Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay

Hetty unfolded the sides of the map and studied the entirety of the Thornhill estate. John stood, walked behind her and leaned over her shoulder. Her heart gave an involuntary flutter as she smelt his aftershave. It was subtle and pleasant, carrying a depth that suited him. She glanced up and he ran a hand over his jaw.

‘What about using these fields here?’ he said, pointing to a large square of land.

‘Four fields?’ Had she heard right? He was now offering her even more space.

John re-took his seat so he was looking at her. ‘Despite what you might think, I’m not the type to keep saying no just because I said it once before.’ Hetty coloured, hearing her own words repeated back to her. She hadn’t meant them to be so acerbic. ‘These ideas’ – he motioned to the table now covered in paper – ‘are good ideas, and as you said, we might as well make this as good as it can be.’

Hetty felt the tension ease from her shoulders. ‘In that case, you’d better come with me this afternoon to sell this idea to the traders. Convincing is my middle name, but it’ll help even more if you’re there, lending support.’ John shook his head as he smiled, but she could tell it wasn’t a no. ‘And we’re stopping in at the town hall at four to convince the festival committee to hand over control to me. And you, it seems.’

This time, John fell back in his chair. ‘Is that why you asked me to keep the whole day free?’

‘Have you ever tried to get six retired or working people together at the same time, on the same day?’ He shrugged a no. ‘It’s a nightmare. Trust me. It was the only time I could get, but please don’t be cross. Anyway, after today, you won’t need to do anything.’

A strange look passed over his face and Hetty couldn’t figure out what it was before it disappeared, but it looked almost sad. ‘Your middle name really is “convincing”, isn’t it?’

***

That afternoon, after stashing everything else in her car, Hetty and John, armed with her notebook and the list of vendors, began their quest to convince the shop owners of Swallowtail Bay to take a pitch at the food festival. The sun was shining brightly on the sea, the gentle waves sparkling as they rolled back and forth and a handful of clouds scudded across the sky. Unlike the recent stifling weather, today’s breeze – just enough to lift the longer strands of her short hair – was perfect.

Starting at the top end of the high street where the taxis gathered, Hetty had decided they should focus on only food shops to begin with. If there were pitches left over after, she’d approach some of the nearby towns and ask different types of businesses if they wanted to attend. Miserable Gwen’s hairdresser’s was, naturally, out of the question, but the local bath bombe shop, and even Stella, with all the weird and wonderful things from Old Herbert’s Shop, might be a good try if there were places to fill.

Hetty and John strolled down the grey-blue, uneven cobbles, admiring the vibrant window displays of the boutique shops and the stomach-rumbling smells coming from the restaurants and cafés. Everywhere people were smiling and chatting and bidding her good afternoon, laden with bags, pushing buggies or pulling along wheelie shopping trolleys. This was why she loved her hometown so much and why she’d never left for long. But there was no denying the shock on some people’s faces when they saw her with John Thornhill. She wondered how he was feeling about it and cast a glance in his direction, but he was mostly watching his feet as he walked along. Replying to a friend of her mum’s with a cheery hello, Hetty and John entered the first shop.

‘Hi, Terry,’ Hetty said to the owner of the fishmonger’s. It always amazed Hetty that a good fishmonger’s never smelt fishy, and as Swallowtail Bay’s had the freshest fish around, you couldn’t smell anything except for a woody scent from the locally made smoked salmon. John stared at the display like he’d never been in a shop before.

‘Hello, Hetty love. What can I get for you today?’

‘Me and Mr Thornhill here were wondering if you’d like to have a pitch at the food festival I’m organising.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I heard Gwen having a moan about that. She does love a moan, that one.’

Hetty decided to ignore the fact that Gwen had already started moaning. She was only going to get worse as time wore on, and she’d be seeing her this afternoon on the festival committee, so she didn’t want to bad-mouth her in public. ‘What do you think, though, Terry? Interested?’

‘Definitely,’ he replied, cheerfully. ‘Could sell some of our lovely smoked salmon, we could. Where’s it to be?’

‘Thornhill Hall.’ Terry immediately looked at John in shock. ‘Well, in the grounds anyway.’

‘Thornhill Hall?’ He studied John as if he was an alien from another planet having a quick daytrip to Swallowtail Bay. Then, with a sort of derisive snort, he dropped his head and began filleting a piece of fish. Hetty nudged John, urging him to speak up.

‘We’re very much looking forward to hosting it,’ John said. ‘It’ll be wonderful to welcome everyone one.’

‘Didn’t think you Thornhills liked having people on your land.’

‘We don’t as a rule,’ John said rather sharply and Hetty stepped on his foot. Thankfully, he took the hint. ‘But we’re very excited about the festival. We think it’ll be really good for the Swallowtail Bay economy.’

Terry took a moment to consider John’s response. ‘Go on then. Sign me up.’

‘Fabulous,’ said Hetty, placing a giant tick on her list, next to the shop’s name. ‘I’ll email you all the relevant information.’

Outside, she said, ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ With a shrug, John placed his hands in his pockets, seemingly happy to walk along beside her.

Half an hour later, they’d ticked off a number of businesses, all of whom had agreed to attend and been interested in the awards she was proposing to start. Hetty was grateful to be wearing her baggy dungarees because so far, everyone had been so excited at the prospect of the food festival, they’d forced a sample of their wares on her. Being too polite to refuse, she and John had eaten crostini with fresh tomato and balsamic vinegar from the local deli, a quarter of a pulled pork bap from The Pig and Pen, some weird seaweed crisps from The Veg Box vegan café, tabbouleh, patatas bravas from the tapas place, a lemon slice from the speciality cake makers, plus the chocolate mousse cake and coffees from Raina’s that morning.

‘Gosh, I’m stuffed,’ she said to John as they walked on. ‘If anyone else offers me anything, I’ll have to ask for a doggy bag. I might explode.’

John’s deep, hearty laugh reverberated around her. ‘Yes, me too. We’re on the last one though, aren’t we?’

‘I am,’ she said, faking confidence. The Bake House was next.

‘Am I not invited to this one?’

‘I thought you might need to ring your assistant or check on the house or something?’

‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘I’m sure Jaz has everything under control. She’d ring me if there was a problem.’

‘Right. Well,’ Hetty hesitated. ‘You can have half an hour off and amuse yourself while I tackle The Bake House. The owner can be a bit …’ She searched for the right word. ‘Funny. It really would be better if I did this one on my own.’

‘Don’t tell me, he’s another one who hates us Thornhills and our pots of gold?’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Hetty considered telling him the truth but quickly decided not to. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’m done.’

John clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘Look, Hetty, thanks for the support but I’ve faced enough people today who don’t like us, I’m sure I can manage this last one.’

‘Honestly, John it’s fine, I—’

He walked past Hetty pausing in the doorway and motioning for her to enter first. Rather chivalrously he wasn’t going anywhere. Fabulous, thought Hetty. This wouldn’t be at all awkward would it? Pausing, Hetty straightened the straps of her dungarees, mussed up her short hair for added confidence, then stepped inside.

Chapter 7

The divine smell made her mouth water, despite being full to bursting.

The Bake House’s specialty was bread and the air was heavy with yeast and all the things they flavoured the breads with: olives, tomato, goat’s cheese. The shop was still packed as people tried to buy the last few things that were left. The constant slide of the till drawer and the beep of the card machine mixed with the voices of staff and customers. On the other side, a large glass counter was half empty except for a few cakes and pastries. Heat from the giant ovens made it feel close and humid, and Hetty hoped she wasn’t going red.

Ben, artisan baker – and unfortunately, her ex-boyfriend – had started The Bake House around about the same time she’d started her business. Breaking up with Ben had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. They’d been together for nearly ten years and despite hinting at marriage, kids, and – gasp! – living together, nothing had happened. He’d never seemed that keen on moving their relationship forward or taking the next step commitment-wise. Then six months ago, having had enough of waiting, Hetty had made the difficult decision to tear her own heart in two and move on. Seeing him now, for the first time in months, she tightened her grip on the notebook in her hand, willing herself to remain detached and business-like.

He’d had another good day’s trading and many of the baskets and large wicker bowls used to display things were empty. Chatter filled the air as Ben, cheeky and cheerful as ever, made his customers laugh with gentle teasing and jokes at both his, and their, expense. Hearing his voice, Hetty’s heart, which she liked to believe had mostly healed, gave a double beat. Memories of all the good times they’d had together flooded back into her brain sending a longing through her bones.

The split hadn’t been exactly amicable, but for Hetty it had been resigned. He’d argued that it was an extreme and sudden reaction. She’d shouted back that she’d subtly let him know she needed real commitment – for their relationship to move forward as they got older – but that still hadn’t prompted him to ask her to marry him, or even for them to move in together. Ben had stubbornly refused to be ‘rushed’ into doing anything, even though rushing wasn’t exactly how Hetty would have put it. If he’d responded how she’d hoped, not necessarily going down on one knee but with something to show he thought they had a future, things would have been different. She’d loved being with him. They laughed constantly, he’d always been faithful, even if he did have a flirty nature, and he’d loved her. Just not quite enough, she thought with a sigh.

This meeting was going to be a test – the longest conversation they’d have had since the immediate aftermath of the break-up and with John Thornhill watching on, even more awkward than she’d ever imagined. Ben’s light-brown hair, heavily peppered with grey, was sticking up in its naturally fluffy style, and deep laughter lines were visible as he smiled at his customer. ‘What you do with your bread in the comfort of your own home, Mrs Wilson, is entirely your own business.’

Mrs Wilson, who was about 80 and shrunken with age, giggled. ‘Oh, Ben, you are a treasure.’

‘Kind of you to say so, Mrs Wilson. Have a great afternoon.’

Hetty smiled to herself just as Ben glanced up. Seeing her, a flicker of surprise washed over his face then he grinned. Hetty felt her eyes drawn to it. ‘Hetty, hi. Err, what can I get you?’ He planted both hands firmly on the counter and leaned forwards. His dark-blue T-shirt tightened over his biceps, muscles worked by the constant kneading of bread, and a sudden image of his back as she ran her hands over it flitted through her brain. Luckily, the rest of him was obscured by a bright white apron, the ties of which had been wrapped twice around his waist and fastened at the front, otherwise she might have ended up blushing.

‘Nothing to eat, thanks,’ she said, her head and heart full of confusion. It was good to see him again. Too good, maybe, and an ache of pain threatened to seize her. Cramming all her feelings into another little box in her brain, she ensured her emotions didn’t come to the fore. She focused on the fact that if she ate any more she’d be sick. Suddenly remembering John was there too, she shuffled over a little, so he was visible as well. ‘We came to ask if you’d consider having a stall at the food festival I’m organising.’

‘We?’ Ben’s eyes suddenly focused on John who Hetty saw stood a little straighter, rolling his shoulders back.

‘Yes, this is John Thornhill. He’s agreed to us using some of the land around Thornhill Hall. John, this is Ben Jackson.’

‘Ben Jackson, baker extraordinaire,’ Ben replied. John acknowledged him with a slight raise of the head and Ben nodded. He didn’t offer any more and after a second, her curiosity piqued.

‘So, what do you think?’ She hated herself for asking, but if Ben could be relied upon for anything, it was telling her what he really thought. She’d always admired his straight-talking because when he paid a compliment, he really meant it. He had a good business sense too.

‘It’s ambitious but – wait, hang on – Karen?’ he called to one of his staff. ‘Can you come and serve please?’ Then he moved to the end of the counter to speak to Hetty. Hetty followed him to the gap in the worktop and felt that familiar pull of his charisma and charm beckoning her towards him both physically and emotionally. ‘But if anyone can do it, you can. I used to love the strawberry festival.’ There was a fondness in his voice that made her swallow hard. ‘I think I had my first kiss at the strawberry festival. It should definitely be brought back. And, if you ask me, you’re just the person to do it.’

She wondered how he’d fared over the last six months. Had he moved on or was he still hurting too? Was his confidence hiding any remaining pain, or was he really fine? Under his intoxicating gaze she pulled her mind back to business. ‘I’m going to start some awards too. Taste of the Bay awards. Knowing your skill, you’d probably win. So, do you want a pitch?’ She still wasn’t sure what response she’d prefer. A yes would be a big draw for the locals; a no would be easier for her emotionally. As the business side of her brain kicked in, she found herself trying to convince him. ‘There’ll be a lot of people going.’ I hope, she added internally. ‘You could make a lot of money, and you know how trade drops in the winter.’

‘Not for me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m busier than I can handle anyway. And all year round too.’ It was annoyingly true. His bread was so good that even in the depths of winter when the high street was dead, people came to his shop.

‘But still, we think it’s going to be very successful. Even if your business is doing well, it’ll be worth you getting involved,’ said John, trying to help in convincing him. Hetty admired the thought but was also surprised that he’d taken it upon himself.

‘Maybe,’ Ben answered with a slightly dismissive tone she knew to be teasing but probably hadn’t come across that way to John. Ben turned to Hetty, inclining his head towards her and speaking in a low murmur. From the corner of her eye, she saw John bristle at being shut out of the conversation. ‘Do you want me there?’ His tone had that familiar teasing edge again and it felt like he was asking about a lot more than just the food festival.

Hetty suddenly realised the possibilities. If she said yes, she was planting the seed that they might get back together. There was clearly still an attraction between them. But could he give her what she wanted? The commitment she wanted? A tingle ran down her spine. ‘You’d be a great draw, as you know.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ He folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.

Damn, his easy confidence still had a magnetic effect that was hard to resist, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. She had other things on her mind, like the mountainous to-do list she needed to get through. Plus, she could feel deep down there was a danger of falling back in love with him if she stayed too long. John folded his arms over his chest and gave a heavy sigh; clearly Ben and his confident, cheeky manner was getting on his nerves. ‘Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve got my number. If you decide you want a pitch, call me, but they’re selling out fast.’ And with that she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the shop.

Hetty and John made their way back towards the promenade. As she made her way there, she took a moment to enjoy the salty sea air and let it cool her cheeks. Seeing Ben had been far more intense than she’d expected it to be. Having a real conversation with him and one in which she valued his opinion, had reminded her of all the conversations they’d had when they were together, both building up their fledgling businesses, and the evenings cuddled on the sofa, the Friday nights at the pub and holidays in Rome and Venice. It reminded her of all the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. And having John looking over her shoulder, stern and disapproving, hadn’t helped either.

‘He’s quite full of himself, isn’t he?’ John said, thrusting his hands into his pockets as they strolled along.

‘Not really,’ she replied, defensive on Ben’s behalf. ‘Anyway, he kind of has a right to be. Everything he said was true. His is one of the best businesses in Swallowtail Bay and he is the best baker in the town, if not the county.’

‘Right,’ was all John said before training his eyes on the horizon.

At the promenade, she took a moment to watch a sandwich tern resting on the water’s edge, its messy black head down as it gently hopped along. Before John could say anything more about Ben, her mobile rang in her pocket. It was her mum, Daisy. ‘Sorry, John, I just need to take this.’ Wandering a little away, Hetty took a deep breath, put on her cheerful voice, and answered. ‘Hi, Mum, what’s up?’

‘Ugh, it’s your dad again.’

Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘What’s he done now?’

There was a time, a year ago, when her mum would have answered with a smile and fondness in her voice, but her parents had made what had proved to be a catastrophic mistake by retiring at exactly the same time. The first few months had been fine, they’d loved being together and having days out here and there, but over the six months that followed they’d grown increasingly intolerant of each other to the point where they now irritated the other daily with their breathing, chewing and general existence.

‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.’ Hetty immediately picked up on the strange tone to her mum’s voice. ‘Just what he’s done every day for the last few months. He’s gone golfing with Tony Dean.’

John had wandered towards the pebbles and was absent-mindedly nudging them off the promenade and back onto the beach with his foot.

‘Isn’t that a good thing? It means he’s out from under your feet. You can chill out by yourself. Grab a coffee, read a book in the garden.’

‘He’s always out these days, Hetty. I can’t remember the last time we had a day together. But the worst thing is …’ Daisy was quickly finding her stride … ‘he comes home and does nothing but talk about bloody golf. I’m sick of the subject. Absolutely sick of it. If he tells me again what his handicap is and what Tony’s putting is like, I’m going to scream – right in his face – and then—’

‘All right, Mum,’ Hetty interrupted, gazing out over the calm, clear water of the sea, trying to absorb some of its serenity. The breeze was dying again, and the water resembled a giant silver-blue jelly gently wobbling a little here and there. Hetty matched her breathing to the faint sound of the tide nudging the shingle back and forth. ‘Do try and calm down, Mum. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’

‘At least it would put me out of my misery as far as your dad is concerned, and then he might actually appreciate me. If he’s not golfing or talking about golf, he’s in his shed doing goodness knows what. I’m starting to wish I’d never blimmin’ well retired.’

‘You could start volunteering or something?’ Hetty offered, hoping it might stem the flow of her mum’s vitriol.

‘Volunteer to murder your dad and bury him under the patio, maybe.’ Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘Come for lunch on Sunday.’

It was a demand, not a question. Hetty had a lot to do and as soon as possible, but she was getting more and more concerned as to where this new family dynamic was heading. ‘All right then,’ she agreed. ‘Will you make trifle?’

For the first time in ages her mum chuckled. ‘Just for you. Traditional or chocolate?’

‘Umm … hard question. Traditional, I think.’ Hearing the smile in her mum’s voice was worth losing a day’s work anytime. ‘About one?’

‘Yes. We’ll eat at two.’

‘Okay. See you then. Love you. Try not to kill Dad in the meantime.’

‘I’ll try but I’m not making any promises. Anyway, love you too, darling. Bye bye.’

As lovely as the prospect of a trifle was, Hetty couldn’t help frowning. The way her mum had said goodbye in a despondent, unhappy tone was worrying. Was a life of leisure with her dad really that bad?

‘Everything all right?’ John asked.

‘Yes fine. We’ve got just enough time to talk tactics before we meet with the festival committee. Don’t look like that,’ she said upon seeing his grumpy expression. ‘Trust me, we need a plan.’

***

John sat down opposite the festival committee hoping the terror he felt inside wasn’t visible on his face. He’d never before encountered six more frightening people. Hetty had described a lady called Gwen before they’d arrived. Their main opposition apparently, and he’d clocked her immediately. She sat scowling at him like he was something on the bottom of her shoe. This was precisely why his family didn’t come into town unless they absolutely had to. The five other people looked equally terrifying but had slightly less aggressive eyes. The room was stuffy where the windows had been closed all day and he felt tiny beads of sweat form on his forehead. He shouldn’t have been here today really. He should have been trying to find a piece for a client, and the old radiator in the kitchen had started coming off the wall. He had to fix that when he got back.

Hetty sat beside him, quietly composed in the face of her opposition. She was so serene. The complete opposite of him. His quiet world had been spun on its axis by this crazy whirlwind of a woman. It was like she’d walked into his silent, book-lined study, shattering the peace, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him till his teeth rattled. He’d never known anyone like her. And now he was doing something for her he never envisioned doing for anyone – sitting opposite terrifying older ladies and one kind-looking older gentleman. But he was doing this for himself too, he remembered. One of the older ladies sipped a cup of tea and attempted to smile at him.

‘That’s Mary,’ Hetty whispered. ‘She’s already on our side, I think. I’ve tried to scope out the others, but they could go either way. Don’t forget, stick to the plan.’

The plan, hatched after they’d come out of The Bake House, was for John to remain silent in a speak-only-when-spoken-to fashion. He’d agreed, given that he didn’t know any of these people and trusted Hetty’s judgement, but she’d been different after visiting that last place. Her calm exterior seemed as if it had been tested and he wasn’t surprised; the guy running the place was a bit too full of himself for his liking and very flirty with Hetty. That in itself hadn’t surprised him; Hetty was a very pretty lady.

‘So,’ said Gwen, clasping her hands in front of her, enjoying this moment of power. ‘Hetty, you’ve come to try and convince us to hand over the strawberry festival to you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied confidently. ‘As I said at the business forum, this is just the opportunity I’ve been looking for and now I’m pleased to say that Mr Thornhill has agreed to us hosting the event at Thornhill Hall and in fact, to us using four of his fields.’