‘We’ve met, old friends we are,’ announced George addressing the whole garden. ‘Morning, m’dear. How’s that leg? All better now? I must say you’re a quiet one. Not a peep out of her,’ he said to Bets. ‘Have a nice walk. I’m just off to pick up my paper. Do you want anything from the village shop?’
‘That’s kind, but I’m all right thanks.’
‘Jolly good.’ He saluted the pair of them and snapped his garden gate shut.
‘He’s such a sweetie,’ observed Bets. ‘Always on the go. You wouldn’t believe he’s nearly eighty.’
Ella looked back at the sprightly figure trotting down the path. Eighty? ‘Really. He looks good.’ Although probably because the pace of life was so much slower out here; he hadn’t had a chance to wear himself out.
‘So, Magda says you’re an artist. What kind of art do you do?’ They left the cottage garden and turned right along the high street, if you could call it that. With both dogs on leads, they strolled past the pub which looked quaint and villagey, not really Ella’s kind of thing. Give her a wine bar any day. ‘Magda didn’t say, so there’s been lots of speculation. Do you do portraits? Will we see any famous celebrities trooping up your garden path? That was Doris next door-but-one’s idea.’
‘Portraits? Why would she think that?’ Ella shook her head.
‘Bless her, she’s partial to the odd copy ofHello.’ Bets laughed and rolled her eyes. ‘I think she had visions of David and Victoria Beckham popping by for a sitting.’
The mind boggled. People around here clearly didn’t have enough to do.
‘I told her that was wishful thinking. Then Greta, she runs the pub,’ Bets nodded her head at the building they’d just passed, ‘said you probably do those horrible daubs that pass for art.’ Shegrinned. ‘She’s hoping you’re a bit of a hippie with plaits. Shake up the place a bit.’
‘God, no.’ Ella had always rather hoped she rocked the chic, sophisticated Sam Taylor-Johnson look, if a slightly dishevelled version at the moment. With a sigh she realised just how much she’d let herself go in the last month.
‘This way.’ Bets wheeled off the road, following a public footpath sign. Once through the gate, she unclipped Dexter’s lead. ‘They’ll be fine down here.’
‘George was hoping you might do structural stuff. I think he had ideas about a spot of welding. And Devon, my boss, said you’d probably be very ordinary and not an artist at all but someone who does graphic design.’
Devon sounded disagreeable and uncomfortably close to the mark.
‘Having a quiet day, were you?’ asked Ella with withering sarcasm, or at least she hoped it was. Didn’t they have anything better to do with their lives?
‘Erm . . . ’ Bets’ peaches and cream complexion turned scarlet, ‘not exactly. Magda likes to . . . well, you know. Hold gatherings and . . . ’ she scanned the sky as if an answer might burst forthwith from the clouds. ‘It just came up. Parish council meeting. Yes, that was it. Dull old meeting.’
Ella ducked her head, hiding her expression from the other girl as she bent and tried to unclip the lead.
‘Sadly, they’re all going to be very disappointed, I’m not an artist. I wanted to be,’ she turned her head but not before she caught Bets’ surprisingly candid gaze, ‘it just didn’t happen.’ A heap of canvases, piled like collapsed dominoes, testament to her failure, currently languished in storage. She had no idea why she paid good money to keep on storing them.
Bets sighed. ‘That must be disappointing. Trying, wanting and it never happening.’
Ella shot her a startled look, surprised by the other girl’s insight.
‘I wanted to be an actress once.’ There was a hollowness in Bets’ voice completely at odds with her open, candid personality. The brilliant lightbulb personality dimmed for a moment and then she was off again with her runaway questions.
‘So what do you do, then? Just so that I can reassure the hotbed of gossip that is Wilsgrave.’
‘I’m an illustrator. Children’s books.’
Bets put her hands on her hips, the loose lead chinking against her thigh, amusement dancing around her eyes, the earlier moment of melancholy completely banished. ‘That sounds pretty artistic to me.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Crikey, I can’t even choose the right colour wall paint.’ The dramatic shudder she gave hinted at past decorating disasters. ‘What sort of things do you draw?’
‘Mice, mainly. Children’s books about a family of dormice.’
‘Not Cuthbert Mouse and all his brothers and sister in the shoe?’ Bets’ eyes widened, her mouth opening in a gasp.
‘Yes,’ Ella said warily. Patrick had always preferred her to keep the whole mouse thing low key.
Her eyes widened. ‘Seriously? Wow. You mean you’re her? You do those drawings. Get outta here. Why didn’t Magda tell us that?’ She punched Ella’s arm. ‘That’s seriously cool. I love those little fellas. My nephews go nuts for those books.’
‘Oh.’ A vivid blush rose up her cheeks and for a minute she didn’t know what to say in the face of such obvious and rather surprising enthusiasm. No one, apart from her parents and her publisher, had ever been that fulsome and of course they were all biased. ‘Thank you.’
‘Wow. I can’t get over it. You really do all those little drawings. The hats. I just love those little hats.’
