Page 1 of Match Point in Crumbleton
PROLOGUE
CRUMBLETON TIMES AND ECHO - 22ND AUGUST
What’s on This Week
Curating Crumbleton – One Artefact at a Time!
A warm welcome this week to Crumbleton Museum’s brand new curator. Cath Walker will be taking on the mammoth task of cataloguing and curating the vast collection at the town museum. The poor old place has been left to its own devices for far too long – so this is likely to be quite a week for our new resident! I’m sure the whole town will rally around – show your support to Cath while she dives in and uses her expertise to get the doors open again. Who knows what amazing treasures lurk inside…
Cobbling It All Together
Andy Morgan will be working on the high street cobbles again this week. He’d like to respectfully request that everyone takes the hill at a sensible speed - if you have to drive up it at all. Parts will be cordoned off, making it very narrow in places. Andy will do his best to minimise disruption – although it would be greatly appreciated if parents could encourage their youngsters not to use the back of his head as target practise after they’ve visited the sweetshop. I’ve been told by a reliable source that a Cola Cube to the back of the head hurts!
Caroline Cook. Editor
CHAPTER 1
CATH
‘That’s it then love, we’re off!’
Cath raised her eyebrows and glared at Bruce. The older of the two removal guys didn’t even flinch as he slammed the back doors of the dented white van closed and dusted his hands together.
There was something worryingly final about the action.
‘What do you mean, that’s it?!’ said Cath.
Her voice sounded weary, even to her own ears. She was tired—bone tired—and not just because it was moving day at long last. This feeling had been building inside her ever since her husband of fifteen years had announced that he was bored. Bored with their home. Bored with their life together. Most of all, bored with her.
That moment had triggered an exhausting chain of events that had included hunting for a new job, a new home… and a new life.
Now here she was, standing on Crumbleton’s cobbled high street, surrounded by dozens of boxes and the few pitiful bits of furniture she’d brought with her.
What amounted to all her worldly goods were currently blocking the narrow pavement plus a good portion of the frontage of Crumbleton Bookshop. It was long past closing time, and their lights were out… which was probably just as well. It was going to take ages to ferry everything up the narrow staircase to her new flat!
‘We need to get a shift on,’ said Bruce. ‘Can’t stay here blocking the high street.’
‘Oh,’ said Cath, her tone suddenly more hopeful, ‘you just mean you need to move the van? That’s fair enough. Then we can make a start on getting this lot upstairs. It shouldn’t take too long with the three of us.’
‘Nope, we’re off off,’ said Bruce, shaking his head. ‘We’re done. Finished. The end. Finito. I want to get back up to London this evening.’
The young lad who’d helped turf her boxes out of the van nodded from his perch on the passenger seat. He’d already pulled his seatbelt back on and was busy fiddling with his mobile phone.
‘But… surely you’re going to help me carry everything upstairs first?’ she said, glancing at the mountain of boxes again. Okay, perhaps mountain was over-egging the pudding a bit. It was more like a molehill of boxes considering that it represented her entire life. Still—mountain or molehill—she really could do with a hand.
‘Gotta go!’ said Bruce, shaking his head again.
‘But I paid you!’ said Cath.
She cringed at the distinct wobble that had just crept into her voice. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to burst into tears, yell, or laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Frankly, all three options sounded like they’d take way more energy than she had left to spare, so she bit her lip instead.
‘You paid us to transport the boxes,’ said Bruce, executing what she’d come to recognise as his trademark shrug. ‘We’ve done that. I mean, if we’re splitting hairs, I should really charge you extra for helping to unload.’
Cath felt herself deflate and the wobble of emotion promptly turned into the flat feeling of defeat. All she wanted to do was curl up on a comfy sofa and go to sleep—preferably under a fluffy blanket. In fact, if she was going to take the fantasy all the way… she wouldn’t mind waking up to a gooey slice of chocolate cake, a cup of perfectly made Earl Grey in her favourite cup, and a half-naked demi-god busily unpacking all her boxes and arranging her new flat for her.
‘Fat chance,’ she muttered, sinking down to sit on the worn stone doorstep between the bakery and the bookshop.
She watched as Bruce climbed up into the van. Two seconds later, he drove off without so much as a fare-thee-well.
