‘I thought a lot about her too,’ said Herv.
‘And she loved Marnie very much. Like a daughter.’
‘I really think you should move out of this house whilst the work is being done, Emelie. I’ll get my tools and some materials and come back tomorrow to start it.’
‘Herv, it’s Sunday tomorrow, it can wait.’
‘It can’t. I am free so I will do it. I’ll leave a note for . . . to tell . . . her it’s a definite priority.’
He couldn’t even say her name, thought Emelie. He wouldn’t have been so hurt if his feelings didn’t run so deep.
‘Thank you. I’m sure Marnie will agree to whatever you suggest. Lilian couldn’t have left Wychwell in a kinder pair of hands, could she?’ she said.
She saw him rub his forehead with his fingertips as if he was a genie rubbing a lamp to make an answer to that appear. And one that would avoid any reference to Marnie Salt’s name. But Emelie persisted gently.
‘You know, Herv, you might think I’m a silly old spinster who doesn’t know anything about life, but you’d be wrong. Love is a rare privilege not a common right. Don’t turn it away if you’re lucky enough to find it.’
Herv smiled at that. ‘My mother used to say the same thing.’
‘Both of us can’t be wrong,’ Emelie smiled back.
Herv picked a crumb from the cheesecake plate and placed it on his tongue. The flavour spread in his mouth and with it a picture of Marnie flooded his brain. It was the same with everything about her, a touch, a smile, just being in her orbit had that great an effect on him. For good and bad.
‘My mother and my father fell in love at first sight,’ said Herv. ‘They said it was the sort of thing that they’d only believed existed in books and films and imagination, but still they felt the full thunderbolt.’
‘I know that feeling too, Herv,’ said Emelie.
‘I didn’t think I ever would.’
‘But you did. And with someone who couldn’t have disappointed you more.’
Herv looked into Emelie’s wise, blue eyes. It was as if she could see inside his head, see the thoughts madly tumbling around in it.
‘People aren’t perfect, Herv. Saints have pasts and sinners have futures, as they say. But are you really going to take Kay Sweetman at her word?’
‘I asked her and she admitted it.’
Emelie came back at him more sternly now, ‘Oh, Herv, did she really?’
‘Yes she did. Only five minutes ago,’ and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why would she do that if it wasn’t true?’
‘So you came bursting into my cottage because you’d had a row with Marnie, hadn’t you? Maybe she’s as hurt and angry as you, Herv. Maybe she’s disappointed in you also for believing too easily the word of a malicious woman with an agenda.’
Herv fell silent, processing her words. She was right. His knee-jerk reaction to Kay’s revelation had led astray his common sense.
‘Now, about my wall. If you insist on coming tomorrow, what time shall I expect you? I’m always up and dressed by half-past seven,’ asked Emelie, moving away from the M-word. She didn’t want Herv bracketing her with the village busybodies. She’d done what she set out to: make him think for himself, not just regurgitate the words that fell from Kay Sweetman’s vicious tongue.
HISTORY OF WYCHWELL BY LIONEL TEMPLE
Contributions by Lilian Dearman.
Little Raspberries is the only cottage on Raspberry Lane. It is so-called because of the abundance of fruit which grows in its long sun-catching garden.
Little Raspberries was built as a charity cottage and has always been granted to someone in most need of its tranquil setting. There is a small bridge over Blackett Stream across to the wood where it is believed Margaret Kytson’s cottage stood, though there is no firm source for this rumour, only hearsay.
Records show that past occupants of Little Raspberries have included Anne Mumford, John-James Settle, Jack Pettigrew (uncle of Lionel Temple Senior) and the last occupant Jessie Plumpton, who has lived there, at the date of this book, for seven years and is an expert pie-maker, taking full advantage of the rich raspberry harvest that occurs between June and October.
Chapter 41
Marnie marched home to Little Raspberries, shut the door and locked it against the village, against the world, against Herv Gunnarsen most of all. She clicked on the kettle and checked her emails to see if anything had arrived from Mr Wemyss whilst it was coming to the boil. It had, and also, she couldn’t believe her eyes to see she had also received one from Caitlin.
She opened the message from Mr Wemyss first; Caitlin could wait. His mystery client would like to engage Dennis Whitby as the builder to carry out the renovations of the houses, and could Marnie arrange for him to visit and prepare quotes. He, apparently, had done work for Miss Dearman in the past and she had been very pleased with his services.
Marnie made herself a coffee before opening the email from Caitlin. The subject line said: Please read. She couldn’t imagine what it could say because it would be neither a wedding invite, nor an apology. Maybe she’d heard about Marnie’s mother and wanted to say something on the lines of, ‘sorry to hear about your mum, had to say that, but it doesn’t mean we are friends. I still think you’re a shit.’
Should she delete it without reading and not give Caitlin a chance to stick the boot in again? The temptation to look was too great though. She clicked on it and found a considerable amount of typing.
Dear Marnie
I have no idea how to start this, I’ve rewritten this email a load of times and nothing seems right so I’m just going to jump in and say that I owe you the biggest SORRY in the world.
You will not be surprised, I’m sure, to hear that Grigori and I have split up. I found out he had been sleeping with Tawny his PA. He was so arrogant when I confronted him and he said something, though I can’t quite remember what in all the drama, that made me realise he really had come on to you on the staircase at Lucy’s wedding, blaming it on drink of course. After all the years we were mates, I cannot believe that I took his word above yours. I feel ashamed.
Let’s go out for a drink and talk. I really miss you and could do with a friend right now.
Lots of love
Caitlin xxx
PS. Sorry to hear about your mother.
Marnie read it and initially a candle flame of joy ignited inside her that her friend wanted to be back in her life, then she re-read it and the light was snuffed out immediately. So, if Grigori hadn’t been so stupid as to drop himself in it, she would still be enemy-zoned – correct? And that line ‘I could do with a friend right now’ might as well have been written in a highlighter so yellow, it could have been seen from Mars. And though Caitlin knew that Marnie and her mother didn’t get on, a post scriptum mention for her death – really? Where was the ‘how are you?’ for a start. But then Caitlin always was less about you and more about me me me. These were crumbs from the apology table, and Marnie didn’t do crumbs any more. She wasn’t someone on a piece of elastic that could be dropped and picked up again when it suited. Nope, she wasn’t that Marnie now and the awareness that she wasn’t shocked her in a warm way. Could she be actually growing up at last? Thanks to a batty old lady who had seen her warts and all and still valued her as something precious . . . ?