Natalie looked out of the window: yet another day of heavy rain. The doors rattled with the wind, the golden sunset and silver sea transformed into dark sky with rolling waves crashing onto the harbour. It wasn’t a day to go walking but for baking. Natalie counted her orders. Ten Christmas puddings, three gluten-free, four pint size and three minis, six Christmas cakes, regular tin size, and six jars of mincemeat. She must remember to add on her labour and the cost of the Calor gas: every penny counted at this time of year. She wanted to send a nice parcel to Candy and her husband with olive oil, soaps and an embroidered linen tablecloth.
She still hadn’t got over Clive’s invitation to go walking with him. It was a bit of a shock to know he had picked her out as suitable company. ‘I’m not good at socialising,’ she had wanted to say but didn’t, sending him away wishing, no doubt, that he had never asked her.
She looked down at her sticky fingers while mixing mincemeat – apples, spices and dried fruit. The scent was intoxicating. She liked to temper the mixture in the oven. It helped to preserve and soften the fruit before she put it into jars. Time to sit down with a soothing cup of mountain herb tea.
Natalie looked down with a sigh at her finger, still dented from where her wedding ring had once lain. No point in pretending she was still married to Rick… It was more than three years since he… ‘Don’t go there,’ she said. ‘Do your humming.’ Whenever she thought about that time she forced herself to hum the tune from The Archers: tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-ti-tum… It forced her back into the moment and away from things she could never change, but it was hard.
Was it only two years ago that she’d arrived with a suitcase of cookery books, waiting to receive a half-load of cooking equipment, bed linen and a bicycle?
Everyone said Natalie was a good homemaker, a clever cook, a pleasant neighbour but then it had all changed and she knew she never again wanted to see Glenholm Close, with its circle of detached houses, pristine front gardens and clipped box borders.
Her friends had thought her mad to up sticks and seek sanctuary on a Greek island. Craig had tried to understand, but he was still in shock at what had happened to his family and felt she was deserting them. The bereavement counsellor said she must nurture her wounded self and, if and when she felt ready, perhaps move away from the memories. Their home was not easy to sell, once its tragic history was known, even though it was redecorated, wiped clean of the terrible events that had shattered her world. There was no choice or the bank would requisition it… Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum… She pushed away the image in the back of her mind. They whispered that Rick’s death was some accident gone wrong but she knew different. No one would prise that knowledge from her here. It was in a sealed box locked inside her mind.
Rick’s public death had left a terrible mark on her: shame and guilt but most of all anger at being left to deal with the mess he’d left behind, police, coroner’s court, solicitors, estate agents, newspaper enquiries, her children’s grief, prying neighbours and, worst of all, the bank’s demand for their home.
The result was an inability to swallow food without bringing it back some time later. She didn’t deserve to feed herself, but was marvellous at feeding others with delicious, nutritious, wholesome recipes. Preparing food was time-consuming, full of textures, colours and aromas that permeated her kitchen, lifted her spirit and filled her day.
Now there were other distractions: Pilates and yoga classes, Greek lessons, the book club, and the choir that she was enjoying far more than she deserved to. In St Nick’s she felt safe from judgement, but this came at a cost. Distance must be maintained. If they knew her history it would be Glenholm Close all over again.
Be careful what you say, what you do, mingle but don’t mix and, most of all, don’t ever get involved with anyone again. This was the daily mantra she murmured as she did her exercise routine. The less people knew the better. Who would want a bankrupt widow in their midst?