Woodhead, says it’s got some really interesting things in it. Perhaps I could pop into the shop afterwards, it would be nice to meet your wife…”
“Great. Goodbye then.” Sam replaces the receiver, becomes aware of Karen’s fishy stare.
“That your new girlfriend, then, Major? I reckon you’ll have to get in there quick or her boss’ll have her. They say no one’s safe from him. Doris Bogg says he be a holy terror with the women.”
“If he’s had a go at Doris Bogg he really must be pushed. Anyway, I’m quite sure Miss Travers is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, apart from any other consideration Selwyn Woodhead must be at least fifty.” He shouldn’t be talking this way to Karen, he knows he shouldn’t, somehow can’t stop himself. Returning rapidly to the old military persona, he tells her to get on with checking the stock, and hurries out of the shop before she can reply.
Karen watches him go; the door safely closed behind him, she sticks out her tongue. “I know what you’re up to, my love, so don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, you may be a major, but you’re still a man. Men have these urges and don’t I know it!”
Later, their lunch over – Sunday’s lamb cold with salad – Emmie and Sam are in the kitchen, Sam lights a cigarette. “I’ll be out for an hour or two this afternoon, Em, hope that’s OK.”
“It has to be, doesn’t it?” Emmie somehow manages to imbue the plonking of a tea bag in each of their mugs with a sort of resigned resentfulness.
“Oh don’t be like that. You know Monday afternoon’s always quiet, and if you want to go out Karen can take over.”
Emmie pours sugar into her mug, “Every bloody day’s quiet in this place if you ask me.”
“Well, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to…”
Emmie switches on the washing up machine and, carrying her mug of tea, makes for the door. How she wished she could go. If only Jack… he’d said he’d meet her tomorrow, but would he? “Oh, don’t talk daft, Sam, what would you do without me, I’d like to know? Be off with you.”
Sam’s aware of a spasm of disappointment; this was how it always ended, she’d never leave him, she’d no bloody place to go. “See you later, then, I’ll make sure I’m back before closing…”
In the shop Karen pops a sweet into her mouth, watches him as he stocks up with cigarettes. “Don’t you ever think of giving them things up Major? Fags ain’t good for you, you know.” His mind on other, more important things, he doesn’t answer. Will he see her? He must, surely, she’d have to come past the Grove, there wasn’t another way to the village. He looks at his watch; just after three, plenty of time. Full of hope, he closes the shop door carefully behind him.
*
It’s just after three before Beatrice finally starts out for the village. Lunch didn’t take long, but then Sel asked if she’d mind re-typing his draft speech for the Coltsfoot Carnival opening – too long, he claimed, and one or two of the jokes not entirely suitable. “It’ll never do to upset any more locals, dear, what with that debacle over the honey.”
The typing didn’t take too long, and after a nice, cool shower she feels ready for anything. The food at Brown End might be simple (except when there were visitors) but it certainly seemed to be doing her good: she’d already lost two pounds and no doubt will lose more. The day’s hot but with a gentle, cooling breeze, and as she starts the climb to the Grove, using the footpath just beyond the bridge Josh Bogg had told her about, with the sun on her back, no creepy rooks about, no funny voices, just glorious countryside; she realises with something of a shock, she feels happier than she has for a long time.
At the last field before the wood she stops for a rest; looks back at the valley behind her. The sky, deep blue, is cloudless; where the land flattens out above Brown End a combine harvester,
“Great. Goodbye then.” Sam replaces the receiver, becomes aware of Karen’s fishy stare.
“That your new girlfriend, then, Major? I reckon you’ll have to get in there quick or her boss’ll have her. They say no one’s safe from him. Doris Bogg says he be a holy terror with the women.”
“If he’s had a go at Doris Bogg he really must be pushed. Anyway, I’m quite sure Miss Travers is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, apart from any other consideration Selwyn Woodhead must be at least fifty.” He shouldn’t be talking this way to Karen, he knows he shouldn’t, somehow can’t stop himself. Returning rapidly to the old military persona, he tells her to get on with checking the stock, and hurries out of the shop before she can reply.
Karen watches him go; the door safely closed behind him, she sticks out her tongue. “I know what you’re up to, my love, so don’t think you can pull the wool over my eyes, you may be a major, but you’re still a man. Men have these urges and don’t I know it!”
Later, their lunch over – Sunday’s lamb cold with salad – Emmie and Sam are in the kitchen, Sam lights a cigarette. “I’ll be out for an hour or two this afternoon, Em, hope that’s OK.”
“It has to be, doesn’t it?” Emmie somehow manages to imbue the plonking of a tea bag in each of their mugs with a sort of resigned resentfulness.
“Oh don’t be like that. You know Monday afternoon’s always quiet, and if you want to go out Karen can take over.”
Emmie pours sugar into her mug, “Every bloody day’s quiet in this place if you ask me.”
“Well, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to…”
Emmie switches on the washing up machine and, carrying her mug of tea, makes for the door. How she wished she could go. If only Jack… he’d said he’d meet her tomorrow, but would he? “Oh, don’t talk daft, Sam, what would you do without me, I’d like to know? Be off with you.”
Sam’s aware of a spasm of disappointment; this was how it always ended, she’d never leave him, she’d no bloody place to go. “See you later, then, I’ll make sure I’m back before closing…”
In the shop Karen pops a sweet into her mouth, watches him as he stocks up with cigarettes. “Don’t you ever think of giving them things up Major? Fags ain’t good for you, you know.” His mind on other, more important things, he doesn’t answer. Will he see her? He must, surely, she’d have to come past the Grove, there wasn’t another way to the village. He looks at his watch; just after three, plenty of time. Full of hope, he closes the shop door carefully behind him.
*
It’s just after three before Beatrice finally starts out for the village. Lunch didn’t take long, but then Sel asked if she’d mind re-typing his draft speech for the Coltsfoot Carnival opening – too long, he claimed, and one or two of the jokes not entirely suitable. “It’ll never do to upset any more locals, dear, what with that debacle over the honey.”
The typing didn’t take too long, and after a nice, cool shower she feels ready for anything. The food at Brown End might be simple (except when there were visitors) but it certainly seemed to be doing her good: she’d already lost two pounds and no doubt will lose more. The day’s hot but with a gentle, cooling breeze, and as she starts the climb to the Grove, using the footpath just beyond the bridge Josh Bogg had told her about, with the sun on her back, no creepy rooks about, no funny voices, just glorious countryside; she realises with something of a shock, she feels happier than she has for a long time.
At the last field before the wood she stops for a rest; looks back at the valley behind her. The sky, deep blue, is cloudless; where the land flattens out above Brown End a combine harvester,
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