Keeping Mum

‘Would you like me to give you a bit more time?’ the woman said. ‘Maybe you’d just like to take a little look and I’ll come back to you?’

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Cass. ‘I’d like…’ What the hell was it she wanted? Cass’s brain rolled over and played dead. She looked up in desperation. Behind her the queue was getting restless.

‘It begins with H…’ she said miserably. ‘And it goes early, which is why I’m here. I was sent by my mother’s husband, my stepfather, although he’s a lot younger so I don’t call him that…’ Cass cringed: her brain might be dead but her mouth was alive and kicking and just kept on going.

‘And he sent you to buy a fish that begins with H?’ The woman said helpfully, as if playing I-Spy was something she did on a regular basis.

Cass nodded.

‘Haddock?’ suggested the woman. She managed to make it sound like an insult.

Cass shook her head. ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t haddock.’

‘You sure? Only it’s not dyed, and we do sell a lot of it—and we’ve got some lovely thick fillets. That’s very popular. Smoked. That always goes real quick on a Saturday.’

‘Or there’s hake? Or what about herring?’ suggested the other woman who was working behind the counter, as she plopped a couple of nice plaice fillets onto the scale. ‘Have you got any idea what he was going to do with it?’

Someone in the queue behind Cass made a fairly graphic suggestion. Cass began to sweat, Buster began to whimper. Just exactly how many fish were there that began with H?

‘Huss?’

Cass shook her head again.

‘How about halibut?’

‘Halibut,’ Cass said, with a genuine sense of relief. ‘That’s it. I’d like some halibut. Please.’

‘Righty-oh, we’ve got a bit left; it always goes early, you know.’

Cass nodded. ‘So I’ve been told. Have you got four nice pieces, please?’

‘Certainly have,’ said the woman, holding out a snow-white piece of fish towards her. ‘Four like that?’

Cass nodded. ‘That will be great. And a pint of prawns please,’ she said, although try as she might to concentrate on the fish, Cass’s mind kept being pulled back towards Andy and the young woman. She couldn’t see them now, but she guessed where they would be heading. They would be in Sam’s Place.

Above the market square, the town clock was just chiming the hour. It was eight o’clock. Wasn’t that what the note Fiona found had said, ‘Saturday eight o’clock?’ The only difference was that Fiona had assumed it was eight o’clock in the evening, not eight o’clock on a cold wet windy early autumn morning.

Walking home, Cass mulled over what she should do. Should she ring Fiona and tell her? Fiona had asked for her help. Or was it one of those things best left alone? Cass hunched against the wind, Buster tucking in behind, slipstreaming out of the weather.

Fiona didn’t take bad news well. Cass could remember the time when she’d seen Peter Bailey—the boy whose children Fiona planned to bear when they were both about fifteen—in town with Alison Wickham. They had been holding hands. When Cass had told her, Fiona had accused Cass of lying and then of being jealous and, finally, when the two of them had caught Mr Bailey and Ms Wickham in a sweaty clinch behind the groundsman’s hut after double games, of gloating—immediately before she sent Cass to Coventry.

The bottom line was that what went on between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. Even though they were friends, asked her conscience? Especially because they were friends, countered Cass. And even if Cass had known about the girl before Fiona came round, her advice would have been that Fiona and Andy needed to talk about what was going on between themselves first, before they involved anyone else, particularly if that anyone else was likely to get mashed in the middle.

Cass sighed. The halibut weighed heavy as an albatross, the drizzle finally broke loose into a full-scale downpour, and even Buster was keen to beat a retreat as they hurried home.

As she slid the key into the shop doorway, Cass decided that the best course of action really was to say nothing. Maybe seeing Andy and the girl together was just a coincidence, or completely innocent. Maybe Fiona coming round had planted a seed in her imagination; maybe she had imagined the little buzz between Andy and the girl. Maybe Fiona and Andy had already sorted it out, talked it through, made everything right. Maybe today was the day that Andy was going to tell the little blonde that it was over for good. If she said anything, Cass might put her foot right in it and break something that wasn’t broken or cracked, something that was nine parts mended.

Who was she kidding? Cass sighed, wondering who’d died and made her Claire Rayner.

Meanwhile in an alcove in the back of Sam’s Place, at one of the smallest tables, furthest away from the large plate-glass windows, Andy watched as Amelia’s fingers knitted tightly around a tall thin mug of hot chocolate. She was hunched over it, apparently frozen, blowing away the steam as well as warming her hands, occasionally glancing up at him from under those long, perfectly mascara-ed lashes. She was wearing pink fingerless gloves.

The bar at Sam’s Place had an old colonial feel to it, with an overhead fan, lots of dark wood, ochre-coloured rag-rolled plaster and rattan furniture arranged around a central bar, and at this time of the morning it was practically empty. The guys from the market were over in the Nag’s Head if they wanted a beer and at Bennie’s on the corner or one of the stalls if they wanted coffee, tea or bacon butties. Behind the servery, a couple of staff were busy fiddling with the coffee machine; other than Andy and Amelia, their only other customer was an elderly man reading his newspaper and drinking coffee. He hadn’t looked up since the two of them had walked in.

‘You look rough,’ Amelia said, blowing over the top of the mug.

Andy, who hadn’t been sure exactly which way this conversation was going to go, smiled. ‘Well, thanks for that. I’d like to return the compliment but you look great.’

She had the good grace to blush. Last time they’d met Amelia had cried and shouted and stormed off, because he couldn’t think of anything to say that could help her with the pain, so he’d said nothing and been left standing in the middle of the beach at Holkham on his own, with people staring at him.

When he had got back to the car, Andy had had to make sure there was no sand in his shoes in case Fiona found it. He’d showered as soon as he got home, rinsing the fine grit from his hair, feeling it rasp under his fingertips as he rubbed in shampoo, although in the pocket of his leather jacket he still had a little white shell Amelia had given him.

‘You know, Andy, I could learn to really love you,’ Amelia had said, as she pressed it into his hand, before all the crying and the shouting and the running away had started.

Andy looked across the table at her now; she was watching his face intently. ‘So, how are things going?’

Amelia shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘So…?’ He waited for a second.

Amelia looked up at him from under long, mascara-covered lashes. ‘I know that you said not to ring you at home, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve missed you,’ she said, pausing as if trying to gauge his mood. ‘I was worried that you might not come.’ And as she spoke, Amelia began to spoon whipped cream, dusted with chocolate, into her mouth. ‘I wanted us to talk.’

Andy had ordered an espresso; the coffee was as hot as it was bitter and left an unpleasant residue over his tongue and teeth.

‘I can’t stay very long,’ he said, glancing round, tipping his wrist to indicate his watch and time passing, hoping to create some sense of urgency that would persuade her to come to the point.

Over the last few months he’d discovered that Amelia wasn’t very good at getting to the point. She preferred to meander through unrelated backwaters, telling Andy silly things or exciting things or secret things, sometimes things that he would rather not know, sometimes things that took his breath away. When they first met he’d thought it was charming and amusing, but now he found it frustrating, and he felt bad for feeling that about her. She was beautiful and young and every time they met he promised himself that he wouldn’t be bewitched or sidetracked by those things.

‘I can’t be long,’ he pressed.

Amelia nodded, scooping up more whipped cream. There was a tiny blob of it on her chin and he fought the temptation to lean across and wipe it away.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, still watching his face. ‘I know, you have to get back to Fiona. Who are you trying to fool here, Andy? We both know you’re not happy with her. You don’t have to be a genius to work it out. It’s not like you have got any kids or anything. Why don’t you just say something—or just leave? For god’s sake, it’s not rocket science. Start over…’ She stared at him, waiting for a reply. ‘You’re not happy, are you?’

Andy opened his mouth to say something but there were no words there. What could he say?

‘Why don’t you just tell her straight about me, about us?’ she asked. ‘Get it over and done with.’

Andy wasn’t sure what the answer was, and so said nothing. He felt at a loss for not having the right answer, or any kind of answer, come to that. This wasn’t the kind of man he was. The trouble was that, since meeting Amelia, it seemed to be the man he had become—meeting her had changed him forever.

Amelia took his silence for some kind of tacit agreement. ‘Why don’t you leave her, Andy? You know you want to.’

He winced, wishing that he’d never told Amelia that he was unhappy. My girlfriend doesn’t understand me was hardly the most original line he’d ever come up with, and completely stupid really, particularly as Amelia would never have noticed how unhappy he was if he hadn’t told her. She was far too self-obsessed to notice what was going on in anyone’s life but her own.

Across the table, Amelia licked her lips and then rootled through her handbag so that she could check them in a little mirror, adding more gloss from a clear glittery tube, smoothing away the fleck of cream. She ran a finger over her eyebrows, first one and then the other, and Andy noticed as he always did what beautiful hands she had; those long fingers with French-manicured nails. Her component parts constantly caught his attention and enchanted him. She caught him looking at her and smiled slyly. ‘So why don’t you just leave her?’ she asked.

Andy pushed his hands back through his hair; he had no idea now why he had even mentioned it to her. Confession and complaining had never really been his style. But then again he had never lied to Fiona before, nor gone behind her back. This was such a mess.

‘Look Amelia, it’s good to see you, but if there is something you want to say—I mean—I really have got to get back.’

Amelia’s mouth tightened into a little moue of displeasure. ‘I thought that we could talk. I haven’t seen you all week…’

‘Well, we can talk,’ said Andy, hoping that she wasn’t planning to make a scene like the one on the beach. ‘Just not for long. I did say I couldn’t be long today.’ And then he made himself be quiet, because he didn’t want to promise her that they would meet again soon and talk then, because she would want to know where and when and for how long, and her demands made him increasingly uncomfortable. He’d only met her this morning because he was afraid that if he held her off for too long she might turn up at their house, or ring when he wasn’t home. She was unpredictable and she made him uneasy.

Meeting her had shaken his life to the core. Fiona wasn’t the only person that he really should deal with.

And, even as he was thinking it, Amelia looked up at him, her chin resting on her knuckles, and Andy could see how vulnerable she was, how lost, and hated himself for trying to hold her at arms’ length and for being afraid of her. Of course she was right, he really should tell Fiona. About her. About them. About how much he loved her.

‘I’m listening, just tell me what you want to say,’ Andy said, leaning forwards across the table, craning closer so that he could catch every word, his voice soft with compassion.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Amelia said.

Chapter Three

‘Right, so has everyone got their starting notes? And is everyone happy with the arrangement for this?’ asked Alan, before rapidly running through the flight plan for a little gospel number the choir were polishing for the All Stars On Tour show. It was also the opening number for the ‘Bon Voyage’ concert they were staging in the Corn Exchange before they left and it really needed to go with a zing.

Alan tapped his baton on the music stand. ‘Mellow—nice and bluesy. Basses in first, twice through the intro and then altos you come in, along with the tenors and finally sopranos. We do the whole thing through a couple of times and then head on home for a big finish? Okay, just watch where I’m going with this—now relax, breathe—and let’s really go for it. Lots of life, plenty of swing,’ said Alan enthusiastically. Standing out in front of the choir, who were currently arranged in concert formation, he looked around the faces to ensure he had everyone’s attention.

‘Right. Here we go. One, two, one two three four…’ and brought the bass section in with a crisp flick of his hands. At least, that was the idea—except that that wasn’t quite what happened. For some reason, things weren’t going well tonight, and the whole number rapidly dissolved into total chaos. The normally crisp dm, dm dm-dm, dm dm—a percussive, plucky snap without a vowel sound, created by the bass section and meant to resemble the sharp rhythmic slap of a well-tuned bass, and a staple part of a lot of ‘a cappella’ choral numbers, which anchored everyone else—sounded like a bag of spanners being dropped down a flight of concrete stairs.

Welsh Alf’s attempts to recover the timing made the whole thing far worse—a lot worse. Within a few bars, the song sounded like a broken engine, mistimed, misfiring and gradually tearing itself apart, while behind it the dm, dm dm-dm, dm dms slowed, stalled and finally faded.

‘Whoa, whoa, there cowboy,’ said Alan, face contorted into a grin as he pulled an imaginary horse to a standstill. ‘Let’s try that again then, shall we folks? Just relax, feel the beat. Let’s be honest, if you don’t know it by now, really there isn’t a lot of hope. Basses, would you like me to run through your part one more time with feeling?’

There was a faint murmuring, which Alan took for a yes, at which point he began to go over their part line by line. Given that most of it was dms, it wasn’t so much a case of checking the words as the pattern. Cass looked around the rest of her section, wondering what the problem was. Fiona had barely said a word all evening, although everyone looked a bit down in the mouth tonight; surely they weren’t all keeping mum?

Cass closed her eyes and reminded herself that she wasn’t planning on saying anything about Andy, not one word, and that what happened between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. In fact, she had arrived a few minutes later than normal, and had to squeeze herself into place amongst the rest of the section, just so she couldn’t do any pre-match bonding with Fiona, and she planned to leave before the last note had stopped vibrating round the hall, so she wouldn’t slip up and nothing would slip out.

‘Righty-oh,’ said Alan, clapping his hands after they’d dm-ed the song through a few times. ‘I really don’t know what the problem was there, guys, but my advice is, you know it, you just need to relax and go with it. Right, let’s go from the top. And don’t worry, it’s pre-match nerves. Not long now and we’ll be on the road in Cyprus, on stage, on the terrace drinking pina coladas, groupies and sugar daddies hanging around wherever we go, clamouring for our bodies.’

‘For god’s sake don’t tell my missus that,’ said Welsh Alf, looking all flummoxed and anxious. ‘I’ve had a hard enough job getting her to let me go as it is.’

There was a lot of laughter.

‘You all set?’ asked Fiona, as everyone settled down.

Cass nodded. ‘For the trip? Oh yes, really looking forward to it,’ she answered brightly, making sure there was no room for any other questions.

‘Me too,’ said Fiona.

Across the hall, one of the sopranos stuck her hand up and waved it about like a schoolgirl keen to answer a question. ‘Alan? Alan?’ she called in a tinkling voice, trying hard to grab his attention.

Taking advantage of the hiatus, Fiona said, ‘Actually, Cass, I was hoping to have a word with you. Are you going to the pub afterwards? I wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

Cass felt her heart sink. After all, she could so easily be wrong about Andy and the girl, which was exactly what Rocco and her mum had said on Saturday evening, while eating a superb supper of halibut and prawns baked under a crust of Gruyère crumble, served with Cass’s homegrown spinach, pan-fried courgettes and sauté potatoes—along with a spare man called Mike who they had invited along to make up the numbers.

‘My advice? Snout out,’ Rocco had said, tapping the side of his nose by way of a visual aid. ‘You’re damned if you do and you’ll be buggered if you don’t in a situation like that. God only knows the bucket of worms you’ll be wading through.’ He pulled a face. ‘Blast, I just mixed my metaphors, didn’t I?’

‘Well and truly mixed, diced, and deep fried,’ said Nita, tucking a strand of bleached blonde hair back behind her ear. ‘Best to leave that one alone, Cass my darling. I remember what she was like when you were at school. She was always difficult. You did the right thing, told her to talk to him, and now it’s up to them to sort it out for themselves. Do you want some more fish—there’s plenty?’

‘So what’s your connection to the woman with the wayward husband?’ asked Mike conversationally, offering up his plate for seconds. ‘Nita said that you were in antiques—do you do counselling on the side?’

Cass glanced across at him. Mike was around five ten with grey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes with enough wrinkles around them to suggest he probably smiled a lot more than he frowned. Sadly, that was not enough to make him her type or fanciable. And, truth be told, he was probably nice, except that tonight romance wasn’t what was on her mind. So far he’d done little but listen and fiddle with things in his jacket pocket and she was torn between feeling sorry for him and being annoyed. Her mum and Rocco always did this, invite along some poor sucker, hoping to play matchmaker, when really all she wanted was to gossip with the pair of them.

‘We sing together,’ she began. ‘And we used to go to school together. She moved back to the area a couple of years ago.’

‘Oh right—yes—in the choir, Rocco was telling me about that. Sounds like fun.’

‘They sing like angels,’ said Nita.

‘You ought to hear them,’ said Rocco. Cass shot him a look. He beamed back at her.

Mike was an architect, and apparently yes, he was an angel too, because her mother had said so. He’d drawn up the plans for their kitchen and now he’d come up with some sort of fancy notion for the roof, which included taking most of it off and turning part of it into a sun terrace.

‘You’re having a terrace?’ asked Cass, as she shovelled more of the baked fish onto her plate.

Rocco nodded. ‘Uh-huh—your mother reckons if they’re right about global warming that our flat roof is going to be like St Tropez, so while we’ve got the whole thing stripped back to bare bones, why not? Who wants this last bit of fish?’

Mouth full, Mike waved it onto his plate. ‘Yes please, god, that’s really fabulous…’

‘Worth getting up at seven for?’ asked Rocco in passing. Mike, quite reasonably, looked mystified.

‘It’s a close call,’ said Cass. ‘Did you get to the airport on time?’

Rocco pushed the bowl of vegetables in her direction. ‘Certainly did. Your mum was going to pick them up, but you know what her driving is like.’ He tipped his hand sharply left and right.

Nita made as if to hit him with the spoon.

‘Oh, come on, Nita. Last time we went to Stansted you reversed over some poor bugger’s hand luggage and then drove off with both back doors open,’ said Rocco, topping up Cass’s wine glass.

At which point Nita hit him with the spoon. ‘You are such a liar. Here baby, take the last of the potatoes…’

Supper at their house contained more nurturing in one evening than most women got in a lifetime.

‘And be fair,’ continued Nita. ‘Rocco’s enough to drive Francis of Assisi to drink. Nag, nag, nag, look out for this, did you see that, mind that cyclist. Don’t drive in the middle of the road…He would drive anyone loco. Talking of which, Rocco tells me that you and the All Stars are off on tour?’

‘Um,’ said Cass, through a mouthful of sauce, ‘A fortnight today. You are coming to the concert, aren’t you? Rocco—you did tell her, didn’t you?’

The pair of them nodded. ‘As if we’d miss it,’ said Rocco. Cass couldn’t work out quite just how much of that was sarcasm. ‘We can get you a ticket if you want to come along too, Mike, can’t we Cass?’ continued Rocco.

Cass glared at him—not that Rocco noticed.

‘That sounds great. Where are you going on tour?’ Mike asked.

‘Cyprus. Seven days of singing with our lot and about twenty-five other choirs. It’s their first a cappella festival. I know it sounds nuts but it’ll be great. We’ve got some workshops and rehearsals together, a few performances and lot of sun, sea, singing and…’

All three of them looked expectantly in her direction, waiting for the pay-off line. Cass reddened and held up her hands. ‘It’s a competition—the winning choir gets a trip to the States. We’re going to be singing in a Roman amphitheatre.’

‘Really—well, sounds like fun,’ said Mike, politely.

‘Sounds way, way too Butlins to me. So what’s happening to the pooch, the puss and the old hacienda while you’re away?’ Rocco asked casually.

‘Kennels, cattery and most probably closing down for a few days. The boys are both at Uni at the moment—not that I’d ask them to come home and house-sit. They’d eat me out of house and home and leave the place wrecked. And Jacko’s busy—that’s a local guy who helps me out in the shop,’ she added for Mike’s benefit. ‘Besides, I need a break, and business is usually slow at this time of the year anyway. People will ring if they want anything special.’

She and Mike had already had the, So you’re an architect, how very interesting conversation, followed by the Rocco tells me you’re an interior designer section, to which Cass had added the actually these days I mostly restore and sell old furniture speech, so at least he was up to speed with her professional life.

‘And people will come back. I’ll put a sign in the window.’

‘How very twenty-first century…’ said Rocco, steepling his fingers. ‘We’ve been discussing this, haven’t we Nita? How about if we stepped into the breach for you?’

‘What do you mean? I wasn’t aware there was any breach?’ Cass said suspiciously.

‘Y’know, pick up the pinny, mind the fort,’ said Rocco.

‘Do you mean run the shop?’

Her mother and Rocco did some very slick synchronised nodding.

Cass stared at the pair of them. ‘Because?’

‘Actually, it would just be me during the day,’ said her mother apologetically. ‘Well, most days, and I couldn’t promise it would be every day, but we can look after the animals, can’t we Rocco? I’ve always wanted a cat. And Buster loves us.’

‘And while we’re at it, we wondered if we could maybe borrow your house as well.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, because first of all we can keep an eye on the place,’ said Nita. ‘I mean, you always have nice things there. Very nice things, according to Rocco.’

Cass held tight to Rocco’s shifting gaze. He reddened.