The Switch(43)

Arnold looks a little disturbed at the thought. ‘Online dating,’ he says eventually. ‘Fancy that. She’s a force to be reckoned with, that woman.’ He shoots me a look. ‘Seems it runs in the family.’

I snort. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got that impression. Ever since I got here all I’ve done is screw up. Actually, scratch that: all I’ve done for the last year is screw up.’

Arnold narrows his eyes at me. ‘From what I hear, while you’ve been coping with your sister’s death, you’ve held down an all-hours city job, supported your partner, put Betsy in her place, and got Penelope to stop driving.’

I pause, startled into silence. Everyone here talks about Carla’s death so openly, as if it happened to all of us – I’d have thought I’d mind it, but somehow it’s better.

‘I didn’t mean to put Betsy in her place,’ I say. ‘Is that what people are saying?’

Arnold chuckles. ‘Ah, anyone can see you’ve got her goat. But don’t worry, she needs pulling in line sometimes. Look up busybody in the dictionary and there Betsy’ll be.’

I actually think there’s more to Betsy than that. There’s something defensive about her bossiness, like she’s getting in there first, telling you how to live your life before you can tell her how to live hers.

‘What’s the story with Cliff, her husband?’ I ask.

Arnold looks down at the ground, scuffing one foot. ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Nasty piece of work, that one. Wouldn’t wish a man like that on any woman.’

‘What do you mean?’ I frown, remembering how quickly Betsy had got up when Cliff had summoned her home from Clearwater Cottage. ‘Does he – does he treat Betsy badly?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Arnold says hastily. ‘People’s marriages are their own business.’

‘Sure, but … only to a point, right? Have you ever seen anything that’s got you worried?’

‘I ought not to …’ Arnold glances sideways at me. ‘It’s not my business.’

‘I’m not trying to gossip,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to make sure Betsy’s all right.’

Arnold rubs his chin. ‘There’s been the odd thing. Cliff is a stickler for how things are done. He gets angry if Betsy gets it wrong. These days he doesn’t get out much – she’s at his beck and call, from what I can gather, but if you walk past their house with the windows open at the wrong moment you’ll hear how he talks to her, and it’s not …’ Arnold shakes his head. ‘It’s not how you ought to talk to a woman is all I’m saying. It wears away at her. She’s not who she used to be. But we all do what we can for her. There’s nobody in this village who wouldn’t take her in if she needed it.’

Does she know that, I wonder? Is anyone saying it out loud, or are they all doing what my grandma does – keeping quiet, not interfering? I make a mental note to try harder with Betsy. I’m not exactly someone she’d trust to confide in, but maybe I could be.

Arnold suddenly slaps his forehead. ‘Bugger. I was meant to ask you something. That’s why I dropped by in the first place. You’re not busy this morning, are you? We need a favour.’

‘Oh?’ I say warily, wondering who ‘we’ might be.

‘Do you know what day it is?’

‘Err.’ In all honesty, I have slightly lost track of the days. ‘Sunday?’

‘It’s Easter Sunday,’ Arnold says, getting up from the bench. ‘And we need an Easter bunny.’

*

‘Jackson. I should have known you’d be at the bottom of this.’

Jackson looks perplexed. The shoulders of his jumper are splattered with raindrops, and he’s holding a wicker basket full of foiled chocolate eggs. We’re at the village hall, which has been decorated with special Easter bunting and large signs declaring that this is the starting point for the annual Hamleigh-in-Harksdale Easter egg hunt, kicking off in exactly half an hour.

‘At the bottom of this … free event for children?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say, eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, exactly.’

He blinks innocently at me, but I am not fooled. He is one hundred per cent trying to mess with me. I made some real headway with Dr Piotr the other day, in the queue at the village shop – he all but promised me he’d vote for my May Day theme. Then I caught sight of Jackson browsing the newspapers behind us, clearly eavesdropping.

This, surely, is his revenge.

‘Doesn’t Leena look the bee’s knees?’ Arnold asks from behind me.

I am wearing white fleece trousers with a bunny tail sewn on; they’re about six sizes too big for me and held on with a leather belt borrowed from Arnold. I am also sporting a patterned waistcoat with (in case things weren’t clear) bunnies all over it. Also, bunny ears. Aren’t bunny ears meant to be sexy? I feel like an actual clown.

‘Shut up, Arnold,’ I say.

A smile tugs at Jackson’s lips. ‘Even better than I expected. It suits you.’

There is a loud, dramatic gasp behind me. I spin and am faced with the sight of an outrageously cute little girl. Her blonde hair is in lopsided pigtails, there is a long streak of what looks like permanent marker on her cheek, and one of her trouser legs is rolled up to reveal a long, stripy sock. She has both hands on her cheeks, like the shocked-face emoji, and her blue eyes are wide – and very familiar.