harm, just a bit of fun, can’t you take a bit of fun?
‘Good afternoon,’ said Rose stiffly.
‘From London, are we?’ The man’s grin was subtly offensive. Rose supposed that being the only source of groceries in the village, he could afford to offend his customers. She even began to think kindly of the impersonality of supermarkets.
She snapped, ‘Richmond, actually! How did you know where I came from?’
‘Garage name on your car’s big enough,’ said the man.
Was he the one whose finger had written ‘Yuppie’?
‘Anyway,’ said the man, ‘those of us from south of the river must stick together among these local yokels.’
Rose sensed the female backs behind her stiffen; the silence in the shop had become electric.
‘I like country people very much,’ she said.
‘Jack Sydenham from Battersea,’ he said, sticking his hand out.
‘Six boxes of Swan Vestas,’ said Rose, nodding at the tobacco shelf behind the counter. The hairy-backed hand faltered, despaired, and fumbled for the matches.
‘Big smoker, then?’
‘Oil-lamps to light.’
‘Yes, he didn’t have many mod cons, did old Sepp Yaxley. Settling in all right, though, are you?’
‘Quite comfortably, thank you.’ Rose was startled at the haughty frostiness of her own voice.
‘Saw you going up to see old Miss Yaxley. Yer bag was heavier going in than it was coming out again!’
‘Just a few things Miss Yaxley wanted.’
She felt the silence in the shop deepen, if that were possible.
‘You haven’t found his crock o’ gold, have yer? Old Sepp was famous for the crock o’ gold he had stashed away.’ The man’s eyes were shining, his lips slightly parted, as if he was enjoying playing with fire.
But before Rose could say, ‘I think that’s Miss Yaxley’s business,’ the woman behind the counter said, ‘We need some more Lilt, Jack. Go and get me a case of Lilt from the back. I’ll see to the lady.’
It seemed an inoffensive enough remark to make, but the tone was dismissive. The light went out of Jack’s eyes, and he went without a word. Did Rose hear breaths quietly let out, all round the shop? What was it with Sepp Yaxley?
The woman was pleasant enough, in her way, and brisk and helpful.
‘Don’t these other ladies want serving first?’ asked Rose politely.
‘Oh, they won’t mind, moi dear.’ The woman’s voice was truly Norfolk. ‘They’re only passing the time o’ day.’ She grabbed Rose’s tote bag, where it lay on the counter, and filled it briskly and efficiently with groceries.
She also took a good look inside it. She was subtler than her husband, but she didn’t bother to be all that subtle . . .
Rose left the mini-market vowing to shop in Cley in future. She went back to the car, and hovered unhappily. She wished she could take it home with her. She glanced in through the windows. There wasn’t much to see. Just magazines on the back shelf. A Good Housekeeping of her own, an Indy of Timothy’s, a Jackie of Jane’s. And Jane’s spare pair of headphones for her Walkman. But Rose suddenly saw the objects as prying alien eyes must have seen them. A rich bitch and her two overprivileged spoilt brats . . .
‘Hallo,’ said a small voice at her elbow. It was a little girl, of the type given to accosting strangers with a knowing charm. The child dimpled. ‘You’re the lady from the Cunning’s house, aren’t you?’
‘The Cummings’ house?’ Rose frowned. Had there been someone called Cummings living there, before Sepp Yaxley?
‘No, no,’ the child frowned in unconscious mimicry of her. ‘Not the Cummings’ house – the Cunning’s house.’ She gnashed her teeth over the n’s in a way that was almost animal.
‘You mean the Cunninghams’ house?’ persisted Rose. She always believed in being patient with children.
‘No, no, no,’ said the child. ‘The Cunning’s house.’
Rose gave up. Was everyone a bit mad in this village? She walked on back down the path. The child watched her go a long time, putting her thumb in her mouth.
The child had done her best. It was a pity that Rose knew little of the older customs of East Anglia.
After supper, she walked up to Wallney again, to ring Philip. Bracing herself for the encounter. Making his voice say, inside her head, the things he would say, and practising her smooth calm answers.
‘Rose, what the devil are you up to?’
‘Having a holiday!’
‘What’s your phone number?’
‘We haven’t got a phone number!’
‘Then how the devil am I supposed to get in touch with you, if something comes up?’
‘Why not write? Or drive up and see