It Started With A Tweet(31)

‘Last post goes at four,’ says Gerry, chipping in and pointing sternly at the clock, which says that it’s ten to. I nod, thinking I’d better get scribbling.

‘Now, this is a good choice in jam,’ continues the woman as she picks it up. ‘Goes best with those crumpets from Mill House farm. Those ones there on the end of the shelf,’ she says pointing.

Rosie hesitates for a second before she goes over and picks up a packet, as if that was what was being asked of her.

‘That’s better. Proper supper that is. So you two up for a holiday, then?’

‘Actually, my sister’s bought a place up here,’ I say quickly, catching a look of annoyance on Rosie’s face. Perhaps she was trying to keep that quiet.

‘Oh, have you? What place have you bought? Where’s been for sale, Gerry?’

‘I don’t know, Liz. Mr Tompkins’s place was sold, but that couple from Lazonby bought that. What about the Smiths’ house?’

‘No, they took it back off the market in the end. I think he was threatened with redundancy and thought better of it.’

‘His job at the garage?’ asks Gerry, carrying on as if we’re not even there. You wouldn’t get this kind of conversation in the M&S Food Hall in Dulwich.

‘That’s right. Got taken over by some big firm. Where did you say the house was?’

‘It’s Upper Gables Farm, off the old road,’ says Rosie.

‘Oh,’ say the women together. They’re silent for a moment as they consider it.

‘You never bought that wreck, love? How much did you pay for it?’

My sister stutters for a second, too shocked at the bluntness to reply.

‘She got a good deal at auction,’ I say, filling in the blanks.

‘You’d need to have done,’ says Gerry. ‘That’s a big old farm. What do you plan to do with it?’

‘I was thinking of doing holiday lets,’ she says wincing.

‘Oh, more holiday lets,’ says Liz. ‘But, it’s better than nought for the community. It’s worse when they’re left a crumbling wreck on the landscape.’

‘And the tourists always spend well in the village,’ says Gerry.

‘That they do. And your husband’s helping, is he?’ says Liz, pointing at Rosie’s wedding ring.

‘Um, he will when he can. We live in Manchester and he works during the week,’ she starts muttering under her breath about weekends and I know that she’s desperate to change the subject.

‘So there are a few holiday lets in the area, then, are there?’ I say, taking the focus off Rosie and Rupert.

‘Oh aye,’ says Gerry. ‘People want to come here mainly for the walking, it’s ideal with the Lakes and the Pennines so close. There’s all sorts of accommodation here already; Lodges, B&Bs. You name it, we’ve got it.’

I nod. In all the talking with Rosie about her vision she hadn’t mentioned her target market – who she wants to attract. Looks like we’ll have to suss out the competition too. This project is getting bigger by the second.

‘Have you seen much of Jack up at Lower Gables?’

‘No, not yet,’ says Rosie. ‘We did run into someone with a cocker spaniel yesterday, though, who had a big hairy beard.’

I think back to his rudeness with me this morning and I feel a wave of anger.

‘That would be him,’ says Liz, her eyes lighting up. ‘On his own, was he?’

‘Just him and his dog,’ I say, thinking we already said that.

‘Bet he won’t be happy, Liz, with the tourists,’ says Gerry.

Liz nods wisely. To be honest, I get the impression that he wouldn’t be happy with anyone.

I see Gerry’s eyebrow hovering, as if she’s waiting for us to say something more, but instead Rosie sees the silence as our bid to escape.

‘So, how much do we owe you, then?’

‘Oh, let’s see,’ says Liz, pressing a button on the till. ‘Twenty-seven pounds seventy-five, then, please.’

‘Can I have a stamp as well, for the postcard? Do I have to buy that over there?’ I ask, pointing at the post-office counter.

‘I’ll run and get you one,’ says Gerry. ‘Liz will ring it through her till.’

Liz adjusts the balance and Rosie pays.

‘I’ll just quickly write this,’ I say, getting one of my pens out of the packet.



Yo Erica,

Check this out – written by my own fair hand and everything. So Rosie and I are in Cumbria. Turns out that she conned me into coming to this old farmhouse that’s riddled with mice and is falling down around us, as she’s gone and bought the bloody place.



I do my best to draw a shocked face.



I’m coping like a trooper without the Internet. I’ve not missed it in the slightest lying heavily.

Hope all is well with you and Chris and now that I have departed there has been much –



I start to draw an aubergine but it looks way too rude to leave on a postcard. I’m not sure if Royal Mail have censors for decency, but, either way, I scribble it out and decide to write it instead.



– ‘Aubergine’ – wink. Righto. Miss you lots. Will update you soon.