The Way to a Woman's Heart Page 8

  ‘Ah, I’m never wrong. Bless ’er, Poll’s heart’s in the right place but her brain went AWOL years ago. Another scorcher, ain’t it?’ Patsy said cheerfully, ignoring any hint of irony. ‘No, you both go and sit down with the little un – I’ll bring your order over.’

  ‘We haven’t actually ordered yet,’ Ash pointed out.

  ‘Get away,’ Patsy sniffed. ‘I knows where young George always sits and what he always has – and I’m sure that with Ella being a mother’s help she ain’t going to change his routine, are you, duck?’

  ‘Er, no…’

  ‘Well, you go an’ sit down, then. And mind –’ she glared at Ash ‘– handsome is as handsome does. I don’t know what you’re at Hideaway for – if you’re in trouble with the police or what – but I’ve counted me spoons, so don’t you go nicking anything, right?’

  Ash nodded seriously. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. And I’ve never been in trouble with –’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’ Patsy rearranged her vast bosoms beneath the pink coverall. ‘Just don’t think you can take liberties here. Poll’s one thing, I’m quite another. Off you go and sit down. I’ll be over toot-sweet.’

  Biting their lips, they meekly followed George to his favourite window table where he was industriously building a sugar lump castle.

  The Pantry’s clientele, having resumed their inter-table chatting, continued to regard them with ill-disguised interest.

  Sitting down, Ash immediately helped George with the ramparts and Ella giggled. ‘She’s probably counted the sugar lumps too, so don’t go popping any in your pockets.’

  ‘Damn.’ Ash carefully helped George with the third cube in a small crystal tower. ‘It’s one of my weaknesses. How long do you think we’re going to be branded as lawbreakers?’

  ‘You speak for yourself. I’m a bona-fide employee; you’re clearly the one with the light-fingers. And until the twenty-second century at least, I’d say,’ Ella chuckled. ‘They seem to have played judge and jury on hearsay and found you guilty.’

  ‘Which is what we’ve done to Billy and Trixie, isn’t it?’

  ‘No! Well, yes, OK a bit, but then we know things about them, and they might well be, um, doubtful.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out – Oh, bugger…’

  George shrieked with laughter as the sugar cube castle collapsed across the table.

  Ella, glancing over the top of her pink laminated menu card, was amazed at the way that everyone else in the café seemed to know one another. And as Patsy already seemed to know everything about her – and Poll – and what was happening at Hideaway Farm, presumably that meant Patsy’s customers did too.

  The rural jungle drums were a revelation. In her London flat, Ella had barely spoken to her neighbours, and wouldn’t have even recognised some of them if they passed in the street. But here, clearly, no one was a stranger for long, and there were no intimacies too delicate to be aired and shared with all and sundry. It was all very peculiar.

  As if reading her mind, a very old woman, wrinkled like a tortoise, leaned over from a nearby table, flaking Danish pastry crumbs down her floral frock in the manoeuvre. ‘Young Poll got the last of them odd ’uns turning up at Hideaway soon, ’as she? I’m Jean Turvey, by the way, but everyone calls me Topsy.’

  Ash chuckled.

  ‘Well, they’re not really odd.’

  ‘Ah.’ Topsy Turvey nodded. ‘I think you’ll find they are. We knows all about Poll and her latest daft scheme. We told her it was a mistake bringing you in to look after young George while she fills that farm with miscreants.’

  ‘They’re hardly…’

  ‘I’m Lavender Banding. Miss Lavender Banding. And this is my sister Lobelia,’ a skeletally thin geriatric lady interrupted from another table. ‘And you’re wrong, you know. We know Poll’s got a bank robber coming. And an axe murderer or a serial poisoner, isn’t it? Ah, we know all about it. She’s asking for trouble, is Poll. You’ll all be a-massacred in your beds afore the month is out, you mark our words.’

  Ash turned his laughter into a spate of coughing and demolished the second attempt at a castle much to George’s amusement.

  Ella looked at the elderly spinster sisters who were sharing one iced fancy and a very small pot of tea, and who were both wearing cycle helmets although surely they weren’t strong enough to control bicycles, were they?

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’m Essie Rivers, dear,’ an elegantly dressed lady put in quickly from a third table before Ella could leap to Poll’s defence. ‘I don’t think any of them are that bad, are they? Aren’t they just homeless? Poll’s very kind-hearted. I know what it’s like to be homeless and unhappy, and then being lucky enough to meet someone generous and be given a second chance. Good luck to her I say.’

  ‘Ah.’ Essie’s male companion grinned. ‘Slo Motion, local undertaker, at your service, duck. Should be more like Poll if you asks me. Compassion is a rare commodity these days.’

  A free-for-all discussion flared up then, with Slo and Essie on one side of the argument and several other tables, including Lavender and Lobelia Banding, on the other, and with a very oddly matched couple who introduced themselves as Gwyneth Wilkins and Big Ida Tomms, chipping into the rare silences from their table in the corner.

  ‘There,’ Patsy placed three strawberry milkshakes and three Chelsea buns on the table. ‘Don’t you take no notice of them, Ella, duck. What will be will be as Doris Day always says. Poll’s well known round here for making a dog’s bollocks – excuse my French in front of the little ’un – job of most things. She always rushes into her harum-scarum ventures willy-nilly, and I doubt this one will be no different. Mind, personally myself I hopes she makes a go of this one.’

  ‘So do I.’ Ella nodded fervently. ‘So do I.’

  ‘Anyway –’ Patsy folded her arms across her bosom-straining coverall ‘– we’ve got more exciting things to think about round here than Poll Andrews and ’er daft schemes, ’aven’t we?’

  ‘Have we?’ Ash, still trying not to laugh, reached across the table to manoeuvre the recalcitrant milkshake straws into George’s mouth. ‘Er, like, um, what?’

  ‘Lord above!’ Patsy looked scandalised. ‘I know Hideaway’s well off the beaten track – but you must know?’

  ‘We’ve only been there for a day,’ Ash pointed out reasonably.

  Ella, whose head was still reeling from the thought of sharing – within a matter of hours – life at Hideaway with a mad bad fairy arsonist and a petty thief, really hadn’t had any time to notice much else either. ‘Sorry, no…’

  Patsy still looked shocked. ‘You mean you ’aven’t seen the posters? Or the bit on Meridian news? Or the splash in the Winterbrook Advertiser?’

  Ella shook her head. ‘None of those, no.’

  ‘What have we missed?’ Ash tore into his bun with perfectly even white teeth.

  ‘We’re going to be on the telly!’

  George blew ecstatic bubbles into his milkshake.

  ‘Really?’ Ella said, quickly dissecting George’s Chelsea bun into manageable pieces. ‘Wow. How brilliant. So is it going to be a documentary about village life here? Or a local news item about you and featuring the Pantry?’

  ‘No!’ Patsy snorted. ‘I don’t mean Hazy Hassocks or the Pantry – I mean, one of us. Someone from Hassocks or one of the other villages… Look, over there, duck, on the wall. The big poster. They’re everywhere. Can’t think how you’ve missed them round the town.’

  Neither, once she’d looked at it, could Ella.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Ash muttered. ‘Sorry, George.’

  In vibrant day-glo orange, and with the oh-so-familiar faces of Gabby and Tom Dewberry grinning out at them, the words Dewberrys’ Dinners were printed in huge Comic Sans font.

  ‘They’re looking for volunteers for their next live show. Here. In this part of Berkshire,’ Patsy said proudly, ignoring the small queue of customers at the counter. ‘Mind, you’d have to be mad as a box
of biscuits to want to take part – so it should suit young Poll down to the ground.’

  Ella and Ash, exchanging glances, joined in the laughter. So did George – which resulted in a froth of milkshake spurting across the table. Ash and Ella both dived to wipe it up.

  ‘Ah.’ Topsy Turvey broke off her still-heated conversation and leaned towards them. ‘She’s right there, about being barmy to want to be on that darned show. But I can tell you there’s plenty round here who’ve applied already.’

  ‘Like who?’ Gwyneth Wilkins paused mid-cuppa. ‘Young Mitzi, I’ll be bound.’

  Ah, Ella thought: Mitzi… that must be Mitzi Blessing – the local witch.

  Topsy Turvey nodded, looking more like a tortoise than ever. ‘So I’ve ’eard. And that Geordie geezer what runs Giovanni’s restaurant over at Willows Lacey. Not that ’e’ll be allowed in as ’e’s a pro so to speak. And Tarnia Snepps.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Big Ida Tomms snorted. ‘Tarnia Snepps ’as never cooked a meal in her life! My money’s on young Mitzi then.’

  Slo Motion shook his head. ‘Mitzi won’t be allowed neither, duck. She’m a proper prerfessioneral cook like yon Giovanni’s bloke, ain’t she? Dewberrys’ Dinners only ’as amachewers.’

  ‘God help us if they picks on Tarnia Snepps.’ Topsy Turvey shuddered pleasurably. ‘Snooty cow she is. Her an’ that Gabby is bound to come to blows.’

  The Bandings tittered pleasurably at the thought.

  ‘Nah.’ Slo shook his head. ‘It won’t be no one like Tarnia. They’ll go for a normal person.’

  ‘Won’t find many of them round here then,’ Essie giggled.

  Gwyneth nodded her agreement. ‘Mind, I can’t see anyone we knows really wanting to take part – unless they thinks it’s worth the ’umiliation for the money at the end if they wins?’

  Patsy reluctantly headed back towards the crowd round her counter. ‘Ah, there’s always them as is willing to take the devil’s shilling. More fool them, I say.’

  Ash sucked up the lovely ice-creamy sludge at the bottom of his milkshake, grinned at George who was doing the same, and leaned across the table. ‘Pretty amazing… Dewberrys’ Dinners filming round here.’

  ‘Mmm, you’re not kidding.’

  Screwing up her eyes, Ella scanned the poster. Not that she was really interested, of course, but it was rather exciting – a top-rated television show taking place right on the doorstep…

  She giggled to herself. She’d joined the country village mindset already. Getting excited about ‘being on the telly’. But Dewberrys’ Dinners was her – and Poll’s and Ash’s – absolutely favourite show and it was pretty cool that they’d be filming locally.

  ‘We might even do the groupie thing and hang around the chosen venue and catch a glimpse of Gabby and Tom Dewberry – oh, Poll would love that, wouldn’t she?’

  Ash nodded. ‘I reckon she’d love anything to do with Dewberrys’ Dinners. Wouldn’t we all? Look, I’ll keep an eye on George – you go and see if there’s anything in the small print to say they’re looking for, um, victims in this area only. Then we can tell her when we go back, can’t we?’

  Ella pushed her chair back. Celeb-spotting the Dreadful Dewberrys would possibly make Poll very happy indeed. And didn’t Poll deserve to be happy more than anyone Ella had ever known?

  Ella edged her way across the crowded café, and took a closer look at the poster.

  Gabby and Tom Dewberry, teeth twinkling and eyes sparkling, loomed large, looking for all the world like the happiest couple ever, um, coupled. They were very handsome, Ella had to admit. And smiley. She wondered again just how much of the on-screen carping and bitching was an act.

  ‘Love good food? Love home cooking? Live within a five mile radius of this poster? Then what are you waiting for? We want you to cook dinner for us and the whole country in your own home,’ Tom and Gabby oozed in unctuous unison from a star-spangled speech bubble. ‘We can’t wait to meet you and watch you create your best dishes, on live television, just for us. If you can wow us with your food, we can change your lives forever. Don’t miss out on the foodie opportunity of a lifetime. See you very soon in your own kitchen.’

  The closing date for applications was only two weeks away. There was a London phone number and a website address for further information.

  Knowing that she wouldn’t do any more about it, but also knowing that Poll would never forgive her if she didn’t at least take down the contact details so that they could discover who the Dewberrys’ unfortunate local victim was going to be, Ella quickly scribbled down the details.

  ‘You surely ain’t going to go in fer it, are you?’ Patsy frowned from behind her counter. ‘Not with what young Poll’s already got on her plate? You wouldn’t risk looking a prat on telly, surely? And God forbid that you’d let all them fillum people crawl all over Hideaway – there’d ’ave to be lights and electrics and cameras and what ’ave you. Surely, in God’s name, you ain’t going to risk any of that? Not when you’ll already ’ave a houseful of villains and ne’er-do-wells.’

  ‘Nooo.’ Ella shook her head. ‘Of course not. But Poll’s a big fan and she’ll be interested that the programme is being filmed locally. I’m not going to apply for heaven’s sake – this is for information only.’

  ‘You make sure it stays that way,’ Topsy Turvey advised darkly. ‘You don’t know Poll as well as we do. That gel hasn’t had it easy. Mind, she’s her own worst enemy half the time with her dappy ideas. She’s had enough trouble. She certainly don’t need you to go encouraging her into no more daft schemes.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Ella said cheerfully, tucking the phone number into her back pocket and making her way back to a rather sticky Ash and George and a third demolished sugar-lump castle. ‘Goodness, that’d be the last thing I’d do.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Poll sang happily to herself as she swept the kitchen floor. She had the house to herself having despatched Ella, Ash and George on a further tour of the local countryside.

  Bless her, Poll thought dreamily, Ella was such a lovely girl. She’d already fitted in so well, and George clearly adored her. Sad about the boyfriend, Mark, not wanting children though. That was a hugely insurmountable problem. Still, hopefully, he’d miss Ella so much during her time here at Hideaway that he’d be prepared to change his mind.

  Anyway, right now, there were more important things to think about, because today her new family would be complete.

  Poll, wearing a baggy, saggy skirt, a well-past-its-best shirt, her blissfully comfortable but falling apart espadrilles, and with her newly washed hair covered up with a pair of George’s pants clean from the laundry basket, beamed to herself.

  Trixie would be here this afternoon, and before long, Billy Booker would be arriving…

  Her heart gave a little skippety-skip of excitement.

  Dust motes swirled and danced around her in the shafts of sunlight on the increasingly hot May morning, and Poll stopped sweeping for a moment and leaned on her broom to gaze at their twirling prettiness. They looked like tiny sparkly fairies, twinkling and darting in the sun. A sprinkling of Trixie’s fairy dust to bring magic into her life? No, she laughed to herself, that was far too fanciful – even for her – but she was so looking forward to seeing Billy Booker again.

  Everything was, she thought, resuming her sweeping, going to be absolutely perfect for Billy’s arrival. There was very little left to do. Billy’s room was all ready, with fresh flowers, spare linen, tea, coffee and little packets of homemade biscuits, gung-ho books and blokey magazines – and everything else anyone could want. Poll was sure Billy, like all the disenfranchised newcomers, would be feeling very strange to start with, and wanted to make him completely at home.

  And this time she’d be doing it without the welcoming committee as she’d rather cunningly, she thought, suggested that before today’s marathon cook-in, Ella and Ash would like to investigate the neighbourhood further, and if th
at involved finding somewhere for George to paddle and indulge in ice cream on this scorching morning, so much the better.

  ‘Fiddlesticks would be perfect,’ Poll had said artlessly. ‘It’s not far and a lovely fat shallow stream runs right across the village green there. Crystal clear, a little bridge where you can sit and dangle your feet in the water, and perfect for paddling. And the Weasel and Bucket on the green do superb ice cream sundaes. All the local children gravitate there on days like this. I wish I could join you, but I must wait for Billy.’

  Shortly, Poll thought now, as soon as this last-minute sweeping was done, she’d be able to shower off the sweat and grime and turn herself into a proper neat-and-tidy hostess. She’d wear her best Indian print frock and her amber beads and her favourite flip-flops, the purple ones with the sequins, and she’d be ready to welcome Billy Booker into his new home.

  And later Trixie would be here too and then her new family would be complete. It was going to be a lovely fresh start for all of them.

  Ah… but, nooo, surely not? Poll dragged herself from her reverie – surely that wasn’t a car on Hideaway Lane, was it? Yes, it was, and it had stopped. Outside the farmhouse. Oh, Lordy, surely it couldn’t be Billy arriving, could it? He’d said late morning but – was it? Already? Poll had lost all sense of time.

  Propping the broom in a corner, wiping her grubby hands on her skirt and blowing the dust from under her nose, Poll, accompanied by two of the dogs, hurried through the cool, sweet-scented house to find out.

  Billy Booker’s car, standing rumbling outside Hideaway Farm’s front door, was an ancient rusting Austin Allegro in an unfortunate shade of cowpat.

  Billy, early fifties, shortish, with plentiful fair hair, a cherubic face and the gentlest of dark brown eyes, was fiddling with the handbrake.

  Poll’s heart gave a little leap of pure pleasure. Silly, she told herself sternly. Very, very silly indeed.

  ‘Hello!’ Billy struggled out from the driver’s seat, holding out both hands. ‘Not too early, am I? It’s wonderful to see you again, Poll. And what a fabulous place you’ve got here. I’m feeling at home already.’