The landlord said, ‘Coming right up,’ but made no move to ensure that happened. Instead, he lingered, wiping a cloth across the already clean table. ‘Someone called earlier, enquiring about you. A woman.’
Mark’s pulse quickened. ‘Who?’
‘Nikki Warring. She teaches in Picklewick Primary.’
His disappointment was acute. ‘What did she want?’
‘She didn’t say.’ Dave fished a crumpled note out of his pocket. ‘I was going to push this under your door, but since you’re here…’ He placed it on the table and Mark glanced at it.
Just a name and a mobile number, but he could guess what it was about. He’d visited many schools, nurseries and libraries since his first book was published.
The landlord hadn’t moved, clearly hoping Mark would phone Nikki Warring at this very moment.
‘Sandwich?’ Mark reminded him.
‘Yes. Right.’ With a longing look at the note, Dave wandered off, leaving Mark alone with his thoughts.
The way his heart had leapt when he’d thought the caller might have been Beatrice, concerned him. His reaction to seeing her yesterday could be explained by the unexpectedness of the encounter. But today…?
He should definitely leave. Who was it who’d said that the past was a country one should never revisit? He couldn’t remember, but the sentiment was spot on. Picklewick had been magical growing up. It wasn’t quite as magical now that he was an adult and viewing it through adult eyes. It was still pretty and quaint, and still unspoilt, but it wasn’t doing anything for him.
Not wanting to be rude, or offend his readership (the adult contingent, that is), after Mark finished his lunch he gave Nikki Warring a call.
‘Mr Stafford! Thank you so much for getting back to me,’ she said. ‘I’m Dulcie’s sister. I wish I’d known at the time that it was you who had stepped into the breach on Saturday – I would have loved to have met you. Actually, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about. I teach at Picklewick Primary and I wondered whether you could be persuaded to visit our school? The children would be thrilled to bits if you did.’ She paused for breath.
Seeing an opening, Mark leapt in. ‘I’d love to, but I doubt I’m going to be in Picklewick long.’
‘It won’t take long. Just an hour of your time. Please? We don’t often get many authors in this neck of the woods, and to think you went to this very school.’
And that was how Mark Stafford, successful children’s author (hopefully dressed in his own clothes this time) agreed to visit Picklewick Primary School on Wednesday afternoon to entertain small children for the second time in less than a week.
Beatrice couldn’t believe how quickly time could speed by. No sooner did she arrive at the farm shop, than it was time to leave to collect the girls from school. She was thoroughly enjoying every minute of her new job, and every day was different.
She assumed things would probably settle down after Christmas, but for now she was rushed off her feet. Today, for instance, she’d been taste-testing milkshakes (mince pie flavour had been her favourite) and putting together festive afternoon tea boxes. There had been a steady stream of customers, and she knew that as the weekend approached, it would get even busier.
It was only Wednesday but Beatrice was already looking forward to Saturday. If last week was anything to go by, this next one should be fun. She was secretly disappointed that Mark wouldn’t be there, wearing the Grinch’s outfit, but maybe that was a good thing because, despite how busy she was both during and outside of work, Mark had been a constant presence in her mind.
She was also looking forward to Sunday. Beatrice loved her girls with every cell in her body, but she rarely had a minute to herself, so she treasured the times when they were with their father. Eric didn’t often have them for a whole day because hewas a nurse in Thornton General, which meant he worked days, nights and weekends too. She was planning a pampering day, and she knew she was going to need it after the busy week.
Right now she was on her way to collect the girls from school and she just had enough time to drop the car off at home and walk the six minutes from her front door to the school gates.
A gaggle of people were gathered in the playground waiting for the doors to open and the children to pour out of their various classrooms, and Beatrice spotted her best friend Lisa making her way over.
Lisa was studying her. ‘Have you heard? Mark’s back.’
Quietly Beatrice replied, ‘I heard.’
‘How do you feel?’ Lisa knew their history. How could she not, since she’d picked up the pieces. Beatrice had been a mess for a while.
She laughed, hoping it sounded natural. ‘I’m fine. I’ve been over him for years. Mark Stafford is water under the bridge.’
‘I heard a rumour that he was the farm’s Grinch. That can’t be right, can it?’
Airily Beatrice replied, ‘I believe he was.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No.’ It wasn’t technically a lie. She hadn’t seenhimas such. She’d seen a green Grinchy mask.
