like a pasty, duck?’
‘Yes, please. They look delicious.’
‘Homemade, they are! I do fifteen a day to order. When do you want yours?’
‘Can I have one now?’
‘No, duck. To order, like I said. Shall I put you on me regular list?’
‘Oh, I see. Yes, please. Can I have one tomorrow?’
Queenie took a gnarled pencil from her ear and pulled out a thumbed red exercise book. ‘What’s your name, dear?’
And Helen found herself telling Queenie her own life story in return.
‘That ex-husband of yours sounds like a right bastard, and no mistake. Still,’ Queenie adopted a look of wisdom, ‘that’s men for you.’ She paused. ‘And now you’re ’ere in Miss Wingham’s old ’ouse. She was a lovely lady, you know. Very old-fashioned in her ways, and ever so intelligent. She came ’ere to live before the war, you know. Lived in Gull’s Cry for seventy-seven years. She was on her own for all of ’em, no fella or nuffink. She never told me, but I fink she lost the love of her life in the war. She never said in so many words, but I could tell. Loved ’er cats too. Her last one was called Raven. She named ’em all after birds – I dunno why. Died peacefully in the nursing ’ome aged ninety-seven. She’ll be ’appy to think you’ve brought the old place back to life. Will you be doin’ the garden? She loved it. I’d like to get Alan Titchmarsh down ’ere to give it a going over. If you see ’im, you tell ’im!’ She laughed, then coughed a crackly cough that had been cultivated over decades of dedicated smoking.
Now, Thursday had become Pasty Day, and Helen was looking forward to another chat and a chance to browse the shelves, which were lined with greaseproof paper and red gingham. Queenie’s stock was extraordinary. Replacement suspenders for corsets and Blakey heel caps sat amongst the more mundane requirements. There was a well-stocked magazine rack, which Queenie devoured – showbiz gossip could have been her specialist knowledge on Mastermind – reading at the counter by the dim light of two bulbs suspended from the ceiling, the standard lamp with its pink shade by the freezer and the Tiffany lamp next to the till.
Queenie greeted Helen warmly as she entered. ‘Hallo, duck. I ain’t seen you much this week – you OK?’
‘Yes thanks, Queenie. I did a bit of a shop at Tesco in Trevay yesterday.’
‘Tesco? They ain’t got nothing in there! I go up sometimes on the bus, but they’ve never got anythin’ I want.’
‘Well, it was only to get a few things like balsamic and olive oil.’
‘Olive oil? We used to go to the chemist to get that, duck. And Balls Amic? What’s that when it’s at ’ome?’
‘A kind of vinegar.’
‘I got malt if you want it?’ Queenie turned to look at the gloomy shelf to her right.
‘Actually, what I do want, Queenie, is a gardener. Do you know anyone who would help me clear the garden?’
‘Oh yeah, me duck. Simple Tony’s the one you want.’
‘Tony?’
‘Simple Tony. ’E’s simple, poor lad, but a good worker. Very green-fingered.’
Helen was shocked at Queenie’s description of Tony as ‘simple’, but knew that Queenie’s generation had little truck with political correctness. She hoped that Queenie was more sensitive around the poor boy and didn’t call him ‘Simple Tony’ to his face.
‘Where does Tony live?’ she asked.
‘Next door to you. In that shepherd’s hut in the garden.’
Helen remembered the hut. The day she moved in, Polly – the owner of the house next door – had come round with mugs of camomile tea for the unimpressed removal men, who would definitely have preferred a more energising builder’s brew. Helen hadn’t had a chance to chat to her properly or find out anything about her, but since then there had been several occasions when she’d looked over into the garden and caught sight of a youngish man in a navy-blue boiler suit, sitting on the steps of the hut boiling a kettle on his camping stove. This must be Tony, Helen realised. She was glad to have an excuse to go round and find out more.
‘Is that all, duck? Want a magazine? I got some good ones there. Julia Roberts is a lovely girl, ain’t she? I like to read about ’er. And Fiona Whatsit what reads the news. Not enough about ’er. She’s very popular in my ’ouse, you know.’
‘I’ll have a bottle of wine please. I’ll take it round to Polly.’
‘Righto.’ She handed Helen a dusty bottle. ‘This has been ’ere since the Easter Raffle. Should be good by now.’
4
The smell of woodsmoke drifted over from Polly’s chimney and mingled with the damp of the conkers lined up in a row on the doorstep.
Polly opened the door with a smile.
‘Hello, Helen. Welcome to Candle Cottage. Don’t mind the conkers. I put them there to keep the spiders away – apparently they don’t like the smell of them. It’s for Tony, the big softie. He hates them! What can I do for you?’
She greeted Helen with a kiss and showed her into a room decorated with beachcombing finds and filled with vintage furniture.
‘Polly, what a wonderful room – is that a real crystal ball?’
‘Oh, that’s my ball to do the village fayres. I like a bit of fortune-telling, but only for fun. Occasionally I’m right. Little Michaela up the way came to see me last year with a broken heart and fretting about her GCSEs. I told her that her life would change in twelve months, and now she’s got five grade Cs and is five months’ pregnant! We’re all very proud of her. Cup of tea?’
‘How about a glass of wine? I’ve brought you a bottle from Queenie’s.’
‘Proper job! Let me find some glasses from the whatnot.’ Polly went to her dark wood shelves and took out two original Babycham Saucer glasses. ‘How are you settling in to village life then?’ She poured the wine and sat down on a Moroccan pouffe. ‘A bit quieter than London, I expect. I’d have come round to see you before now, but I was worried you’d think I was being nosy.’
‘It’s certainly quieter than London, which can only be a good thing. Polly, I want to pick your brains. I need a gardener and Queenie suggested Tony – the man from your garden. Does he actually live with you?’
‘Well, when his mum died, I couldn’t bear to see him on his own so I offered him the use of the hut and he loves it. He’s a super lad and will get your garden back on track. Don’t spoil him, though, and make sure he knows who’s boss.’
‘Queenie calls him Simple Tony. Is he … ?’
‘Don’t go confusing simple for stupid,’ said Polly. ‘He ain’t stupid. But he does have a tendency to take everything very literally. I once told him I was dying for a cup of tea and then had to stop him dialling 999!’ Polly laughed. ‘I’ll send him round to you in the morning and you can show him what needs doing. More wine?’
They sat and talked until it was quite dark outside. Helen filled her in on her previous life and then it was Polly’s turn.
‘Have you heard about Green Magic? It’s all about working with the power of nature and Mother Earth. Any little potion or spell I can rustle up for you? I find it complements my main work as a paramedic with the ambulance service.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘Absolutely not! I’m highly skilled – won awards and everything. So, if there’s any magical or medical emergency, don’t hesitate to call me! Would you like supper? I’m vegan, mind.’
‘That’s