A Week in Winter(25)

Chicky laughed. ‘Not any more, it doesn’t. Do you make pastry?’

‘No, it’s too hard, too much trouble.’

‘I could teach you to be a great cook,’ Chicky offered.

‘Are you a great cook, Chicky?’

‘I am, as it happens. It was the last thing I ever expected to be, but I do enjoy it.’

‘Did Uncle Walter cook also?’

‘No, he mainly left it to me. He was always so busy, you see.’

‘I know.’ Orla didn’t know but she could recognise when Chicky was closing down a conversation. ‘Why would you teach me to cook?’ she asked.

‘In the hope that one day, not now, but one day, you might come back home here and help me run this place.’

‘I don’t think I could ever come back to Stoneybridge,’ Orla said.

‘I know.’ Chicky seemed to think that was reasonable. ‘I never wanted to come back either but here I am.’ That day she showed Orla how to make a really easy brown bread and a parsnip and apple soup. It seemed completely effortless and they had it for their lunch. Miss Queenie said that she had never eaten such lovely food in her life until Chicky had come to the place.

‘Imagine, Orla, we grew those parsnips here in our own garden and the apples are from the old orchard, and Chicky made them all taste like that!’

‘I know, isn’t she a genius!’ Orla said with a smile.

‘She is indeed. Weren’t we lucky that she came back to us and didn’t stay over there in the United States? And tell me, are you having a wonderful time over in London?’

‘Not bad at all, Miss Queenie, busy of course and tiring, but great.’

‘I wish I had travelled more,’ Miss Queenie said. ‘But even if I had, I think I would always have come back here.’

‘What do you like particularly about here, Miss Queenie?’

‘The sea, the peace, the memories. It all seems so right here, somehow. We went to Paris once, and to Oxford. Very, very beautiful, both places. Jessica and Beatrice and I often talked about it afterwards. It was great but it wasn’t real, if you know what I mean. It was as if we were acting a part in a play. Here you don’t do that.’

‘Oh, I know what you mean, Miss Queenie.’ She saw Chicky flash her a grateful look. Orla had no idea what poor Miss Queenie had meant but she was glad she had given the right response.

Back in London, she made brown bread and parsnip soup to welcome Brigid back from Paris.

‘God, you’ve become domesticated,’ Brigid said.

‘And you’ve got something to tell me,’ Orla said.

‘I’m going to marry him,’ Brigid said.

‘Fantastic! When?’

‘In the summer. Only, of course, if you’ll be my bridesmaid.’

‘Only, of course, if I don’t have to wear plum taffeta or lime-green chiffon.’

‘Are you pleased for me?’

‘Come on, will you look at yourself, you are so happy. I’m thrilled for you.’ Orla hoped she was putting enough enthusiasm in her voice.

‘You don’t think he’s just foolish old Foxy?’

‘What do you mean? Of course I don’t think that. I think he’s lucky Foxy. Tell me where and when did he propose?’

‘I do love him, you know,’ said Brigid.

‘I know you do,’ Orla lied, looking into the face of her friend Brigid who, for some reason that would never be explained, was going to settle for Foxy Farrell.

Things moved swiftly after that.

Brigid left her job and spent a lot of time with Foxy’s family in Berkshire. The wedding would be in Stoneybridge.

‘What a pity that Chicky’s place won’t be up and running in time. It would be great if the Farrells could take it over for the wedding. They’ll be appalled by Stoneybridge,’ Brigid said.

‘I was half thinking of going back there,’ Orla said, suddenly.

‘You’re never serious?’ Brigid was shocked. ‘Look at how hard it was to get out of there in the first place.’

‘I don’t know . . . it’s only a thought.’

‘Well, banish that thought.’ Brigid was very definite. ‘You’d only be back twenty minutes before you were on all fours trying to get out of it again. And where would you work, for God’s sake? The knitting factory?’

‘No, I might go in with Chicky.’

‘But that place is doomed, I tell you. It won’t last for two seasons. Then she’ll have to sell it and lose a packet. Everyone knows that.’

‘Chicky doesn’t know that. I don’t know that. It’s only your uncles who say that because they wanted to buy it themselves.’

‘I’m not going to fight with my bridesmaid,’ Brigid said.

‘Swear you aren’t thinking of mauve taffeta,’ Orla begged, and they were fine again. Apart from Orla’s disbelief that anyone could want to marry Foxy Farrell.

As she often did at times of change, Orla wrote to Miss Daly for advice.

‘Am I going mad, sort of wanting to go back to Stoneybridge? Is it just a knee-jerk reaction to Brigid deciding to marry this eejit? Were you bored rigid when you were there?’

Miss Daly wrote back.

I loved the work. You were great kids in that school. I adored the place. I still look back on it with pleasure. I’m in the mountains here. It’s lovely, and I can drive to the sea but it’s not the same as Stoneybridge, where the sea was there at your feet. Why don’t you try it out for a year? Tell your aunt that you don’t want to sign up for life. Thank you for not asking about Shane. He’s having a little time out with something marginally more interesting than me, but he’ll be back. And I’ll take him back. It’s a funny old world. Once you realise that, you’re halfway there.