A Question of Guilt(23)

I was grinning from ear to ear now, and feeling much perkier knowing I had a good excuse for both the calls I intended making tomorrow. And my renewed enthusiasm was making me forget all about Tim and the way he’d cheated on me.





Six


Next morning soon after ten I was ready to leave for Stoke Compton. I’d slipped the case containing the apostle spoons into one capacious pocket of my Berghaus jacket and the candle snuffer into the other – much better than weighing down my bag. Then I drove Dad’s car round the farmyard a couple of times, getting used to it before taking it out on to the road. It was a long time since I’d driven, and the Range Rover was much bigger and higher than anything I’d ever handled before. But very soon I was enjoying myself. After being so helpless for so long, the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

When I felt sufficiently confident, I tooted to Mum, who was watching from the porch, gave her a wave and drove off.

I reached Stoke Compton without incident, but as I’d guessed, there were no parking spaces in the High Street, and I headed for a car park on a minor road running parallel to it. There was plenty of room there and I was able to find a space wide enough to fit into easily after considering, and rejecting, one of the disabled bays that was closer to the exit. I was disabled, yes, but I didn’t have a permit, and I didn’t want to risk coming back to find I had collected a parking ticket.

I locked up the car and set off, ignoring the soreness of my hands and swinging along on my crutches at a reasonable pace. After crossing the road and making my way between blocks of rather dilapidated buildings, I reached the High Street once more and headed in the direction of Lisa Curry’s café. As I passed the newspaper offices I glanced in through the plate-glass window and was able to see Tara, the receptionist, sitting behind her desk. But beyond that I could see no one. If Josh Williams and Belinda Jones were in today, they were tucked away, well out of sight. For some inexplicable reason I felt a tad disappointed.

Muffins was just beyond the Gazette office. In contrast to the still smoke-blackened wall above the entrance, the paintwork was fresh and bright – pristine white and sunshine yellow – and the windows sparkled, although the traffic in the busy High Street must produce an awful lot of petrol fumes and grime every day. I pushed open the door and went inside.

Small tables spread with what looked like proper tablecloths took up most of the interior, but there was also a counter where cakes and a selection of breads were on display. Lisa was obviously into the take-out trade, too. Just inside the door, two young mothers were enjoying a cup of coffee and a chat while their offspring gurgled at one another from dinky-looking white-painted high chairs. A pushchair was obstructing the gangway; the young mother pulled it closer, out of my way, and I squeezed past, heading for a table towards the back of the café, next to one occupied by a middle-aged woman in a beret and raincoat, whose chair was surrounded by a pile of shopping bags.

As I dumped my crutches and sat down, a young girl emerged from a beaded curtain that hung over a doorway behind the counter. She was wearing a frilly apron and carrying a buttered teacake and a pot of tea, which she placed on the table of the woman in the beret.

‘Here you go, Brenda. Anything else I can get you?’

‘No, that’ll do me nicely, thanks,’ the woman responded, and the girl approached me.

‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’ This wasn’t going according to plan. I’d expected Lisa to serve me. But I could hardly say that. ‘Could I have a coffee please?’

‘Americano? Espresso? Cappuccino?’

That surprised me. It sounded more like a Starbucks than a small-town teashop and café.

‘I’ll have a cappuccino.’

‘And a pastry?’

‘Oh, no thank you.’

‘I can recommend the teacakes.’ The woman in the beret had no qualms about butting in. ‘Lisa makes them herself, or Paul does. You couldn’t get fresher or better.’

‘I’m sure,’ I said politely, ‘but I don’t think . . .’

‘Oh go on! Spoil yourself! You could do with a bit of feeding up!’

I eyed the teacake on her plate. After one of Mum’s farmhouse breakfasts, I was far from being in need of sustenance, but it did look tempting, nicely browned and oozing butter, and besides . . . this woman was obviously a regular at the café. If I wasn’t going to be able to speak to Lisa, she was the next best thing – or maybe even better. She seemed exactly the sort of person who would know the answers to a lot of my questions, and be only too happy to gossip.