‘I’m not one for speeches…’ Sylvie managed to rein in the millions of sarcastic replies that flew into her mind, ‘…but I wanted to speak to you before you went.’
‘OK.’ She put her mug down carefully. She didn’t want her tea going the same way as the pasty.
‘I want you to know that this will always be your home. Always. And if you need it again, in an emergency, then you just come on back.’
‘Tom…’
‘I ain’t finished.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘I’ve been waiting to make an honest woman of Julie for some time now, but women shouldn’t have to share a kitchen. My poor old ma did and I tell you, your great-grandmother Sylvie, she were not a kind woman. Steely eye and harder heart they used to say about her and she was forever tutting any time my mum tried to do summat. So I promised Mum I wouldn’t ever do that to my woman. And now, now I can move Julie in and she’ll have the kitchen to hersel’.’
‘I’m glad. Julie is a good woman.’
‘I know. She made that pasty. I’m not finished yet. I also want to thank you. I thought you’d be bound to sell the farm, move back upcountry, up London, so the fact that you haven’t, that you’re staying here where you was born and meant to be, and keeping the farm in the family – well, that’s some special. I’m sorry I misjudged you. I thought with your mam gone, you’d have nothing to keep you here and I’m sorry for that. You’re a country girl at heart after all, a good girl, Sylvie.’
Sylvie tried to respond but words wouldn’t come. She gulped, looked across at Tom sitting in her chair and gulped again.
Tom gave a gruff smile, stood up out of the chair and then as he made a move to leave, leant forward and ruffled her hair, giving her a nod, then hotfooted it back outside before she could form an adequate response. Ruffled her hair! That was as strange as if he had put on a tutu and suddenly pirouetted all the way to the milking shed.
Sylvie took a minute or two, gulped down the last of her tea and headed to the chicken house to get her son, pretty chuffed to be labelled a country girl by her uncle (that was his highest praise), and glad in her heart that with Julie and Tom, Lovage Farm once again could have some romance at its core.
Chapter Thirty-three
Sunday morning arrived. It had been such a crazy weekend so far, and now was the last hurdle before she could properly relax. With Sam and all their possessions squashed in her car (there wasn’t much to take, Matt was leaving the cottage furnished and the furniture at the farm belonged there) she drove away, noting how happy she was to be doing so. She had said her goodbyes to her mum so long ago now that she didn’t feel any guilt at moving on; she was more than ready to embrace her future. A future with her and Sam sharing their little house and it just being the two of them – her dream since his conception had been this, she just hadn’t expected it to take so long.
She drove down the hill and through the lanes from Lovage Farm into Penmenna as she and Sam sang loudly to the radio. Thankfully he no longer insisted on having ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ on a constant loop. A couple of months in school and he was a much more sophisticated being.
The village felt like it was singing to her as she drove through… ‘You’re coming home…’ to the tune of the old football song, which was ridiculous because Lovage Farm had always been her home, rather than the village itself. She swung around the corner past the old granite school, empty on a Sunday, and then past the church where the last of the congregation were heading out into the graveyard, the vicar shaking everyone’s hand. Alice was there and spotted their car as it dawdled past – with the narrow streets you were limited as to how fastyou could go – and Sylvie saw her wave her hand and mouth something at her. She assumed it was, ‘See you in a bit.’
Alice from school, the teaching assistant for the terrifying Mrs Adams, was one of a whole army who had offered to help move Sylvie’s stuff, but despite Sylvie’s insistence that it was unnecessary they had all stuck firm and planned to meet her at the cottage later because they claimed it was still a huge job and many hands make light work.
They passed the butcher’s, also shut on Sundays, and the village shop that seemed to always be open these days. Not like when Sylvie had been a child and it only opened in the mornings and the queue was around the block as everyone stopped to chat as much as pick up groceries.
The beach still had people meandering down across the sands; it was a sunny day and ridiculously warm for November. Locals were locals, and as such would head to the beach at all times of the year. With two cars in front of her stopped at the intersection and having a chat she was able to see all across Penmenna Sands. Dogs were allowed on once the summer season had passed and not only could she see numerous dog owners and their pets, she could also see that Marion was one of them and being pulled along by her puppy, clearly as headstrong as the entire family. They looked rather like a comedic before shot for a before-and-after dog-training class.
‘Is that Mrs Marksharp from school?’
‘Yes, looks like.’
‘For someone who is so bossy, her dog isn’t being very good.’
In fact the Weimaraner was now haring after a smaller dog and dragging Marion across the sands at speed. Sylvie wondered if she should help, but how she wasn’t entirely sure. At that point, and only because of some frantic beeping from a car behind her, presumably an out-of-towner, the cars ahead went their separate ways and she could drive on.
Around the corner, over a little bridge, past some fisherman’s cottages and there was her own new home. The two cottages sat in front of her. Rosy’s she assumed was the one with a car on the drive and a little walled garden all around and Matt’s, the one soon to be hers, was the one without the wall and an empty driveway. She drove up onto it and got out of the car. Should she go next door and ask for the key, or would they be in the house waiting for her? Maybe she should just try the door first.
Sam had no such qualms and jumped out of the car, raced to the door and wrenched it open, upon which there came a great big shout of, ‘Surprise!’ and there were Rosy and Matt, Alex and Ellie, Pippa from Class One and two tall blonds who she didn’t know, one male with a huge welcoming smile on his face and a woman who was yawning whilst staring at her phone at the same time. She was dripping silk and effortless glamour and had the most complicated hair of anyone Sylvie had ever met – and that included the swans fromSwan Lake. How on earth did she manage that on a daily basis? Oh my goodness, could this be the woman who had attacked Mary Berry? And she was in her house. That was hilarious.
‘Hello. We know you didn’t need any help but we wanted to support you anyway.’
‘Yep,’ said Matt as his dog raced out of the hallway and bounced so high up Sam’s legs that the look on the small boy’s face was priceless. ‘Plus, we figured you’d need the keys, so here you go, and then you can choose whether to chuck us all out while you unpack and we would sod off next doororwe could help you and then crack open a bottle or two to celebrate.’
‘Let’s do that then. I didn’t agree to unpacking, for Christ’s sake.’ The glamorous blonde spoke, already halfway out the door and still staring at her phone.
‘Angelina!’ the tall, very clean, Viking-looking man said, in tandem with Ellie who was looking at the blonde in dismay.Ellie continued, ‘Sylvie is nice and we should help her. I think that was rude. Itwasrude, wasn’t it, Sam?’
Sam nodded sagely and gave her a broad beam which Sylvie noticed made Alex look very pleased indeed. Pippa gave Ellie a thumbs-up.
