Keeping Mum

‘It is short notice,’ said Mike shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Cass suspected he was about to add, Maybe another time then or, Ah well, never mind, worth a shot, or maybe even suggest they made it dinner instead in which case she had better come up with a good excuse quickly, when he said, ‘Actually, I don’t mind what you’re wearing. I was thinking maybe just grabbing soup and a sandwich. Local greasy spoon.’

‘You really know how to impress a girl,’ said Cass wryly.

Mike laughed. ‘I thought I’d aim low and see what kind of reception I got, bearing in mind you didn’t ring me back.’

Cass winced. Although Mike hadn’t been the only customer she’d had in during the morning, there weren’t that many people about and lunchtime rushes were rare as hen’s teeth except in midsummer. She glanced back at the workshop; there was nothing in there that wouldn’t keep. Right on cue her stomach rumbled. He grinned.

‘Okay, but I can’t be too long.’

His expression brightened. ‘Great, where do you suggest? I don’t know the area very well.’

‘How do you feel about wholefood?’

Cass could see Mike trying hard but he couldn’t quite hold back the grimace. ‘Fine,’ he managed. ‘Are we talking lentils here?’

‘Not necessarily. My friend runs a really good cafe just across the road. They do some fantastic food and all of it is sickeningly healthy.’

‘Okay, sounds like a plan,’ said Mike. ‘Although I should warn you I don’t do tofu.’

‘Me neither. I’ll need to lock up,’ said Cass, heading back towards the workshop. Buster looked up at her as she picked up her handbag from under the bench and brushed the dust off. ‘I’m expecting you to keep an eye on the place,’ she murmured, bending down and scratching him behind the ears.

A few seconds later Cass followed Mike out into the street and pulled the shop door to behind her.

‘So,’ he said, as they fell into step. ‘How’s the singing going?’

‘Are you sure you want to know?’ She looked him up and down; it was no good. Something about Mike irritated her, which was never a good sign. How was it her mum had ended up with Rocco while she attracted men like Mike?

He smiled. ‘Uh-huh—your mother and Rocco tell me that you’re brilliant.’

Maybe it was because he was acting as if they already knew each other, maybe it was the way he appeared to be fiddling with something in his jacket pocket, maybe it was the sniffing.

‘My feeling is that they’re probably biased,’ said Cass, as they headed across the green towards the cafe on the corner.

‘Great shop. I’d really like to take a good look round sometime.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Feel free.’

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘About twelve years.’

He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Good spot.’

And he was too cheery.

‘I think so.’

‘Cool,’ said Mike, which didn’t deserve comment.

Cass’s shop was long and narrow, a sitting-room’s width with a big bow window at the front, overlooking High Lane and a triangle of grass across the lane, which was set with mature limes, some remnant from a more rural age that had got trapped between the river and the rest of the town.

‘There are some really interesting little shops around here.’

‘It’s kind of grown over the last few years. It used to be quite rundown when we first moved here, but quaint, and so the property was a reasonable price. Being close to the river is quite a draw—gradually lots of old hippies and craftsmen have moved in. Summer it’s really busy. People come down at the weekends to walk along the river, walk with their kids, paddle. That’s how we first found it—on Sunday the place is full of visitors trying to force-feed a dozen of the fattest ducks you’ve ever seen; they waddle up from the river en masse, and there’s a swan who is way too fat to break a sweat, let alone anyone’s arm.’

Mike laughed.

‘Oh, and then we have this guy who shows up on a tricycle, wearing a boater. He parks up under the trees over there and sells old-fashioned ice cream from a cold box on the front.’

‘Great place for weekend mooching.’

‘Fortunately for me. I get a lot of passing trade.’

‘So how did you end up selling furniture?’

‘Long story. I’ve always had an eye for a bargain and been a bit arty. I used to have a market stall when the boys were little, buying things in, restoring them, painting them up…’

They fell into step. High Lane had quickly become a little community in its own right. On the corner closest to town was Lucy, who designed and made silver jewellery, while in the shop alongside her a guy called Shaun made shoes and could mend anything made of leather known to man, and then further along Nick and Susie ran the wholefood cafe and shop, that by some fluke of geography had a river view and a wide front garden that they had transformed with climbers and geraniums and bright umbrellas into a little oasis of calm. There was a gallery at the far end of the green in the old granary that fronted the river, and next door to that was a clothes shop and a flower shop. Tucked in between them all were little cottages that had been snapped up by people looking for homes that had more to them than housing estate chic. Cass loved it all.

The cafe was half full when they arrived and Cass, having said her hellos, was shown to a table overlooking the garden.

‘What made you move here?’ Mike asked as he glanced down the menu.

‘It’s a lovely place to live and I really wanted a business I could run from home—when the boys were little it was important.’ She paused. ‘Did Rocco tell you about Neil?’

He nodded, then said, ‘They didn’t say much.’

‘Well, after we lost Neil I felt we needed to have a home and job that held us all together and this place seemed like it. The kids were almost nine and ten when we moved in. Lost always strikes me as such an odd euphemism for someone dying. It makes me sound as if I was careless and a bit feckless—anyway, it was a difficult time for everyone. He was only thirty-eight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Cass smiled. ‘Thank you. It’s a long time ago now but I still miss him and it’s odd because it’s one of those things a lot of people can’t handle. They can manage divorce, single parents, being abandoned, leaving—all sorts of things—but they can’t handle dying…’ Cass laughed and took a handful of roasted seeds from the little pot in the middle of the table, waving the words away.

‘If you could give us another minute or two,’ said Mike as the waitress made her way to their table, notepad in hand.

Cass glanced down at the menu. What she didn’t tell Mike was that even now she loved Neil more than she knew how to say and missed him every day, and that—without meaning to—she compared every man she had met since against him; and there had been no one who even came close. She understood that memory played tricks with your mind and that, by dying, Neil often appeared as she wanted him to be rather than how he was—but she still missed his voice and the smell of him and the way he made her feel better, and his laugh and…

And although Cass hadn’t planned it that way, and despite several boyfriends, it was hard for someone to walk in the shadow of the dead, someone who never grew old, who never got fat, never farted, whose life was sealed in the vaults of memory and as a result could never go on to shag her best friend or leave her stranded in the rain or ring up to argue about child support or who should have the house.

‘See anything you fancy?’ Cass asked. When she looked up to see how Mike was doing with the menu, she caught him staring at her, which made her redden at the unintentional play on words.

‘I’d like the cauliflower, mushroom and aubergine satay with wild rice,’ said Mike to the waitress.

‘And I’ll have the roast autumn vegetables with cashew couscous. And a glass of apple juice,’ Cass said.

The girl scribbled the order down and Mike handed the menus back. ‘And just a glass of tap water,’ he said. ‘So,’ he continued as the waitress retreated. ‘Maybe I should tell you all about me and my life.’ He made it sound like a treat.