‘We’ve been waiting for him to trust us enough to tell us himself,’ Lettie adds.
‘But you’ve been so angry about the pub closing and losing the quiz nights. There are banners demanding he get out! He thinks you all hate him!’
‘We were angry,’ Madge admits. ‘At first. But then we got to know him. We watched him struggle with those renovations and saw how hard he’s trying to fix the place up. Whatever his reasons for buying it, his heart’s in the right place.’
‘Between you, you’ve given us back our quiz nights,’ Wilma points out. ‘And betweenus, he’s changed since you arrived. He’s been much more willing to engage with the community. He was isolated up here before, but now he’s more open and he’s getting involved with everything.’
‘We could never hate him. That boy has been trying single-handedly to renovate a building that’s been falling down for decades. He’s plainly in way over his head, but he’s not given up. That takes guts.’
‘Yes, it does.’ I agree with Lettie, but I can’t help thinking about how muchhedeserves to hear their real feelings about him, and how surprised he’d be by all this.
‘We Yorkshire folk don’t judge a person by their mistakes – we judge them by what they do to put them right. And that goes for both of you.’
I’m fighting to hold back tears again, overwhelmed by their kindness and acceptance. I’ve spent so many months thinking that if anyone knew the truth, everything I’ve built here would crumble. It never crossed my mind that they’d offer tips on body-burying instead, and I have no idea how I’ll manage to not tell Reece all this, or why they’re so keen to keep it a secret.
‘Right then. Enough sitting around and wallowing.’ Wilma stands up briskly and surveys the car park. ‘Let’s sort this place out. You need more bunting – I’ll sew you some while I’m watching telly this evening.’
‘And more solar lights too,’ Lettie says. ‘Make it look pretty and inviting, I’ll order some and put them in the shop.’
‘First things first, these prices need to change.’ Madge disappears inside the van and returns with my menu board. She scrubs off my prices and uses the stick of chalk to rewrite them. ‘Fifty pence for tea and seventy-five pence for cake is an insult to your work.’
‘But people might not pay mor?—’
‘Nonsense. What you serve here is better than what you’d get anywhere else for five times that price,’ Wilma declares. ‘You undervalue yourself, dear.’
Madge changes the board so I’m now charging a pound for every cup of tea, and two pounds for every piece of cake, and nods in satisfaction. ‘Worth every penny.’
Even though I fear customers will baulk at the increase, I’m heartened by their belief in me, and Idohave to raise the funds to pay Reece back, and fast.
Lettie studies my face as I watch Madge clatter the chalkboard back inside. ‘You’ll work out the money situation in time, but what you need for that young man right now is a Yorkshire curd tart recipe.’
‘It’ll take more than a tart recipe to fix this.’
‘Possibly, but you can’t beat it for a starting point.’
Even though I like the way she thinks, it still feels beyond my abilities, and I don’t think any form of tart can adequately thank Reece for what he’s done today. ‘I don’t know how to make them. Until a few months ago, I’d never evenheardof one.’
‘I happen to have the perfect recipe saved for a beginner. Give me your phone.’
I’m still wearing the pyjamas I was wearing when Jared knocked, and I dig it out of the trouser pocket where I’d snatched it from his fingers, and Lettie transfers the recipe to me, while Madge rummages through my cupboards to check I’ve got the right ingredients.
It seems like they’re not going anywhere until I actually make a start on the recipe, with three expectant faces watching on.
I try to find the words to thank them for their kindness and acceptance and for not making me feel ashamed as I start measuring flour and butter for the pie crusts, and my hands gradually stop shaking. This is what I do in times of stress, when everything feels overwhelming – I bake, like I did with my grandma when I was younger and my parents were fighting. There’s something soothing about the familiar rhythms of transforming simple ingredients into comfort food that comforts me as well.
While I mix cottage cheese with butter, sugar, eggs and spices, they question me about everything I know about the state of the pub and what Reece is struggling with the most, and when they’re satisfied with their work, they leave me waiting for the pastry cases to blind-bake, with a promise of seeing me tomorrow for quiz night, another warning not to tell Reece what they know and a suspicious look between all three of them that suggests they’ve got something up their sleeves, and I’m not going to be privy to what it is.
As I watch the curd tarts bake, I realise something fundamental has changed in me. I’m not carrying these secrets alone any more. These unexpected friends know the truth about both me and Reece, and the carefully constructed buffer he’d built between himself and the villagers’ anger is unneeded, and I can only hope that’s enough to help repair the damage that’s been done. Because the thought of Reece struggling alone with his impossible renovations, having given up everything to help me, feels like a weight I’ll never be able to lift.
24
The menu board isn’t outside today and I haven’t opened to customers, but the Yorkshire curd tarts have just come out of the oven and are cooling down on a rack. It’s mid-afternoon now, and because Reece’s car is parked at the front of the pub, I don’t hear him coming back until he knocks lightly on the serving window and makes me squeak in surprise.
My heart is instantly pounding, both from his unexpected arrival and the adrenaline rush of what his return means – that the money is gone and his dreams for the pub have been sacrificed to save mine. I was still hoping that, somewhere along the way to the bank, he’d come to his senses and not go through with it.
He looks exhausted. His hair looks extra wavy, like he’s been running his hands through it, and he had a shirt and tie on as well as smart trousers, but the tie is loosened and the top button of the stiff-collared shirt is undone, and his expression softens when I meet his eyes. ‘It’s done. Jared has his money and you legally own your van. He’s going to send the vehicle registration documents in the post and cancel his insurance so you can get your own.’
I don’t expect my eyes to well up with a mix of relief, gratitude and annoyance.
