Chapter 39

I keep my head down during the good-byes and then opt for a seat at the back of the bus, pretending to be thoroughly absorbed with amending the itinerary, which is partly true. By the time we cross into New Hampshire, it seems as if everyone is vaguely pleased to hear from me again.

“So come on Laurie, tell us a bit about where we are and why we’re here.”

“Well, Charles,” I say, feeling as though we’re doing a local TV segment. “We’ve come to lovely Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to taste a local treat called the Popover.”

“The Popover, you say?”

“Yes, Charles, it’s actually akin to a British Yorkshire Pudding, but instead of being served with roast beef and gravy, it comes with butter and maple syrup.”

“What?” Ravenna splutters. “This country is weird.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it!” Pamela suggests.

“And where, pray tell, will we be tasting this rather unusual teatime treat?”

“Why, at none other than Popovers on the Square!” I say, leading us through this most English of towns, complete with market square, ye olde street lamps, and the occasional cyclist with a dring-dring bell.

The redbrick café with its black and gold frontage is rather more American in scale, with a capacious, tasteful interior, fully accommodating of mothers with prams. We gawp at the gaudy display of sugar-centric goodies and I give a ta-daaa flourish as I spot the Popover. But next to all the piped cream, drizzled caramel and fondant roses it looks rather drab—as if a taupe-coated caretaker had wandered on stage during a showgirl routine.

“Even the carrots on the carrot cake have little faces etched in them,” Ravenna notes.

“Well, the Popover dates back to the 1870s, which was a rather plainer time.” I try to defend its lack of pizzazz.

“I suppose we have to try it . . .”

We take our samples out onto the front terrace for a good peer and prod. Our assessment is that the batter is lighter, the texture crispier and the color darker than your average Yorkshire pud.

“And it rises up and over, as opposed to sinking in the middle.”

“And it’s dry inside,” I note as I prize mine open. “No sogginess.”

“More of a Yorkshire puff than a pud.”

“Yes, mine has a hollow interior, as if it’s been crossed with a choux pastry.”

“Could you trade them a profiterole recipe?” I suggest.

“Technically that’s French.”

“What’s a slightly puffy, not-terribly-attractive English cake?”

There’s a silence while we all think. Ravenna comes up with an Eccles cake, which pleases me greatly, but then we get distracted by a bleeping sound.

“It’s Gracie!” I locate its source. “She’s coming through on Skype!”

“She can speak again?” Ravenna looks faintly disappointed.

“Mum!” Pamela yelps as her face appears on screen. “How are you? You look so much better out of the bandages.”

“I’ve got the movement back in my jaw”—she jigs it and then yelps in pain.

“Mum!”

“Only joking! I’m fine! What about you?”

Pamela explains that we’re briefly passing through coastal New Hampshire but will be returning to spend more time inland tomorrow.

“I’ve been following your progress on the map. Looks like you’re bang on schedule.”

“We are,” Pamela shoots me an appreciative glance. “I’m just sorry you can’t be with us. Are you terribly bored?”

“Oh, how could I ever be bored here? Today I had a lovely tour of The Elms and discovered my new favorite cocktail—the White Lady. Apparently the former owner used to get everyone squiffy on it while they were playing mah-jong in the conservatory—”

“Wait!” Pamela cuts in. “Who’s that in the background?”

“Oh, that’s Gerald,” she breezes. “My new friend.”

“Is he staying with you?” Pamela peers more closely at the screen.

“Are you really in a position to judge?” Gracie peers back at her.

Charles slides his arm from around Pamela’s shoulder.

“Don’t be silly, Charles! Cuddle up! You know this is what I’ve wanted to see.”

“Granny!” Ravenna hoots. “Did you matchmake this whole thing?”

“Just a little. You know I want to see you all happy.”

“We are,” Ravenna confirms. “Thank you!”

Gracie does a double take at her granddaughter. “So you know? You’re pleased?”

“Mum!” Ravenna howls, leaping to her feet as Pamela sends a brown river of tea into her daughter’s lap. “What the—”

“Oh I’m so sorry, darling. Quick, let me mop you up in the ladies’!”

Gracie waits for them to scuttle out of earshot and then sighs, “I might have known it was too good to be true. I take it Pamela is still waiting for ‘the perfect moment’?”

“Something like that,” I whisper, as Charles goes to fetch some napkins to clean up the table. “She doesn’t want to spoil Ravenna’s good mood.”

“If walking on eggshells was an Olympic sport . . .” Gracie tuts.

“I have tried to encourage her.”

“Oh, I know what a thankless task that is.”

“Anyway, I think tonight could be the night. I’ll give you an update first thing in the morning.”

Gracie gets a funny look on her face.

“What?” I ask her.

“Can the others hear me?”

I step out on to the sidewalk, pretending to be showing her the square.

“What is it?”

“Gerald is taking me surfing tomorrow morning.”

“What? You’ve only been out of hospital five minutes!”

“Oh, I’m fine! I’m not going to miss out on a chance like this over a few bruises.”

“Gracie, you amaze me!”

“I think the hardest thing is going to be getting into the wet suit,” she grimaces. “Gerald says we should have a run-through tonight.”

I raise a brow.

“Well, why not, eh?”

I smile back at her.

“Why not indeed!”