“Alfie McAlister!” The petite white-haired lady stared at him through her oversized glasses. “You mean to say you’ve never visited David Savile in his mansion? I thought you two were friends.”
“We are. He just prefers meeting up in Bunburry. He’s very fond of our cream teas.”
Marge Redwood changed her expression from surprise to disapproval. “Judging by his waistline, he’s very fond of anyone’s cream teas.”
“Come now,” protested Liz. “Not everybody is blessed with your metabolism, and I think the cuddly look suits him.”
“Just as well, given the amount of your fudge he’s just ordered.”
“And we have Alfie to thank for that,” said Liz. “Alfie dear, it was very good of you to recommend us to him. It’s given such a boost to the business. He serves it at all his dinner parties-”
“And now all his posh acquaintances are ordering it as well,” interrupted Marge, easing herself off the rocking chair and going to the lace-covered table to retrieve the teapot. “You wouldn’t believe the mileage I’m putting in, delivering it all over the place. Top-up, Alfie?”
“Thanks.” He held out the china cup decorated with roses. It always felt very genteel to take tea with Liz and Marge. “I’m sorry if I’ve given you a lot of extra bother.”
“Pay no attention to Margaret,” said Liz, bringing over the milk jug and adding a splash to his tea. “She’s never happier than when she’s complaining. I love making the fudge, and my business manager here is really quite thrilled with how well we’re doing – you should see the way her little face lights up when she does the accounts these days.”
“I scarcely have time to do the accounts with all the driving,” Marge muttered.
“We could always send it via the Royal Mail,” said Liz.
“We’re a local business, and it always pays to have the personal touch,” said Marge.
“And you adore the driving.”
Marge had the grace to look slightly contrite. “I do,” she admitted. “Alfie, that car you bought me runs like a dream. It was so generous of you – I wouldn’t have got more than a tenner from the insurance for my old one.”
He brushed away her thanks. “A pleasure. I’m glad you like it.” Despite the increased success of the ladies’ fudge business, he suspected they didn’t have over-much disposable income. Marge had already moved in with Liz so that they didn’t have the expense of two separate homes, and could share costs.
Alfie had grown up in a single-parent household in London’s East End, and knew all about being short of cash. He still couldn’t quite believe he was now a multi-millionaire following the sale of his start-up. And he had had the harshest of lessons that money didn’t buy happiness.
But now, a year after Vivian’s death, he realised he was having more good days than bad. And the ladies had played a key part in that.
“I’m amazed you still haven’t seen David Savile’s mansion.” Marge returned to her theme. “I would have thought you would have insisted, now that it’s a local celebrity.”
“His house is a local celebrity?” asked Alfie, bemused.
“It was on all the posters for the film.”
Alfie turned to Liz in the hope of getting some sensible information. “Film?”
“The new Pride and Prejudice,” Liz explained. “The one that came out last year and is supposed to be the best version ever.”
“It is,” Marge asserted. “I always thought nothing could be better than the BBC version with Colin Firth as Mr Darcy – remember that moment when he appeared in the wet shirt? But seeing Dorian Stevens with no shirt at all …” She gave a lingering sigh.
“Really, Marge,” said Liz. “You don’t want people to think you’re one of those leopard ladies, you know, the ones who chase after young men.”
Marge rolled her eyes despairingly. “Clarissa. I’ve told you time and time again. The word is cougar. You really need to get your big cats sorted out. And Dorian stripping off was integral to the plot.”
“Really, dear? I must have missed the bit where Jane Austen mentions that.”
Marge ignored this. “Anyway,” she said, turning to Alfie, “it was all filmed at David Savile’s place, and the poster showed Dorian and that actress who played Elizabeth Bennet, you know the one, with the mansion behind them. Now do you remember?”
Alfie shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve seen it.”
“Come on, you must have! Everyone’s seen it! It came out last year – for heaven’s sake, have you been living on the moon?”
Alfie saw Liz shoot a warning look at Marge. She was bulkier than her friend, and older, and generally appeared benignly vague. But Alfie had quickly realised that Liz was very sharp indeed. And he knew she had worked out that the film must have reached the cinemas around the time Vivian died, when Alfie was incapable of noticing anything around him.
“The Savile country house really is very interesting, Alfie,” she said. “Built at the end of the 17th century-”
“And still going today,” interrupted Marge. “Whereas anything built in the Sixties and Seventies is falling about our ears.”
“English Baroque,” Liz continued, ignoring her. “Such a beautiful façade, with marvellous ionic columns, and wonderful gardens designed by Capability Brown. It’s definitely well worth seeing.”
“And as a friend of David Savile’s, you wouldn’t have to pay an entrance fee, or queue up for hours to get in,” said Marge. “He gets coachloads of sightseers now.”
“Of course, the public only see a small part of the main house,” Liz said. “David Savile’s wife has turned the old stables into a restaurant and gift shop, and there’s a little museum in another of the outbuildings. She’s done a brilliant job of organising everything.”
“Mainly because David Savile couldn’t organise his way out of a paper bag,” said Marge.
Alfie laughed. He liked David a lot, but had never seen much sign of organisational skills. He reckoned David’s privileged background had let him breeze through life without effort.
“Is his wife a posh party planner?” he asked.
“Not posh at all,” said Marge. “I think his family were horrified when he decided to marry her – they probably had their eye on minor European royalty at the very least. But she’s exactly what the place needed. She mucks in with whatever needs to be done, she makes sure the staff are paid properly, and she hires locally when they need extra help.”
“Did she work before they were married?” asked Alfie. “A serving wench? A dairymaid? A pole dancer?”
“A nurse,” said Liz. “She looked after him when he was in hospital with meningitis. The poor man nearly died.”
Apparently, David hadn’t had the charmed life Alfie imagined.
“I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was her idea to remake Pride and Prejudice,” said Marge. “She probably rang up the film company. And then I bet David Savile insisted that they cast Dorian Stevens as Darcy – they both went to Eton, you know.”
As had Alfie’s best friend Oscar, who had been in the same year as David Savile. And another Old Etonian was David Savile’s cousin, Charlie “Teflon” Tennison. But Alfie didn’t want to think about him.
“Oscar thinks Dorian Stevens is one of the finest actors of our generation,” he said.
“Seeing him without his shirt, I would definitely agree,” said Marge. “Although he’s a bit of a bad boy. He had an affair while he was filming here.”
“Oh, come now, dear, you don’t know that,” said Liz.
“I do,” said Marge. “Dorothy heard it from the mother of a girl who did some waitressing at one of the Saviles’ fancy dinners, and overheard the regular staff gossiping about how one of the chambermaids had actually caught Dorian and his lady friend at it.”
“Gossiping is the operative word,” said Liz. “And you should know better than to repeat it.”
“He still comes back to visit David Savile. That tells you something.”
“It tells you that he’s friends with David Savile. Unless you’re suggesting that’s who he’s having the affair with.”
Alfie decided it was time to change the subject. “I’ve met the Saviles’ daughter, Phoebe – she’s a student at Oxford.”
“Yes, dear, we remember,” said Liz equably. “You met her in the middle of a murder investigation.”
“She seems a nice enough girl from what I hear,” said Marge, which Alfie recognised as high praise. “No airs or graces, and her mother makes her work on the estate during the holidays.”
She suddenly lurched forward in her rocking chair, almost spilling her tea. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before – Alfie, you’re free now, aren’t you?”
“Clear until this evening’s rehearsal of Agatha’s Amateurs. What can I do for you?”
Marge was beaming now. “You can make a delivery of fudge for me. To David Savile.”
A short time later, Alfie was speeding along in the 1950s Cotswold Blue Jaguar. He now knew why Aunt Augusta had bequeathed him her cottage and car, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him enjoying driving the Jag.
The late autumn day was gloriously crisp and clear. There had been enough rain over the summer to ensure that the rolling hills were still green, but the leaves had turned gold and russet.
Oscar would think Alfie entirely mad for enjoying such a day. He refused to come anywhere near the countryside, dismissing it as “pub grub, mud and cows”. But right now, Alfie couldn’t imagine the attraction of London, which seemed frenetic and grimy in comparison. He could honestly say he felt happy in what Oscar would see as a sleepy backwater. Not that it was sleepy at all. He had his work cut out with directing the local drama group, getting the new community library up and running, volunteering at the hospice, not to mention delivering fudge. And now Betty was back … She had departed to do some unspecified work for Greenpeace, not telling him where or how long she would be away.
But on her return, she seemed happy to accept his suggestion of a celebratory vegetarian meal at “From Bombay to Bunburry.”
“On me,” she said. “You paid last time.”
Was that what had stuck in her memory, not the fact that she had kissed him?
Once the curry and accompaniments had been brought, Alfie asked tentatively: “Good trip?”
She nodded. “Very good, thank you.”
“Were you … safe?” He had no idea what she had been doing, but he suspected it wasn’t entirely legal.
“Well …” She hesitated. “There was a difficult moment when I was nearly caught by a mob of angry palm oil manufacturers.”
Alfie looked at her in horror. “What?”
“Although that wasn’t as bad as the moment when the whaling ship tried to ram my dinghy.”
He shook his head at her. “This isn’t funny. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Have you? That’s so sweet. You shouldn’t have bothered. I was probably just doing admin work in the Amsterdam headquarters.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“No.” She gave him a smile that made him want to kiss her again, there and then. “But it was all fine. And seriously, I’m very touched that you were worried. You missed me while I was gone?”
“Quite a lot.” He had no idea how he should be playing this, so he might as well just tell the truth. “I hope you’re not going away again any time soon.”
And he finally told her about Vivian. “We lived together. She was killed in a car crash a year ago. That’s why I moved from London to Bunburry – I couldn’t bear being in the flat without her.”
Betty was as direct as ever. “I’m not interested in a casual fling – been there, done that. And I guess you’re still grieving – a year’s not long when you lose the person closest to you. I don’t think we should rush into anything. How about we take some time to get to know one another better?”
He wasn’t sure that he was allowed a vote. “Of course,” he said.
She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So we’re cool. Like I say, Al, you’re one of the good guys.”
She always called him Al, refusing to call him Alfie on the grounds that that was the name of the womanising hero – anti-hero? - of the classic film.
He suspected that his acceptance of her terms was less to do with being a good guy than with profound feelings of guilt at even thinking of another woman so soon after Vivian’s death. The only ones who knew, Oscar and the vicar, showed no sign of being judgemental, and even seemed to be encouraging him to get together with Betty. But Alfie was being judgemental enough for all three of them.
Still, he couldn’t help wanting to be with her despite feeling guilty about it. He felt ludicrously happy that she was back, and every time he walked into the village, he hoped he would see her. She was right: it was time they got to know one another better.