‘I heard the Library Lady stories are thriving.’ I gestured to where a crowd was already gathering in the children’s corner.
‘It’s getting unmanageable. Children spilling out into the local history section. I’m going to have to start another session on Monday. That is, if your crowd don’t come up with reasons to hang about in here every day of the week. You’d think they had nothing better to do.’
‘Most of them don’t right now. That’s why they’re improving their literary skills. Anyway, I’ll let you get on. I really hope you’ll be able to come to the party. I thought I might introduce you to my mum and aunty. They run a craft shop in Sherwood, and would probably do a great deal on some giant cushions for the children to sit on. Maybe some brightly coloured curtains, too.’
‘I’m not sure what the colour of curtains has to do with children’s literature.’
‘Ask my aunty; she’ll be happy to explain how a warm and welcoming environment can help open our minds to learning. Oh – and feel free to bring Veronica.’
‘It’s Veronica Fluff,’ she snapped, just as the door swung shut behind me.
As I arrived back home, looking forward to swapping my humidity-crumpled work dress for a vest top and shorts, my phone beeped with a message. Glancing at the screen as I dumped my bag on the kitchen table, my bloodstream screeched to an emergency stop.
My mother.
I’d been waiting all week for this. Holding my breath every time I checked my phone. Frequently thinking I heard a ping only to find I’d imagined it.
The message was brief:
How many cushions do you need?
I sent back an equally short reply, debating whether to include a picture of the invitation providing the time and place for the party, but deciding against it in case this was all a ruse to lull me into a false sense of security until she had my address. I then called Aunty Linda to confirm that Mum wouldn’t be at the Buttonhole that Sunday, but my aunty would, and I’d be very welcome to pop in for a chat/rant/therapeutic cry.
Mum wasn’t the only reason I’d been checking my phone obsessively. It had also been a whole week since I’d run away from the opportunity to kiss Sam in my garden, and it was both impressive and pathetic how often I’d managed to dwell on that evening, considering everything else that was going on.
Steph had patiently listened while I’d explained every second in great detail, before insisting that all it took to ensure things weren’t going to be awkward was a quick message to clear the air.
‘Either he’s feeling as embarrassed as you – possibly even more so given that he made a move, meaning all you need to do is reassure him that it isn’t a big deal. Or, he already knows it isn’t a big deal – he asked, you answered, nothing more to be said. In which case, he’s probably just been busy, or is giving you some space in case you feel embarrassed. Either way, a casual text, like “Hi, Joan moves to Chester tomorrow so if you and the dogs are in our end of the forest at any point, feel free to drop by and cheer Nesbit up” will show him that, like I said, it isn’t a big deal.’
The problem that Steph seemed to be overlooking, of course, was that to me it was a very big deal.
I did take her point, however, about one unbearably mortifying moment not being a reason to end a good friendship. Plus, if Mum was definitely coming to this party, I’d need as many allies there as I could get.
I took a deep breath, scrunched up my face and sent him the party invite.
An angst-wracked minute later, having received no reply, I realised that accompanying it with some sort of personal message so that he didn’t think it was a mass text was probably a good idea if I wanted a personal reply. Better late than never, I spent another ten minutes typing and then deleting until I came up with a suitable follow-up:
Hey, Sam – really hope you can make it!
30
Joan came out as soon as she saw the tent pop up.
‘We’re allowed to sleep in here?’ she asked, her entire body drooping to show that even camping wasn’t going to lift her spirits.
‘Yes. Ebenezer agreed, as long as we take it down first thing in the morning.’
‘First thing?’ She pulled a face. ‘His first thing is like four o’clock. We might not have even gone to sleep by then.’
‘We most certainly will have gone to sleep! And he said eight thirty is fine, which is perfect because you’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.’
‘Yes, like take Nesbit and hide in the woods where no one can find us, then build a shelter and a campfire and help Nesbit catch squirrels before picking berries and mushrooms so we’ve got some vitamins.’
‘Except that you hate mushrooms, and Nesbit struggles to catch a slug, let alone a squirrel.’
‘We’ll eat slugs then!’ She glared at me, but it was half-hearted at best.
‘Come on.’ I put one arm around her. ‘Remember the rule: no feeling all sad and sorry for ourselves this evening. We’re going to make the most of it and have the best time.’
Once the tent was up, sleeping bags and other necessities squeezed inside, we built a campfire inside a firepit that had mysteriously appeared on the lawn after I’d asked Ebenezer if he was okay about us pitching a tent. Once Joan had taken charge of lighting it, we soon had enough of a blaze to crisp up the sausages that I’d pre-cooked in the oven.
We stuffed hot dogs with fried onions, mustard and ketchup, opting for greasy hands instead of plates, the butter from charred corn on the cobs dripping off our chins. This was followed by the requisite marshmallows, and mugs of hot chocolate topped with cream and chocolate buttons.
We didn’t quite manage to stick to the rule about feeling sad. There were a couple of moments when Joan fell silent, her gaze lost in the glow of the fire. I had to turn away more than once to swallow hard and pull myself together. Once Nesbit had wolfed down his sausage, he snuggled up close to Joan, as if sensing her melancholy.
Then the music started, the first bars of ‘Uptown Funk’ pumping into the garden, shattering the mood in the best possible way.
‘Oh no,’ I called, getting up and marching over to Ebenezer’s open window. ‘If we’re dancing, you’re joining us this time.’
‘You can’t make Ebenezer dance, he’s eighty-one.’ Joan giggled.
‘If he can mow the lawn, trim the hedges and build a rain shelter, he can move two feet in time to his own music,’ I replied, loud enough for him to hear.
‘A good point!’
We stood there, side by side, hands on hips until the door finally opened, which was such a long time the track had gone all the way back to the beginning.
‘Is this what you do in that cottage all day?’ I said. ‘Dance to disco classics?’
Joan bopped over and took hold of her neighbour’s hand, swinging it about in encouragement.