isn’t aware of their passing. Until this morning, that is.
It’s a grey day, despite patches of pale blue sky. The horizon is banked with gun-metal clouds; only the wind keeps the rain at bay. A small sliver of moon, incongruous at midday, rides high like a scrap of torn tissue paper tossed into the air. It’s nothing like the moon she saw that night. The air is cold and she’ll be glad to get indoors.
This morning it was another trip into Cambridge. A hairdresser’s appointment this time, then coffee at Auntie’s Tearoom. A set of antique copper pans gleaming at her from a shop window are just what is needed to brighten up the kitchen wall. She’s unloading them from the boot now, huge cardboard box balanced between one knee and the bumper. Suddenly her gate opens and a woman steps out, lugging a plastic water carrier.
The woman looks familiar. Sally thinks she might have seen her before, perhaps at the bus stop or waiting outside the schoolyard. She looks so practical in her waxed jacket and green Wellies, a knot of auburn curls escaping from under a headscarf. She looks up at Sally and smiles.
‘Merry meet,’ the woman says.
‘Blessed be,’ Sally replies.
Sally’s mouth hangs open as the woman trudges across the lay-by and onto the road. What was that? What did she say? What did
I
say?
What the hell
…?
‘Hey—’ Sally turns to call after her. The box wobbles and Sally teeters, both threatening to tumble into the mud. She shoves the box back into the boot and runs across the gravel, but the woman is way ahead now, almost to the bend. And what would Sally say if she caught up with her? Perhaps I misheard, she thinks. No, I didn’t. And she plunges her hand into her pocket and searches out the opal stone, clutching it tightly. No, I definitely didn’t mishear. That’s what she said:
merry meet
. And I said
blessed be
. She shakes her head.
Retrieving the box, she goes through the gate herself, still trying to get her head around what has happened.
Cat is waiting on the doorstep.
‘And what are you grinning at? Another friend of yours, I suppose?’
But Cat makes no reply, merely yawns and stretches her back.
The closed sign is clearly visible on the door of Ruth’s tearoom, the curtains pulled firmly across the lower half of the windows. But the door isn’t locked and yellow light from inside floods the pavement. The tearoom doubles as a social venue for small clubs, committee meetings and so forth. The village hall works fine for yoga sessions and the playgroup, and there’s a stage for the occasional public meeting or entertainment, but it’s far too cavernous for smaller gatherings. Besides, Ruth loves any excuse to play hostess, as if she doesn’t see enough of the villagers during the day. Her shop, with its ancient beamed ceiling and wall lights shaded in antique glass, provides a homely atmosphere where friends draw together in comfort.
Tonight it’s the monthly meeting of the Hallowfield Book Club. The early arrivals are pushing the small tables together to make one large surface, covering it with a crisp linen cloth. A circle of chairs is arranged around it and Ruth carries in her best china platters heaped with homemade biscuits.
‘Kettle’s on,’ she says, ‘I thought we’d start with a cup of tea this time. Nice way to welcome the new member, help her feel comfortable while we make the introductions.’
‘Abbie’s bringing her, isn’t she?’ That was a middle-aged man in a buttoned-up cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses.
‘That’s right. Next-door neighbour. Moved in about three weeks ago.’
‘Yes, I met her down at the pub,’ says the man. ‘She was playing pool with Abbie’s lad and his girlfriend. Attractive young woman, certainly. Now, if I were a bit younger…’ He winks at Ruth.
‘Well, you’re not, and even if you were I doubt your attentions would be welcome just at present’
‘That’s the woman whose husband…you know…’ A younger
It’s a grey day, despite patches of pale blue sky. The horizon is banked with gun-metal clouds; only the wind keeps the rain at bay. A small sliver of moon, incongruous at midday, rides high like a scrap of torn tissue paper tossed into the air. It’s nothing like the moon she saw that night. The air is cold and she’ll be glad to get indoors.
This morning it was another trip into Cambridge. A hairdresser’s appointment this time, then coffee at Auntie’s Tearoom. A set of antique copper pans gleaming at her from a shop window are just what is needed to brighten up the kitchen wall. She’s unloading them from the boot now, huge cardboard box balanced between one knee and the bumper. Suddenly her gate opens and a woman steps out, lugging a plastic water carrier.
The woman looks familiar. Sally thinks she might have seen her before, perhaps at the bus stop or waiting outside the schoolyard. She looks so practical in her waxed jacket and green Wellies, a knot of auburn curls escaping from under a headscarf. She looks up at Sally and smiles.
‘Merry meet,’ the woman says.
‘Blessed be,’ Sally replies.
Sally’s mouth hangs open as the woman trudges across the lay-by and onto the road. What was that? What did she say? What did
I
say?
What the hell
…?
‘Hey—’ Sally turns to call after her. The box wobbles and Sally teeters, both threatening to tumble into the mud. She shoves the box back into the boot and runs across the gravel, but the woman is way ahead now, almost to the bend. And what would Sally say if she caught up with her? Perhaps I misheard, she thinks. No, I didn’t. And she plunges her hand into her pocket and searches out the opal stone, clutching it tightly. No, I definitely didn’t mishear. That’s what she said:
merry meet
. And I said
blessed be
. She shakes her head.
Retrieving the box, she goes through the gate herself, still trying to get her head around what has happened.
Cat is waiting on the doorstep.
‘And what are you grinning at? Another friend of yours, I suppose?’
But Cat makes no reply, merely yawns and stretches her back.
The closed sign is clearly visible on the door of Ruth’s tearoom, the curtains pulled firmly across the lower half of the windows. But the door isn’t locked and yellow light from inside floods the pavement. The tearoom doubles as a social venue for small clubs, committee meetings and so forth. The village hall works fine for yoga sessions and the playgroup, and there’s a stage for the occasional public meeting or entertainment, but it’s far too cavernous for smaller gatherings. Besides, Ruth loves any excuse to play hostess, as if she doesn’t see enough of the villagers during the day. Her shop, with its ancient beamed ceiling and wall lights shaded in antique glass, provides a homely atmosphere where friends draw together in comfort.
Tonight it’s the monthly meeting of the Hallowfield Book Club. The early arrivals are pushing the small tables together to make one large surface, covering it with a crisp linen cloth. A circle of chairs is arranged around it and Ruth carries in her best china platters heaped with homemade biscuits.
‘Kettle’s on,’ she says, ‘I thought we’d start with a cup of tea this time. Nice way to welcome the new member, help her feel comfortable while we make the introductions.’
‘Abbie’s bringing her, isn’t she?’ That was a middle-aged man in a buttoned-up cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses.
‘That’s right. Next-door neighbour. Moved in about three weeks ago.’
‘Yes, I met her down at the pub,’ says the man. ‘She was playing pool with Abbie’s lad and his girlfriend. Attractive young woman, certainly. Now, if I were a bit younger…’ He winks at Ruth.
‘Well, you’re not, and even if you were I doubt your attentions would be welcome just at present’
‘That’s the woman whose husband…you know…’ A younger
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