Clive put a bowl of leftovers on the veranda of Natalie Fletcher’s little villa. He didn’t want to intrude but the smell of baking wafted through the open window. When she waved and invited him inside he didn’t hesitate.
‘I’m preparing a batch of Christmas puddings – it’ll soon be Stir-up Sunday, so I’m getting ahead with my orders. I’ll let them soak in rum,’ she said, smiling shyly.
The scent of spices and fruit took him back to his childhood when Mam had made her recipe, with carrots and nuts and a splash of brandy for Christmas Day. He was allowed to lick the bowl if he was home from school. It would boil away, steaming up the windows for hours.
‘I’m having a coffee. Have you time for one? Natalie offered.
Time hung heavy on his hands and he sat down. ‘“Never miss an opportunity,” Lucy used to say.’
‘You must miss her. She was always so lively.’
‘But she was no cake baker. We always bought our Christmas cake,’ he replied, remembering his wife grabbing most of her shopping on Christmas Eve when they’d lived in Leeds.
‘Thank you for the leftovers. Julie’s so grateful. She’s got ten dogs to feed.’
‘Do they get walked?’ he asked, wondering if he should volunteer.
‘Not easy as she can only take two at a time. Her neighbours are complaining about their barking at feeding time. Bless her, she does her best. I would offer, but they’re too big for me to handle safely,’ Natalie said.
‘Perhaps I could take one or two out with Bella down the lane, on leads, of course, and you could take a little one,’ Clive suggested.
‘That’s a kind thought, but just at the moment I’m busy with orders,’ she replied, not looking at him.
Nice try, whispered Lucy, in his head. This one’s too jumpy even to think of being seen out with you, darling. Clive flushed at his boldness. Natalie seemed so hesitant socially – getting her to open up at the olive harvest supper had taken an hour of gentle probing and small-talk. It was as if she felt she had no right to be among them. He knew nothing of her history. Was she divorced or single? There was no wedding ring on view. She had the sort of pale look that some middle-aged women faded into, with wisps of fine mousy hair greying at the temples, and wore a wishy-washy top with black leggings – and she was so thin. Did she not eat any of her concoctions? Clive wondered. A good Yorkshire meal was what was needed. Her clothes reeked of the cigarette smoke that had lined her face over the years. Natalie must once have been quite a looker, with fine bone structure and dark blue eyes. How had she landed up here alone? He noticed a picture of two children under a fridge magnet. ‘Yours?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘Craig and Candice, yes, but that was taken ages ago. They’re both grown-up now. Craig is in New Zealand and Candy in Scotland, married to a farmer.’ Her face lit up as she spoke. ‘And you?’
‘Just the one, Jeremy. He’s married but no children yet.’ This was safe territory. The big question lay unanswered. Why was she living here like a hermit in widow’s weeds? ‘Siga, siga,’ said the Greeks. Slowly, slowly. He pulled back from asking anything more.
‘Lucy and I came here on honeymoon. It stayed in the back of our minds so we kept returning. She loved the light.’
‘I saw one of her paintings in Chloë’s house. She was very talented. I did try the art class here, when I first came, but I’m no good at anything creative,’ Natalie said.
‘Cooking is a great art. Look at the success of The Great British Bake Off on TV. Your custard pie was a big hit last week, just like the Greeks make it.’
‘Don’t tell Irini. Mel gave me the recipe behind her back. Greek pastry is an art all of its own,’ Natalie added.
‘There you go. Your talent lies in a different field. Were you in catering back in the UK?’
‘Oh, no.’ Natalie turned back to her mixing bowl. ‘Nothing like that. I was just a housewife.’
How many times had Lucy jumped on that remark? ‘You run a household, cook, clean, see to children, shop, organise the budget, and make sure others get to school, the dentist and work on time.’ This was not the time to put forward his wife’s views. ‘You must have been kept very busy, then,’ he offered.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then I mustn’t hold you up. I’ll be on my way and thanks for the coffee.’
‘Any time,’ she said, smiling. ‘Kind of you to call.’
Was that an invitation? There was just a glimmer of pleasure as she spoke, a shy lowering of her eyes, almost girlish in its appeal. ‘I meant what I said about dog-walking. I’d be glad of some company,’ Clive said.
‘I’ll have a think but not yet… See you at choir tomorrow, though?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. What is it we’re doing now?’
‘Not sure, but Ariadne will be knocking on your door if you don’t turn up.’ This little touch of humour gave him hope. Natalie Fletcher was a mystery and he was intrigued.
That’s more like it, Clive. You’ve wheedled something out of her, whispered Lucy’s voice in his ear. She could have charmed confessions out of a priest, given half a chance. Would she mind if he took an interest in the little hermit with the mixing bowl?