Ice Dancing Episode 11

WFiona was always telling me that I should wear more make-up, buy some new clothes and make something of myself

e had pulled up in front of Louise’s house. “I don’t know why,” I told him truthfully. “But maybe there was no-one else.” “I was going to sell it without even seeing it. Then I changed my mind.”

“I didn’t know Louise had American relatives.”

“She didn’t. I’m from Canada.”

“I’m sorry.”

I knew Canadians didn’t like you assuming they were American. It was like foreigners thinking the Scots were English. Afterwards I realised that the accent is very different but at the time I didn’t hear it.

“Louise’s Uncle Fred went to Canada. Didn’t she ever tell you?”

“No. Well...” I hesitated.

“What?”

“She once said he eloped. But I had no idea where to.”

Joe let out a hoot of laughter. “Eloped? What else did she say?”

“That was all. There’s a photo of him somewhere in the cottage. In an old album. You’ll probably find it if you’re sorting her things out. She said he eloped. But we never talked about it again, though I kept meaning to ask her.”

“I suppose she was right. He did elope. With my grandmother. I’ll tell you all about it some day.”

He opened the door of the pick-up and got out, went round to lift out his groceries and came back to my window.

“Thanks for the lift, Helen. I’ll know where to come for my eggs in future.”

“You know where we are if you need anything.”

“I’ll remember that, when I do need anything.”

I thought he was good looking but cagey. Interlopers. That’s what they call them in the village except that they pronounce it “interlowper”.

Even after I got married to Sandy, whose family was built in with the stones, even after I had been living here for years, I was still an interloper. Joe Napier would never be anything else.

I didn’t see him for a week or so after that, although sometimes I could hear hammering when I passed the cottage so I thought he must be doing some repairs.

Then one day I saw that the hire car had disappeared and in its place there was an old four wheel drive. It looked as though it had seen better days.

Fiona was very taken with Joe. She came into the kitchen one evening when I was making pastry and perched on the table to talk to me.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said, with a sigh. “I wish I could go out with him!”

I was baking apple and blackberry pies for Charlie McGowan’s 50th birthday party. It was going to be held in the village hall and we had all been asked to bring a contribution. But I might have to do these again. The pastry wasn’t coming together right. It was more like cement than pastry. Maybe my hands were too warm. “He’s much too old for you, Fiona.” “Everyone thinks he’s just...” She paused and shook her head, lost for words.

“Is he?”

“Oh come on, mum!”

“Well. I wouldn’t know if he was sexy or not, would I?”

“Yes you would. Why wouldn’t you? You’re not that old.”

Fiona was always telling me that I should wear more make-up, buy myself some new clothes and generally make something of myself. She had seen too many makeover programmes on TV. Sometimes she would infect me with her enthusiasm and I would make a half-hearted attempt to do something about myself, but there were few occasions for me to look glamorous in the village.

“What does he do?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he from?”

“Canada.”

“No, I mean where in Canada.” “Fiona, I really don’t know anything about him.”

The pastry was all wrong. I was trying to roll it out and it kept breaking into little bits. I hated people watching me while I was cooking. I wanted to tell Fiona to go away and let me work in peace but I couldn’t. It was so seldom that she wanted to talk to me about anything these days.

“That pastry’s like cement!” she said suddenly.

“I know. I’m going to have to bin it and do it again.”

“I wonder what he does?” “Ask him when you see him.”

“I never get to talk to him.” “Maybe he’ll pass the phone box on the way down to the pub.”

It just slipped out before I could stop myself. The village phone box had no phone these days, now that everyone had mobiles, even the kids. But the village had adopted it. There was a little second hand book exchange, and notices about this or that function, and a few plants during the summer months. People even trimmed it up for Christmas.

The kids often congregated around it at night until someone chased them away for making too much noise. Fiona gave me one of those looks. She knew I didn’t approve of all this loitering about the village. She had taken my ruined pastry and was rolling it into a fat sausage between her palms. “Will I put this out for the birds?”

“If you like.”

It always surprised me that Fiona should have kept her childhood love of birds and beasts. She still liked to keep the bird table well stocked. She couldn’t bear cruelty to animals. Pity she didn’t feel the same about her own species.

I got out the plain flour again.

“I’m off,” Fiona was at the door. “I’ll put this on the bird table on the way out.” “Where are you going?”

“Just to the village.”

“Well don’t be late. I want you back in before 11.”

“OK.”

“If you don’t come back in time, I’ll send your dad down there for you.”

The threat was all in the shame of it, not in Sandy’s anger. He could never really be cross with her. I was always the bad cop in our house.

She didn’t dignify the empty threat with a response. She was gone, slamming the door behind her. I began spooning flour into my bowl. Maybe this time it would all come together right.

More tomorrow.

Ice Dancing by Catherine Czerkawska, Dyrock Publishing, £9.99 and Kindle E-reader from £2.99. For more of her books, including The Posy Ring and A Proper Person To Be Detained, see saraband.net.