There was nothing minimalistic about the wall of patterned picture frames displaying photographs of Gideon, Agnes and a man I presumed to be her late husband, Chester. Or the shelving jammed with dog-eared books, vibrant Hattie Hood prints everywhere and the painting of the bridge I’d come across a couple of days ago.
‘I think it’s very homely.’
‘Well, Gideon likes it and he did the decorating. Of course, he had to stick his cousin’s merchandise all over the place. Not that I like to complain. I’m just grateful for a roof over my head.’
Somehow, I suspected those last statements weren’t entirely true.
‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ I asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘We don’t have one, so no, you can’t. I’m quite capable of making my guest a drink,’ Agnes huffed. ‘If you’re here to patronise me, young lady, then you can leave me and the dog to it.’
‘Her name’s Muffin.’
Agnes bumped past me into the kitchen area. ‘I already told you, I don’t remember names.’
Watching her hand wobble as she clutched first one mug, then another, while holding them under a boiling water tap, it was difficult to resist intervening. Having worked with a variety of elderly and infirm clients over the years, from those who cried with gratitude when I handed them a hot drink, to those who’d rather go thirsty than let me impinge on their independence, I could respect where Agnes stood on that spectrum.
‘So, are you going to tell me why you’re really here?’ she asked, once we were sitting in the living area, Muffin’s chin on her lap.
My brain stuttered for a few seconds, getting caught on Hattie’s story about my reason for being at Riverbend.
‘Did my son ask you to call in?’
Releasing a surreptitious sigh of relief, I took another sip of tea while figuring out how to answer that.
‘He didn’t, but he did mention that you weren’t able to get out much. I’ve not ventured into the village yet. Hattie and Lizzie are almost constantly working. I was hoping you might have time to show me around? We could pick up anything you need while we’re there.’
‘I’m sure Gideon would love to give you a Middlebeck tour.’
‘Maybe, but he’s also working. And I wondered if you might enjoy shopping for your own food for once. You could choose whatever you wanted rather than what Gideon picks up.’
‘Careful. We’re teetering back into patronising again.’
I ignored her steely words and focussed on the glimmer of interest in her dark eyes. ‘If we go soon, Gideon could come home to dinner in the oven. I’ll help you cook, as a thank you for showing me around. What’s your favourite?’
She pursed her lips, fingers idly fondling Muffin’s ears. ‘Gideon used to love my hotpot. They don’t make it the same down here.’
‘Hotpot it is, then. If we make double, I can take some for Hattie.’
Agnes snorted. ‘Aha! The truth comes out. Had enough of her haphazard cooking already, have you?’
I gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I might have done, if she didn’t keep engineering things so that I’m the cook.’
‘Sounds about right. Come on, then, drink up and we might stand a chance of getting to the butcher’s before the best cuts of lamb have gone.’
‘I’ll need to fetch my motorhome if we’re going to drive.’
‘Not if we take Gideon’s car.’
Two hours later, we’d visited the butcher, the greengrocer and Middlebeck Minimart, as well as stopping off at Laurie’s bakery and café for a restorative cup of tea and a late lunch. I spotted one of the Changelings from the art-therapy class there, who flapped her now imaginary crow wings at me and winked. Agnes had shown me the village landmarks, which seemed to total the green, the pond on the green, the church, and a statue of a farmer whose name no one could remember. She’d had a whale of a time pointing and barking instructions while I’d fetched, carried and paid for everything.
I had to admit, I’d enjoyed myself, too. It had been a long time since I’d been shopping with someone, especially someone who squeezed every tomato in the grocer’s and accused the butcher of fiddling with the scales, putting up such a fearsome argument that he knocked off fifty pence, even though we all knew Agnes was bluffing. Once back at the boathouse, we found he’d snuck in a joint of ham.
Instead of being pleased, Agnes shoved it forcefully back into the bag.
‘This is why I don’t go into the village,’ she snapped, visibly trembling as she pushed the bag into my hands.
‘Because people might slip you an extra piece of meat?’
