Saving Saffron Sweeting by Pauline Wiles Read Free Book Online Page B

it.’
    ‘Great … thanks.’ I turned to go.
    ‘And one more thing, young lady.’
    That didn’t sound good. My mum called me
young
lady
when I was in trouble. I turned back guiltily.
    ‘You can tell your friend she’ll have to pay for
that bench,’ the shopkeeper said sternly. ‘Saffron
Sweeting won’t tolerate joyriders.’
    I realised she must mean Mary Lou. That news had certainly
travelled fast, although ‘joyrider’ seemed a bit strong
to describe someone who hadn’t quite found second gear in
time. But I just nodded meekly and made a tactical retreat from her
shop.
    I knew it wasn’t logical to expect everyone in the village
to be friendly to strangers, and I was over-sensitive at the moment
in any case. I tried not to let this old lady and her spy network
influence my feelings about Saffron Sweeting. However, after such a
chilly conversation, I drew comfort when I returned to my car,
parked outside the tiny library a few yards along the High Street.
According to the posted opening hours, it did indeed offer Wi-Fi,
but not on a Tuesday afternoon, Thursday morning, or any time at
all on Friday.
~~~
    If it hadn’t been for the glass of
evil-tasting dandelion and burdock, I don’t think I’d
have set foot over the threshold of Bury estate agency Miller &
Mullet.
    I had driven across to the market town of Bury St Edmunds,
appreciating with prodigal eyes the lush trees, narrow roads and
tiny villages of my route. Once there, I had been snared by the
formal quaintness and white-aproned waitresses of Harriet’s
tearoom, where the promise of baked goods was too much to resist. A
hot, buttery crumpet took me back to my mum’s warm kitchen,
homework after school, bickering with Harry about the lyrics in
Freddie Mercury songs, and wet socks. I’m not sure where the
wet socks came from, but that was the image I got as I bit into the
crumpet and dripped butter onto my plate.
    As for the drink, I wasn’t even sure I liked dandelion and
burdock, but I was certain it wasn’t available at a San
Francisco drive-through and I was determined to revel in all things
English. Looking back, I believe it had fermented a little and
instilled me with false confidence.
    As with Hargraves & Co in Saffron Sweeting, I was the only
client in Miller & Mullet. However, while Amelia seemed to work
on her own, here were three young men who looked barely old enough
to hold driving licences, wearing carbon copy shiny suits and
predatory smiles. One of them leaped to his feet and crossed the
electric blue carpet to shake my hand vigorously.
    ‘Hello, I’m Darren, how can I exceed your property
expectations today?’
    Ouch. Clearly, he had just come back from sales training. I
withdrew my hand and put it out of his reach.
    ‘Well, I’m looking for somewhere to rent. Somewhere
small.’ I glanced at his companions who seemed nonchalant,
but had the air of being ready to move in if Darren mucked things
up.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ he said enthusiastically.
‘How many bedrooms?’
    ‘Oh, just one, I think.’
    ‘Excellent, let me show you some options. I think
you’ll like these.’ Darren bounded across the room to a
sagging filing cabinet, from which he pulled a stack of property
details. ‘Sit down, sit down, let’s see what we
have.’
    I quickly ruled out three houses which were too expensive, two
dismal flats, and a caravan. This left a tiny box, which he proudly
told me was a ‘railway cottage’ and a granny annexe,
apparently located in ‘Bury’s finest avenue’.
    ‘Let’s go and see your new home!’ He was on
his feet, nodding encouragingly and jangling car keys.
    Darren drove carelessly, but not dangerously enough for me to
abandon our mission. He also used the word
excellent
at
every opportunity, including for the damp, unfurnished
‘railway cottage’ which boasted views of both the
tracks and a dual carriageway. In its pint-sized sitting room, I
felt I could reach out and touch opposite walls