Miranda instinctively knew not to mention the scrapbook. Mrs. Lightly’s secret love was probably known only to the two of them. “The cottage,” she began carefully. “Who lived there?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Underwood looked puzzled. “I think it’s been a ruin for years.”
“It’s adorable.”
“Mr. Lightly’s brother used it as a weekend cottage, but that was before I knew them. I think Mr. Lightly tried to rent it out after his brother moved away. But it’s very impractical being in the middle of a field.”
“Did you always cook for them?”
“Not in the early days. They had an old cook called Mrs. Marley. She was famous for chocolate walnut cake, but a person can’t live on that alone, can they? When Mrs. Marley retired I came to do the odd weekend. They had a lot of literary types down here from London. They’d play charades after dinner, I’d hear them whooping with laughter from the kitchen. Mr. Lightly was a famous writer, you know. I once read his name in the papers. He won all sorts of prizes. He was a very modest man, though.”
“What did he write about?”
“Wine. He spent a lot of time researching in France. He’d leave Ava alone in the house for weeks on end while he traveled to vineyards. Their cellar was quite something, I tell you. Full of dusty bottles as old as me!”
“Ah, that would account for all those French books in the cottage.”
“Mr. Lightly loved books. His study was full of them. Piled up on the floors and tables, spilling out into the hall. His study was where yours is now. I’m glad to see you’ve filled them.”
“There’s nothing more depressing than empty bookcases.”
“Mr. Lightly didn’t have enough space. Probably why he had to use the cottage. I’ve only ever read one book.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The Secret Garden. Mrs. Lightly gave it to me. It took me weeks to finish. I’m ever such a slow reader. I prefer to sew. If I’m not cooking and growing my own vegetables, I’m doing my needlepoint. I sit by the fire with my feet up doing my needlepoint while Mr. Underwood watches the telly. That’s the way I like it, Mr. Underwood in his armchair, me in mine, feet up, watching the telly. Oh the things they have on these days, it’s a wonder people leave the house!”
They drank their tea, agreed to the hours and wages of Mrs. Underwood’s employment and Miranda handed her a key. “That’ll suit me perfectly,” said Mrs. Underwood, putting her cup down on the sideboard. “If you’re still looking for a housekeeper, I know a lady who could do it. Fatima, she’s Muslim. Mother of Jemal who owns the convenience shop in town. She’s looking to do something now her granddaughter’s gone to university. She’s a good woman and hard-working, I should imagine. Jemal will open on a Sunday if you ask him.”
“How do I get in touch with her?”
“I’ll be seeing her this afternoon. I’ve got to go and buy some ketchup. My grandchildren are coming on Sunday and little Kevin won’t eat anything unless it’s covered in ketchup. Such a pity! I’ll give Fatima your number and tell her to call you.”
“Thank you. She sounds ideal. By the way, who’s the local builder? I need to get that cottage ready and it’s in a right state!”
“That’ll be Derek Heath and his boys Nick and Steve. You’d better give him a call right away if you want to get them before Christmas. They’re very booked up. Hard to pin down.”
“Are they reliable?”
“Reliable? Gold dust, that’s what they are, gold dust! You can bring your fancy builders down from London but nothing compares to the local boys. Half the price, too. They’re honest, hard-working lads and they get the job done.” She smiled wickedly and winked. “Easy on the eye, too. I’d have thrown my cap at Derek if I hadn’t been married to Mr. Underwood. I’ll be happy to take them cups of tea.” She jotted the number down for Miranda. “Tell them it’s urgent, they’ll sort something out. They know the house well. Used to do the odd thing for Mrs. Lightly.”
Once Mrs. Underwood had gone, Miranda telephoned Derek Heath on his mobile. To her surprise he said he could start in a week—the job he had booked had been canceled. “You’re lucky,” he said in his country drawl. “Or perhaps it’s fate. I’m not a believer myself, but my wife is and she’d say it was definitely meant to be.” Miranda put down the receiver and thought of Jean-Paul. Was he fate, too?
At five o’clock, Henrietta left Clare in charge of the shop to nip across the street to Troy’s for her cut and blow-dry. She had felt low all day. Little by little, Cate’s bitchiness had worn her down. Humor wasn’t much of a shield against Cate’s carefully aimed arrows. “It makes her feel better to pull you down,” said Troy, settling her into the chair. “I’m going to give you long layers, darling. It’ll lift you. You need a lift in more ways than one. That Cate’s a miserable old cow. You know what they say? Happy people are nice people, unhappy people are nasty people. Cate is clearly unhappy. She might make the best coffee in Dorset but she’s as bitter as a bar of Green & Black’s.”