Saving Saffron Sweeting by Pauline Wiles Read Free Book Online

of gears as it failed
to make the left turn at the crossroads. I winced as it shot
straight across the road instead, only to hit the wooden bench with
a splintering bang. This was probably the only thing that prevented
the car from ending up in the water with the ducks, which rose up
as one in an almighty flap.
    I jogged the fifty yards back to the scene – there, that
counted as my exercise for the day – and saw two little boys
looking out of the car’s rear window with wide-eyed
expressions of glee.
    ‘Mommy!’ one of them cried out. ‘What did you
do
? Dad’s gonna be so
mad
!’
    A blonde woman clambered shakily out of the driver’s seat,
crying but apparently unhurt.
    ‘Goddamn it,’ she wailed. ‘Which jerk came up
with the idea of a stick shift?’
    I detected a definite American accent.
    She thumped the bonnet – now crumpled and hissing steam
– with her hand. ‘Can’t they even make a car that
works in this frickin country?’

CHAPTER 5
    They say that misery loves company and, sure
enough, it cheered me up to talk to Mary Lou while we waited for
the breakdown service to come from Newmarket. Neither she nor her
boys were hurt, but her pride was as dented as the car and she
seemed to think this was yet another way that England was
conspiring to challenge her. The family had been here only six
weeks and initial excitement had given way to confusion and
homesickness for Pennsylvania. I realised that although I was
feeling adrift and confused, at least I hadn’t wrapped my
little car around a village bench.
    ‘I had awful trouble with the gears when I was learning to
drive,’ I offered in support.
    ‘Automatics are the sign of a civilised society,’
she grumbled. ‘Randy, quit hassling that duck!’
    The younger boy seemed intent on bullying the waterfowl. Of
course, with a name like that, if he was attending an English
school, he was probably receiving similar grief from the other
kids. The elder, quieter boy had his nose in an iPad.
    ‘Do you need a lift somewhere?’ I offered. ‘I
have a car at the bed and breakfast, just up there.’
    She sighed. ‘Thanks, that would be great. We were heading
home anyways.’
    I walked back to Oak House to get my car. When I returned to the
duck pond, the breakdown crew had arrived and their unhurried
efforts were being supervised by a small crowd, including an
elderly man with a walking cane, a woman on horseback and the
village postman.
    After the sorry-looking tangle of red metal had been loaded and
driven away, Mary Lou gave me directions to her house, just beyond
the far edge of Saffron Sweeting. As we drove through the village,
I realised I hadn’t yet explored this far. On the right, we
passed a huge, low building with a decaying roof. This, presumably,
was the malt house which Jem and I had read about.
    According to our internet research, nobody is sure how the
village got the Sweeting part of its name, but one theory is that
steeping
, part of the malting process, got changed
accidentally over time. Many villages had a malt house in the
eighteenth century, supplying the needs of local publicans and home
brewers. The Saffron Sweeting malt house looked as if it had
received little attention since then. It had a forlorn air, which
was a shame as its solemn architecture was appealing.
    ‘So, the boys aren’t in school?’ I hoped I
wasn’t being too nosy.
    ‘It didn’t seem worth it, with just a few weeks
before school gets out here. I’ve been trying to give them
classes at home. But they’re going in September, for sure
… if I don’t strangle one of them before
that.’
    ‘Have you made plans for sightseeing during the
summer?’
    ‘We sure have. We’ve been to London, which they
loved. We’re going to Oxford and Bath next week. Then
there’s Ireland – yeah, and Paris and Amsterdam, for
sure. And Italy. I gotta see Florence.’
    I blinked as she rattled off these destinations, remembering
that by American standards, the distances in