanted, relief that she had her job back. But most of all because of the gaping hole that had been left by her daughter’s disappearance. What had become of Lynn?
Gerald called in to see Julian only because he did not see Seymour’s car in the farmyard. The man could be snippy. Gerald parked his Mini and went into the farmhouse. The office was empty and there wasn’t a fire in the sitting room grate. The kitchen sink was piled with unwashed dishes, there was a half-cut loaf on the table.
Then the back door banged shut. Julian came through the boot room door, his hair flattened from wearing a hat, his nose red.
‘Chilly out there. Hi Gerald, thought I heard a car. How’s things?’
‘Went out this morning early, it was beautiful. Jackson chased a rabbit right across the hill. Runs like the wind that dog, it’s a wonderful sight. I just came to see if there’s anything you were after? Now Daddy’s gone.’
He shoved aside a pile of clothes on trestle bench and sat down. ‘How are things here? Ever hear from your pals? Troubadour Dave? The loopy ladies?’
Julian nodded. ‘There was a wedding invitation from Amy ages ago. The cat had pooed on the envelope which seemed apt. I haven’t heard from anyone else. Not sure what they’re up to.’
‘Explain to me what happened. Seymour got aerated about them being here or something? But I thought that’s what your father wanted? A rural escape, a hippy commune…’
‘Seymour. You know how he is, how he changes his mind.’
‘Quite. Parents come from a strange land. My dear boy, if you need anything at all, just give me a tinkle, yeah?’
‘Of course. You’ve been away?’
‘Just a little trip. To Morocco and a farm near Katama.’
‘Really.’
‘Indeed. I’ve found a farm in the foothills and the guy there who runs it, he’s pretty together. We got on fine. I’ve persuaded him to deal with me directly in future, provide me with regular consignments. It’s a better deal for him and for me, cuts out the local fixer. The plan is to hide the stuff into a car and drive it through Spain back to England.’
Julian listened. ‘Wow. You’d need to find the right sort of car. If you like, I could start looking out for one, maybe do the modification. I’m pretty good with a welding torch…’
‘Great, sounds like you’re on. We can talk terms as things progress. Is there anything I can give you now? A little whizz? You can pay cash or put it on tick…’
29
Maggie wobbles along. It is not her bicycle; that is double-locked outside her flat. This bone-shaker has been lent to her by Julian. The handlebars make her sit like a schoolmarm and with no basket on the front (where was one meant to carry one’s dog if there was no basket?), she fears she might flip head first over the front wheel if she brakes too hard.
Still, it was nice of Julian to pump up the tyres and the lanes are quiet this early on a Saturday. Within half an hour of leaving Bramble cottage, she is in the market square. The stall holders are starting to trade.
She had planned to do several errands. But discovering she has limited cash in her purse puts an end to that. The town lacks a ‘hole in the wall’ and the bank is, of course, closed on a Saturday. Maggie wanders around the stalls, wondering what she can afford for supper. There was little food on ‘her’ shelf in the cottage kitchen cupboard save for oil, rice, tea and a wizened kernel of garlic. A few vegetables and a pint of milk for tea will have to do.
She follows a different route home. It goes past the canal entrance and just there she sees a shop she’s not noticed before with a candy-striped awning. Unexpected for this little town, she’s intrigued. The shop is a cornucopia of jewellery, glassware, carved wooden boxes, ceramic bowls, candles and baskets all tastefully displayed. Packets of spices and dried fruits spill from a chest.
Maggie digs around in her bag. ‘I must have this dried mango, please,’ she says to the Asian woman who emerges like a vision from a Bollywood film. She wearing a lustrous blue silk top over trousers edged in silver embroidery. ‘Your salwar kameez is wonderful,’ she says, feeling lumpen in her jeans and army jacket.
‘You know the name of my clothing! I’m glad you like it,’ the woman smiles. ‘It is so comfortable for working in. Your reaction is not the usual one I am expecting from my customers. How do you know salwar kameez?’
‘I travelled around India once. Goa, oh it was years ago.’ Maggie sounds wistful.
They talk about India, a country the shop owner said she had first visited herself only four years ago. Her parents, who have retired there, left the shop to her. Her brother, Sunil, is a local lawyer and has no interest in commerce. So now she regularly travels to India to buy things for her import business. The shop is only part of her plans, the woman explains. She is going to sell to shops in London. Buyers at Liberty were interested, she says proudly.
‘This cushion
