The Switch(51)

‘I’m thinking of … redecorating,’ I say, ushering him towards the living room.

‘Redecorating your grandmother’s house? With dragons?’

‘You know Grandma!’ I say. ‘Loves her mythology!’

He looks amused, but hands the swatch back to me. We walk side by side to the living room; he stops in the doorway and surveys the chaos, his face unreadable.

‘Do you think Grandma would have a fit if she knew I’d messed up the living room like this?’ I ask. ‘Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Actually,’ he says, smiling a little, ‘I was thinking what a very Eileen Cotton thing this is.’

*

It feels like I’ve only just turfed the Neighbourhood Watch out of Grandma’s cottage when I’m seeing them again the next day at the village hall. It’s our second May Day Committee meeting. This is an important meet-up.

I’ve prepared handouts. I’ve brought samples of honey-roasted nuts and sugared fruits and roasted meats. I’ve mapped out our key demographic for the May Day festival and detailed how perfect the medieval theme is for those fair-goers.

‘All those in favour of Leena’s idea?’ says Betsy.

No hands.

‘Sorry, dear,’ says Penelope. ‘But Jackson knows best.’

Jackson has the decency to look slightly abashed. He didn’t bring handouts. He didn’t even bring food samples. He just stood up, looked all shabbily sexily charming, and said some stuff about coconut shies and sunhats and throw-the-ring-over-the-pineapple. And then, his pièce de résistance: Samantha’s really set her heart on coming dressed as a satsuma.

Oh, hold on …

There’s one hand up! One hand!

Arnold is standing in the doorway with his arm in the air.

‘I vote for Leena’s idea,’ he says. ‘Sorry, son, but hers has falcons.’

I beam at him. Jackson, as is his wont, just looks amused by everything. What does it take to rile that man?

‘I wasn’t aware you were part of the May Day Committee, Arnold,’ Betsy says.

‘Am now,’ he says comfortably, loping in and pulling up a chair.

‘Well, it’s still a strong majority in favour of Jackson’s theme, as I’m sure you’re aware, Leena.’

‘All right,’ I say, as graciously as I can manage. ‘That’s fine. Tropical it is.’

I’m smarting, obviously. I wanted to win. But pulling all that information together was the most fun I’ve had in ages, and at least I got Arnold on my team – and turning up to a village committee, too. Wait until Grandma hears that Arnold the village hermit has been chipping in for the greater good.

I mouth Thanks at Arnold as the meeting moves on, and he shoots me a quick grin. Once Basil’s started droning on about squirrels again, I switch chairs to sit next to Arnold, ignoring Roland’s visible dismay at my change to the seating plan.

‘What possessed you to come along?’ I ask him quietly.

Arnold shrugs. ‘Felt like trying something new,’ he says.

‘You’re turning over a new leaf!’ I whisper. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

He reaches into his pocket to pull out a small paperback: Murder on the Orient Express. Betsy looks on in horror as he sits back and opens it up to his page, despite the fact that Basil is mid flow.

‘Don’t get carried away, now,’ Arnold tells me, oblivious to the stares from the rest of the committee. ‘I mainly came for the biscuits.’

Whatever. Arnold is basically Shrek: a grumpy green ogre who’s forgotten how to be nice to people. And I plan on being his Donkey. I’ve already invited him around for tea again this week, and he’s actually said he’ll come, so we’re definitely making progress.

If Grumpy Arnold can come to a village committee meeting, anything’s possible. As the meeting comes to a close, I watch Betsy make her way slowly to the coat stand, smoothing her silk scarf against her throat. So we got off on the wrong foot. So what? It’s never too late to change things, that’s what I told Arnold.

I stride over, chin lifted, and join her as she leaves the hall.

‘How are you, Betsy?’ I ask her. ‘You must pop around for tea sometime. You and your husband. I’d love to meet him.’

She looks at me warily. ‘Cliff doesn’t like to go out,’ she says, pulling on her jacket.

‘Oh, I’m sorry – is he unwell?’

‘No,’ she says, turning away.

I walk beside her. ‘I know you must be missing having Grandma here to talk to. I hope that if you – if you ever needed help, or someone to speak to, you could come to me.’

She looks at me incredulously. ‘You’re offering to help me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what would you be able to do?’ she asks, and it takes me a moment to realise she’s mimicking what I said to her that first time she came around.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say frankly. ‘That was rude of me, when I said that. I’m just not used to people offering help and meaning it, not when it comes to Carla’s death. People usually don’t like to talk about her so directly. I was taken aback.’

Betsy doesn’t speak for a while. We walk silently down Lower Lane.