But I can’t help noticing the pleased little look that curves her lips when she thinks no-one is watching…
‘How do we change the world? One random act of kindness at a time.’
– Morgan Freeman
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m out on the road with Fen in the old van, making our food bank deliveries for the week.
Eva, strapped into her child seat in between us, has a book on her knee, although she’s much more interested in looking out of the window. ‘Any idiots out today, Auntie Fen?’ she asks matter-of-factly, and Fen and I laugh.
Fen has a habit of cursing other drivers.
‘No, they seem fairly normal today, sweetheart.’
‘It’s very bumpy.’ Eva giggles, as the knackered old van shakes through a succession of potholes along the country lane.
I smile. ‘It is indeed, love.’
‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Almost finished,’ says Fen. ‘Just one more house to call at.’
Fen flicks a glance at me. ‘I hope to goodness this kindness idea works. It would be terrible if we had to close during the low season – especially since you’ve just started.’
I nod. ‘It would.’
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘I’d really like to be a bird.’
‘Aw, that’s a lovely thought, Eva. Is that so you can fly up into the sky?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. So I can do poops on the van.’ She points at a splodge on the windscreen.
Fen and I are still chuckling as we drive along Sunnybrook High Street.
‘There’s one!’ Fen shouts excitedly.
‘There’s what?’
‘A poster!’
‘Where?’ I turn around, craning my neck, and sure enough, stuck to a lamppost, I spy a colourful advert that says ‘Lemon Drizzle Mondays at Brambleberry Manor Café’ in a big, friendly typeface.
‘It was really nice of Matt to design it,’ she says, and I murmur my agreement.
‘I really like Matt, don’t you?’ She glances across at me. ‘I’m fascinated by the book-binding thing. I’d love to learn how it’s done.’
‘Me, too.’
Fern grins. ‘I think Patrina would be up for a private lesson. She practically pounces on him every time he comes into the café.’
Yes, I had noticed!
‘Bertha says she’s got more front than the pier at Blackpool!’ I murmur.
Fen laughs. ‘Bertha doesn’t suffer fools gladly, does she? I hope she’s been okay with you.’
‘Oh, yes. She’s a straight talker, all right, but I really like her. I wouldn’t like to be on the sharp end of her tongue, though – like Iris Swanson.’
Fen nods. ‘Iris Swanson? Those two have history, you know.’
‘Do they?’
She lowers her voice. ‘They nearly came to blows over Ron many moons ago.’
‘Bertha’s husband?’ I turn in surprise. ‘I can’t imagine Bertha fighting for love! She’s always so scathing about Ron and romance.’
‘Iris Swanson was courting Ron long before he fell in love with Bertha. But once she came on the scene, that was it for him, and I don’t think Iris has ever forgiven Bertha.’
‘Oh, that’s quite sad. Did Iris meet someone else and get married?’
Fen shakes her head. ‘She’s never married. But she must have met someone because she has a daughter who’s quite the high-flyer by all accounts. She lives up in Scotland and I don’t think she gets down here very often.’
‘Does Iris live alone, then?’
‘In a retirement village near here. Quite a posh one, I think. She was quite career driven herself from what I can gather so she’s probably got a decent pension.’
I nod. ‘Well, that’s good.’ It would be awful to be old and alone. And even worse if you didn’t have much money…
Fen shrugs. ‘You might not be so charitable when you hear what she did to Bertha.’
‘After Bertha went off with Ron?’
She nods. ‘Iris spread it around that the only reason Ron was marrying Bertha was because there was already a baby on the way. In those days, there was still a stigma around unmarried mothers, so it was a really spiteful thing to claim. And it wasn’t even true.’
‘Gosh, that’s awful. Poor Bertha.’
‘I know. The ironic thing is, it was Iris who ended up being an unmarried mother, not Bertha. I suppose some would say that was karma.’
‘She always seems quite lonely. I never see her with a friend. Doesn’t she have other family?’
‘I think she has a grand-daughter but she lives out in the sticks somewhere and I don’t think Iris drives.’ Fen slows the van and points at a house set back from the road. ‘Right! Number forty-two, top flat. Brand new customer. This is our last drop off.’
We always do our deliveries together now, ever since the time a huge Alsatian dog, the size of a small horse, jumped up at Fen and knocked her over, sending the tins in the box rolling merrily down the sloping garden path.
The woman who opens the door looks vaguely familiar.
She’s wearing a grubby dressing gown and looks exhausted, a baby of about one on her hip. The baby’s gorgeous blonde curls are slightly damp as if she’s just woken up.
The mum perks up when she sees the box. ‘Thank you so much. Is there milk in there? This one goes through gallons of the stuff.’ She peers into the box as I lay it on the floor for her.
‘Yes. And plenty of stuff to keep you going for a good few days,’ says Fen.
‘That’s great.’ She gives us both a faint smile and it suddenly hits me who she is.
Jaxon Savidge’s receptionist, Bobbie.
I recall the day I popped in to the ‘office’, if you could call it that. One dingy room in an even dingier office block on the trading estate. Bobbie’s flat doesn’t look an awful lot cheerier, from what I can see of the bare hall walls and the slight smell of damp coming from within.
I wonder if it’s one of Jaxon’s places?
Bobbie doesn’t seem to recognise me, probably because she’s distracted by the baby, who’s happily batting Mum’s nose with both chubby little hands.
‘How are you doing, Bobbie?’ asks Fen.
She grimaces. ‘Oh, you know. Crappy job that pays below the minimum wage but as it’s cash in hand, there’s not a thing I can do about it. But hey, you have to take what you can get when you’ve got little mouths to feed, eh, Daisy Doolittle?’
Daisy sticks out a chubby arm and when I reach out, she curls her tiny fingers around my forefinger with a surprisingly tight grip. Then she smiles at me and does a funny little gurgle, and my heart is seriously hers.
‘Aren’t you gorgeous?’ I smile at her. ‘I remember when my Eva was your age.’ My eyes swivel to Daisy’s mum and I see a flicker of recognition. It may be my imagination, but I think I read understanding in that look. As if Bobbie knows that she and I are in the same boat.
She knows what her boss is like. She must know I pay him cash. Although maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Jaxon just pockets the cash and Bobbie knows nothing about it. But her look is telling me differently. She feels sorry for me…